The Holiday Swap(4)
When Charlie was cooking, she relied on a lot of things: a childhood spent baking with her pastry-chef father at the family’s bakery, her formal schooling, her years of experience, and her senses—particularly her sense of taste and smell. Charlie had an uncanny ability to detect flavor notes others could not. It had served her well in her career so far, and she knew she was far superior to Austin in this regard.
But then came the pineapple B-roll scene.
She had it all under control, or so she thought, until her assistant, Sydney, said, “Um, Charlie? I think your pineapple is burning?” Sure enough, while Charlie had been preparing another part of the dessert her pineapples had started to char.
How had she not noticed?
Dumbstruck, Charlie looked back up at Sydney, who was waving a hand in front of her nose as she turned off the stove’s heating element. Sydney looked as shocked as Charlie felt. Plumes of smoke rose out of the cast-iron pan, the pineapples blackened around the rims. But Charlie couldn’t smell the burning.
She leaned over the pan, inhaled deeply. Nothing.
Austin was watching her, a curious look on his face. Charlie had never made an error like this on set. It was something a bumbling, beginner home chef would do, and she was mortified—and worried. Because it was then she remembered the peppermint extract that had soaked into her now discarded skirt. The smell of which she realized she hadn’t noticed once she came to.
Sydney looked at her for a beat. Then Sydney said, loudly because she knew Sasha was listening, “It was my fault. I must have put the temperature too high. You said medium-high, right?”
“Uh, no,” Charlie replied, grateful beyond belief for Sydney at that moment. “I said medium-low.”
“Oh, darn. I’m really sorry,” Sydney said.
“It’s fine,” Sasha said, with a deep sigh and a disapproving look tossed Sydney’s way. Charlie was going to have to find a way to thank Sydney for taking a hit on her behalf. “We got the shot with Austin’s pan. Good work, everyone.” There was some enthusiastic clapping—Sasha was very committed to creating what she called a “positive and supportive” set—and then they were wrapping things up for the day.
“Go get checked out,” Sasha said as she walked past Charlie.
Austin gave Charlie a smug smile, then said to Sasha, “Do you have five minutes? I’d love to get your take on an idea I have for tomorrow.”
“Come on. I’ll drive.” Priya was suddenly beside Charlie, who was still staring into the pan of blackened pineapple, wondering if it represented the beginning of the end of her television career.
* * *
? ? ?
The ER was busy. Charlie sat in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, the intake bracelet scratchy against her wrist. She was wearing Priya’s sunglasses, and her head was killing her, the bright lights of the waiting room making matters worse. Priya had fetched them coffees, and Charlie took a sip. She normally loved coffee, but this particular cup tasted no different than drinking warm water. “This stuff is awful,” she said to Priya. “It has no flavor.”
“Really? I’m finding it pretty strong.”
Charlie frowned into her cup. She was beginning to suspect something was very wrong.
“How are you doing? You look pale,” Priya asked, glancing over at her, an unread magazine on her lap, the cover promising “How your favorite stars are spending their ho-ho-holidays.”
“Just want to get this over with.” Charlie’s phone started ringing; it was Cass. Normally, Cass would be the first person she wanted to talk to during a crisis, but Charlie didn’t want to have this conversation in front of Priya. She hit decline. Talking to her sister would have to wait.
“Charlotte Goodwin?” A nurse stood by the door to the emergency room’s inner sanctum.
“Let’s go,” Priya said, taking Charlie’s elbow as they stood up. “Come on, sweets. Let’s get that gorgeous head of yours checked out.”
The nurse took Charlie’s vitals, then showed them to another room to wait. Normally a hospital would be a place where Charlie’s acute sense of smell would be overwhelmed, the astringency of the cleaning products sharp in her nostrils. Today she couldn’t smell any of it. It was terrifying, but she wasn’t ready to tell anyone about it—not even Priya, and especially not the doctor, whenever he or she finally arrived.
About twenty minutes and another gossip magazine later, there was a knock on the door and a dark-haired man wearing green scrubs, a stethoscope slung around his neck, popped his head into the room. “Charlotte Goodwin?”
Charlie sat up, and the man—whom she presumed was the doctor—stepped into the room. He looked like he belonged on a movie set, which happened so often in L.A. you’d think she’d be used to it. He smiled, revealing an endearing set of dimples.
“I’m Miguel Rodriguez. So, what brings you in to see us today, Ms. Goodwin?”
Before she even had the chance to respond, Priya jumped in. “Well, Charlie’s the host of a reality baking show, and we had a small on-set mishap today,” she said, batting her eyelashes.
Charlie thought the doctor blushed slightly when he said, “Yes, I recognized you. Caught yesterday’s episode, actually. Great to meet you, Ms. Goodwin.”
“Oh, a fan!” Priya exclaimed. “Isn’t that great, Charlie?” Charlie was in awe of Priya’s ability to flirt unabashedly, even in this sterile environment while her injured friend sat on a hospital gurney. “Anyway, a shelf of pots fell on top of poor Charlie today. She was knocked out. Like, out cold.” Priya frowned, likely remembering how awful it had been to find Charlie in that state.