Vanity Fare

by Megan Caldwell

  “Not yet. Take a seat, please.” He gestured toward the reception area sofa. I perched on the edge, feeling myself start to sweat.

  “Thank you.” He sat down as well and leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees. “Moll—That is, Ms. Hagan. We have a problem.”

  Ms. Hagan. I looked at him stupidly. “A problem?”

  “Yes, and it’s a serious one. It seems one of John’s competitors knows of our potential marketing plans.”

  “Is that bad?”

  I saw his jaw clench. He cleared his throat. “Yes. Since only you and I know the specifics of the campaign, and I didn’t tell anyone . . .”

  My throat closed over. “You think I—?” My voice came out in a tiny little squeak, as if Minnie Mouse were on the witness stand.

  He looked at me, not saying a word. Ouch, blue ice.

  “No. No, I didn’t tell anyone about it.” Then I got a sick feeling. “Except—oh, God, except I did the presentation in front of these women, these scrapbookers—”

  He flipped his hand out in an impatient gesture. “And?”

  “And one of them is in advertising, and said she knew Natalie.” Fuck. And I’d already known Natalie was trying to get something from me, I just didn’t know what. How dumb was I anyway?

  His lips tightened even more, if possible. I couldn’t be any dumber than what Nick obviously thought of me. Fuck again. “And you thought it would be all right to demonstrate your presentation to a group of people, at least one of whom works in the same field? When you knew how crucial this was?”

  Put that way, I’d screwed up bad. Really bad.

  “God, I’m sorry.”

  He leaned back, pulling his hands up his thighs. “Yeah. Well. I wish you had thought before you spoke.”

  Me, too. “I’m sorry,” I repeated.

  “Well.” He checked his watch. “We might be able to salvage this.” His tone was still frosty. He got up and watched me without holding his hand out to help, like he normally would have done.

  Totally professional. I would not cry, I would not cry, I would not cry. I swung my chin up and stared him in the eye. “Right. I’m going to go knock their socks off.”

  His lips lifted in what was almost a smile. “You are.”

  Would he ever trust me again? Worse, would he ever call me Molly?

  Still reeling from the encounter with Nick, I slipped into the conference room and clutched my presentation so hard my knuckles turned white. I was determined not to let that slipup make me slip up even more now.

  “Thanks to all of you for coming today.” John had come to stand next to me, so close I could feel the breeze stir when he waved his hand.

  There was a platter full of Simon’s products on the conference table. Everything smelled delicious, and all I wanted to do was crawl into the nearest cupcake and dissolve into tears.

  But I knew for both my and Aidan’s sake I couldn’t. I couldn’t help, however, taking an extra deep sniff as the sugary, buttery aroma permeated the air.

  John waited until he had everyone’s attention before he started to speak. “Corning and Associates is embarking on a new direction, one that will bring the company’s expertise to the forefront of the consumer experience. And, we hope, revolutionize it.” He gestured toward me before I could try to decipher just what he’d said. “I’d like to introduce our creative marketing consultant, Molly Hagan. Molly will be explaining the initial concept of Simon Baxter’s exciting new venture. And, we hope, intrigue you so much you’ll be interested in featuring Simon’s bakery on the appropriate programs. We are”—he leaned forward as though he were confiding in them—“offering you an exclusive look at this ahead of your competitors.” He gestured toward me. “Molly?”

  There were half a dozen of them, men and women, a range of ages, all with at least ten pounds too many. I guess cooking network execs probably had to eat more than regular people.

  John sat down in the chair next to me while Simon was on the other side. Nick leaned against the wall near the door. My eyes kept flicking toward him. No change in his hard, cold expression. I had really done it. Shoot. It hurt way more than it should have.

  I dropped my eyes down to the folder John had made to accompany Nick’s PowerPoint demonstration. I flipped it open to the first page, drew a deep breath, and started speaking.

  There was a full thirty seconds of silence after I stopped. I was really proud of myself that I didn’t automatically think they hated it.

  The oldest of the execs sat forward. He tilted his head as he spoke. “Food and entertainment. A delightful mix.”

  It was as if his approval had unleashed some sort of floodgates—the other people in the room all began to smile and talk among themselves. I heard “Anthony Bourdain,” “throwdown,” and “special” all exclaimed from them at one point or another.

  Simon had joined the group, and I heard his accent weaving in and among the other voices: “Yes, this is scalable, and we will be looking to expand, once Vanity Fare is established as the premiere pastry destination in New York City.”

  Wow. That sounded pretty neat, once I actually thought about it.

  Nick remained where he was, near the door, his sharp eyes taking in the scene. I tried not to look at him, I really did, but that still-pathetic part of me wanted to know we were okay. That he thought I’d done okay, and that he knew I hadn’t betrayed him. The company.

  I wondered if Simon had told him about us, and that we weren’t us anymore. I highly doubted it. Simon wasn’t the sort to reveal anything that might possibly make him look bad.

  “You did great,” John said, walking over and placing a hand on my arm. “I think they’re gonna bite.”

  “Thanks.” I darted another glance at Nick. “Um, John, did you hear anything about a competitive agency finding out about the marketing plans?”

  His face blanched. “No. Why?”

  “It’s probably nothing, just that Nick said there’d been some talk, and that it seems like it’s something I did. That Natalie found out what we were planning.”

  He frowned and drew me to the far corner of the room. Simon was still going strong, now declaiming a variety of bon mots to the group of enthralled executives.

  “How would she have found out? Have you been in touch with her?”

  I jerked out of his hold. “I wouldn’t do that, even if I liked her. Which I don’t,” I added, just in case he wasn’t clear on that. I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him about my encounters with her—they sounded fishy, even to me, and I knew exactly what had happened during them.

  “So what happened?”

  “Yes, Ms. Hagan, tell us. What happened?” Nick had uncoiled himself from the wall to join us, the snake.

  I felt myself turning red. “It’s that I was with this group of ladies, women from my neighborhood, and we got to talking, and they asked me what I was working on, and then they asked me to show them what I was going to present, you know, just for feedback and to see and everything”—boy did I sound lame—“and it turns out that this one woman knows Natalie, and she must’ve told her the gist of what I’d done.” I held my hands out to both of them. “You have to know, I had no idea it was going to cause a problem.”

  John rushed in before Nick could condemn me with some more coldly spoken words. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, Molly, Natalie can’t do anything at this point.” He gestured toward the still-chatting group of people clustered around Simon. “The presentation is done, the secret is spilled.”

  “The point isn’t whether we are in jeopardy,” Nick said, his voice tight and clipped. “The point is why Natalie appears so hell-bent on interfering.”

  At which point John and Nick both turned and looked at Simon.

  And I felt sick.

  “I’ll speak to him after this,” Nick said. It sounded more like a threat than a promise, and I was glad I wasn’t Simon.

  Eventually the Simon Show ended, and the crowd dispersed. John led them out of the room,
and I could tell he was pleased by the response.

  And I was able to grab a cookie, something with macadamia nuts and white chocolate. So the day wasn’t entirely shot.

  Simon came over to me, an intimate gleam in his eyes. Uh-oh.

  “I knew you could do it,” he said, placing his hand on my arm. “You came through magnificently. I have to admit I was a bit concerned about your ability to make the presentation. Of course there was never any doubt about your fantastic wit.” He lowered his eyes to my chest.

  “My wit’s up here, Simon,” I said, tapping my head with my finger.

  “Right.” He didn’t even have the grace to blush. He leaned in closer. “Are you free tonight?” he whispered.

  What would it take to make him understand? I had images of pelting him in the head with his own pastries until he finally got it. I shook my head no, then looked up and met Nick’s eyes. Something in them made my stomach tighten.

  I stared at him for a long moment, drinking in the want I read in his eyes. Want and . . . sadness?

  I edged a little farther back from Simon, and met his gaze. “I meant what I said, Simon,” I whispered back.

  “What about Nick?” he snapped, still in that quiet whisper. I wondered if I should just tell Simon to skip the middleman—me—and date Nick instead.

  “What about him? I’m not dating him, either.” I glared at him.

  “What about that birthday party?” His voice had a self-righteous tone that set my back up.

  I began to put my papers into my bag. “See,” I said in as calm a voice as I could muster, “this is exactly why it’s not appropriate. We can talk when this is all over.”

  He put his hand on my arm again. “When?”

  I turned and looked at him, and was startled by his expression. It was possessive, sulky, and . . . mean. I didn’t like it. And I was quickly coming to realize I didn’t like him. And I didn’t want to go out with him, even when the project was over.

  Had I really gotten that strong? I drew my hand away, put the last of my papers into my bag, and walked out, not answering him or myself.

  Far from the Fattening Crowd

  In a new, carb-obsessed world, it’s hard to imagine the old ways, where people ate bread, pasta, and rice without guilt. And enjoyed plenty of flavor. At Vanity Fare, we try to integrate the old, tasty ways with the new diet-conscious ways. Taste our fruit mélange of strawberries, kiwis, bananas, and blueberries melded together with a low-fat custard. Low carbs, low sugar, loads of taste. Eating right to stay fit never tasted so good.

  21

  “HELLO?”

  It was around 10:00 P.M., Aidan had gone to sleep a while ago, and Mom was fussing in the kitchen. It pleased me that she’d taken on some of our domestic tasks—she’d always turned her nose up at mastering any kind of culinary skill as something ordinary women did. I had grabbed a book and was hiding out in the bedroom, waiting for Keisha to call.

  My mind, however, refused to concentrate on the feisty heroine and the noble, dangerous hero. Instead I kept replaying that afternoon’s conversation with Nick. It kinda broke a bit of my heart that he would even think me capable of that kind of duplicity. And I had to figure out what to say to that scrapbooking she-devil when I saw her again.

  “Hi, Molly.” Not Keisha. A man’s voice. Not John. Definitely not Simon.

  “Nick?”

  “Yes,” he replied in his pompous voice. Then his tone changed. “Listen, sorry to call so late, but I just got back from a dinner meeting. Is it too late?”

  I rolled onto my back on my bed, wishing my heart weren’t pounding so fast. “No, not too late at all. I stay up later than I should, actually. I always mean to go . . .” I was babbling. “Anyway. What’s up?”

  “I just wanted to call and say I thought you did a terrific presentation today.” His voice was more than professional. Thank goodness. “The network is very excited about the opening. It was a few of their staff I had dinner with tonight, actually.”

  How high school crush-ish of me was it that I was happy he hadn’t just had a date?

  “Thanks for calling. I’m really sorry about practicing in front of those women, I had no idea—I was nervous as hell, actually.” Even more when I thought you didn’t trust me.

  “Natalie’s a bitch,” he said bluntly. “It’s over, you told me what happened, and it’s fine.” Men. Always able to move on while women chewed discontent like a bone. “I knew you were nervous, which is why I wanted to call and let you know how well you did. And—”

  He stopped. I waited a heartbeat, two, then spoke. “What?”

  I heard him take a deep breath. “I just wanted to explain about before. About saying no. It’s just . . . well, it wouldn’t be right right now.”

  I assumed my cheeriest, doesn’t-bother-me-at-all voice. “No problem. Really.”

  He gave a dry chuckle devoid of humor. “No, it is a problem. But I just wanted to tell you, it’s not you. It’s not that I don’t—That is, I wish things were different.”

  “Oh. Okay. Thanks.” Different? Different how? Like I was taller? He wasn’t so picky about who he dated? He didn’t want to mix business with pleasure?

  He exhaled so hard I could almost feel the breeze in my ear. “Is Aidan free this weekend? I want to take him to that place again.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course. I promised. Plus I like him, he’s a cool kid.”

  I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. “Thanks. Yeah, he’s free anytime. No birthday parties this weekend, thank goodness.”

  “Okay. How’s Saturday? Around one? I figured we could grab some pizza and then I could take him over.”

  “Saturday’s great.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you then. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  I hung up, then stared at the phone for a while. He had called me. At home. At ten o’clock at night. To tell me I did well. After I’d screwed up royally. And that he wished things were different.

  And that he wanted to hang out with my son.

  I was all gooey inside. I mean, I knew the end result was the same, but he thought well enough of me to make the effort to reach me. That meant something, at least. My quick success with Simon might have made me a little cocky, if such a thing were possible. Maybe it was enough that Nick was my friend, had my back, liked Aidan. Maybe he even trusted me. Heck, he’d gotten my mother to listen to advice, and that was something I had never been able to do.

  It wasn’t that bad being turned down. Although I wished I could’ve kissed him, just once, to see if his lips felt as good as they looked.

  Ah, but what would an about-to-be divorced romance reader be without an unattainable fantasy?

  Luckily, the phone rang again before I could answer that question.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, babe. How’d it go?” It was Keisha. She’d been my cheerleader throughout the preparations, so I knew she’d want to hear all about it.

  “Good. Actually,” I said, trying to sound casual, “Nick just called to tell me the network is really excited. Seems like they might do something on the shop.”

  “Nick, huh?” Leave it to Keisha to find the crucial nugget of information in there. “So what else did Nick say, hm?”

  “That he wished things were different.”

  “Different how?”

  “He said he had to say no to my asking him out, not because of me, but because things aren’t different, somehow.”

  “Well, that’s fairly cryptic. What do you think he means?”

  I shrugged, then realized she couldn’t see me. “I don’t know. I’m guessing it has something to do with the whole church and state thing—a while ago, John mentioned I shouldn’t say anything to Nick about Simon.”

  “Whoa, slow down. I feel like I need a diagram.”

  “Well, basically, I think Nick is the watchdog for the finances and all that—”

  “And the dog better not be sniffing around any other bitch�
�s butt, right?”

  “Oh, I love your way with a metaphor. Yeah, that’s it in a nutshell.”

  “Or a kibble.”

  “You’d better stop or I’m going to have to smack your nose with a newspaper.”

  “Only if you leash me first, Mistress. Hey, that’s an idea: phone sex!”

  “Um . . . I love you, Keisha, but not that way.”

  She giggled. “No, silly, I mean you. To make extra money.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’d be great: Are you sure I don’t look fat like this? Oh, okay, go ahead and do your thing, I’ll wait. Are you done yet? Oh, you are? Sorry, I didn’t notice. Um, I don’t think me doing phone sex is a long-term, or even a short-term, solution to my financial problems.”

  “But if Nick called . . . ,” she said in a teasing voice.

  I glared. Of course she couldn’t see me. “How come I don’t say a thing, and you still know I’ve got a mad crush on him?”

  “You asked him out, didn’t you?”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “And have you asked anyone out? Ever?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Ergo, you have a mad crush.”

  “Hey, why didn’t you become a lawyer? You probably would’ve done a lot better than Hugh.”

  “Hmph, no thanks. I’d rather show old movies than wear a suit and get litigious all day.”

  “Good point. What was playing tonight?”

  “Wuthering Heights.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one with Laurence Olivier. Look, I know you have a mad crush on Timothy Dalton, but that version sucks ass.”

  “You’re right, Miss Film Major. But damn, he’s gorgeous.”

  “Does Nick look like him? Then I could understand all your fussing.”

  “Not really. Except maybe in the dark, dangerous way. Oh, and he has black hair.”

  “What color eyes?”

  “Blue. Dark, stormy blue.”

  “Hold on, honey, you’ve got to check yourself. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but he turned you down, right?”

  I sighed. “Yeah. But, man, is he foxy.”

  “So now the bakery thing is done, what’s next?”