Page 99 of Bloom

I tell her my story — that I’ve known Edward since I was little and that he was friends with my dad. She asks what I remember of him from childhood, and I tell her about the time he and my dad went golfing and then he let me ride in his convertible. I tell her about him saving me the chocolates when we were at the same hotel. How he helped me count them and then we created a huge tower on the lobby floor. Remembering it is depressing. How could the guy who was so nice to me as a child be the same one dragging me through the mud now?

And then we move to the present. She asks if I knew he was showing me preferential treatment when I interned. It’s embarrassing to admit that I did. It makes me look a little opportunistic. Was I? The truth is that I was both happy about it and uncomfortable at the same time. I didn’t know how to make it stop, but I also didn’t have a lot of incentive to do so.

When I tell her about his calls, about all the times I told him to stop and my failed attempt to get a restraining order, it pisses me off all over again. I can’t believe that with the shit he’s put me through he may still wind up viewed as the ‘victim’.

When the interview concludes, she turns off her tape recorder, and politely thanks me for my time, telling me it’s slated to appear on Friday’s front page.

“That didn’t go well,” I tell James.

“You don’t know that,” he replies. But he can’t mask his own uncertainty.

“He’s going to get away with it,” I say, and my eyes fill. “He’s done all this vile stuff, and he’s going to come out on top. I don’t understand how it’s possible.”

“He’s not,” James insists. “You have no idea what’s going to happen.”

“You saw how she was, James,” I cry. “She didn’t believe a word I said.”

“Look, you don’t know that. And here’s the thing: he’s not coming out on top. Edward Ferris is a dick. He’s a bad person who basically stalked a kid young enough to be his daughter and lied about her to save face. He’s not coming out on top because a guy like that is never going to have the things he wants in life. He’s never going to be happy, or fulfilled. You will be, regardless of what happens here. This isn’t your life. It doesn’t dictate how anything turns out. It’s a blip you’ll move past, either way.”

“You sound like Max again,” I smile tearfully.

He pulls me into his chest. “A little Max is a good thing sometimes.”

**

In the afternoon, I’m interviewed by Rona Blakely. I tell her the same things I told the woman from the Times. Her demeanor, unlike that of the first reporter, is sympathetic. She leans forward, nodding, eyes focused. It reassures me a little, but then again it’s her job to look sympathetic. She’s supposed to look deeply troubled so her audience thinks she’s a wonderful human being, and so that I relax and admit more than I should.

When we’re done taping, she sits with me while someone helps remove my microphone.

“You need a thick skin in this business,” she sighs.

“I thought I had one,” I tell her. “But I guess I don’t.”

“You’re doing okay,” she says. “And if you want to intern next summer, come to me instead of a man. You deserve at least one summer without perverted voicemails.”

James is waiting for me when I finish. “That seemed better,” he says.

“It did,” I agree. “But it kind of wiped me out. All I want to do now is go back to sleep.”

He wraps an arm around my shoulder. “You can sleep in the car,” he says. We both have to work tonight, and it’s best that we get out of the city quickly anyway. Bad or good, the interviews are going to attract attention, and I don’t want to be here when they do.

Ryan calls on the way home. “How did it go?” he asks.

“Good, I think. Can’t be sure until I see them, though. How did things wrap up with Tommy?”

This is the point at which James realizes who I’m talking to. I can tell by the sneer on his face.

“He’s going to listen to our demo,” Ryan says. “And by the way, I can give you a copy. You know, in case you want to ask Rona Blakely to play it in the background.”

I crack up. “Please promise me that no matter how famous you get you’ll never turn out like that.”

Beside me, James’s unhappiness is shifting from a grumble to a low roar.

“Not a problem,” he replies. “What is your mother thinking? She could do so much better than that guy.”

“No clue. Maybe the shock of the divorce has killed brain cells.”

“Not all of them,” he counters. “She still thinks you’ll end up with me.”