Page 42 of Cuts like a Knife
Oh great.
Little as I want to, I lean into the mic and reply clearly.
“Alexis Madison. Citidaze … magazine.”
He laughs before he replies, which breaks the tension in the room, and before he even says another word, I realize I’ve miscalculated yet again. Misread the vibe.
“Never f—ing heard of you,” he says.
With that, I’m dismissed.
~
As the conference ends, everyone filters out of the ballroom. A lot of folks are smirking at and whispering about me, I notice, though more a few give me nods and small smiles.
I get it. Like me, there are people who see the absurdity of this whole situation. Some of them are probably real journalists who don’t want to be here. The job has changed. At the same time, none of them are likely to step up to support me directly. Even though I’m right! Everyone’s way too afraid of being shitcanned.
Smilers and smirkers alike are giving me a wide berth.
Oh well. Another swing and a miss. Wheee. That’s what I get for trying to inject a little bit of respectability into this whole affair, I suppose.
According to the schedule, we have an hour of downtime before one of the cooking segments is set to tape in the main restaurant space. We’re supposed to attend as diners.
I scan around for Callum, but he’s still nowhere to be seen. I decide to make the most of the hour, park myself outside by the pool, and open my laptop to work.
A kind waiter materializes by my side and I order a double margarita. When in Rome. He returns with it in a matter of minutes.
After about 40 minutes, I’ve finished the drink and wrapped two full stories, slotting in my quotes as planned. I email them off to Lars with the admittedly-corny subject line “Working hard, not hardly working” and smile to myself. That should please him. He loves corny. Plus, I’ve been on the ground less than six hours at this point. I’m tearing it up.
A lot of other journalists and junket attendees have clustered around the pool, and they stand out like sore thumbs among the small clusters of twenty-something girls in bikinis, the young couples in loungers, and the middle aged mums in flowery muumuus and dads in overly-long cargo and board shorts. With our laptops and phones and dark street clothes, nice and crumpled from the plane, the Hot Slice press attendees look completely out of place155.
I mentally calculate that if I attend the tapings tonight and tomorrow morning, and if I can keep up the pace I’ve set with my writing, and if Callum is doing his part, wherever he is, by late afternoon on Tuesday, I could be done. That’s a lot of ifs, but I’m hopeful. Determined. I might even be able to skip out of some of the remaining events and do my own thing. If so, if I’m careful, I might be able to eke out a sold couple of days to myself. Maybe even a few days. Broken into bits and pieces, of course, but still. With the right costume change, I might be able to disguise myself among the vacationers at this very pool. I did bring a bathing suit.
But the email. The email still looms.
Still … what if I work like a dog and don’t enjoy this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity at all, and it doesn’t save me. What if the emailer strikes, and I go home to find myself fired? What would be the point of that? There’s got to be some middle ground. Work hard, yes, but make some time for myself too. I doubt I’ll ever be back on this island again.
I imagine myself hiring a car and go exploring. Maybe I can go see those pigs. There are supposed to be amazing secluded beaches on this island. And that way I won’t run the risk of any more run-ins with the folks from Flash.
That thought decides it. Project: Secret Vacay is officially a go. I’ll work like a mad woman for the next couple of days, but then, I’ll chill.
With this motivation in mind, I check the clock and wonder if I can press out another short, complete story before the competition starts taping. Probably not. I’m good, but not that good. I sigh, close my laptop, and decide to head into the restaurant for the taping a little early.
As I wind my way over there, I pass a guy who looks to be asleep in a lounger. He has a deep artificial tan and shiny, dark curls156.
“Callum?” I say.
Chapter Twelve
He opens one eye and peers up at me.
“What?”
“Jesus H. Christ, Callum. What are you doing?”
“What does it look like, Madison?”
“You’re … lounging?” I sputter.
