Virtually Perfect

by Paige Roberts

  “Still. Must’ve been a real kick in the ass to have everything taken away from you like that.”

  “I wouldn’t necessarily say it was ‘taken away’—”

  “And then to have people like Zoe come along with new stuff on Insta’ and Snapchat and whatever.”

  “Zoe’s site is a separate issue.”

  “I guess. But I can understand why you’d feel pretty jealous of the sweet deal she has going. All those readers, an app, a deal with the Apple watch . . .”

  “I’m not jealous of Zoe.”

  “Hey, listen, it totally makes sense. I get it. I’d probably be jealous, too. And when I get jealous, I sometimes do stuff I shouldn’t. Like, I’m not thinking straight, you know?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Sure,” she said. Something about Trevor was beginning to creep her out. She looked at her phone and then around the room. Nate was still nowhere to be found.

  “Sorry—touchy subject.”

  “No, it’s fine,” she said, even though it wasn’t.

  “So tell me about this dude you’re meeting up with.”

  “He’s just a friend,” Lizzie said. She knew it was more complicated than that, but she couldn’t be bothered to break it down for Trevor.

  “Oh, yeah? Anyone I’d know?”

  “I don’t think so.” She knew there was a good chance Trevor knew Zoe’s half brother or at least knew of him, but she also felt her relationship with Nate was none of Trevor’s business.

  “What time were you supposed to meet?”

  “Nine.”

  “Nine?” He pressed the button on Lizzie’s phone. They both looked at the time: 9:43. “Girl, I hate to break it to you, but I think you got stood up.”

  Lizzie wished he’d stop calling her girl. “He’s just running late.”

  “Has he called? Or texted?”

  “No. . . .”

  “And is he usually . . . what’s it called? Punk . . . punk . . .”

  “Punctual?”

  He snapped his fingers. “That’s the one.”

  “I guess so.” She thought about Nate’s arrivals: to the beach house, to the breakfast table, to dinner. “Actually, he’s usually early.”

  “Right. So like I said: I think you got stood up.”

  Lizzie suddenly felt a little sick. Trevor was right that this was all very out of character for Nate. Had something happened to him? Or was he really standing her up? “Oh,” she finally said. She took a long sip of wine.

  “Hey—turn that frown upside down. Trevor is here.”

  This provided no comfort to Lizzie. “Actually, I think I’m going to go.”

  “Aw, come on, the night is just getting started.”

  “For you, maybe, but for me . . . I should probably try to track down my friend. Just to make sure he’s okay.”

  “How’d you get here?”

  “I drove.”

  “Then at least let me walk you to your car.”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Please, it would be my pleasure.”

  “Honestly, there’s no need. I managed to snag a spot right out front, on Dune.”

  “No, I insist.” He patted her shoulder, a little harder than Lizzie thought was necessary.

  Lizzie slid off her chair. “Okay, fine, whatever.”

  She pushed her way out of the restaurant as Trevor trailed behind. She was glad she’d parked in clear view of those in and outside the restaurant and not on some dark side street. She crossed to the other side of Dune Drive and approached her car. Even in the dim light of the street lamps, she could still see the scratch marks and the “F U” beneath the passenger handle.

  “So I hear Zoe’s parents nearly fired you,” he said as she slowed her step.

  She turned around. “What?”

  “Something about a stolen cookbook?”

  “I didn’t steal anything,” she said.

  “I’m sure.” He peered over her shoulder. “And it looks like your car has taken a beating, huh?”

  “Someone keyed it earlier today.”

  “Huh.” It was dark, but Lizzie swore she detected something bordering on menace in his eyes. “Stealing accusations, a keyed car . . . Sounds to me like you’d better watch yourself.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I’m just saying—if it were me? I wouldn’t want to go out of my way to get other people in trouble. Like, talking to the press? That would be a really bad idea.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do.”

  “No, really. Who’s talking to the press?”

  He shrugged. “Let’s hope no one, eh? Because that? On your car? That’s nothing. I promise it could get way worse.”

  Then he winked and turned around and headed back into The Princeton.

  * * *

  Lizzie’s hands were still shaking when she got into the car. She pulled up Nate’s texts and called the number. It went straight to voice mail, and when Lizzie heard the greeting her heart raced.

  “Yo, it’s Trevor; leave a message. Peace.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Lizzie couldn’t sleep. Every time she heard a sound—a creak in the ceiling, a rattle from the air conditioner—she bolted upright in bed, convinced Zoe or Trevor had entered her room and was trying to kill her. She knew her fears were a bit over-the-top, but Trevor’s coded threats had rattled her.

  As she lay in bed, she decided to channel her anxiety in a positive direction and started creating an action plan in her head. First thing in the morning, she would e-mail a few editors at prominent news outlets and tell them about Zoe’s grand hoax. She still had a few contacts at Savor, Cooking Light, and even the New York Times food section. She wasn’t sure how much they’d care about this kind of thing, but it was a start. She also planned to follow up with any past employers to see if they had any work for her so that she could make a swift and speedy exit. On that account, she wasn’t holding her breath.

  She eventually nodded off sometime between 3:00 and 4:00 a.m. and awoke just after 7:00 to the sound of her phone vibrating on her nightstand. It was her mom.

  “Hello?” Lizzie’s voice was scratchy with sleep, and she moved as if she were trapped in Jell-O. It had been a very bad week for sleep.

  “Hi, sweetie. Did I wake you?”

  “Yeah, but I needed to get up anyway. Breakfast approaches.”

  “Oh, right, of course. What time do they eat?”

  “Depends. Usually around eight thirty.”

  “I’d better not keep you then.”

  “No, wait—I’m glad you called. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

  “So I guessed from your text. You know, I could live without the sarcasm and attitude. I’m going through some very serious stuff over here. You could cut me a little slack.”

  Lizzie sat up in bed. “Sorry. But I keep trying to talk to you about something, and every time you either cut me off or we get disconnected. I’m a little frustrated.”

  “Well, you have me on the phone now. So what do you want to talk to me about?”

  “Your treatment.”

  Lizzie detected a sigh. “Of course.”

  “Dad says you’ve been doing some alternative therapies.”

  “I am.”

  “And that you’ve been reading a bunch of Web sites as part of that.”

  “Right.”

  “And one of those sites is The Clean Life.”

  “So?”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. The information on that site is bogus. There is no Marie. Or not anymore—she was a friend of the Silvesters’ daughter, who runs the site. The real Marie died five years ago, and I’m worried that’s what will happen to you if you follow the advice on that site.”

  “I know.”

  “You know? What do you mean you know?”

  “For one, I know what you and your father and your aunt Linda think about what I’m doing. You have made that abundantly clear.�
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  “Yeah, and for good reason—”

  “Would you let me finish? I’ve seen the article, okay? Just because one site misrepresented itself doesn’t mean none of this stuff works, and anyway—”

  “What article?”

  “The one on . . . what site was it? The Daily Beast?”

  “When?”

  “First thing this morning. I read it on my computer in bed, while I was having one of my—” She caught herself. “Well, whatever. I read it.”

  Lizzie jumped out of bed and grabbed her laptop. She pulled up The Daily Beast and scrolled down. Her heart raced as a bold headline stared her in the face:

  POPULAR WELLNESS SITE PEDDLES BOGUS INFORMATION

  Author never cured friend of cancer; info on site can’t be substantiated

  “I assumed you already saw it.”

  “How could I have seen it? You woke me up, and it was only published this morning.”

  “Oh. I guess that’s true. But then how did you know the information on the site wasn’t true?”

  “Because I’m living under the same roof as the author. It wasn’t that hard for me to figure it out. And even if I weren’t—come on. Curing cancer with fruits and supplements? How could that not sound at least a little fishy to you?”

  “Here we go. I knew this would be your reaction. One site gets discredited, and now all of this stuff is crap.”

  “No, it was always all crap.”

  “Is that so? Then why would people promote these things?”

  “Honestly? You’d have to ask them. I’m sure some of them actually believe what they’re saying. Others, like Zoe, probably have their own agendas.”

  “God, between you and your father and your aunt Linda . . . I’m not an idiot, okay?”

  “No one is saying you’re an idiot. Cancer is a big freaking deal—I can’t imagine how scared you must have felt when you found out. And after Ryan, I get that you have misgivings about modern medicine. But as tempting as it might sound to treat yourself ‘naturally,’ there’s a reason things like chemo exist. People don’t do chemo because it’s fun. They do it because it works.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “More of the time than shooting coffee up your butt.”

  “It’s my choice.”

  “I know it is. I’m not saying you have to do chemo if you don’t want to. I’m saying don’t do these other things and expect to have the same outcome.”

  A brief silence hung between them. “It’s just . . .” She heard her mom’s voice catch. “You don’t know what it’s like.”

  She was right: Lizzie didn’t know what it was like. Not any of it. Not losing a child, not being diagnosed with cancer, not divorcing your husband and watching him start a new family while you cling to the memory of the one you once had. Lizzie hoped she never had to go through any of those things, but she also didn’t want to lose a mother.

  “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have moments of doubt,” her mom continued. “Of course I do. Especially when I read things like that Daily Beast article. But then I read how horrible chemo can be and—”

  “So stop reading.”

  “What?”

  “Stop reading. About chemo, about alternative medicine, about all of it. Talk to a doctor—a real doctor, who cures patients. Not one patient or two patients—hundreds of patients. Thousands of patients. Then decide what you want to do.”

  “But Gary says—”

  “Screw Gary. Gary sells insurance. What the fuck does he know about cancer?”

  “His brother died of lymphoma.”

  “I’m very sorry for his loss. But excuse my insensitivity, that doesn’t make him an expert. He didn’t go to medical school. He doesn’t have a PhD in molecular biology. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.”

  “And you do?”

  “Not about curing cancer. That’s why I’m saying you should talk to a medical professional.”

  “But Gary has been so supportive.”

  “And if he truly cares about you, he’ll continue to be. The Clean Life is crap. Doesn’t it scare you to think how much of the other stuff you’re reading is, too?”

  “Yes, but . . .” Her mom took a deep breath. “I need some time to think this over.”

  Of course she did. For as long as Lizzie could remember, her mother would say, when confronted with any decision, whether it was buying a couch or ordering dinner at a restaurant, “I need to think it over.” She was, in many ways, the opposite of Lizzie, who’d jumped into decisions headfirst. Lizzie could see the advantages of her mother’s approach (after all, look where Lizzie’s rash behavior had gotten her), but she was also continually frustrated that her mom couldn’t just decide sometimes. Lizzie wondered how much of her mom’s contemplative nature was inbred and how much was a response to Ryan. Lizzie had heard her say dozens of times that maybe if she hadn’t jumped so readily at the offer of a clinical trial maybe things wouldn’t have ended the way they did.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “you probably need to get to work. I’m guessing things will be a little chaotic at the Silvesters’ this morning. They must have seen the article by now. Don’t you think?”

  Lizzie wasn’t sure whether they had or not. It was early, but then Jim, in particular, was an early riser. He also was on his phone or iPad constantly. Regardless, they would see the story soon, and when the time came Lizzie hoped she wouldn’t be the one bearing the brunt of their rage.

  * * *

  As soon as Lizzie reached the kitchen she knew the Silvesters had seen the article. Jim sat at the dining room table, talking on his phone.

  “I don’t care what Mike says. I need you here. Tell him the inversion stuff can wait.... Yes, it can. None of the work you’ve done for the rollout will count for anything if we don’t put the lid on this.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “He knows if I come in it’ll just be a distraction. Did you show him the e-mail you got from the Elle reporter? . . . Others? What others?” He let out a sigh. “Jesus. Okay. Just get here as soon as you can.” He hung up.

  Lizzie tried to slip by undetected, but Jim called after her, “Hey—you. Get back here. I need to talk to you.”

  She stopped and turned around. Her heart raced. “Me?”

  “Yes, you. I know what you did.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t bullshit me. I’m not Kathryn.” His phone rang. He picked it up. “Mike? Hey. Hang on a second.” He covered the receiver. “I need to take this. Don’t go far. You’re not off the hook.”

  Lizzie lingered, unsure what to say or do.

  Jim stared at her. “Some privacy, please?”

  “Sorry,” Lizzie said. She turned and ducked into the pantry.

  Did Jim know she’d left comments on Zoe’s site? Or something else? And what was all the business about inversions and other reporters?

  Lizzie tried to focus on pulling breakfast together, but she couldn’t concentrate. As soon as she took the fruit from the refrigerator, she heard Kathryn babbling in the dining room. Lizzie lost every few words, but she got the general impression that Kathryn was very upset.

  “But it’s just so unfair . . . obviously has an ax to grind . . . for all we know she was hacked . . . looking to fill their twenty-four-hour news cycle . . . never even asked . . . what does that have to do with CC Media anyway. . . .”

  It went on and on, as it always did, but this time the agitation in Kathryn’s voice rose until she was nearly shouting. Lizzie wondered if Kathryn looked as manic as she sounded but wasn’t quite curious enough to find out.

  As Lizzie divided the fruit among parfait glasses, she heard footsteps behind her. She turned to see Jim in the doorway with Kathryn by his side. Kathryn did, indeed, look crazed. Untamed bits of her normally smooth and styled coif stuck out at the side, and her skin looked blotchy. Her hands sat on her hips, her eyes narrowed.

  “Well,” she said. “I hope you’re happy.”
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  “With . . . ?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me. Jim and I know you talked to the press.”

  “I did not.”

  “Oh, please. Do you think we’re idiots? Three days after you tell us you don’t approve of her site, the story magically appears online. What a coincidence!”

  “It wasn’t me. I—”

  “You trashed her site. Zoe told us.”

  “I didn’t trash her site. I wrote a few comments.”

  “It was more than a few comments, and you know it.”

  “I was only—”

  “Stop,” Jim cut in. “Enough excuses. I told you after the cookbook incident that you needed to watch it. You didn’t listen. Do you have any idea how many problems this creates for me? Not just me. My family. My company.”

  “Your company?”

  “I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry you’re going to be that you did this.”

  “Me? Your daughter is the problem.”

  “Lizzie, enough. You’re only digging yourself into a deeper hole.”

  “I didn’t do anything. I wanted to. In fact, I’d planned on e-mailing a few media outlets first thing this morning to expose your daughter for what she is.”

  “Which is what?”

  “A liar and a fraud. But I didn’t have the chance to do that because someone else beat me to it.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “I have no idea. Anyone with half a brain, I guess.”

  Kathryn’s eyes went wild. “You have a lot of nerve.”

  “I have a lot of nerve? That’s rich.”

  Jim clenched his jaw. “Okay, fine. You want to play hardball? Let’s play hardball. How about I sue you for defamation?”

  “Are you joking?” A fierce pent-up anger was raging in Lizzie’s chest. “I don’t even know any reporters at The Daily Beast. And anyway, how can it be defamation if the story is true?”

  “That’s it. I’m calling my lawyer.”

  He had reached into the phone holster around his waist when a voice called out behind him, “I did it.”

  Jim and Kathryn turned around. Lizzie peered between them and saw Nate standing in the kitchen.

  “I did it,” he repeated. “I called a friend at The Daily Beast and told her to look into Zoe’s site.”