by Erin McRae
“I’m about to put in an order for Chinese food,” Eliza said. “Do you want me to get you anything?”
Harry shook his head and dropped his eyes to his laptop. “No, thank you.”
“Are you sure? It wouldn’t be –”
“I told you, this isn’t a good idea,” Harry all but snapped.
“I just asked if you wanted –” Eliza began, but Harry cut her off.
“You should go.”
“Harold.” Eliza was both hurt and taken aback. “What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing’s wrong with me,” Harry said, not looking up from his computer. “I simply think it would be best if you left right now.”
For all the fights Eliza had ever had with Cody, she had never been quite so angry as she was right now. The edges of her vision blurred, and she felt like she was looking at Harry through a deep pool of water.
With effort she kept her voice steady. “And I think you need to understand the very large difference between ‘I don’t think we should continue this affair’ and ‘you are now my mortal enemy.’”
“I have said no such thing,” Harry said tartly.
“But you’re acting like it.”
“What I am acting like is a professional.”
Eliza scoffed, which did not do the depth of her scorn justice. “Barely. I miss my friend. I miss my colleague, and good heavens, you don’t even have to eat with me! Now do you want anything or not?”
“I said no the first time, Eliza.”
How dare he. Eliza stepped all the way inside the office and slammed the door behind her. “You can be angry with me. You can not want to be with me. You can be cold. You can be rude, but how dare you imply I pushed you into anything!”
“I implied no such thing.”
“Would you listen to yourself!” She was nearly shouting. “Bad enough you’ve decided to be an asshole but I will not tolerate you gaslighting me on top of that.”
“I’m not –”
Eliza shook her head furiously and took another step toward him. “You not understanding the choices you made is not my fault. You spending days in bed together with me not my fault! I blame you for plenty of things right now, but none of that. You could do me the same courtesy.”
“Then stop pestering me and I will.”
Her hands were trembling. “Stop speaking to me like a child and I’ll consider it.”
“YOU ARE A CHILD!”
Eliza drew herself up to her full height, let out a long breath, and then said, very quietly. “I think we both know that’s not true. You can order your own food.” She handed him the menu. When he refused to take it, she let it fall onto his desk. “I’ve another in my office.”
Chapter 14
A Book but Not a Refuge
Harry
SPRING WAS A SPECIAL sort of hell. The days were warming, the flowers were blooming, and Eliza wasn’t speaking to him. Harry was wise enough not to waste time telling himself he was glad of it; he wasn’t wise enough not to miss her desperately.
Meryl moved to New York at the end of April. Harry didn’t spend as much time worrying about her arrival as he had expected to. But then, the relationship he wasn’t having with Eliza was taking up most of his emotional bandwidth. He hardly even had enough energy to fret about his fiftieth birthday, which he passed quietly at home, alone, with a book.
He met Meryl for dinner a week after her relocation was complete. She recommended a French place near her apartment. Harry agreed, and didn’t realize his mistake until he walked in the door and was instantly transported back to Paris – and Eliza – by the scent of the place.
The Miscreants hadn’t teased him about Eliza since Steven had died. Perhaps they, collectively, hadn’t had the heart. Or maybe they were just less keen to pounce on what might be bringing one of their number any joy. But, seated across from him at a corner table, Meryl waited patiently while the waiter poured their wine. Once the waiter left, she said, “So tell me about the girl.”
“You don’t want to know.” Harry shook his head.
“If I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t have asked. Besides, you’re not my only confidante in New York.”
“Dennis?”
“What you don’t tell me he will. And don’t think he won’t. Or that I won’t ask.”
For a moment, Harry considered. He would be relieved to confess everything: Not just Paris, the book he had written about her, and his own lesser-of-two-evils decision to publish it. But also the end of their relationship and his own subsequent misery. Meryl was right that Dennis would tell her everything he knew, if and when she asked.
But he’d already put enough of his longing and desire out into the world. So he shook his head. “Maybe eventually. But right now I’ll spare you an hour of listening to me pine for things I know I shouldn’t have.”
“Considerate of you.” Meryl looked amused.
“Besides,” he said, “right now I’d much rather hear about what you’re getting up to.”
“You mean aside from unpacking and cursing my decision to bring quite so many CDs with me when I can stream any music I want?” Meryl asked.
“Even that would be a pleasant break from my own brain.”
“Oh, Harry.” Meryl patted his hand. “You’re lucky you’re handsome. I would distract you with my own adventures...but a lady doesn’t kiss and tell.”
She looked so pleased with herself that Harry couldn’t help but take the bait. But try as he might, Meryl would tell him nothing. He knew that this was not payback for his own reticence, though. She simply held her cards closer than he did, and always waited for the right time to play them.
HARRY NEEDED TO TELL Eliza about the book. But how? In the mornings at work he would catch a glimpse of her at the end of a hallway or around a corner, dressed meticulously, her hair perfect, and his courage vanished. She would hate him for what he was doing. And he would deserve it.
As the release date approached, he felt more and more wretched about it. Especially because, shortly after the book’s release, Eliza would be at BEA in Chicago. With Jonathan. Harry’s assistant didn’t know precisely what Harry was doing with the book, but he knew he’d written it. He’d been the one to suggest self-publishing in the first place.
The day the book released, at midnight, Harry sat in his dressing gown at his kitchen table and kept hitting refresh on the sales dashboard. But no matter how long he sat there and willed the counter to go up, it never did.
Harry finally went to bed at two a.m., tired and discouraged and yet, strangely relieved. No one was ever going to find, or buy, or read, a random too-short navel-gazing angst fest he’d published independently. With any sort of luck, Eliza would never need to know about it at all.
Eliza
CHICAGO IN MAY WAS nothing like Paris in March. From the moment Eliza stepped off the plane with Jonathan it was hot and unseasonably humid, and even her fondness for the city couldn’t make the weather any more bearable. The hotel, in turn, was air conditioned past any level of comfort.
BEA was a special sort of hell, especially since the ban on roller bags had been reinstated. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about hunting anything down for Harry now. She grimaced at the thought and at having to spend ten hours a day in the cavernous convention hall. But there was nothing else for it. At the end of the first day she was happy to take Johnathan up on his suggestion of drinks at the hotel bar.
“I’m sorry my boss is being such a dick to you,” Jonathan said as soon as they got a table near the window. He looked as tired as she felt.
Eliza took a deep breath and then realized she probably looked angry, or terrified, as Jonathan started to stammer his apologies.
“No,” she said, putting out a hand to calm him. “It’s fine. I mean, nothing about it is fine, but that’s not your fault.”
“I know that,” Jonathan said with a half smile. “But still. I’m sorry you have to put up with it.”
“I hope he’s n
ot taking it out on you.”
Jonathan shrugged.
“Well,” Eliza said. “I hope your Paris affair has proven to be less of a disaster than mine.”
Jonathan gave another half smile. “Less of a disaster, but also far less proximate. London’s a hell of a long way away from New York.”
“It’s only a six-hour flight.”
“Six hours and many hundreds of dollars,” Jonathan pointed out.
Eliza was reminded, with a stab of guilt, that she and Jonathan were nearly the same age and had, to date, very different career trajectories. Jonathan was working his way up the ladder slowly, and surely wasn’t making that much. Eliza, on the other hand, had essentially bought her way into her current position with a very expensive degree.
“But something you’d do if you could?” she asked.
“Absolutely,” Jonathan said with a certainty she envied.
She rested her chin on her hand and listened to him talk about Malik. She was still enraged at Harry, but she found herself charmed by Jonathan’s enthusiasm about his relationship and the optimism with which he viewed their future together. To her own surprise she asked questions, not to be polite, but because she was genuinely interested in the details of a friend’s life. The experience was somewhat of a new one, and she found herself pleased – not just on Jonathan’s behalf, but on her own.
Eventually Jonathan ran out of words to describe how well he and Malik fit. “All right, forgive me for asking,” he said.” But what did happen between you and Harry?”
Eliza lowered her arm and looked at her hands on the table. “He’s your boss – I don’t want to make life complicated for you.”
“I’ve known him for years and this is hardly the most complicated he’s made my life.” Jonathan paused, evidently considering. “All right. So this might be the most complicated he’s made it. And you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. Obviously. But this is me asking as a friend, not a colleague. I mean, who the hell else can I talk to about Malik? It’s not like I have a lot of friends to gossip with.”
Maybe I’m not so alone as I thought, Eliza thought. “Neither do I. I mean people...what are they for?”
Jonathan gave her a look of sly understanding. “Right? I mean, they’re fine, but...ugh.”
Eliza laughed. “Though friends might be better than my sister. When I went home for my engagement party, she told me I should have an affair.”
Jonathan hesitated a moment, then asked, “Can I ask you what happened to your fiancé?”
“You can. But you might have to get more specific.”
“You had a ring. And then you didn’t. And then there was Harry. Or had been all along. I don’t know. Like I said, he hasn’t told me anything. I only see what’s been undone, but I don’t know what any of it was.”
“Harry had nothing to do with the end of my engagement,” Eliza said primly. It was perfectly true. And also a complete lie.
STAFFING THEIR PUBLISHER’S booth at BEA would have been far worse had Jonathan not been there. He was organized, diligent, funny, and kind. That he worked for Harry didn’t matter at all. Eliza liked his company, and he was doing a good deal to keep her sane through simple competence alone.
When there were quieter spells – floor traffic seemed to come in waves they could never quite predict – they took turns fetching each other coffee and grabbing what ARCs they could get their hands on. Making the same, repetitive small talk with each and every visitor to their booth was harder, but Eliza couldn’t complain about being on autopilot. Having a chance to turn her brain off was exactly what she needed, even if twelve-hour days in a windowless concrete bunker of a trade show hall was draining.
“Do you think if I stop making eye contact, people will go away for five minutes?” she asked Jonathan.
“I wish,” he said flatly. A pair of people, a white man with greying hair and a woman with her black hair pulled back in an artfully messy bun approached the booth. Jonathan’s eyes widened. “Oh God, hide me.”
“What?” Eliza didn’t have a chance to do anything of the sort before the pair reached the table.
The man stuck his hand out in greeting. Jonathan shook it, without matching the man’s enthusiasm. The man then turned to Eliza and offered his hand to her as well.
“Hello, Mr. –?” Eliza asked.
The man leaned back, in a pantomime of laughter, as if she was telling a very clever joke.
“It is me, Philippe, your star author. Surely you recognize me. I know you work with Harry!”
“Oh my God,” Eliza muttered to herself.
The woman who Philippe had detached himself from in order to make this little scene approached her, not with an outstretched hand, but with an eye roll.
“Sorry, he’s like this,” she said. “He tends to think of these things as his big moment.”
“No publisher ever complained about an enthusiastic author,” Eliza said diplomatically even as she prayed this woman would save her from an unexpected face-to-face with Philippe. She knew she should be a professional about it, but at the moment all she could feel was relief that she’d never done a video call with Philippe which meant that there was little reason for him to recognize or identify her now.
“I’m sure that’s not true,” the woman said. “Hi, I’m Gina. And that’s ‘Philippe.’ But I guess you figured that out.”
“Are you his...?” Eliza trailed off. There were too many opportunities for insult here.
“Fiancée, not assistant. His assistant isn’t allowed to use the air quotes on the name.” Gina laughed a little obnoxiously. Eliza considered the possibility that she was slightly in love with this woman.
“Well, we never use air quotes at the publisher either.” She leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially, “although, sometimes we want to.”
Gina clapped her hands together. “Oh, I like you! Let’s be friends. In fact, let’s take a walk. No one becomes friends at work. Not really.”
You don’t know how right you are, Eliza thought. And then she said yes.
Eliza let Gina lead her back towards the cafe at the edge of the exhibit hall. It would be her third visit there today already, but she didn’t care. Someone had offered her friendship, and she had said yes.
“Cute key,” Gina said as they walked.
“I always worry it’s strange,” Eliza blurted. She had to fight the urge to tuck it back inside her blouse. She normally kept it under her clothes, but she’d been bending over to pull books out of boxes for the table and it must have slipped out.
“It’s a little Nineties, but we all need a quirk. It works for you.”
“Thanks,” she said, uncertain how enthused she should be about the compliment.
“Now, what I really wanted to talk to you about is Philippe’s editor’s book.”
“What?” Eliza was confused. “Which?” She didn’t remember Harry having had a book come out.
“The one about the girl!”
“Which was one is that?”
“Oh my God,” Gina exclaimed. “You are being worked too hard if you haven’t had time to lay your hands on that. It’s just come out. Self-published. And so so sexy. And thoughtful. Is that weird? Sexy and thoughtful? Anyway, I want to know everything about Harry Sargent now, but ‘Philippe’” – she paused to properly render the air quotes – “is far too heterosexual to tell me anything interesting. So I’m relying on you.”
Eliza had no idea what Gina was talking about, but panic was welling up in her soul nonetheless. She didn’t want to talk to anyone about Harry. She needed to find out more about this book, but she knew that was a bit of research she was inevitably going to regret.
BY THE TIME SHE AND Gina returned from coffee, during which Eliza told her that Harry dressed well, had a lovely sense of humor, and seemed like a terrible person to be in a relationship with, Philippe was nowhere to be found. Jonathan was instead speaking with a distinguished-looking gentleman with combed-back whit
e hair and a well-tailored suit, who was also asking after Harry.
Eliza set her coffee down. Whatever hope she had that ‘the book about the girl’ had nothing to do with her was fading fast. When the inevitable final blow came and she fainted – or felt the urge to throw something – she didn’t want her coffee to be a casualty of it.
“Do you need any help, Jonathan?”
Jonathan turned to look at her, opened his mouth and then snapped it shut. His cheeks were red and his eyes were wide. Gina looked between the two of them, her brow creased in curiosity and concern.
Oh, this is bad, Eliza thought. This is very, very bad.
The visitor to their booth turned to her. “It’s about the book Mr. Sargent has self-published. The Girl with the Key?”
“Ah... yes?” Eliza asked.
“My publisher wants to offer him a contract for that title and similar. We think with a proper marketing campaign and distribution. Well.... Let’s just say Mr. Sargent can start fantasizing about six-figure print runs along with this girl. Can one of you please make sure he or his agent get in touch with me with some urgency?”
Eliza took a deep breath. She wished desperately that she had hidden the key again when Gina asked about it. Stuffing it away now would be far too conspicuous. But more than anything right now she needed this man to go away.
“Yes, we can get you his agent’s contact information,” she said as pleasantly as she could. She felt like she was suffocating. Beside her, Jonathan sprang into action and scribbled down a name and number on the back of one of the many business cards they had out on the table.
“It’s really quite an extraordinary book,” the man said as he took the card from Jonathan with a nod of thanks. “Have you not read it?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t had the chance, no.” Her voice strangled as she spoke.
“Oh, it’s well worth your while, I assure you. Sargent has always been a marvelous travel writer, but he’s outdone himself. Seventy-two hours in Vienna, but it’s all framed within this remarkable love affair he’s having – or, I should say, not having, with a young woman he’s quite fallen for....”