Page 47 of Reptile Dysfunction
“Deborah, what’s this in the calendar?” I ask, looking up from my desk to where my assistant is sipping a cup of witch’s brew. “Interview with the Herald?”
I don’t remember making the appointment, and for a second, I fear that I made an appointment with Charlotte before this investigation started and have forgotten about it.
Will she even come? I wonder before Deborah even has the chance to answer.
“Oh, yeah, I’m sorry I didn’t have the chance to check with you,” she answers, putting her mug down. “Charlotte Lieberman called early this morning and said it was urgent. She sounded like she really meant it. I hope it’s okay that I scheduled something?”
For a second, I don’t really know the answer to that question. Part of me is dying to see Charlotte. We haven’t spoken in days, and the only news I’ve had of her is second-hand mutterings of her snooping around Pickle Fest. I want to see her, but I’m loath to think of what this meeting might be about. It’s certainly not a friendly check-in or a confession of the feelings I thought she had for me.
The fact she scheduled an appointment through Deborah rather than just calling me speaks volumes, but Deborah can’t be blamed for that, of course.
“Yes, that’s fine,” I tell her, even though I’m not a hundred percent sure if I mean it. I suppose I’ll have to wait for the meeting to find out.
As usual, I have a busy morning full of appointments, but I find it hard to concentrate. The thought of seeing Charlotte again weighs on my mind, and by the time our two o’clock meeting comes around, I just want to get it over with.
I steel myself for the same Charlotte I first met – the cruel unrelenting journalist with blinders on. The one that tried to destroy me without knowing me. The one who jumped at any chance to hurl accusations at me, even when there was no evidence to back them up. The one who, in fact, fabricated evidence against me because she couldn’t believe I was who I said I was.
But when Charlotte walks into our meeting, there’s no cruelty in her eyes. If anything, she seems like a hollow version of herself.
“Hello, Mason,” she says, but she doesn’t meet my gaze as she sits down across from me.
I notice she doesn’t pull the chair closer, either, instead keeping plenty of distance between us. To me, that speaks volumes about how this conversation is going to go.
She’s not the hard-hitting journalist that tried to bring me down, but she’s not the warm, loving woman I’ve been seeing for the past few weeks either. Instead, she’s indifferent, and that almost feels worse.
“Hello, Charlotte,” I say, trying to keep the hurt out of my voice. “What can I do for you?”
I can hear the words coming out of my mouth, but it’s as if someone else is speaking them. But anything more than professional distance would feel like pandering at this point. As horrible as this feels, I’m not one to beg for another chance. If Charlotte has chosen to distance herself, I won’t push it.
“Well, I’ve received a tip-off that there might be some dodgy dealings going on with Pickle Fest,” Charlotte begins, using that same distant voice of professionalism that she greeted me with.
I’m not shocked exactly. The last few days of drip-fed information from vendors and partners of the festival have more than warned me that Charlotte was looking into things, but it still feels horrible to be sitting across from her like this, forced to defend myself like some criminal.
We’ve been through all this before. The suspicion, the accusations and, I thought, the eventual building of trust.
But it seems none of that really counted for anything because here we are again. Only this time, it feels worse because of how close we’ve gotten. Before, Charlotte was just a stranger accusing me out of ignorance and blind ambition. Now she’s someone I’ve bared my soul to, someone I’ve taken into my confidence, someone I thought knew me better than this.
I really didn’t think things had sunk so far, but I suppose I can’t blame Charlotte for it. She’s a journalist looking for a story, and maybe that’s all I ever was to her. This is just the latest scoop.
“I’d be happy to answer any of your questions,” I say resignedly.
If Charlotte is going to treat me like any other politician, I’m going to treat her like any other journalist. I won’t ask her to reconsider this investigation, I won’t use our relationship as collateral, and I won’t dodge her questions. The only thing worse than going through this conversation now would be not going through it.
“Thank you,” she says, still avoiding looking me in the eye. “The tip-off I received was unfortunately very vague, so I’ve been looking through the financials for the festival. Everything seems to be in order there, thankfully, but I wanted to check with you about the contributions you’ve made yourself. Could you tell me if there’s anything there I should be looking at?”
One part of my mind is on autopilot, simply going through the motions of this conversation like it’s any other meeting.
“Nothing untoward,” I say monotonously. “But you’re welcome to look over my own financial records. I’ll have Deborah send them to you.”
The other part of my mind is reeling, though. It’s still hard to believe that after all we’ve been through, Charlotte actually suspects me of wrongdoing. How many times do I have to prove to her that I’m actually as good a public servant as I say I am?
“That would be great, thank you,” Charlotte replies, jotting something down in her notebook. “And are there any tax breaks for the contributions you make to the festival?”
I have to hold back the urge to ask her if she’s serious. Instead, I push down my incredulity and answer the question professionally.
“Yes, I receive a five percent reduction in my tax rate for each following financial year, all of which is publicly disclosed and overseen by an independent committee,” I tell her. “In fact, the Herald itself publishes this information.”
Charlotte nods but appears unfazed by my answer. It seems that, like before, she’s already made up her mind about me, and there’s not much point in arguing with her about it.