Except he was.
And, like that, he was gone.
8
The next morning, I threw on a pair of jeans and a tank top and headed to my studio, right above Chelsea Market, which housed A Little Sunshine’s kitchen, built to look like my Tribeca kitchen: my gray slate countertop, the glass refrigerator.
A plan swirled through my mind. Ryan had jumped ship, yes, but in the light of the morning, I knew that if he could turn this thing around, I could too.
My triage plan: The Food Network was off the table for now, but I would safeguard my contracts still in place, speak to my most important contacts (Evelyn, who was the head of A Little Sunshine’s advertising department, Louis at the publisher), assure everyone that Danny’s speech had been genuine, that there never had been anything between Ryan and me, and that I already had a new management team ready to jump on board. I made a note to call Julie at The Agency, who would be happy to help pick up the pieces. As soon as I had a few of them in my pocket.
When I walked in, I found Violet barking orders at several production assistants who were on their hands and knees in front of a cabinet, packing files into boxes, organizing all the supplies.
Violet raised her hands in exasperation. “Where have you been? I’ve called you a thousand times! And your fucking voice mail is full.”
“I lost my phone.”
“You lost your phone? Of all days!”
I looked around at the chaos, the production assistants moving at double speed. “Why is everyone packing up?”
Violet’s eyes went wide. “Do you not know?”
“Clearly not.”
“Guys, we are going to need the studio for ten. If you would get the fuck out, thank you . . .” She motioned for the production assistants to go. “But don’t go far. There’s a lot to do!”
Everyone shuffled out, leaving the two of us alone.
Then Violet motioned for me to have a seat. “A Little Sunshine’s cooked,” she said.
I looked at her, stunned. “What?”
“Evelyn emailed with a spreadsheet of all the advertisers who have pulled their ads, or who are threatening to pull, or are threatening to sue,” Violet said. “No one wants to be in the A Little Sunshine business. And the studio wants us out of here by the end of business today. They sent . . . like . . . an official legal email saying you had rented the studio space under false pretenses and they demanded we vacate by the end of the business day.”
Violet, who looked seriously afraid I might throw something, turned away and continued the work of loading files into boxes, of packing up the studio.
I took a breath and focused. Of course advertisers were going to balk. I just had to prove that the fans were loyal to me over any of these rumors. I just needed to stop the hemorrhaging. I would draft a carefully worded email, supportive notes from my fans attached. As long as the fans stayed loyal, I’d have the money folks back in no time.
“And how’s the fan base hanging in?” I said.
“About eight hundred thousand on Twitter.”
“I lost eight hundred thousand followers?”
“No, you have eight hundred thousand followers left. You lost 1.9 million.”
“I can do the math!”
“Do you wanna do it for Facebook, too?”
A nightmare, this was turning into a nightmare. And why would the studio also sting me? It didn’t make any sense unless there was another reason. A business reason. A way to turn my loss into their gain. Or someone who had figured out how to.
Ryan. The hit from the studio had Ryan written all over it. He had convinced them to kick me out. He had given them a compelling reason. But what was it, exactly?
“Get Ryan on the phone,” I said.
Violet stared up at me, again a deer in headlights. “I will, but I think you should know first that Ryan and Meredith just issued a joint press release,” she murmured.
“Proclaiming my guilt?”
“No, announcing that they are doing their own show.”
And there it was. My loss, their gain.
Violet opened the phone and held out the press release, so I could see for myself. “Putting the Pieces Together,” she said. “A tale of divorce and dessert.”
“A show about their divorce?”
“Divorce. And reconciliation,” Violet said. “They did a flash poll, and it seems that people want them to work it out, despite his affair. With you.”
“It was hardly an affair.”
“All the better,” she said.
She returned to her file boxes, dumping things inside.
I tried to not explode, to stay proactive. “I’m going to go and check my email.”
“Probably a good idea. You have some doozies in there.”
I drilled her with a look.
“I’m just saying!”
“Don’t.”
I headed for the laptop on my kitchen countertop—soon to be Meredith’s kitchen countertop—to counteract any additional damage Ryan had done. Fourteen hours ago, Ryan was professing his love to me. Now he was professing it to his wife. Was any of it real to him? It was all a little real, but the only thing that mattered to Ryan at the end of the day was Ryan. And he was going to do whatever he needed to in order to save his own ship. Including sinking mine in the process.
I opened my email to one hundred new messages. Maybe that sounds like a lot, but it was a pretty typical morning. Maybe even a little light.
I wasn’t surprised that there weren’t more emails waiting for me. I’d learned early on that people stay away if they think you’re struggling. They don’t want the stink to fall on them too. It’s a strategic error, though. I always emailed the day after someone’s show went belly-up, after a failure. So I would be the person they turned to, the person they thought was on their side. That individual could be useful.
Which was why when I first saw that I had an email from Louis, I actually felt a little relief. Dear Louis. He was still on my side! If that was true, the rest of it didn’t matter—the rumors, the show cancellation—we would weather this together.
Then I read the subject line:
Notice of Contract Cancellation
I clicked the email open and read the entirety of the two-page, biting email in which Louis informed AUTHOR (Sunshine Mackenzie) that PUBLISHER (COOKING WITH GAS) has decided to cancel the contract for SUNKISSED: LOVE FROM THE FARM and the two additional to-be-named future cookbooks in light of author’s breech of ethical responsibility.
We will need the advance repaid by Monday July 1st to avoid legal action.
My heart started to race. After the apartment purchase and renovation, the book advance was pretty much the only liquid money that Danny and I had in the bank.
I wrote him back immediately (and somewhat desperately): Louis, Pls don’t do this! At least let’s sit down and talk first?
He wrote back even faster.