The Lemon

by S. E. Boyd

Genres: General Fiction; Literary Fiction; Satire; Humorous Fiction

Synopsis

“[T]his poised and playful debut novel is a sly satire on foodie culture and the modern hype machine. . . . As tart as ‘artisanal citrus,’ as sharp as a chef’s knife, The Lemon is both a gleeful foodie sendup and an incisive takedown of the commercial exploitation of just about everything.”
—The New York Times Book Review (Editors’ Choice)

Named a Most Anticipated Book of Fall 2022 by Entertainment Weekly • Vogue • AARP the Magazine • The AV Club • Parade • Eater • New York Post • LitHub • Publishers Lunch • and more!

Set in the intersecting worlds of fine dining, Hollywood, and the media, a darkly hilarious and ultimately affecting story about the underside of success and fame, and our ongoing complicity in devouring our cultural heroes.

While filming on location in Belfast, Northern Ireland, John Doe, the universally adored host of the culinary travel show Last Call, is found dead in a hotel room in an apparent suicide. As the news of his untimely demise breaks stateside, a group of friends, fixers, hustlers, and opportunists vie to seize control of the narrative: Doe’s chess-master of an agent Nia, ready to call in every favor she is owed to preserve his legacy; down-on-her-luck journalist Katie, who fabricates a story about Doe to save her job at a failing website; and world-famous chef Paolo Cabrini, Doe’s closest friend and confidant, who finds himself entangled with a deranged Belfast hotel worker whose lurid secret might just take them all down.

Bolstered by the authors' insider knowledge of high-end restaurants and low-end media, The Lemon delivers a raucous examination of our culture with deliciously cutting prose, crackling dialogue, and an unpredictable plot that will keep you riveted to the last page.

Release date: November 8, 2022

Publisher: Viking

Print pages: 288

Sample

1.

Charlie McCree

Belfast, Northern Ireland

Monday, July 1, 2019, 8:13 a.m.

Charles Ulysses McCree-aka Smilin' Charlie McCree-whistled down the hall of the top floor of bandit in a long-shot bid to conceal the fact that he was barely holding himself together. The pathways connecting his brain to his arms and legs and feet and fingers had been disrupted. Some of his extremities ached, while others were numb. There was no rhyme or reason to it. Not that he could see, anyway. Before Charlie came to work this morning, he had dropped a mug of tea in his kitchen. One moment he was holding it, the next he was not, and fucked if he knew what had transpired in the interim. Perhaps he was dreaming; perhaps a sinkhole had opened in his brain. But while some existing neural pathways had been severed, new ones had formed. His hair hurt, for example. So did his fingernails. Dead things brought to life by a record-breaking two-day blitz upon the City of Belfast.

His eyes may have lost the ability to focus properly, but he was still able to discern the form of a housekeeper as she emerged from the dark fog of the hallway before him. Her name tag read "Kitty." Presented with this information, Charlie attempted to pass himself off not only as a human being, but as a human being who sings.

" 'Oh Kitty, my darling, remember,' " he intoned. " 'That the doom will be mine if I stay.' "

"Fuck off with ya, Charlie," she said, brushing past.

The weekend had been bloody sensational. The festivities started in the dark among the mannequins at the Filthy Quarter on Dublin Road, as they always did, because the decor allowed the lads to simulate intercourse with insensate objects, a cherished pastime. Having achieved a suitable level of intoxication, Charlie and his mates then set out to sup from every pub in the center of the city-the Garrick, White's, McHugh's, the Bullitt Hotel bar, the John Hewitt-moving haphazardly from one to the next, becoming louder and more damaged, bouncing off lorries and light poles and Proddies and Papes, mounting bold charges and beating craven retreats, and in time covering a significant swath of the city, like a robotic vacuum cleaner that generates mess instead of sucking it up.

Friday yielded to Saturday and, after an interlude of impromptu public sleep, Charlie and the lads hit the daylight like an enemy beachhead and fought well into the afternoon. As the hours passed and his mates began to show signs of wear, Charlie only gathered force. He was a hard man to keep pace with. Alcohol amplified his essential Charlie-ness and turned it into a matter of public concern. There was no hostility to it, however. Only joy. Only lust for living. At one point, Charlie acquired a bridal veil, presumably from a hen party in which he had temporarily embedded himself. This accoutrement, he was later informed, inspired him to attempt to kiss a police officer on the mouth while speaking in a womanly voice and to steal a multitude of orange parking cones, which the lads subsequently used as megaphones to inform the masses about the many arcane toilet procedures favored by Her Majesty, the queen.


By late afternoon on Saturday, time had slipped from its skein and morale ebbed. By nine p.m., most of Charlie's mates had fallen away. Some had been decked, over women or for slights intended or unwitting. Others were sickened. One simply lost heart and skulked off. No matter: Charlie just replaced them with new friends. It was easy. When Charlie attained a certain state, he ceased to be a normal human trapped in body and status, limited by personal and moral inhibitions and the strictures of a class-based society. He became magnetic, magnificent. Charlie in his cups ascended to the rarified air. He became Prince Charlie of Belfast, friend to man and woman, leader in song, and the city lined up behind him. And then came the hard light of Monday morning and Charlie did what any self-respecting man would do: he got up, pulled a strange bridal veil out of his pants, threw up, and went to work.


He had taken the job at bandit after his band, which fused Irish rebel music with ska, had been banished from most of the city's clubs for what he was certain was a mix of political reasons and personal jealousies. As Charlie temporarily paused his ascension to global stardom, he, like so many others who dreamed of artistic immortality, turned to the hospitality business. But unlike some of his fellow
artistes, Charlie loved it. He was a good talker, charming and presentable and not a bad-looking guy, all of which helped.

But he also had a hidden genius. Charlie could convey a sense of Belfast authenticity, while at the same time not laying it on so thick that the foreigners who stayed at bandit felt excluded or ill at ease. This was a delicate dance, to be certain. Success in hospitality in Belfast was the product of relentless calibration. The sort of rich foreign tourist who stayed at bandit wanted an authentic Belfast experience. But they preferred it come at a safe remove. They didn't want to be made to feel guilty or uncomfortable while getting it. Charlie's genius was in walking that line. He could tell hair-raising stories. Sure, sometimes he took factual liberties, but he was so engaging that no one ever questioned him. And no matter how dark the tale, Charlie always took care to end it on a grace note: people can behave in terrible ways, but goodness prevails with faith and good works, and the visitors who come to this place are brave, and their attention means a great deal to his people. Though we have suffered, he implied with his every utterance, fear not, we do not fancy ourselves superior to you.

His friend Seamus accused him of running some kind of rank, Troubles-themed minstrel show-and, sure, there was an element of performance to it-but Charlie wasn't doing it out of cynicism. Perish the thought. He was the world's greatest optimist. He just wanted to make people happy. He just wanted to connect. To enter their lives and live on in their memories. That's why he loved performing music, after all. He could have been a hard man about dealing with these tourists as they walked around sticking their fingers in the wounds of his city, but his favored approach came as a great relief to his guests, particularly the Irish Americans, and for it they tipped him lavishly.

Charlie continued down the hallway, listing slightly, performing a quick check of his vital systems. In the seconds since being cursed by Kitty the housekeeper, something had gone wrong with his foot. It felt abraded, like the top of the inside of his shoe had been lined with sandpaper. Charlie couldnÕt figure out what it was, but it hurt. Then it hit him: the tea. The scalding liquid must have landed on his foot. It had just taken a couple of hours for the signal to arrive at his brain, like a lorry through a checkpoint. Jesus fuck, he thought, I am the most bombed-out individual in the most bombed-out city in Ireland.


When he'd arrived at work an hour earlier, it was with the fearful conviction that his body would at any moment void in all directions in front of a mass of horrified guests, like a great green fountain of sick. He needed to mobilize. He picked up a phone and pretended a guest was speaking to him.

"Yes sir," he said. "Two pillows. Fluffy ones. Right away, sir."

He'd then obtained two pillows from a room behind the desk and set out on his travels, even though the pillows were incredibly fucking hard for him to carry in his present condition. He wandered down hallways, into stairwells, and throughout the facility for some thirty minutes before he found himself on the top floor, passing a suite whose door was slightly ajar, from which a faint mewling sound was heard.
What is this, then? Charlie wondered. He first knocked gently. "Hello? This is Charlie from the front desk?"


When no one came, Charlie gently pushed the door until it stopped against something soft and heavy. Charlie craned his neck around and that's when he saw them: two men by the closet. One was on his knees. Charlie took measure of the man. He didn't look like he should be on his knees. There was something about his skin, his hair, his clothing. He was preternaturally neat and composed. He looked like he'd never been on his knees in his life. And yet he was. That was interesting.

The other man was hanging from the closet rod with a belt around his neck, boxer briefs and jeans around his ankles, and a lemon wedge in his mouth. Charlie had delivered those lemons to this room himself and written a little note explaining that they came from a farm in Bannfoot, a small village in the townland of Derryinver, within the County Armagh. Quite a turn for that humble fruit, Charlie thought. Sure, life is nothing but surprises.

Charlie was ready to turn and walk right back down the hallway. The protocol in situations such as these was to see little, say less, and then wait until the local police were summoned by an odor. But before he fled back to the front desk, Charlie noticed something: a Patek Philippe Nautilus on the kneeling man's wrist. It must have cost twenty thousand quid. And there was a Rolex Daytona on the dead man's wrist, probably worth about the same. Charlie had read about these items on the internet. These were very nice items, he'd learned: items that indicated the presence of real money. Which meant that humble Charlie had suddenly found himself in the intimate company of both death and money. Which was quite interesting when you really thought about it.


The man bowed his head, closed his eyes, and took a breath. He stood up, smoothing his shirt and pants. His movement caused a slight breeze that found its way to Charlie's crooked nose. Yer man smells fucking great, Charlie thought. Jesus, what a brilliant-smelling man. What kind of life produces that kind of smell? he wondered. What kind of money? The man took another breath and composed himself. Intoxicated by the rich musk, Charlie leaned slightly into the door. It creaked. The man looked up and saw Charlie. And so shaken was he that he simply stared as if trying to figure out whether Charlie was real.


"May I?"

Paolo nodded. "Can you help me?" he said quietly, his eyes brimming with tears.

Fascinating, Charlie thought. How thrilling was life! Endless surprises! A man of this caliber wanting help from the likes of yer man Smilin' Charlie. Charlie had always assumed that the rich just knew how to handle situations like this on their own, that they had people on call to lavish favors upon those who could keep their mouths shut and to shoot the rest. But here was this great man, asking Charlie McCree for help. The universe had shifted. Almost undetectably so. But it had. For once, Charlie was not the subordinate. He was an equal. Even more than that: he was sort of frankly pretty fucking superior when you really thought about it.

"This," the man said. "This is a very important man. And a good man." He swallowed. "I don't know what to do."

A good man, Charlie thought. It's so rare in life that one encounters a good man. We all fall, we all sin, none of us is perfect. Not even yer man with the Rolex, evidently. But we cannot let our sins define us, nor should we try to define others by their sins. It was Jesus himself who said it. And Jesus was a good man too. Well, half a man, anyway. Or a third of a man? Which part was the ghost? He could never get the math right. Whatever the percentages, Charlie just wanted to be on the side of goodness.

Also, by now he'd noticed the dead man's evident penis. And there was only one thing to do when a man came upon such a scene. "You need to make it so it looks like yer man . . ." Charlie gripped his throat and stuck out his tongue. "Instead of . . ." Charlie released his throat and gestured to the man's crotch. "Otherwise, there will simply be no end to the laughter."

The man swallowed and glanced down at the dead man. He couldn't get a word out. Charlie's proposal expanded, filling the air. The man mustered a small nod.

"I will do everything in my power to help you, sir," Charlie said to the man's watch.

"I am at your disposal."

"Have you had any experience with this before, working in the hotel?"

"Oh, loads," Charlie said.

He hadn't, but what was experience, really?

"Okay, so, what do we do?" the man said.

"Well, for starters, sir, take out the lemon."

"Right, okay," the man said. He leaned over and, with visible distaste, carefully removed the lemon. He looked for a trash bin to throw it in.

"No, sir," Charlie said.

The man stared at him blankly.

"Evidence, sir."

Do the very rich not watch television?

The man understood.

"Right," he said. "So, what? We throw it out the window?"

This man was testing Charlie's patience.

"If we throw it out the window, sir, it could hit someone, and if they collect it and call the police, the police might take it to the lab for testing," Charlie said. "Trust me, I am from Belfast."

Charlie put the pillows down and grabbed the plastic liner from the small bin by the desk.

"Just give it to me," he continued. "I'll take care of it." Charlie gestured for the man to drop it in the bag. He did, and Charlie carefully tied the bag up and placed it in his pocket. "We've an incinerator downstairs," he explained. "Now the pants, sir."

The man nodded and got on his knees, and he carefully pulled up the dead man's boxer briefs, then his black jeans. This was difficult, as rigor mortis had set in. As he struggled to pack the man's unit back in behind the button fly, Charlie could see it was all becoming real for the other man now, the finality of it. Charlie had observed this before, the initial wave of panic giving way to acceptance that the unnatural stillness that had overtaken the person in question was, in fact, death. He was deeply moved, and thus offered a silent intercession for the soul of the dead man, and for the living one as well. And in that silence, there was the click of a camera phone.