London Tides
Page 32
“Thank you, Chef.” Luis put away his rag, grabbed his cell phone from beneath the bar, and quickly slipped out from behind his station. Not before one last surreptitious look at Ana, Rachel noticed.
“Do I need to tell him to stop hitting on you?”
“Nah, he’s harmless. So, Rachel . . .”
Once more that gut instinct fired away, flooding her with dread. “You’re not here for a social visit.”
Ana shook her head. “Have you seen the article yet?”
“The Carlton Espy review? Who hasn’t? Can you believe the guy had the nerve to come in here tonight and say, ‘You’re welcome’? As if he’d done me some huge favor?”
Ana’s expression flickered a degree before settling back into an unreadable mask.
Uh-oh.
“What is it? You’re not talking about the review, are you?”
Ana reached into her leather tote and pulled out a tablet, then switched it on before passing it to Rachel.
Rachel blinked, confused by the header on the web page. “The New Yorker? What does this have to do with me?” The title of the piece, an essay by a man named Alexander Kanin, was “The Uncivil War.”
“Just read it.”
She began to skim the article, the growing knot in her stomach preventing her from enjoying what was actually a very well-written piece. The writer talked about how social media had destroyed civility and social graces, not only online but in person; how marketing and publicity had given an always-available impression of public figures, as if their mere existence gave consumers the right to full access to their lives. Essentially, nothing was sacred or private or off-limits. He started by citing the cruel remarks made on CNN about the mentally disabled child of an actress-activist, and then the story of a novelist who had committed suicide after being bullied relentlessly on Twitter. And then she got to the part that nearly made her heart stop.
Nowhere is this inherent cruelty more apparent than with women succeeding in male-dominated worlds like auto racing and cooking. The recent review of an award-winning Denver chef suggesting that she had traded sexual favors in return for industry acclaim reveals that there no longer needs to be any truth in the speculations, only a cutting sense of humor and an eager tribe of consumers waiting for their next target. When the mere act of cooking good food or giving birth to an “imperfect” child or daring to create controversial art becomes an invitation to character assassination, we have to accept that we have become a deeply flawed and morally bankrupt society. The new fascism does not come from the government, but from the self-policing nature of the mob—a mob that demands all conform or suffer the consequences.
Rachel set the tablet down carefully, her pounding pulse leaving a watery ocean sound in her ears and blurring her vision. “This is bad.”
“He didn’t mention you by name,” Ana said. “And he was defending you. You have to appreciate a guy who would call Espy out on his disgusting sexism.”
Rachel pressed a hand to her forehead, which now felt feverish. “Anyone with a couple of free minutes and a basic understanding of Google could figure out who he’s talking about.” A sick sense of certainty washed over her. “Espy knows it, too. Without this article, his review would have died a natural death. He should have been thanking me.”
Cautiously, Ana took back her tablet. “I’m hoping people will overlook the details based on the message, but just in case, you should inform your staff to direct media requests to me.”
“Media.” Rachel covered her face with her hands, as if that could do something to stave off the flood that was to come.
“Take a deep breath,” Ana said, her no-nonsense tone firmly in place. “This could be a good thing. You’ve told me about the difficulty women have in this business, the kind of harassment you’ve put up with to get here. Maybe this is your chance to speak out against it. You’d certainly get wider attention for the restaurant, not that it looks like you’re having any trouble filling seats.”
Rachel dropped her head into her folded arms. What Ana said was right. It would be publicity. But despite the old saying, it wasn’t the right kind of publicity. She wanted attention for her food, not for her personal beliefs. To give this any kind of attention would be a distraction. And worst of all, it would make her a hypocrite. Playing the gender card for any reason—even a well-meaning one—went against everything she stood for.
“No,” she said finally, lifting her head. “I won’t. I’ll turn down all the interviews with ‘no comment’ and get back to doing what I do best. Cooking.”
“I thought you’d say that. I’ll issue a statement to that effect. Just be prepared. Reporters can be relentless when they smell an interesting story.” Ana hopped off the stool. “I’m beat. Call me if you need me.”
“I will.” She hugged Ana and watched her friend stride out the door, five-inch heels clicking smartly on the dining room’s polished concrete floors. Rachel didn’t move from her perch at the bar, though she was glad that Luis was already gone for the night. He would take one look at her and pronounce her in desperate need of a drink. The last thing she needed to do was send herself down that unwitting spiral again.
Instead, she would head to her office in the back as she always did, look over the pars that Andrew had calculated for her that morning, and pay the stack of invoices waiting in her in-box. Work was always the medicine for what ailed her, even if she was hoping that for once, her gut feeling was wrong.
Because right now, her gut told her everything was about to go sideways.
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