Page 63 of Fauxmance in the City

Gillian looks like she’s about to explode. Karen busts open the kitchen door, and I want to hug her. “Catie, we’re shooting in ten minutes. We need you to walk through a few shots.”

I rush past Gillian, but her nails dig into my arms, and she whispers, “You and your so-called husband have put thousands of people’s jobs in jeopardy. I’m not a monster, Ms. Bloom. I’m a businesswoman, and if your lies got out, we could be ruined.”

She lets go, but her gaze never leaves my face. “I’ll figure out what to do about the special. We’ll finish shooting, but after today, you’re both fired.”

seventeen

Fired.

I sit at the dining room table, waiting for David to say action.

Fired.

Adrenaline makes my body tingle and clouds my mind, and I struggle to comprehend that I no longer have a job. Or an income. Or a chance in hell Sam will ever forgive me.

Sam slides into the seat next to me.

Fired.

I steal a glance at him, but his posture’s rigid, and he avoids my eyes. Gillian and Charles are at either end of the table, and Max sits across from us. I barely notice the conversation around me. I can’t touch the food I prepped in the kitchen moments ago on autopilot. Perhaps that’s all I needed to film the cooking sequences, a tragedy to distract my second-guessing. Natalie arrived when the filming began, but I didn’t need her. My mind was focused completely on my demise, and the cooking took care of itself.

The rock in my stomach destroys my appetite. How will I break the news to Sam that not only is there no promotion, but he has no job?

I glance at Natalie, who stands behind the cameras, and she frowns, silently asking me what’s wrong. I give a small shake of my head, letting her know I can’t talk about it right now. It’s too big, and I’ve got to keep it together for the next hour while we shoot the final scene.

My knee shakes under the table as I slide my phone from my pocket and make the first cut. I text Patrick. I don’t know when Gillian will make my firing official, but I want him to hear it from me first.

Gillian knows. I’m fired. She fired Sam too. He doesn’t know.

Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Patrick’s response goes on for another thousand characters.

She doesn’t know you were involved in the lies, I reassure him.

Yet, he replies. And then nothing.

I’m frozen, realizing Patrick’s right. Gillian will figure out pretty quickly that my editor knew the truth.

“Could someone say something?” David says from behind one of the cameramen.

My breath shudders, but I plaster on a smile and say, “Did you have a nice weekend, Max?”

“It was fun. Thank you so much for hosting, Mrs. Bloom.”

“It was my pleasure. How do you like the food?”

“Delicious.”

We sound like robots. Sad, broken robots.

There’s a commotion in the kitchen, and Gillian stands up so fast her knees hit the table. She leaves, and Max and I exchange a knowing glance. His mystery guest is about to “surprise” him, then he’ll get his memory back. Max told me how it would all go down last night on the car ride. The woman—he still wouldn’t tell me anything about her—will surprise him at brunch, he’ll be shocked, something will click inside his brain, and pow! His memory will come flooding back.

Gillian slides back into the room, then instructs David. “Point a camera on Max and one on the door.”

A moment later, the door swings open and a woman in her late twenties enters. She wears skinny black jeans and a floral blouse with red tassel earrings. Her black, shaggy bob has been styled in soft waves, and her makeup is subtle but elegant, with false lashes that accentuate her teardrop curved eyes.

Max glances at her, confusion covering his features, then looks around the table as if he’ll find an explanation there.

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