by Jessica Jiji
“Bogey and Bacall, sit!” I commanded so I could enjoy the scene. They instantly obeyed, so I slipped them each an Old Mother Hubbard oven-baked dog biscuit.
“And if I see so much as one little camera,” the great star was ranting at a harried-looking assistant, “so help me Judith, I’ll throw away my lithium, and you can answer the voices in my head.”
“Ms. del Mar, I promise: no paparazzi, no reporters, no media, nothing. There’s a secret back entrance, and as long as no one notices the Hummer, we’re fine.”
“Good, because I’ve had it with the press,” the movie starlet said, pushing a perfect golden curl off her forehead indignantly. “Those interviewers are always asking about Roberto and how it feels that he left me for a man twice my age and ugh! I refuse to be humiliated anymore.” I suddenly understood why there had only been recycled material from past interviews with her in Celebrity Style since her big breakup with the Mexican bullfighter.
“I’ve got it all taken care of,” Judith reassured. “And you’ll be happy to hear they’re serving deep-fried Twinkies tonight.”
“Yum!” Ruxandra said, lighting up like a child on Christmas Eve. Suddenly, the glare returned. “Oh, great,” she complained. “I have no power to resist those, my belly’s going to blow up like an airbag, and I’m almost out of desiccated hippo liver.”
I tried not to laugh out loud. She must have been referring to some fad weight-loss gimmick.
Missouri Culpeper confirmed my hunch. “We’ll just have to make up for it on the glute machine,” she said. “That stuff is harder to find than a straight single man in his forties.”
Ruxandra groaned and turned to her spiritual advisor. “How am I supposed to achieve inner peace when I can’t even find competent help?” she asked before stepping in the Hummer and speeding away.
I had a good laugh about it with Natan, and he caught me up on the rest of the building gossip. Pretty soon, though, it was time for me to return Bogey and Bacall and head to my fateful meeting at Gallant.
- 19 -
As I approached the venerable president’s office, my heart was beating so fast I could hear it in my ears. The danger, the excitement, the stakes—it was much more frightening than the steepest plunge on a rollercoaster, but this time I had no safety bar.
I had hoped to be alone with Preston, but when I entered the room I saw Nona and Anderson, who was wearing a T-shirt that said “I Love Lesbians!”
“I’m a busy man,” Preston began, “but I always have time for our new talent.”
Anderson tossed me an imaginary football. “The best writer on our roster and the one who’s going to make me the prince of publishing.”
Nona coughed conspicuously.
“So what brings you here?” Preston leaned back in his big leather chair and smiled as if he could read my mind. “Too many touch-ups on your jacket photo? I know it can be trying for a first-time author, but you’ve got to trust us. Without good looks, we don’t sell books.”
“No, sir—” I began, but before I could finish, Anderson interrupted.
“Don’t tell me—your cousin’s got a manuscript, right? Nona here will look at it.” He winked at his assistant, who was struggling to conceal her contempt.
“Actually, it’s not that—”
“You’re ready to tell us about your next book? Fine thing. We’re all ears,” the old man said.
All of them looked at me expectantly.
I drew a deep breath.
I considered what I was about to do.
Nobody in their right mind would consider anything like this.
It would change my life forever.
Once I spoke, there’d be no going back.
I realized it was crazy.
But I took the plunge.
“I want to kill Napoleon’s Hairdresser,” I declared.
“Marguerite?” Nona asked. “Your central protagonist?”
“But we need a happy ending!” Anderson protested. “Otherwise, Disney will never buy the film rights.”
The absurd spectacle of an animated musical version of the retreat from Moscow flashed through my mind.
Preston studied me closely. “Is this what you’re telling us? You want a new ending?”
“No, I want to end it all,” I said definitively. “I want out of my contract.”
Suddenly, the only noise in the room was the muffled pounding of a jackhammer sixteen flights below.
“Simon & Schuster’s up to their old tricks again, aren’t they? We’ll sue!” Preston said, banging on the desktop.
“I’m not moving to another publisher; I’m leaving the business,” I said.
“Hollywood’s bought you out, right? Tell them who discovered you. Tell them it was Anderson Gallant.” The son banged on the armrest of his chair.
“I’m not writing a screenplay, I’m not writing a book, I’m not writing anything,” I insisted. “Because my writing sucks.”
The two Gallants in the room looked shocked. Nona just looked down.
“I know Nona agrees with me, but she’s in no position to say so. And Mr. Gallant, I know you’d agree, too, if you’d ever read what I’d written.”
“I was trusting my son on this,” he confessed. “Anderson, you did read the book, didn’t you?”
“Just about . . . most of the first part . . . well, yeah, I might have missed some of it…” he stammered.
“I brought along a sample for your edification,” I said, passing out copies of a page from my original manuscript.
Preston sat back in his chair, making a steeple out of his fingers. Anderson wandered to the window and played with the blinds. Nona, for once in her life, put down the red pen and looked at me with an encouraging glint in her eyes.
“Let me set the scene for you,” I said. “It’s winter, 1812. Napoleon has conquered half of Russia, but the Russians have denied him true victory. Realizing he can no longer stay in the charred remains of Moscow, Napoleon must set out with his glorious legions back across the frozen steppes. And now, as it’s rendered in my version:”
Despite the ferocious blizzard raging, Marguerite’s distinctly retro Russian sable blanket kept her warm in the sleigh. All around, the soldiers, so skinny as to resemble supermodels—were they not men and actually starving to death—battled against the cutting wind. The sight of them tore at her heart. Under such dire conditions—the bitter cold unalleviated by breathable microfiber lining, the endless marching with nary a borscht restaurant in sight, not even an AeroBed to rest their weary bones at night—all of this made the struggle against frizz impossible.
Marguerite took heart in the knowledge that rinsing with cold water leaves hair shinier, but alas, not when it freezes into icicles.
“Are we there yet?” she shouted in despair to the kindly driver struggling to steer through the blinding snow.
“M’lady,” he replied, “we’ve yet to pass the rest stop at Minsk. After that, it should take at least another year.”
Thinking of her favorite takeout spot in the Belorussian capital, she longed for a steaming-hot wonton soup.
Just then, to her right, she spotted him: the one soldier in the whole Grand Army who didn’t sport the grunge look. Their eyes locked, and she admired his thick, beautifully hydrated hair and wondered if he was using a pro-vitamin formula. He reached his hand out to hers, but before she could take it, he fell face down in the snow, dead. With that, the army had lost its last dashing preppy.
So war-weary was she that Marguerite didn’t pause to mourn her fallen hunk. Instead, her mind turned to more pressing matters. Ahead of her, barely visible on his white horse, Napoleon was leading his army back from what could hardly be called a success. Russia was unconquered, the army was lost, and the politicians in Paris would surely be infuriated. All of this would only add to Napoleon’s stress and, thus, his hair loss. The combover would be of little avail, Marguerite knew in her heart.
War, war, war, ‘twas a terrible thing, this war. B
ut for the violence in the hearts of men, detangler would be available to all the world’s children, and humankind could enjoy a life of fuller, longer-lasting luster.
When I finished, Anderson was sobbing. “It’s beautiful,” he said.
Nona had removed her owl glasses, and a small smile danced on her lips. She almost looked pretty.
Preston stood and stared at me, slack-jawed. After a pause, he spoke deliberately. “How much do you want to get out of the contract?”
I was about to say “With my whole heart,” when I realized he was talking about money. I hadn’t thought I’d be able to keep any. “Ten percent of the advance?” I guessed.
“Deal,” he said, clasping my hand gratefully. “You’ve done the right thing, young lady,” he pronounced. “For yourself, for this company, for American letters, and for the reputation of my family, not least that useless son of mine.”
“Dad!” Anderson whined. “She was my ticket to respectability.”
“Oh, go get a job,” he said.
Nona followed me out into the hallway, tears in her eyes. “For twenty-eight years, I’ve been dealing with shitty authors, dreaming of the day one would do what you just did,” she beamed. “For twenty-eight years, I’ve had no professional recognition. It took Anderson a decade just to stop calling me ‘Mona.’ The only power I have is to withhold or confer my respect. Laurel Linden, I never thought I’d say this, but I respect you.”
It was the highest praise I’d ever get from a literary critic, but in that moment, it was all I needed. I felt luckier than any bestselling author.
That is, until halfway between Hicksville and Plainview, when it hit me: I was headed to a formal affair filled with friends and relatives there to celebrate a book deal I had just walked out on. My hands went clammy, and I started to sweat.
Luckily, my parents had already left by the time I got home and slipped on Jenna’s pink dress. Looking at myself in the mirror, I had to concede that whatever other problems I had, this was a perfect fit. It pinched in my waist, pushed up my cleavage, and elongated my legs with a sexy slit. “You can do it,” I told myself before heading out to Leonard’s.
In the cab on the way over, I decided that the best course of action would be a white lie. If I told everyone Gallant had broken my contract, they’d feel sorry for me instead of duped. I rehearsed my explanation: “The business is just not what it used to be, budgets are being cut, corporations can be so cold, and I’ve already got a lead on a better deal.” That should mollify them at least until the salmon arrives, I thought.
When I arrived at Long Island’s most famous catering hall, I entered through the courtyard past splashing fountains surrounded by colored lights. In the main lobby, beneath the cherub-gilded ceilings, were dozens of people dressed in evening gowns and tuxedos.
“Lorenzo silver anniversary to your right,” directed a young man wearing black pants and a starched white shirt. “Goldenberg Bar-Mitzvah, up the escalator and to your left. Linden book party, garden terrace in the back.” I left before hearing the rest of the evening specials.
My stomach lurched. I’d have to use whatever money was left from my advance to pay my parents back for this. As I entered the banquet hall, festooned with white candles sparkling under crystal chandeliers, my anxiety grew.
“Where the hell have you been?” my father asked, gesturing wildly to my mother across the crowded hall. When she saw I was there, she ran to the dais. “The guest of honor has finally arrived,” she said into the microphone.
Applause went up around the room, and I walked toward the head table past a panorama of faces from different parts of my life, all there, unknowingly, to witness my humiliation. There was the table with Trish’s family plus three of our best friends from high school. There was Danny Z. holding court over the rest of the writers group: Margo in a peach chiffon dress, Seth, who had brushed his hair for the occasion, José in a tweed jacket, and Sunny Hellerstein giving me the thumbs-up. Aside from Aunt Helene, Uncle Lewis, and the rest of my immediate family, there were relatives I hadn’t seen since the last funeral. Even my former dog-walking clients had been contacted by my overzealous mother: the Danilovas holding hands, Sergio and his crew from the beauty salon, and Maury Blaustein trying to make the best of a straight-backed chair.
But the most unnerving sight was Vanessa. She was the only one who hadn’t stopped clapping when the applause died down and looked almost maniacally proud. I averted my gaze and took my seat.
My mother tapped the microphone again. “Hello? Hello? Can you all hear me?” she asked. “I’d like to thank you all for coming, some of you from as far away as Jersey and Staten Island. You know the good news already: a six-figure book deal from one of the best publishers in the country. Little Laurel got this all on her own, through determination and guts. Ever since she was a little girl, she wanted to be a writer, and we did everything we could to support her dream: creative writing classes after school, a major in English Literature at Vassar, and then years and years of working on her novel. Writing is Laurel’s destiny, and now she’s arrived. So without further ado, here she is: my daughter and future bestselling author, Laurel Aimee Linden.”
As I stood at the microphone, my vision blurred from the dazzling lights of the crystal chandeliers, and my prepared speech evaporated before my tear-filled eyes. For a minute, I thought I had no power to speak at all, but I told myself the deed was done and now all I had to do was deliver the bad news.
“I want to thank you—really very much.” I sucked in a deep breath, savoring the pause. “Your love and support means the world to me. And I hope I have your understanding, too. Because the thing is, today I broke my book contract.”
A hushed murmur traveled the room. Even the waiters stopped serving and turned to stare at me. Taking an even deeper breath, I continued. “It was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done in my life, but see, I’m not really a novelist. I wanted to be an author, maybe because it was glamorous, or fun, or to be famous, but when I finally got the chance, I had to face the hard reality: It’s really not for me. Yes, I had a six-figure contract. I had publicists telling me how to behave. I had editors trying to get my book into shape. I even had a headshot that made me look like a fascinating intellectual. You might be thinking I’m behaving like a total brat, that I should just do the work, collect the paycheck, and shut up about it. But that would be wrong. I don’t want to take advantage of people, take their money, string them along for something I honestly don’t believe in. Even though I won’t be publishing a book, I gained something that no amount of fame or publicity can equal. I made peace with a demon that had been tormenting me for years. I let go of my contract, and when I did, I also let go of the notion that I had to prove I’m special in order to be special. No, I’m not going to be a published author. I’m just going to be plain old Laurel Aimee Linden. But that’s cool.”
Jenna started clapping, and everyone else joined in. Seeing my sister’s grin gave me the last drop of courage I needed before fleeing. “At least you didn’t come here for nothing,” I said. “Not only is there plenty of food and drink, but you’re about to get a very special treat. Mindy?” My cousin looked reluctant, but I beckoned her, and, waving to the crowd, she approached the stage and signaled the band. I was halfway to the door before she hit the first stanza of “Hero” in true Mariah Carey style.
Jenna caught up with me and squeezed my arm. “Go, go,” she urged, as if this was a relay race. “I’ll instigate a fight between Irene Hirsch and Viv Capelle, and pretty soon everyone will forget what you just did.”
We both giggled, and I gave her a tight hug. “Oh no, I’ll wrinkle your dress,” I said, stepping back.
“It’s yours,” she said. “Looks prettier on you than me.” She gave me gentle push forward, and I continued my escape.
As I hurried down the hall, I could still hear Mindy singing. Damn, that girl had a great voice.
Just when I thought I was free, I heard a stern voice
behind me. “Stop!”
I turned to face Vanessa. Her normally warm eyes exuded frigid anger. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. “I’ve been trying to hold this in for a long time, but you’ve finally crossed the line, Miss Thing. First it was Lucien. How a girl like you could give up a guy like that is beyond me. And to do it the night you move into his house—how much more irrational can you get? Oh, but I guess you can get more irrational—witness this little psychodrama. I’ve never seen such acting out, and believe me, I deal with a lot of basket cases.”
“That’s your specialty, isn’t it?” I asked, feeling strangely calm. Her anger only rose.
“Your hostility is so outrageous, Laurel,” she said. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you in some way.” Although her tone was sarcastic, I took her at her word.
“No, Vanessa, you’ve been a really good friend. The thing is—”
“The thing is this: You think the choices you’re making are correct, but you obviously still have a lot to learn.”
“Yeah, I know I have a lot to learn,” I said. “We all do. Don’t you?”
“That’s beside the point,” she huffed.
“I don’t think it is, Vanessa,” I said with studied patience. “It’s exactly the point. You’re only comfortable giving instructions to poor little weak girls like me. And, frankly speaking, I’m tired of playing that role. It was great hanging out with you; I learned a lot, I really did. But I never learned anything about you. That’s not a friendship. If all you want is another patient for your clinic, you’re going to have to look somewhere else.”