Chapter 59
CHAPTER 59
CHARLOTTE
An unknown phone number is calling. I’ve gotten used to answering them. It could be someone on Aiden’s team or from Polar Publishing. Might even be Aiden calling from a work phone I’m not familiar with.
“Hi, it’s Charlotte,” I say.
“Hi there! My name is Audrey Kingsley. I’m calling from the New York Globe . I hope I’m not bothering you.”
I shake my head as if she can see me. “No, not at all.” I rarely get calls from journalists about the books I’ve written. They’d usually rather talk directly with the subjects than me.
“That’s fantastic. Thank you so much for taking my call,” she says. “I would love to chat about a story I’m writing.”
“Oh? What’s it about?” I ask. The next memoir release isn’t scheduled for months, yet. It’s too early for the press, and besides, Polar handles all of that.
“It’s a deep dive into the predatory practices of reality television,” she says.
I pause, and my hand tightens around the phone. “I’m sorry?”
“It’s an investigative journalism piece on the often exploitative nature of dating shows, especially what women go through on some of these programs,” she continues. Her voice is professional, and I hear the flip of papers. “You were on The Gamble some years ago. I would love to hear your version of the story.”
“My version… of the story.”
“Yes. What really happened in terms of the relationship you were in,” she says. “I’ve done some digging, and from what I’ve gathered, there were a lot of things that happened that season that were never aired.”
I stare out the window, barely seeing the turquoise of Aiden’s infinity pool. “And you want to… publish this?”
“Yes. You’re the key piece in my analysis, actually.” She gives a little laugh, almost like she’s embarrassed. “All roads point back to that first season. Would you be willing to meet up? I’m happy to travel wherever you are.”
She doesn’t know where I am. She doesn’t know I’m writing a memoir about Aiden. She’s really not calling about my current job.
She’s calling about the past.
I thought those calls were long over.
“Because you want to mention me in an article? I don’t want to be included.” My voice comes out harsh.
There’s a brief pause on the other end. “I understand. I don’t wish to cause any offense, but your name will be mentioned in passing, at the very least. The treatment of you on that show was a watershed moment in dating shows and reality television. Especially the media attention you received following your appearance.”
My breath is coming fast. “What?”
“I want to hear your side,” she says. “It’s important?—”
“Why are you investigating this? Why now? Why are you writing this article?” I demand. My voice sounds high-pitched, even to my own ears.
There’s a helicopter flying out over the city. I watch it—a tiny, insignificant speck in the sky. But it doesn’t deviate from its path. It’s determined and persistent like a fly.
“Well,” she says, and her voice has softened as if she’s talking to a child. I can hear it and realize it’s because of me, and my reaction. “This article is part of an independent investigation, here at the Globe , and it’s integral in our initiative to tell more female-led stories.”
I grip the back of the sofa. “You said you’ve done some digging. Who are your sources? Who have you spoken to?”
“I can’t tell you that, I’m afraid. Not all of them. But I think it’s worth noting, Charlotte, that I have been in direct contact with Titan Media.”
I pause. “Sorry. You’ve what ?”
“Titan Media is aware of our investigation,” she says. “That is not something I wish for you to pass on, however. But I do want you to know that I’m confident you won’t face any kind of legal backlash for speaking out. They’re welcoming an independent investigation.”
I scoff. “Really? When do corporations ever welcome scrutiny?”
“Normally I would agree with you,” she replies, “but I’ve had personal reassurances. From the very top.”
“From the very top,” I repeat. The words come out slowly. “You’re talking about the executive team.”
“Yes, I am,” she says. Her voice turns earnest. “I can assure you, you’ll be protected through all of this. I would not ask you or any of the other contestants to tell their story if I wasn’t confident about this.”
My chest feels too tight. I take another breath, and then another, but the air doesn’t seem to make it into my lungs.
“Charlotte?”
“Did you talk to the CEO?” I ask.
“I can’t confirm that on the record,” Audrey says carefully, “but I have spoken with an individual in the highest reaches of the company. You have nothing to?—”
“I have to go.” I hang up and throw the phone away, at Aiden’s giant couch, like it’s on fire.
He knows about this. Of course he does. But he must not have expected the journalist to reveal so much.
My skin crawls, bugs scurrying about beneath its surface. I’m already racing across his living room and up the stairs. I take them two at a time.
I spend the next hour googling. The newspaper in question, the journalist, finding her on social media, and the kind of stories she writes.
Everything checks out.
What the hell, Aiden?
I walk the length of the hallway between our two bedrooms. Back and forth. Back and forth. The itch is only getting stronger.
Why is he doing this? What game is he playing now?
My anonymity is everything. I thought we’d spoken about this. Why would he want a piece written that would expose his own production company’s mistakes?
Whatever the reason, he’s done it without asking me. Without telling me about it first.
I should sit down and write. Finish his memoir, yes, but also work on my book proposal. Which he’s also been pushing me to write.
To tell my story.
Just like he’s doing with this interview.
I put on my workout clothes.
There have been times when running is the only thing that got me through the day. Feeling my feet hit the ground and my lungs ache, like I could leave whatever was eating at me behind.
It’s what got me out of my childhood bedroom, out of my parents’ house, after The Gamble aired. I hid in bed for weeks. Barely venturing down for dinner, not talking to friends, hardly interacting with family. Until my best friend showed up outside my door in her workout clothes, insisting we go for a walk.
It turned into a run, and soon, I started going on my own. Listening to nothing but the pounding of my feet against the grounds.
The paved streets around Bel Air aren’t as comforting as the dirt trails through the woods around Elmhurst. There are no sidewalks, only asphalt-covered surfaces made for speeding cars. I run to the trailhead I discovered earlier and hit the packed gravel ground. I jog up and up until I feel the high. Run until I have to slow to a walk, and walk until I can finally run again. I repeat the pattern until the buzzing in my mind dies down.
I don’t have to be in the article.
I’ll send Ms. Kingsley a text tomorrow or the day after, a kind but firm request that any mention of me be omitted. Of course, she warned me that might not be enough. It’s open season for anyone to bring up my name. Lord knows I’m well aware of that.
But it’s the only defense I’ve got.
I walk back to Aiden’s house. My mind might have cleared from the low buzz of irritation, but my body has not.
Aiden must be home now. There’s a massive bouquet of flowers on the kitchen island, with a small note attached. I glance at it.
To my favorite writer.
I let the card fall from my hands and set off in search of him.