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Alice blinked for a moment, processing, then leaned in. “Bennett Ratatouille Meatloaf Wright is probably one of those guys who swishes the wine around in their mouth and then says they taste oak or cherry or chocolate underneath.”

I held up my water glass and swished it around. Lowered my voice so that it honked out my nose. “Hmm, this wine is quite delicious. I believe I’m getting notes of pine and banana and . . . hmm, is that a Krispy Kreme doughnut under there?”

Alice giggled. My lips perked up in a tiny—genuine—smile. I continued, “Taking bets on if he includes that in his first review tomorrow.”

“Either that or something equally pretentious,” she said. “Unlike you and your delightful videos.”

I sighed. “That reminds me that I never actually got my video.”

“It’s not too late.”

And it wasn’t. Even if I was in no mood to perform right now. After all, as I’d just told myself, sometimes I had to be someone else online. So I forced myself to smile—my day job was great practice for that!—and seem enthused about the lobster and waffles, which were now cold and unappealing, the grease congealing on my tongue, the coating soggy. “It’s sooo good,” I said, rolling my eyes back in my mock-orgasm face. This short video wouldn’t be part of my official post, but I’d post it to my profile in advance of the actual review as a teaser. “I’m so happy to be eating this right now!”

I finished in one take, and just in time. The waiter set the check gently on our table; I grabbed it before Alice could. Though, to be fair, she no longer bothered trying. Sometimes I wondered if she actually just came out with me for the free meals and not the company, but Alice wasn’t that good of a liar.

“We still on for the food festival this weekend?” I asked, trying to push all thoughts of Bennett Wright aside.

The Central Park Food Festival was the most exciting day of my shooting calendar, the way I truly knew spring was here. Tens of booths and stands sent by not only some of the city’s most exciting new restaurants but people trying to raise money to open their own restaurant or food truck. The application process was fierce because the heat of the attention from all the food bloggers and reviewers circulating throughout could make that investor dough rise. “Don’t worry. I’m planning on doing all the research this week so we have our route plotted out exactly.”

“Um, obviously,” said Alice. “I can’t wait.”

In between all my research (and probably some expense report filing and conference room shining for my actual boss), I’d post a couple days of teasers, then livestream a bit on the day of, and prep some epic videos and reviews for the week after. I already knew some of the booths I’d definitely have to check out. All I had to do was figure out how to zigzag between them to get the most food in me.

“I can’t wait, either,” I said. “I wonder if the Scroll will go.” They didn’t usually. It was like they were saying, We don’t need to do the discovering; we’ll wait for you to do the discovering, and we’ll do the judging. Like they’d swish all those new exciting chefs between their teeth, straining them out, looking for undertones that I’d swallow without even noticing.

Now they had a new guy to do that for them. I hope you choke, Bennett Ranch Dressing Milkshake Wright, I thought fiercely and then felt bad. Not, like, choke to death. Just choke enough to be embarrassed, like maybe cough up a bite of fancy food onto your boss or something.

That mental image almost made me feel better.

2

Two days later, I was at work putting the finishing touches on my post. Ahoy, maties! I’ve always thought of the Midtown restaurant scene as expensive, mediocre food aimed at stuffy businessmen trying to outspend each other, theatergoers impatient to bolt down their food before Hamilton starts, and tourists, but Chef Stephanie Lynch is changing that up with her seafood-themed Daily Catch. Are you drooling over that lobster and waffles? Just wait until you smell it . . .

I finished reading over my caption for the millionth time, then fiddled with my photo of the caviar dip that went with the potato chips, trying to make it look less like . . . well, less like fish eggs. Not happening. I scheduled it to post later in the day during peak hours but posted my video to my story. Got to get people excited.

Done. Okay. Now I could focus on the work I was actually getting a salary and benefits for. Or, realistically, I could do a few half-assed tasks for the work I was actually getting a salary and benefits for, then work on my research for the Central Park Food Festival. I answered a few phone calls and emails, then turned to the assortment of newspapers tossed in our office hallway each morning. Mr. Decker wouldn’t be in today—he was up at his Connecticut estate watching a grandchild’s play or baseball game or something—which left all the papers to me.

I chewed the inside of my cheek and surveyed the office. One of my favorite things about working here was the privilege of hanging out in this space all by myself (at least when Mr. Decker wasn’t here). And that wasn’t sarcasm. Even though he was officially retired, Mr. Decker’s previous tenure as CEO of the major TV network LBC granted him a legacy office space in Rockefeller Center until he retired from life itself. He spent most of his days doing charity work, including heading his ovarian cancer charity, Ellen’s Promise, named after his sister, and sitting on boards, where he got paid absurd amounts of money to give other rich people advice a few days a month, if that. I existed to answer his phone and collect his business mail and coordinate between his house managers and make sure he got where he needed to go when he needed to get there.

It was a plum gig. And it was a plum space, twice as big as the two-bedroom apartment I shared with a roommate, with a massive office space for Mr. Decker, the central room where I spent my time, a conference room, a kitchen, and a storage/copy room, with no other occupants to bother me or judge me when I wasn’t doing my work. Massive windows lining the walls showcased Fifth Avenue and Saks; posters of movies and TV shows Mr. Decker had greenlit while at LBC plastered the walls with slick, colorful designs. A gleaming glass cabinet in the corner showed off his four Emmys. Had I taken them out of the cabinet and snapped selfies with them that I would never share to social media, hugging them close and pretending that I’d finally won Outstanding Lead Actress after four totally unfair snubs? I’d never tell. (But yes.)

“Throw the Scroll in the recycling bin the way you promised Alice you would,” I murmured to myself. I pulled the Scroll out of the stack and splayed it out on my desk, covering up the expense reports I was supposed to be reviewing and filing. “Do not open it up to the food section and obsess over Bennett Radicchio Mustard Wright’s first review.” I opened it up to the food section. “Oops,” I said. “That was an accident.”

I was not convincing.

Anyway, Bennett Wright’s first review took up the whole front page. I frowned at the centerpiece photo of a luscious-looking duck confit placed on top of haricots verts and potatoes. Which, okay, looked delicious, but didn’t look especially interesting. Another fancy, ultraexpensive French place? Boh-ring. “Let me guess,” I murmured to Bennett Wright as I skimmed his review. Imaginary Bennett turned his nose up at me in response, fish belly–white jowls jiggling from his old-man chin. “Next you’re going to take us to a fancy, ultraexpensive New American place and then a fancy, ultraexpensive modern European place. All will be cheffed by pretentious white men and—”

My phone vibrated on the desk. I turned it over to see a text from Alice. You’re reading it, aren’t you?

I shook my head. My ass, she’s not psychic.

“Anyway,” I told Mr. Decker’s copy of the Scroll, “all the places he covers will be cheffed by pretentious white men and will be some variant of American or European food, or maybe present some kind of ‘ethnic’ food, but only a token amount and only if it’s got some kind of ‘modern’ twist. And . . .” I trailed off as I hit a line three-quarters of the way through. “Really, Bennett? ‘I don’t personally care for octopus; I find it unpleasantly squeaky against the teeth when cooked well, and even more unpleasantly rubbery when not.’ That’s super pretentious, isn’t it?”

“What’s pretentious?” somebody asked.

My head whipped up. How had I missed someone coming into the office? Had I really been that wrapped up in this stupid review? Bennett Ricotta Macaroni Wright, this is without a doubt your fault. Beneath my desk, I slipped my feet back into my work shoes, trading plush carpet massaging my toes for fake leather pinching them. “Emerson Leigh! Hello!” I said, rising to my feet to greet Mr. Decker’s younger daughter. “How are you doing? Are you looking for your dad? He’s up in Connecticut today.”

Emerson Leigh glanced down, a few strands of blond hair slipping free of her messy bun, and it was then I realized that she was holding a stack of flyers. “I finally got these just the way I wanted them. I thought I’d surprise him with one . . .”