Page 6 of Fauxmance in the City

“I can easily get out of one assignment,” I say, confidence winding up my spine. I throw a wry smile in Patrick’s direction. “I worm my way out of them all the time with you.”

“Because I’m a wuss.”

“When’s the meeting?” I stand, undaunted. It’s one special. They can find someone else to do it. They don’t need me.

“Two.”

“Don’t worry.” I smooth my skirt, and address my audience—Sam smirking, Natalie frowning, Patrick hyperventilating. “I’ve got this.”

At two on the dot, I march toward Gillian’s office suites on the top floor of the skyrise, her wiry, red-haired assistant leading the way. A small conference table nestles into an alcove at the far end of the expansive space. Gillian is seated on the other side of the white acrylic table in a bright green pantsuit with a comically large scorpion brooch on her lapel. To her left sits a crisply suited man in his fifties. Karen, the executive producer of Good Day USA, is beside him.

After a quick introduction, I place my hands on the back of one of the leather conference chairs.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” I begin. “Thank you for this amazing opportunity, but—”

“I knew you’d be pleased. Poor Max. It’s no wonder he still has amnesia. He’s been living in that horrible hospital in Greece. But he’s being released in two weeks, and I’m sure everything will come flooding back if he has somewhere safe and familiar to come home to. And when Charles”—the suited man with a stiff tie and stiffer smile lifts his gaze to meet mine—“suggested we film it as a special segment on Good Day, I knew you were the perfect woman for the job. What could be better than coming home to Catelyn Bloom’s perfect domesticity?”

“I’m honored, but I can’t host him at my home.” Four stony faces stare at me, and I resist the urge to cut and run. “I just signed the papers for a new apartment, and I, er, we won’t have time to ready it for filming.”

Starting with the truth seems like a good idea; a bit foreign, but good.

“It’s not being filmed at your apartment,” Charles Friedman states, the afternoon sun creating shadows around his face as it pours in from the wall of windows behind him. “We’re using my townhouse in Brooklyn—a place Max is familiar with—for the shoot. There will also be an ice skating segment in Prospect Park.”

“I’m confused.” I dig my fingernails into the smooth leather of the chair. “I thought I was hosting him at my home. Isn’t that how the special is being marketed? If it’s not in my apartment, isn’t that lying? We can’t lie to the public, and since we can’t host him at my house, I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing it.”

Oh, God, don’t strike me down.

“Sit, Ms. Bloom.” Gillian’s thin lips pinch into a frown. I lower myself into the stiff leather chair.

“You won’t be lying.” Charles folds his manicured hands in front of him. “You’re the host. It’ll be a five-minute segment featuring Max’s return, creating moments that may jog his memory, and satisfying the public’s hunger for your homemade cuisines and domestic stylings throughout. It’s not rocket science. You bring the ratings.”

Charles raises his phone and types on it.

“We’ll send you the locations and the itinerary once they’re finalized,” Karen says, taking over. “I’m your contact person. The townhouse is already decorated like it was during Max’s childhood, but you can add your designer touches. We want you to.”

“How is Max familiar with this place?”

“Oh. He’s our nephew,” Charles says without looking up.

I swing my gaze from Charles to Gillian. Are they married? Brother and sister? Before I can ask, Charles pulls out a folder from his tote and flips it open.

“In two weeks, you’ll spend Friday night at the Brooklyn townhouse preparing for the shoot and getting some B roll. Saturday we’ll film you preparing the meal while you present details about the recipes and other cooking tips. Similar to the segments you film on set. Then Max will enjoy a home-cooked family dinner with his family as well as you and your husband. The next day, we’ll film him ice-skating in the park. We haven’t decided if we need you for that. And if his memory hasn’t come back yet at that point, we’ll set up something for the following weekend—a game night with his favorite childhood games, and we’ll add in some canapes or something from you. Hopefully, by the final day of filming, Max’s memory will be back.”

It sounds like an opportunistic horror show, but Charles doesn’t wait for my response. He rolls his chair out, half-rising. Karen follows suit, shoving her feet into her black Havaianas flip-flops, even though it’s forty degrees outside.

“Wait,” I yell, heat shooting up my neck. “My husband can’t do it. It’ll just be me.”

“Your husband has to be there. I want Max to have a happy family around him.” Charles gathers his iPad and phone into the crook of his arm.

“Aren’t you and Gillian family?” I sweep my gaze between the pair. I wonder again if they are married. There’s a familiarity between them but not much warmth.

“I want the picture-perfect family,” Charles continues. “Max was happiest before his parents passed away. Gilli and I tried our best when we got him at thirteen, but we were busy, and Max was often on his own.” He blows out a puff of air, exasperated. “We’ve been talking to doctors and experts. They say to get his memory back he needs to have something worth remembering. His childhood is worth remembering—when he had a mother, a father, family meals, and games around the dinner table. That’s why we need you. And your husband. You’re the gold standard of domestic bliss.”

I blink, wondering how much Charles believes his bullshit.

“Well, uh, my husband’s an extremely private person. And he’s out of the country. He won’t be in town for the shoot.”

There’s a long silence in the room. For a moment, I think I’ve taken care of one big problem. Now all I need is a quick 101 on cooking Max’s favorite meals without Natalie in the wings. Even if I could have her on the shoot as my assistant, she’s leaving for Panama in two weeks to enjoy her first vacation in over a year.

---