How To Judge A Book By Its Lover

by Jessica Jiji

  “Hey, come back to my place,” he suggested. “I’ll show you some examples.”

  Fantasy, say hello to reality.

  It wasn’t long before we’d forgotten all about the castings, because exploring the exciting planes and declivities of each other’s bodies was suddenly so much more urgent. I took off his New York Dolls shirt while he practically ripped my off-the-shoulder sweatshirt right off my chest. In the dim, candle-lit living room, I could see that his stomach was flat with a light dusting of coarse, black hair. He wasn’t quite as muscular as I’d fantasized, but below his belt I could see the growing outline of his interest in me. The more clothes we slipped off, the quicker our breathing got, and as he fumbled with a condom I started moaning with anticipation.

  “Ooh, hurry,” I purred, not wanting to wait another second to feel his deep thrusting.

  “Want to know something funny?” he asked, unrolling the Trojan.

  Not really, I thought.

  He told me anyway.

  “In Japanese, they’d don’t say ‘I’m coming,’ they say ‘I’m going! I’m going!’ But in Tajikistan—”

  For once I didn’t want to hear Lucien’s lecture. Seeing that the protection was secure, I pulled him close and guided him inside. Whether you want to call it ‘coming’ or ‘going,’ I did it. And it was love.

  - 10 -

  Over the next few weeks, Lucien went from crush to boyfriend. As Trish defined it, when you spend every weekend night with someone, leave a toothbrush at their house, and don’t make plans without checking with each other, you’re an item.

  Lucien took me to more openings and concerts than I’d ever been to, and we always ended the night wrapped in each other’s arms. Waking up, he’d make Spanish espresso for both of us and kiss me with the taste of coffee on his lips. As often as not, that would get us started, and we’d abandon the hot drinks altogether for even steamier sex. Slick with each other’s sweat, we would tumble into his large shower, where he’d shampoo my hair and I’d soap his skinny body from head to toe.

  During the workday, he’d reach me on my cell phone, or I’d call him at the office, and it was never an interruption, no matter how busy we were. Once he even put the curator of the Museum of Modern Art on hold just to tell me he missed me.

  Remembering his tales of North Africa and how he loved Moroccan food, I learned to make vegetable couscous. It took hours of shopping and chopping, but it was worth it to see the way his eyes squinted with delight when I served it at dinner.

  One night, an aspiring actress desperate for some ink in The New York Arts and Entertainment Review sent a limo just so Lucien would come see her show, but we got completely distracted making love in the back seat, missed the play, and ended up using the car to travel to a little rustic country inn he knew in Connecticut. We spent the whole weekend eating strawberries and cream off of each other’s bodies, and when we got back, Lucien was so happy, he wrote the actress a rave review.

  Meanwhile, I kept up the pressure on Anderson.

  “Have you made a decision about my novel yet?” I asked him right after he’d started reading it.

  “I want to, Laurel, I really do,” he said. “But honestly, usually my assistant tells me how to go with these things.”

  The last thing I wanted was to descend the power rung, so I ramped up the heat. “This is your chance to prove that you’re a discerning thinker in your own right,” I counseled. “If you show it to your assistant, they’ll only undermine your stature by taking credit for discovering me. Go straight to your Dad. He’s the only one with your best interests at heart.”

  Anderson looked perturbed. “Let me ask you something. If your assistant told your father she thought it would be helpful if you finished your bachelor’s degree, would you conclude that she’s helpful or jealous?”

  “Are you kidding?” I asked. “That woman is a barracuda! She obviously wants to rip you to shreds.”

  He smiled gratefully. “Let me get back to you,” he said, and I felt certain that, for once, he meant it.

  Jenna lived at the top of a large circular driveway, her beautifully manicured lawn dotted with purple impatiens. After passing through the two-story foyer and down three carpeted steps into the main room, I could see that the family au pair had prepared a table full of calorically correct snacks, and there was enough diet soda to flood the sunken living room.

  Jenna had arranged the chairs in a circle, just like at the writers group, and had posted little French flags on top of the pyramid of cheese cubes. There was even a picture of Napoleon pasted on the back of my seat. I was more amused than annoyed at the lengths she had gone to take control of my work and turn it into a theme party.

  When Jenna emerged from her powder room and saw that I’d arrived, she clapped her hands officiously. “Okay, everybody, enough socializing!” she commanded, tossing her long, gorgeous hair extensions over her shoulder. “This is a cultural event.” With a look, she told the au pair that the children were to be removed, and Emily and Bobby Jr. were quickly whisked into the basement den.

  Before I’d even had a chance to greet my parents, Jenna was herding everyone into their seats. “Let’s welcome our guest speaker,” she said, twisting a finger around her diamond bubble-heart necklace. “I want to hear a big round of applause for Laurel, the author of Napoleon’s Hairdresser, and my little sister.”

  As I was about to open my mouth to thank her, Jenna continued. “Ever since we were little kids, Laurel’s had her head in the clouds,” she said, clasping her hands together with an air of self-importance. “I remember when she came to me crying one day because her little doll had a broken heart. I was so touched by Laurel’s imagination that I created a whole set of surgical implements designed to mend that sweet, imaginary heart. Emily still plays with them today—it’s so cute. Sometimes I think I should market children’s toys.”

  Uncle Lewis yawned. “You have any breath mints?” he asked.

  Jenna ignored him. “Thanks to her older sis, Laurel discovered Seventeen Magazine when she was just twelve. It must have been destiny that I was a subscriber and shared my copies with her.”

  That was a good one, I thought. Jenna would have killed me if she’d caught me reading her magazines. I always had to buy my own.

  “That’s how she came to have her first published work, when she won a story writing contest about summer camp,” she said. “I can’t take much credit for that one; all I did was offer some modest suggestions about what I would have done differently.”

  Which I ignored, I thought.

  “Which Laurel followed, and you all know the happy ending: She won the contest.”

  Unbelievably, Jenna managed to talk for ten more minutes, nine of them about herself, before yielding the floor. By the time she introduced me, Uncle Lewis was snoring, and it took a hard jab from Aunt Helene for him to wake up.

  “Well, thanks for coming, everybody,” I said, bracing myself. My family watched eagerly as I opened the document on my phone. “Let me set the scene.” I felt like a second-grade teacher sitting down to story hour. “At this point, Napoleon has just invited Marguerite—that’s his hairdresser—to keep his appearance sharp during his conquest of Europe. Only she knows the secret to thicker-looking hair. In this climactic scene, she confronts her family with the news that she is giving up a steady income at the salon for the promise of glory.”

  Staring out at their expectant faces, I took a sip of seltzer and began:

  Chapter 16

  Excited but fearful, Marguerite proceeded down the Rue de Bleu—an ordinary street of thatched-roof houses that all looked so drearily alike. Her parents were hard-working, practical people who would have difficulty understanding the choice she’d made. They would fear for her future and be embarrassed by the scandal of her unconventional career.

  The straw carpets inside had been fashionable in the days before the revolution but had long since given way to more popular pinewood planks.

  Mar
guerite was greeted by her aunt, who was wearing a drawstring calico skirt, the kind favored by the mothers of the neighborhood who needed to let out their waistbands a bit. “Marguerite, my dear! We’ve all gathered to hear your news.”

  While reading the text in front of my family, I felt a creeping sense of dread—as though I was about to be caught at something. But what did I have to be guilty about? And then it hit me: I had written what I knew, only I hadn’t even known it! Everyone in the room was on these pages. How embarrassing! They’d have to hate me if they realized. I prayed they wouldn’t and continued.

  “Aunt Pascale, I do hope your husband will understand. He is given to hot tempers,” Marguerite said. Her kindly, homespun aunt, though unworldly, was reassuring. “He’s been beating me since we’ve been married, alas,” she said. “But oftentimes he’ll surprise me with a trinket.” She gestured to the red ribbon in her hair, and Marguerite understood that all would be forgiven.

  I paused a moment to peer at Aunt Helene, hoping she didn’t recognize this funhouse mirror of her life, but she was too busy casting an angry glance at Uncle Lewis, who had started dozing off again.

  The family was gathered on the sectional wood bench in front of the hearth, where Marguerite made her announcement. As she feared, her uncle, the family patriarch, was the first to react. “So, the banlieue is not good enough for you?” he asked.

  Her parents were concerned, too. “For years you’ve been speaking of conquering the world, yet you still sweep hair for Madame La Bouffante,” said her pious mother.

  “Yes,” echoed her kindly father. “Remember the time you met Mozart’s cousin and announced that you were off to Salzburg to do his concert wigs? But nothing came of it. You were so heartbroken.”

  Marguerite’s cheeks flushed with shame. That had been a bitter blow.

  “And then there was the incident with the Czar. Just because you met the friend of a friend of his favorite ballerina, you were packing your bags for Moscow,” said her controlling sister Louise.

  “I shall get there yet,” Marguerite cried defiantly. “Napoleon has promised to take me!”

  “Let her go if she thinks she can make it without us,” declared Louise, who had a habit of speaking about Marguerite as though she weren’t there. “She’ll come crawling back on her knees, begging for a chance to live her humble life again.”

  The only silent one was Marguerite’s sweet cousin, Valerie, a talented painter who lived alone. She, too, was a dreamer and could understand Marguerite’s quest.

  Feeling guiltier than ever, I looked up at Mindy. I never wanted to hurt her, but there she was, unlucky in her career and love.

  Marguerite sighed deeply, knowing she would receive no encouragement from these simple people, who could see no further than the limits of the banlieue. Although she knew the days ahead would be fraught with risk and uncertainty, the suffering would be slight in comparison to a lifetime of waking to the rooster, fighting the buggy jams on the way to the Marché, and coming home to another dull evening of listening to her family complain about their property taxes. No, she, Marguerite Frederique Dominique Soufflé, would be a maker of history, not merely a witness.

  By the time I had finished, I was certain that my family recognized themselves. I looked up, expecting to see Jenna’s angry glare, my mother’s wounded expression, my father’s hurt pride, and Mindy in a puddle of tears. Uncle Lewis and Aunt Helene would be mortified, and it would be years before any of them ever trusted me again.

  Instead, Jenna coaxed a round of applause and urged me to take a bow.

  “That was brilliant,” said Mindy, clapping her sticky hands. “I really mean it, Laurel.”

  “Marvelous,” said my mother. “It reminds me of The King and I.”

  My father patted me on the back. “Looks like you’re putting that wild imagination of yours to great use.”

  “It certainly is imaginative,” said Aunt Helene. “Those characters were so unusual. Who would behave that way?”

  “Well, she does live in the city,” my mother observed. “And you know how crazy people there are. That must be her inspiration.”

  Their complete denial saved me. I could write a book called The Lindens of Massapequa, and they still wouldn’t get it.

  Bergdorf Goodman on Fifth Avenue was the only department store in New York I was too intimidated to enter alone. Trish and I had made the mistake of wandering in there once and instantly knew we were out of our league, not only because of the sky-high prices but also because the salesladies have a sixth sense that tells them when people just don’t belong.

  Vanessa had assigned me to meet her there, and I was thrilled. In all our months of outings she’d never once let me pay, and with her at my side, I’d have not only the finances but also the class needed for Bergdorf’s.

  “I want you to pick out something for your meeting at Gallant Publishing,” she said. Even though none was scheduled, I was delighted at the task, especially when she added, “And don’t spare any expense.”

  I thought about a business suit—maybe one of those chic Yves Saint Laurent numbers—but Vanessa reminded me I was an artist and should look the part, so we rode the narrow escalator up to the designer sportswear boutiques. There we had our choice of all the best labels in the world and solicitous saleswomen eager to indulge our every whim.

  I wound up with a silk-lined Agnès B. pink sweater with rhinestone buttons, a classic black raw silk pleated skirt, and a pair of Marc Jacobs high-heeled boots. While wearing the ensemble in the dressing room, I marveled at how far I’d come since I’d become friends with Vanessa. I was the picture of style and confidence, poised to take on the literary world.

  As the saleswoman tenderly wrapped each treasure in its own special box, I was overwhelmed by Vanessa’s generosity. “Someday, I’ll find a way to thank you,” I said to her, my eyes welling with tears. “After all you’ve already done for me, I can’t believe you’re going to pay for this.”

  “I’m not,” she replied cheerfully. I stared in disbelief. “Not that I don’t have the money, and not that I wouldn’t love to, but it’s time for you to bet on yourself for a change.”

  I was panicked. I hadn’t even looked at the price tags, and I certainly hadn’t budgeted for such an extravagance.

  “Spending this money will be further motivation for you to get that fat book contract you deserve,” she said.

  Vanessa had never been wrong before. I handed over my credit card and prayed.

  Trish laughed hysterically when I told her about my adventure at Bergdorf’s. “So that’s the secret,” she said. “Pretend someone else is paying, then you have the guts to stand up to those salespeople.” We were back at Sushi and Slushies, enjoying our girls’ afternoon out.

  “So do I hear wedding bells?” she asked.

  “He’s so incredible,” I said dreamily.

  “How does he rate compared to Miguel?” she asked, referring to my last true love, an abstract artist who left me for the Marines.

  “Oh, God. Miguel was a nice BMW motorbike, but Lucien is a silver Lamborghini,” I said.

  “Still taking you to all those fancy functions?” she asked.

  “Last night we went to the most amazing play,” I said. “There was no dialogue, only animal sounds.”

  Trish looked at me skeptically. “Like ‘oink oink’ and ‘moo moo’?” she asked.

  I struggled to explain. “Well, those, but also many others, like ‘baa baa’ and ‘cock-a-doodle-doo.’”

  “Sounds like one of my kids’ shows,” Trish said.

  I ignored her. “Did you know that in Greek, roosters say ‘kakarisi’? I learn so much from Lucien.”

  “Best of all, he seems to really, really care about you,” Trish said. “I guess it’s just as well you ditched Irwin. You’ll never guess who got him, though.”

  “Someone I know?” I asked.

  “Implants in her boobs and her butt?” Trish’s clue didn’t help until she added
a nasal imitation, “‘As God is my witness, I won’t be single when I’m thirty. I don’t care how commitment-phobic he is; if I want him, he’ll propose.’”

  I burst out laughing. “Marisa Monahan? I thought you said he liked artsy types.”

  “She’s a con artist anyway,” Trish replied. “And it worked. He’s totally smitten.”

  When the check came, she treated. Vanessa might have been convinced that my book contract was right around the corner, but Trish wasn’t taking any chances.

  I was struggling to keep up with the Latvian subtitles of a four-and-a-half-hour video documentary on Baltic mythology when I noticed Lucien rubbing his fingers. “Are you okay, honey?” He always had a cute, hurt little boy’s look on his face whenever he was in pain.

  “This is going to sound crazy,” he said, “but I think I’m getting arthritis.”

  “Maybe you just banged yourself without realizing it,” I said, picturing us in our eighties looking back on a happy life as I tenderly massaged Aspercreme into his joints.

  “No, no, I just read an article about how a lack of Vitamin E can lead to early onset inflammation in certain—”

  Just then my phone rang. I almost didn’t pick up, figuring it was probably Maury the Lounge-Around King telling me not to forget the heartworm medicine for his dog, but when I saw who it was, my spirits soared.

  “Anderson?” I answered.

  “No, I’m Mr. Gallant’s assistant, Nona. You’ll be hearing from me a lot. He’s decided to publish your book. Congratulations!”

  Oh God oh God oh God oh thank you God. This was the news I had been waiting for all my life. I could barely concentrate as Nona explained that the particulars of my contract would be discussed at a meeting the next week. I wanted to jump up and down, lean out the window, and shout to the whole city: “I sold my book!”

  “So can we expect you on Friday at ten?” she asked.