How To Judge A Book By Its Lover

by Jessica Jiji

  “No, because she nominated you to be Mr. February in the Thinking Girl’s Beefcake Calendar. It’s intellectual New York’s response to the fire department calendar.”

  Unbelievable, I thought, but Lucien seemed to believe it. “Really? Me?” he asked. “I haven’t been to the gym in a while.”

  “Oh, you’ll have plenty of time before the shoot,” Vanessa said. “That is, if you get selected. I hope you don’t mind appearing in the buff.”

  “It’s a naked calendar?” he laughed. I was laughing, too. Vanessa really knew how to lay it on.

  “Why? Does that disqualify you?” she wondered.

  “Laurel,” he said, looking into my eyes, “what are you getting me into?”

  “Oh, Lucien,” I said, working up the courage to flirt. “I’m just sure you have nothing to worry about.”

  “He might,” Vanessa challenged. “How’s your girlfriend going to feel about this?”

  “What girlfriend?” He looked genuinely surprised.

  “Xhana.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “Oh, really? Why?” Vanessa asked. “She’s so gorgeous.” Ouch.

  “I could never go out with a performer,” he replied. “They need all the attention. Nothing turns me off more in a woman than an oversized ego.”

  Wow, I thought. So there really is hope for me.

  “Excellent,” Vanessa said. “Our committee will be in touch.”

  “So,” I urged, not wanting to press my luck, “we’d better get going.”

  “Wait . . . Laurel. How come I haven’t seen you at the lecture series? There’s another one this Sunday. Will you be there?”

  My heart leaped, but before I had a chance to say “Sure,” Vanessa stepped in. “No. She’s too busy this week,” she said.

  I wanted to kill her, but her judgment had brought me this far, so I joined in the lie.

  “I’d love to, Lucien, but you’re not the only calendar boy we’re interviewing.”

  By the time we got to the street, Vanessa and I were doubled over with laughter.

  “Nice work,” she said. “He’s probably worried you’re gonna get it on with Mr. July before he even has a shot!” When we exchanged high-fives, I felt like I was reaching for the stars.

  - 8 -

  I was so busy photographing Mr. February in my dreams that I didn’t even mind returning to Long Island later that week to face Uncle Lewis at Mindy’s fortieth birthday party. After all, I knew I was just a visitor—not a resident—in that mediocre world.

  They lived in yet another colonial house in a neighborhood of nothing but the same. Aunt Helene met me at the door in the uniform of every suburban hostess: palazzo pants, a matching top, and red toenails bunched up in her Candies. “Laurel!” she said, kissing me and then wiping the Revlon ColorStay lipstick off my cheek with her thumb.

  “I hope Uncle Lewis isn’t still mad at me,” I said, entering the foyer with its shag carpeting and flowered wallpaper.

  “Of course he is; he’s furious, but don’t worry. He’s been mad at me for the last forty-four years. That’s love! He gave me this for our anniversary,” she said, dangling a diamond tennis bracelet from her wrist.

  Dysfunction junction, I thought.

  Mindy was sprawled on the living room loveseat, working her way through a dish of Bugles. “Happy birthday,” I said, handing her a gift-wrapped pair of earrings I’d bought on the way over.

  “Laurel, you look great!” she said. “Is there a new man in your life?” she guessed.

  Was there? I wondered. “I’m hoping,” I said.

  Right on cue, my mother approached. “What’s this I hear?” she asked, kissing my cheek. “Is there someone special I should know about?”

  Before I could answer, my Uncle Lewis pulled me aside. “What’s the matter, an unemployed writer is too good to work at a trade paper?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry about what happened, but it really wasn’t for me.”

  “There’s my gorgeous girl!” My father came rushing up to the rescue.

  “Your gorgeous girl is on the same sorry path my daughter walked,” warned Uncle Lewis, gesturing toward Mindy. My cousin was an amazing singer, but no one ever mentioned that, I guess because, like me, she’d never made it in the industry.

  “With a father like you, no wonder she’s lonely,” Dad said. “My girls know how to get over their problems. Just look at how perfectly Jenna turned out.”

  My heart sank as I took in the tableau presented by my sister and her picture-perfect family. Jenna was wearing couture sweatpants with a sleeveless top that showed off her toned arms. Her husband Rob was the doting dad, with little Emily on his shoulders and Bobby Jr. walking on his feet. I adored my niece and nephew, but at events like these, they just highlighted how far I had to go to catch up with Jenna.

  Soon Aunt Helene emerged with a cake, and everyone started singing. When “Happy Birthday” was over, Mindy blew out the candles and made a little speech.

  “You guys, thank you so much for coming. I know you all know my wish—it’s the same one I’ve had since I can remember. Let’s hope it comes true, and next year we’ll be celebrating at the Grammys…”

  It was painful to watch. I knew how she felt, and I loved and hated her all at once.

  On the scent of my insecurity, Jenna came sidling over. “I hope by the time you turn forty we don’t have to hold another pity party like this,” she taunted.

  Instead of taking the bait, I turned away from my sister and addressed my mother. “Mom, you know how you are always telling me to keep in touch with my Vassar friends? Well, I finally took your advice, and I’m so glad I did. I met the most incredible woman, and now she’s my big sister!” I said the last two words with emphasis for Jenna’s benefit.

  “Wonderful news, that’s wonderful!” my mother replied.

  “Oh, Mom, you’re going to love her. She’s this fun, brilliant, successful woman who really believes in me. What a difference it makes to have someone supportive on my side.”

  I couldn’t be sure, but for the first time in my life, I thought I made Jenna flinch.

  Vanessa hadn’t returned three of my calls before I finally got through. “Where’ve you been?” I demanded. “We need to do something about Lucien.”

  “I’ve been giving it time,” she replied, “because you need to cool off. He wants you now, and we have to let the desire simmer. But don’t space out—we’re moving on to track two.”

  “Track what?”

  “Your career. Put on your best power outfit and meet me at the corner of Jane and Hudson on Thursday at noon.”

  Over cucumber rolls and tempura that Wednesday, Trish and I picked apart every millisecond of my encounter with Lucien.

  “Of course he likes you!” my best friend was saying. “‘Laurel, you look really great’? I mean, he might as well propose marriage right then and there.”

  “Oh, come on,” I said, popping an edamame pod in my mouth. “Really?”

  “I swear, those were almost exactly Tom’s words when he asked me out. And look where we ended up!” Trish delicately stirred green mustard into her soy sauce.

  “Happily ever after,” I said, feeling giddy.

  “And it turns out Lucien’s not even with Xhana! I guess Us Magazine is full of lies.”

  I hated to hear anyone dis one of my favorite reads, but I let it slide. “Can you believe it? He’s single!” I effused.

  “Not for long, I bet,” she answered with a wink. “So Laurel’s going to hook up with Mr. February.”

  I was lost in a daydream about just that when Trish interrupted my thoughts. “But what you said before—that thing about how he doesn’t like to go out with someone who needs all the attention—where does that leave you?” she asked.

  Trish was a sweetie, but she’d completely missed the point. I don’t need attention, I thought, I just need Lucien.

  Having cycled through self-help and fiction, it was Margo’s t
urn again for feedback at that week’s writing session. We were analyzing in all seriousness how a parrot would react to repeated rejection from literary agents: fight or flight?

  “Remind me again,” Danny Z. wondered aloud, “are we talking about the white parrot with the green markings or the green parrot with the white markings?”

  Although I couldn’t blame him for mixing them up, we had been going over this drivel for three years now. “Squeaky’s the green one,” I clarified.

  Margo rewarded me with a grateful smile.

  “Squeaky may be despondent,” said Sunny Hellerstein, knitting her brow with concern, “but I think it’s unrealistic for him to contemplate having an affair with the woodpecker.”

  “Why?” Margo asked.

  “Running away from problems only makes them chase you.”

  “We’re talking about her book, not yours,” Danny Z. pointed out. “The parrot doesn’t do daily affirmations.”

  Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, in through the door walked Jenna. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was Theater of the Absurd: Super Soccer Mom drops in on funky New York writers group.

  All eyes turned to her.

  “The speed dating club meets Thursday night,” José said politely.

  “What makes you think I’m single?” Jenna flashed her wedding ring like it was her membership card to the I’m Superior Club. “I’m Laurel’s sister. I’ve heard so much about what an important part of her life this group is, so I thought I’d stop by and see for myself. Mind if I have a seat?” She sat down and looked at me expectantly.

  I was too stunned to play the part of the polite little sister.

  “Well . . . if Laurel’s not going to say anything, I’ll introduce myself. My name’s Jenna. I live in Massapequa Park. I’m the mother of two adorable kids. I know you’re probably all wondering how I keep so fit. Well, it’s my job. I’m the owner and manager of Change Your Body Today Fitness Studio. We offer body fat analysis, nutritional counseling, and 28 classes a week. If anyone’s interested, I can give you my card.”

  “Oh, you’re just like Laurel described you,” Danny Z. said.

  Count on my friend to be there when I needed him.

  “So, what have you written?” Sunny asked.

  “Written?” Jenna looked stumped.

  “It doesn’t have to be a whole novel; even a short story is fine,” said Sunny.

  “Yeah, Jenna, have you ever written anything besides a shopping list?” I couldn’t resist asking.

  “I’m just here to observe,” she said, looking flustered.

  “Well, we’re discussing my book, Love Between Consenting Parrots,” Margo said. “You can feel free to jump in whenever you have something constructive to say.”

  “That’s a beautiful title. I like it a lot,” Jenna took up the offer. “My son Bobby Jr. has a book called Parrot, Parrot, One Two Three. Much less original.”

  “This isn’t a children’s book, Jenna. It’s a 750-page attempt at magical realism,” I corrected.

  “Well, it’s a wonderful idea,” Jenna said fawningly. “I’m sure it’s magical and real,” she added. It was neither, and my bullshit tolerance level was reaching the breaking point.

  “And very publishable,” Sunny added. Another lie.

  “You always say that, but do you really think so?” Margo asked. She knew the answer they’d give but wanted to hear it.

  “Of course!” Seth said, reinforcing the delusion.

  I couldn’t take it anymore. This was one crutch that was going to stop propping up Margo’s ego. “Actually,” I exploded. “Love Between Consenting Parrots is a piece of crap.”

  There was a stunned silence, and Margo began to whimper.

  “God, I’ve been wanting to tell you this for three years now!” I exhaled. “Parrots do not chug beer at the Hofbräuhaus House in Munich. Parrots do not obsess about their figures. And parrots definitely do not have long phone conversations about the hurt they carry inside.”

  “How dare you?” asked Seth. “That’s the whole premise of her book.”

  “Which doesn’t work,” I shot back.

  Jenna looked dumbfounded.

  “I think she has a very moving story,” Sunny said, patting Margo on the arm.

  “So do I!” I said. “There are some very real emotions here, but they’re all lost because she’s attributing them to birds instead of people.”

  Margo let out a loud wail as if I had lanced a boil. “It’s true, it’s all true,” she sobbed.

  “Now, Margo, your book isn’t that bad,” José said.

  “No,” she shook her head emphatically, wiping away tears, “I mean, this is a true story! It’s not about parrots. It’s about me and my ex! His name wasn’t Squeaky; it was Harold. I only called him Squeaky in bed.”

  A silence befell the room. It was the most emotional discussion we’d ever had.

  “Then why don’t you rework it?” I suggested.

  “I am,” she said. “That’s just what I’m going to do. No more hiding behind feathers. I’m going to tell it like it was.”

  After the meeting, I walked out with Jenna, wishing I could ditch her but knowing that she had finally made the effort to get acquainted with my life, so instead I extended an invitation. “Why don’t you come up to my place and see it for the first time?” I suggested.

  I could see Jenna blanch. “Oh, I would love to; I really would. But you know—the kids, and the train, and, well, it’s getting so late…”

  “I understand,” I said, letting her off the hook. The night had been way too long anyway.

  Maybe the truth works, I told myself the next day as I rode the gilded elevator up to the fifteenth floor of the San Remo. Maybe if I just say what I really feel, I’ll get what I need.

  The scene at Anderson’s apartment was typical. The maid let me in, I disciplined Cadbury for chewing on the replacement couch, and Anderson waved cheerfully while skiing on his NordicTrack.

  Taking a deep breath, I stood in front of him and pushed the stop button.

  “Hi!” he said, looking at me with a puzzled expression and then seeming to understand. “You’ll find the extra baggies in the kitchen.”

  “Actually,” I cleared my throat, “I was just wondering, have you had a chance to look at my manuscript yet?”

  “Oh, yes! The Fisherman’s Guide to Ulster County,” he said with sudden enthusiasm. “It’s right at the top of my desk. I’m dying to get to it.” With that, he put the headphones back on, hit the start button, and resumed his run.

  I restrained myself from quitting then and there. After all, I obviously still needed my day job.

  Truth has nothing to do with it, I realized, hurrying down the block with Cadbury. It’s all guile. You get what you want through a judicious combination of flattering people and then holding back just enough to make them want more.

  With these thoughts clouding my mind, I walked right past a gorgeous babe smiling at me. I didn’t even notice it was Lucien until he called out my name.

  “Laurel!” he said. “Finally. I’ve been waiting all morning for you.”

  As usual, I immediately lost myself in his deep blue eyes. “You were?” I asked. “Why?”

  “I have two tickets to see this new symphony created by MIT students using a four-page mathematical equation. It’s this Saturday night—what do you say?”

  Lucien Brosseau, critic for The New York Arts and Entertainment Review, had actually spent the morning waiting on a street corner just to ask me out? Those blue eyes were looking at me hopefully, eager for an answer. All I had to do was say yes, and my dream would come true.

  “No,” I said, savoring the expression of disappointment on his face. “I’m so sorry. It’s not that I wouldn’t love to, it’s just that this Saturday’s booked.” Me, a bag of microwave popcorn, and a good binge watch. That was Lucien’s competition, but I sure didn’t let him know.

  At the appointed hour that Thursday, Vanessa was
waiting for me at the corner of Jane and Hudson in a pair of faded jeans. I had to wonder why I’d been instructed to wear my best power outfit. Since I didn’t own one, I’d bought a pinstriped suit, crisp white top, and a pair of four-inch heels. Meanwhile, my mentor was wearing sneakers.

  “Are you and I going to the same place here today?” I asked.

  “I was going to come along with you until you told me how you handled Lucien,” she said. “Bravo. You’re finally learning that you deserve to get what you want.”

  “Well, I didn’t do so well with Anderson Gallant,” I reminded her.

  “That’s why we’re here today.” She filled me in on my new assignment. “You’re familiar with Yelena Yelenovich?”

  “Duh. She won the Pulitzer Prize. I wrote a thirty-page paper on My Idiot Husband at Vassar.”

  “Well, she has a penthouse apartment in this very building, and you have an appointment to meet her”—Vanessa checked her watch—“right about now.”

  My idol! This was a woman who could write a three-page sentence and have you wish it went on even longer. For once, my assignment sounded pleasurable. “So, what am I doing? Is she interested in my work?” It was too much to hope for, but Vanessa had been teaching me to dare to dream. I pictured the famous Russian émigré and I becoming fast friends. She would write the foreword to Napoleon’s Hairdresser: “Rarely does an artist come along with the insight of Laurel Linden. A fresh, young voice—"

  “Hold on there,” Vanessa said, interrupting my thoughts. “Right now you just need her autograph.”

  That would be easy enough. “Great!” I said. “Did you bring a copy of one of her books?”

  “The autograph doesn’t go on her book,” Vanessa corrected. “It needs to go on a check for two thousand dollars.”

  “What?”

  “Yelena Yelenovich is number one on the list of deadbeats who should have made a contribution by now to the Author’s League for Children’s Literacy.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  “My husband’s a board member. For the past three years, she’s been the only Pulitzer Prize winner who won’t even return our calls.”

  “So how did you get an appointment?” I asked, feeling a knot forming in my stomach.