Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [1]
Miranda caught herself smirking, and pulled her mouth back into its customary noncommittal line. It was harder than she expected. She blinked. The room and everyone in it wavered slightly.
“Why won’t all of you no-talent hacks stand still?” she said, a little startled at how loud her own voice seemed in her ears. When had she lost volume control?
Several people turned to stare, and Miranda tilted her chin up, daring them to say anything. She felt brittle and dry, like crumpled-up paper—after the day she’d had, it wouldn’t take much of a spark to make her go up in flames.
Someone jostled her elbow, and Miranda turned with a frown to find her editor, Claire Durand, staring at her. There was an incredulous look on Claire’s normally serene countenance, her perfectly plucked eyebrows arching upward as she took in Miranda’s struggle to keep a straight face.
“Miranda,” she hissed, her French-accented voice giving the r in the name extra emphasis. “How many of these apéritifs have you had?”
Miranda leaned in a little and whispered, “In America, we call them ‘cocktails.’ ”
Claire pursed her red-lipsticked mouth, and Miranda tried to remember what that was called in France. “A moue?” she said out loud, without meaning to.
The eyebrows snapped down. “Merde,” she cursed. “But I watched you! I would swear you had no more than I.”
Miranda thought about it. “Yes,” she agreed. “But you’re French. You were probably given wine as an infant.” Miranda blinked. “I . . . wasn’t.”
Looking around wrathfully, Claire said, “Of what are these concoctions made? Is the chef trying to poison us?”
Miranda, who still had her empty glass, took an experimental sniff. “Don’t think so,” she said. “Smells like roses. Which are edible. Or, in this case, drinkable. No, that’s wrong. What’s that word?” Why was she having such a hard time with words tonight? They were usually her specialty.
Callously ignoring Miranda’s vocabulary difficulties, Claire flagged down one of the circulating waiters. “You. What is in the cocktail, please?”
The young man appeared to shrink under Claire’s stern glare, but stammered, “Rose-petal-infused vodka and fresh Hudson Valley raspberries.”
Claire let go of his arm, and the boy wasted no time in making his escape. Miranda watched him go with some disappointment; that rose-vodka-berry thing really had been yummy. She thought she might quite like another one. Third time’s the charm. Or was that fifth?
But all visions of sweetly perfumed liquor left her head when Claire turned the eyebrows on her again. This time they were accompanied by a tight pinch at Miranda’s elbow, as Claire manacled her arm and attempted to sidle them both closer to the wall.
“Ow,” said Miranda, allowing herself to be led.
“Thank God for atmospheric restaurant lighting,” Claire breathed, smiling graciously at a curious fellow guest. Miranda peered at his face as she was hustled past.
“Was that the critic for the Post?” she asked. Miranda’s volume control was evidently still hit-or-miss, because Claire winced and tightened her grip.
“Ow,” Miranda reminded her with greater emphasis. “Randall Collins. Was it? I should say hello. His one review, of that tapas place, was inspired.” She paused. “Or do I mean ‘inspirational’? Because it sure inspired me. Before reading that review, I didn’t know you could even print some of the names he called that chef.”
“Oui, oui, I’m certain he changed your life, and I, for one, am grateful to him, but you are in no condition to tell him so. If I permit you to speak with him now, tomorrow you would throw yourself from the Brooklyn Bridge, and then what should I do? I would have to find a new restaurant critic with your gift of vitriol. Who else could I find to take on the titans, like Devon Sparks and his new Las Vegas monstrosity?