by Andrew Grey
“GOD, THAT was one hell of a day,” Meyer said that evening in my trailer, putting his feet up across the banquette seat. “Maybe we should add a contest to see who can drop the greatest number of pans in a single day.”
I chuckled. “Umm, that would be you during your demonstration.” I patted him on the shoulder. “What the hell happened? You were never a butterfingers.”
Meyer reached into his pocket and handed me a piece of what I was coming to dread—that damned yellow paper. “This was in my documentation. I’m not sure when it was put there or who did it.” He looked down at his feet. “It says to watch the entertainment news tonight.” Meyer raised his gaze and seemed pale. “I wasn’t sure if I should tell you or not.”
I looked over the page. “What the hell are they playing at? If they know something, then why not ask for money or something? That would be the easiest way to gain. Why go through all this shit?”
Meyer shook his head. “I don’t know. But one thing I’m sure of: I’ve been shit wrong up until now.”
A knock on the door had both of us jumping. Rosco raced up from the back bed, and I picked him up so Meyer could open the door. Rachel climbed inside, brandishing a note, pulled the door closed, then slapped it on the table.
It read the same as the one Meyer had. “What the hell do we do about this crap?” Rachel demanded.
I sighed as Rosco struggled to be let down. I set him on the floor, and he hissed and then raced for the back of the trailer like his tail was on fire. “Silly cat,” I said, and motioned for Rachel to have a seat. “We need to tell Ethan.” I pulled out my phone and sent him a message, giving him a brief overview of what had happened.
Within minutes he was at the door, and the small trailer was filled to capacity. “The network is having a fit about all this. They have already been on the phone with me, and I have to somehow manage this whole situation. They’re worried that this innuendo is going to have a real backlash with our viewers.”
“Then what do we do?” I was the novice at all this. “What can we do? There isn’t a way to stop the story.”
Ethan shook his head and then turned away, pulling aside the curtain and looking out the window in the door. “I called a friend this morning at the network to see if I could get an idea of what was going on, but they are being really tight-lipped about it. My friend did say that they had something juicy on people involved with the show and that they were going to run with it in a big way.”
My hand began to tingle, and I turned to Meyer and then to Rachel. I could tell Meyer was as nervous and jittery as a skydiver with a ripped parachute. It was hard for me to read Rachel, but she seemed upset as well.
“I suggest we all come to the production office. We need to watch this damned show so we know what we’re dealing with, and then we can figure out a way to deal with the fallout.” Ethan’s suggestion seemed logical, and we all agreed.
I called Felix to let him know about the change in plans for the evening. Rachel and Ethan trudged out of the trailer, and Meyer grew even more nervous.
“What is the worst that could happen?” I asked once the door was closed.
“That’s easy for you to ask. Everyone knows about you. But if me being gay comes out in an ugly way, it could affect more than the show. It could affect my business and the way I make my living. It’s possible that I would never get any more television work, and….” He hung his head. “What if people stay away and don’t want to eat in my restaurants any longer? Look at Paula Deen, for God’s sake. Yeah, she did some stupid things about hiring at her restaurant, but they happened years ago, and for a long time, no one would touch her with a ten-foot pole. I don’t want that.” He put his hands over his face, then held his head. “You know, this is my fault. Hiding didn’t do me any good.”
“We all have to learn that we can’t hide from ourselves. I think that’s a big part of being gay. Learning to accept that part of yourself that might not fit in with everyone else.” I slid onto the bench across from him, my hands folded together on the table.
“I keep hoping that the story isn’t about you and me,” Meyer said. “I only wanted to get through this show, and then I could come out on my own terms and manage the process.”
“I wish that too.” But I was afraid that choice was going to be taken away from him, and it made me angry. Yes, Meyer had hurt me because of his decision to stay in the closet. But there was more to it. Love and relationships were always a two-way street, and there were other problems, my problems. I had needed to be more forceful and stand up for myself and what I wanted. Meyer and I hadn’t done a good job of communicating with each other. We needed to talk more and not just let our bodies do the speaking for us in bed. “Do you have a publicist?” I asked, speaking off the top of my head.
“No. I haven’t needed one until now.”
“Then you’ll get one,” I told him. “Tomorrow. Whatever happens, we’ll let a professional handle it. They can manage the press and help us build positive stories. This isn’t going to be the end of the world, even though it might feel like it right now.” Fear really sucked.
Meyer took a deep breath and checked his watch. “We might as well go over and see how bad this is going to be.”
I was about to slip out of the seat when Rosco trotted up, jumped into Meyer’s lap, and rubbed against his chest.
“You know, your cat might be fickle.” Meyer rubbed down Rosco’s back. “I thought he hated me.”
“He knows who he likes, and anyway, I have a theory. Cats and dogs have great senses of smell. Maybe when we hide and lie about things, they can smell it. Rosco has always been a pretty good judge of character.” I stood and lifted Rosco onto the floor. He immediately jumped back onto Meyer’s lap, rubbing against him again. “Stubborn cat.” I lifted Rosco off again and carried him to the back bed. He immediately jumped down, ran to the door, and plopped himself right in front of it, glaring at me.
“Take him along. He’s sort of the shoot mascot, and after this bloodbath, some comfort might be nice.” Meyer shook as he got to his feet.
I scooped Rosco up, opened the door, and carried him outside. “Here are the keys,” I told Meyer, and he locked the trailer. Then the three of us traipsed across the lot to the production office. We all sat quietly around the table in the conference room, with the television muted. It felt like we were at a funeral.
Rosco jumped down as soon as I sat, pouncing into Meyer’s lap and settling down.
“You had to bring that cat,” Rachel snapped, and I wondered just where her gentle persona had gone. Maybe it was the pressure, but this situation certainly hadn’t brought out Rachel’s best qualities.
Justin came in and spoke to Ethan quietly. Ethan got up without saying a word and stalked out of the room. The rest of us were left to stew and wonder what was next. He returned just before the show was set to air. He plopped into his seat, swiveling it toward the large television screen. I shifted my chair closer to Meyer’s and waited as the show logo emblazoned the room.
Damn, it was frustrating waiting through story after story, teaser after teaser with no substance. The show was nearly over, and I was starting to think the notes were another ruse when a logo flashing EXTRA filled the screen.
“We have a late-breaking story. Many of you have no doubt been wondering what is up with the amazing cooking-contest drama Cooking Masters. Well, we have an exclusive from a source within the show itself, and you’re going to want to stay tuned. We’ll give you all the news right after this break.”
I checked my watch and groaned. Apparently they were going to make a big deal of whatever it was, because the show only had five minutes to go, and that meant they were going to play this up to the hilt. But first the ads for bleach and laundry soap, which were probably appropriate for a show like this—after watching it, you needed to wash and bleach your brain from all the inanity. Still, I could understand how people got hooked. The show was designed to entice and dangle juicy carrots in fron
t of the viewer.
“We’re back, and we have the scoop,” the perky announcer said, setting my teeth on edge. “Cooking Masters is well into the taping of its eighth season, and it seems there has been heat in the kitchen that isn’t coming from the stoves.”
I rolled my eyes at the bad copy, but kept my gaze glued to the screen.
“It seems that Emmy-nominated host and judge Rachel Graham has been taking some liberties. Reports say that Ms. Graham and a contestant from season seven had had an affair before and while season seven was being taped. Officials of the long-running cooking contest, which has made just about everyone in America run to their kitchen to recreate the amazing dishes, have said that the indiscretion of one of their hosts in no way affected the outcome of the show, since the contestant in question was kicked off halfway through that season.”
The announcer paused, and it was all I could do not to breathe a visible sigh of relief and high-five Meyer, who sat next to me. Instead, I hazarded a glance at Rachel, who stared aghast at the screen. And when she noticed I was watching, she schooled her expression to one of haughty derision.
“No one is going to buy that load of crap!” Rachel shouted as the announcer continued. “How in the hell could anyone have an affair with one of our contestants when we’re watching them almost all the damned time?”
No one answered her charge.
“We’re all wondering how this will affect Ms. Graham’s contract with the show, which we understand is up after this season. Stay tuned, and we’ll keep you updated on all the late-breaking entertainment news. Good night, and good watching!”
The ending credits began to run, and I pushed my chair back, with Rosco jumping in my lap.
I was stunned, sitting in the chair without moving. The entire room was suddenly made of glass, and the first comment was going to shatter everything. But then it occurred to me that it had already been broken. If Rachel’s contract was indeed up after this season, maybe the producers had decided not to renew. The thing was, they certainly were unlikely to renew it now, with that kind of scandal. A judge and a contestant… no way. That kind of rumor was enough to kill a career.
“That’s enough of that, everyone,” Ethan finally said, and I glanced at Justin, wondering again what he had to do with this. “Go home. We have an episode to film in the next two days, and we’re not going to get behind now.”
He stalked out of the room without another word, and I took the chance to escape as well, with Rosco in my arms. Meyer followed, as did most of the others. A few of the people in Rachel’s inner circle stayed behind, but I had little doubt that her sphere of admirers had just taken a huge numbers hit, and the rest were certain to follow.
I called Felix to tell him I was ready to go home. The way I figured it, Meyer and I had gotten a reprieve from discovery and revelation, and it was now up to him how he wanted to handle it.
“Luke,” Meyer called as he half jogged down the stairs of the production office.
“Gentlemen,” Ethan said as he approached from around the corner. “I would like a word with both of you in the morning. There are a number of things that we will need to discuss about the future—your futures. I’ll see you at my office at eight.” He smiled, and a car pulled up. Ethan got inside, waved, then closed the door, and the black car glided away.
“What do you think that’s about?” Meyer asked.
“If I had to guess, I’d say it’s to review the terms of our parole….”
Felix pulled to a stop, and I set Rosco inside the car and began to get in myself.
“Do you want to get dinner?” Meyer asked.
I paused, because I really wanted to see him, but it was taking a chance. “You’re a chef. Is there a place that can cook better than you?” I climbed into the car, and Felix pulled away.
“I watched the show,” Felix said. “Who would have thought she’d make that kind of mistake.”
I coughed and cleared my throat. “What does that mean?”
Felix pulled to a stop at a light. “Rachel Graham is a barracuda, no question. She has a reputation for being kind and gentle, but in real life, there are plenty of bodies that she’s stepped over to get where she is. They keep quiet mostly out of fear.” Felix pulled through the intersection.
“I had no idea. She seemed nice to me,” I commented.
Felix hummed softly. “That’s probably because she either didn’t see you as a threat or she wanted you lulled into a false sense of security. At least that’s what I heard.”
“Huh,” I said quietly, trying to figure all of this out but not really getting anywhere. Had whoever had been stirring up trouble been after Rachel all along in order to get even? If so, then why send notes to everyone else? I still didn’t have all the answers, but I was relieved that the attention seemed to be focused elsewhere for a while. “Would you tell me anything else that you know? There seems to be an entire undercurrent that I was completely oblivious to.”
Felix laughed as he continued driving, then once again pulled to a stop, this time hard enough that Rosco protested softly. I hoped he didn’t get carsick. That would be pretty bad. I picked up Rosco off the floor and held him, stroking his fur, comforting Rosco as he calmed me. I’d had no idea that agreeing to judge a cooking show would lead to so much drama.
I sat back in the seat, figuring I had probably gotten as much information from Felix as I could. Not that I fancied myself a detective or anything, but I wasn’t getting very far. Sherlock Holmes I definitely wasn’t. But I was curious, and the more I learned, the more I wondered just how many undercurrents ran through the team that made up our little piece of television.
I pulled out my phone and messaged Meyer. What’s the plan? The more I thought about it, the more I thought getting together wasn’t the best idea.
At grocery store. Will be over when I’m done. I think we need to talk and try to figure things out, Meyer sent in return.
Do you think that’s a good idea? What if— I paused, not sure how to say what I wanted to. I wanted Meyer to come over because I didn’t want to spend the entire night wondering about what was going to happen, but being together could add fuel to the fire and give our little note sender more stories to peddle.
Before I could send my text, a second message came through from Meyer.
Don’t know if it’s a good idea to get together, but I need to see you, Meyer sent, and my resolve melted.
I deleted my unfinished text and sent that we should be back at the apartment in ten minutes or so. I set my phone on the seat next to me with a sigh, returning my attention to Rosco. I actually started to talk to him, but stopped myself because I didn’t want Felix to think I had gone crazy, talking to my cat like one of those lonely people with no one else to hear their voices.
“How are things going with you?” I asked Felix.
He shrugged. “The same as always.”
“How’s Louis?” I asked, and saw Felix smile in the mirror. Instantly, the air in the car seemed to warm and glow with excitement.
“He’s great. Mom sent me a picture today.” Felix passed his phone back, and I glanced at the picture of Louis in his leg braces, standing out in front of a small house. “She said he took a few steps on his own.” Damn, Felix’s voice broke a little. “They told us he might never be able to, but he’s proving them all wrong. Louis is a determined little boy.”
“That’s so wonderful.” I handed the phone back. “What kinds of things does he like?”
“Trucks and cars. He makes engine noises all the time and scoots around on the floor with them in his hands. Mama says I need to get him developmental toys, whatever those are.”
“Play-Doh,” I offered. “Things he can make stuff with. Sounds to me like Louis is really smart.”
Felix nodded as he pulled the car to a stop at the intersection right near the apartment. “He really is. I just want him to be happy.”
“I know you do.” I wanted to pat him on the shoulder, but kept my h
ands to myself as he made the final turn and pulled up to the building. I carried Rosco out and arranged for Felix to pick me up in the morning, then went inside.
In the apartment, Rosco made a beeline for his food dish as soon as I set him down, probably making sure the pieces of his food that he had been saving were still there. He trotted back, giving me his “Where’s my dinner?” look, and then waited while I fed him. He was getting as queeny as the boys in a West Hollywood drag show.
Meyer came in as I was washing the makeup off my face, and he got himself set up in the kitchen. It was small and there wasn’t much room for a second person, but he and I made do and had a lot of fun. He wanted me to stir the sauce, so I reached around him and my hands got a little busy. While I nearly burned part of dinner, the heat in the kitchen, under my palms as they slid up beneath Meyer’s shirt, was more than satisfying.
“Here,” Meyer whispered, his voice low and rough. He placed his hands on mine, and we moved together. It was a strange dance to the beat of the stove and food, but I liked it. I had forgotten how much fun it could be to cook with him.
“Do you want to slice the bread for me?” he asked, and got me a place set up. Then he guided me away from the stove, and I got to work. Of course, Meyer had to check what I was doing—to supervise—and he preferred a very close supervision, with him pressed to my back.
“Meyer, this is a lot of fun, but we need to talk.” Damn, I hated to break the playful mood, but things were getting serious.
“I know.” He tested what he had on the stove and made some adjustments, then let me taste. “It’s a simple sauce for the pork.”
I closed my eyes. “Oh, that’s good.” It would be so easy to imagine the two of us like this, and I was trying to keep some sort of distance, to stop myself from falling that last short way. I was failing miserably and knew it.
“I’m not dumb, Luke. I know after everything that this is a bad idea. I should just go home and stay there, keep to myself, and wait for the season to be over. Then I could call you and maybe we could see each other. But by then you would be home in Philadelphia, and I’d be here, chewing the inside of my lip and wondering—again—if things couldn’t have been different.” Meyer turned down the burners and set the spoon in the sink. “I love food—you know that. It’s my passion and what I want to build my life around. At least that’s what I told myself when I left.” He leaned back against the counter with a soft sigh. “I told myself then that I could be a success and make some of the best food anywhere. If I did that, then I could be happy. And guess what?” He swallowed.