If It Bleeds by Linda L. Richards Page B

wrangle from me. But I didn’t think one story would be enough. I needed to make such a splash and impact that I’d secure a position in the newsroom once a spot opened.
    Brent was already on the elevator when I got in at the parking level.
    â€œWell, well,” he said with a little smirk, “here’s our talented gossip columnist. And tell me, please, what will Nicole be up to on this night?”
    No word on my absent byline, my stolen opening paragraph. Nothing at all, really, beyond the patronizing emptiness I’d always gotten from him.
    I groped for an answer that would stop him in his tracks, shut him up and remove the smirk from his face as though by a kick from my pointy-toed shoe to his groin. I couldn’t think of anything.
    When the elevator doors opened for him, I gave up. I felt the defeat through my whole body. He got off the elevator and I’d barely looked at him. As the doors closed, I heard him call out sweetly, “Have a nice day, Nicole.”
    I stood for a moment in the empty elevator, my heart pounding. He’d put me in my place without ever lifting his voice. We’d had some kind of contest. He had won.
    â€œPrick,” I said, just as I had the night before. I retreated to my cubicle with a fearsome relief. This was home, I told myself. This was safe. As I sat at my desk, I fingered the neat stacks of invitations. I looked at the corkboard where I’d pinned up a couple of choice photos and some nice memories. “Nicole at Night” was mine. No one would contest me for it, no one would take it away. I was good at it, I told myself. And the parties were fun. There were aspects of the job that I really loved.
    The food was great. Event food all the time. Canapés and caviar and cheese and tiny wontons served on delicate spoons… my grocery bill was next to nothing, just eggs and bread and Earl Grey tea.
    The notoriety. That was fun. It was like I was famous, though in a small enough dose that it wasn’t irritating. My drycleaner gave me special treatment, rushed my stuff right through. At the market, the occasional checkout girl would recognize me from my picture in the paper and be gently flustered and admiring. The best part of fame. Not so much that you needed to watch your steps or that people asked for your autograph over dinner. Just enough that people were nice to you when they realized who you were. That was pleasant. I’d gotten used to a world that was nice to me.
    All those things were good, and I was safe. Why would anyone want anything else? As I thought these things, I realized something. Brent was a master manipulator. The impossible-to-get quote. The illusive interview. The access behind closed doors. Not all reporters have this gift, but some do. It explained how he could he make me feel so small with a word and a glance. I pulled myself up and felt as though I was adding steel to my spine. I felt mad and determined and yet serene. I knew what I wanted. And I knew how to get it.
    I pushed aside my self-doubt and reached for the phone.

FIFTEEN
    â€œG ood afternoon, Giggling Gourmet,”
    a chipper voice said on the other end of the line. “This is Terese. Can I help you?”
    â€œHey, Terese, this is Nicole Charles from the Vancouver Post . I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?”
    â€œHi, Nicole!” It was a gush. Caterers are among those who always recognize me. They’re probably big readers, scouring my column daily looking for mentions of them or their food. “I would love to talk to you, but it’s mad here today. We’re getting ready for an event in under an hour and there’s a lot to do. Can it hold until tomorrow—no, scratch that.” She didn’t even let me answer. “We’ve got a lunch and two evening events. The best thing might be for you to drop by in person. We’re always busy, but we can blab while we work.” She rattled off an