Page 2 of Bloom

“No,” I say adamantly. “This is crazy. It just wasn’t like that.”

“Didn’t he invite you to the Hamptons?” she says. “Even people in the office heard that.”

“Yes,” I shrug. “I didn’t go. He said something about how I’d like his son — I think he wanted to set me up.”

“Eleanor,” she sighs. “His son is five. And he’s with Edward’s wife in France all summer.”

Oh.

I stare at her blankly, trying to come up with an alternative explanation. He was telling me how fun the Hamptons was in the summer, especially for ‘kids’ my age. And then he said, ‘I’d like you to meet my son. I think you’d really hit it off.’

Nope. Not seeing any implication there that his son was five.

Which turns this into the moment when I start looking at my two weeks with Edward through a new lens. When I look back on a few things he’s done that made me somewhat uncomfortable, things I told myself were no big deal as they occurred. When he hugged me good night, it went on for slightly too long. (Maybe he misses his kids, I’d thought). He’d said some things — that I “wore the hell out of a skirt” and had “a mouth that men dream about”. I thought maybe he didn’t realize how inappropriate they were. The last time we’d been at dinner, he’d suggested that his apartment was right around the corner and I should just stay there. I’d thanked him and I’d laughed, telling him my Dad’s place was nearby and he didn’t need to worry about me so much.

This is the moment I realize that everyone outside of this conference room, maybe everyone in the country, thinks I’m sleeping with my very famous, very married boss. I can’t imagine walking back out. I can’t imagine continuing to work with these people. But I also can’t imagine giving up my internship. “So what now?” I ask quietly.

“Well, you can’t be here anymore for starters,” she says.

“But … ” I begin. Already I know it’s fruitless. I’ve heard enough of my father’s stories. The guy who pulls in viewers matters more to the network than some stupid teenage girl he wanted to screw. “Can you help place me at another show?” I ask. “I need to intern somewhere.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, her words undermined somewhat by the vicious glee in her tone. “We won’t be able to help you. We need you to stay out of the spotlight.”

That shocks me, perhaps, more than anything else. And angers me too: they’re going to fire me without cause and give me nothing to fall back on. My shoulders sag. “Well, I guess there’s always my father’s show.”

And that’s when she lowers the other boom. That’s when she tells me my father’s days are over too.

Chapter 2

The first person I call is my mother, who confirms that yes, my father has a pending sexual harassment suit and also knocked up a 24-year-old production assistant. That he was fired, and oh, by the way, she and my father have filed for divorce.

And then I call Ginny. Ginny Campbell has been my best friend since our first day of preschool, when we were the only girls in the class who didn’t want to play this completely pointless game called “Unicorn Fairy” that involved a lot of running around and neighing. Instead, we took over the small playhouse and I interviewed her while she pretended she was a judge, yelling “You’re out of order!” at 20-second intervals. I think maybe her nanny was letting her watch a lot more “Judge Judy” than her parents realized.

And even though my parents moved from Connecticut when I was 14, our friendship survived. It didn’t even occur to me to call anyone but her.

“I saw the paper.” Those are the first words out of her mouth. Before I’ve said anything at all.

I groan, burying my face in my hands. I guess I’d hoped the damage would be more minimal, the sort of thing only media types would pay attention to. But somewhere down in a sleepy town on the Delaware coast, my best friend has seen it too.

“They didn’t mention you by name,” she soothes. “I can’t believe you were sleeping with Edward Ferris and never even told me.”

“God, Ginny,” I cry. “Of course I wasn’t sleeping with him! He’s my freaking dad’s age.”

“Well, he’s still mega-hot,” she counters. “As is your dad.” Ample payback for all the years I’d spent lusting after her brother were all the years she spent lusting after my dad.

“I’m done,” I cry. “My whole career is shot before I’ve even begun.”

“This will blow over,” she says. “Your dad will get you something else.”

And then I tell her the rest of it — all the other things that would have been devastating on their own, but now almost seem mundane compared to my own spectacular implosion.

She is completely silent for a second, the most un-Ginny moment of the call. “Wow,” she finally says. “Well you did always want a sibling.”

“Yeah, when I was five!” I cry. “Not now!”

She’s silent again. I can almost see her there, brow furrowed, eyes focused. Ginny is never without a plan for long. “The way I see it, you’ve only got one option: you need to come spend the summer with me at the beach. You’ve never once had a normal teenage summer. You’ve spent every break since you were 14 wearing a suit and working your ass off. If it’s really all ruined anyway, then fuck it. Come out here and act like a normal teenager for once in your life.”

“What will I do for a job?” I ask.