The entire area around the Harwick School seemed insulated from everything ugly and vulgar in the world. Florence always left feeling cleansed and energized, like she’d breathed pure oxygen.
But the truth, if she could have admitted it, was that she was there to see Ingrid, who had thoroughly replaced her husband as a figure of fascination for Florence. Simon’s collar stays did nothing for her anymore. He was an ordinary man with ordinary weaknesses. Ingrid, on the other hand, was a true artist: She twitched an eyebrow onscreen, she shed a tear, and somebody thousands of miles away, even years later, felt something. Someone’s inner chemistry changed because of Ingrid. What power—to impose a new reality on a total stranger. To hold them in your thrall. That was what Florence wanted to do with her writing.
She had spent the past few weeks watching Ingrid Thorne movies on her roommate’s Netflix account and poring over pictures online. She longed to see Ingrid in person. To convince herself that this woman was real, had flesh like hers, because she and Ingrid were inextricably connected; Simon, after all, had chosen both of them.
In early February, her persistence paid off.
Instead of getting onto one of the idling coaches like they usually did, Chloe and Tabitha ran ecstatically into the outstretched arms of their mother. Florence drew in her breath sharply. Ingrid wore narrow black pants and a white blouse with complicated folds. Her hair was newly short, and undoubtedly expensively cut. Her face had more wrinkles than it did onscreen.
The trio walked westward, Ingrid in the middle. Tabitha held her mother’s hand and swung it back and forth with violent jubilance. Florence followed half a block behind on the other side of the street. When Ingrid and the girls caught the M86 bus on York, Florence had to sprint to make the same one. She was breathing heavily by the time she climbed aboard. A few people turned to look at her, but not Ingrid.
The family got off at Lexington and disappeared into a doctor’s suite on Eight-Seventh Street. Florence forced herself to wait a full minute before following them in.
“Can I help you?” A fortyish woman with bleached blond hair smiled at her expectantly from behind the reception desk. Florence glanced at the pamphlets in front of her. She was in an orthodontist’s office.
“Um, I have an appointment with Dr. Carlson?” she said. Dr. Carlson was the name of her dentist growing up.
“I’m sorry, there’s no one here by that name.”
“Oh. Hm. Do you mind if I just sit for a second and check my email? I have his information in here somewhere.”
The receptionist smiled and nodded.
Florence sat across from Ingrid and the girls. They had briefly fallen silent during Florence’s exchange with the receptionist, but Tabitha started talking again.
Florence scrolled through her phone and listened to the child tell a dull story about gym class.
Then Ingrid’s phone rang and she said, “Hang on, goose, I have to take this.”
She swiped the screen. “Hi, David.” Florence could hear a man’s tinny sing-song through the phone. Then Ingrid cut in: “That’s absurd. I’m not doing that…No…No…Well, let’s try to get someone else then…She did that show about felons?…Yeah, that’s a good idea. Alright, call me back.”
Ingrid hung up and sighed. She made eye contact with Florence and rolled her eyes. “Sorry about that.”
“That’s alright.” Then Florence added, “You have a lovely family.”
“Thank you,” Ingrid replied with a pleased smile, turning it on her girls one after the other.
At the sight of Ingrid’s white, even teeth, Florence pressed her lips together, suddenly ashamed of her crooked smile. She’d never been to an orthodontist. She forced herself to rise from the couch and surrender the warmth of the waiting room.
Outside, it was turning dark and a cold rain had begun to fall. She was tempted to wait for Simon’s family to emerge, so she could follow them home, but she didn’t want Ingrid to think she was stalking her. Besides, she had to get back to work. When she’d told Agatha that she was getting a cavity filled—she’d claimed an appointment for a dental exam last week—Agatha hadn’t received the news as serenely as she had in the past. She had a tendency toward passive aggression that Florence didn’t understand—she was already in a position of power; why didn’t she just use it to ask for what she wanted? Instead, she had dropped a manuscript loudly on Florence’s desk before she left for lunch and asked for her thoughts by the following morning, adding pointedly, “if you can find the time.”
This performance was obviously supposed to generate a feeling of contrition in Florence, or at the very least a small quiver of anxiety. But she felt neither. Instead, she felt oppressed by Agatha’s utterly commonplace expectations—email X, call Y—as if Florence were any low-level flack. She wanted to take those expectations and twist them like a pinkie finger until they snapped.
This was not the job, or the life, she wanted—which was precisely what Vera had been telling her for years.
Florence had thought Vera would be appeased after she landed the position at Forrester. Instead, she’d asked, with extra-sibilant force: “An assistant? Like a secretary?” Florence had tried to explain that this was the way things worked, that everyone in the literary world started out as an editorial assistant, but it was useless once her mother also found out that she would be making less money than Vera herself did.
And so the tension between mother and daughter had continued to escalate with every conversation. Florence felt like she was running a Ponzi scheme: Vera demanding an immediate return on her investment, and Florence paying her down as best she could in tiny installments of affection and apologies, biding her time until she could scrounge up the capital she owed.
But perhaps she had absorbed more of her mother’s impatience than she thought.
9.
A few weeks later, Florence was on the elevator heading to work when Simon stuck his hand in the door just as it was about to close. He hesitated a moment when he saw her, like he wished he hadn’t caught it after all, and then Florence saw why. Ingrid was with him. He recovered and said, “Hello, Florence. All’s well?”
“Fine, thank you,” she said. Ingrid stood with the expectant smile of a woman waiting to be introduced.
“Right,” said Simon. “Have you met my wife? Florence, Ingrid Thorne. Ingrid, this is Florence Darrow, one of our most promising editorial assistants.”
“Pleasure,” Ingrid said, with a very firm handshake. She didn’t seem to recognize her from the orthodontist’s office. “I have a shirt just like that.”
“Oh, really?” Florence blushed. She’d bought it after seeing Ingrid’s.
Simon cleared his throat and said in response to a question that no one had asked, “Yes, well, Ingrid is actually here to meet a friend of yours. Amanda Lincoln.”
“Amanda?”
“I slipped her a copy of Amanda’s manuscript, and she thought she might be interested in turning it into a film. Trying her hand at producing.”
“Amanda’s manuscript?”
“Haven’t you heard? Forrester just acquired Amanda’s first novel.”
“Amanda sold a novel?” Florence felt herself slipping in the dark, unable to find traction.
“It’s an absolutely brilliant satire of Upper East Side mores,” Ingrid said. She pronounced it morays, like the eel. Florence made a mental note to stop pronouncing it like s’mores. “It’s wickedly funny.”
Simon wrapped an arm affectionately around his wife’s waist then abruptly removed it. The elevator pinged for Florence’s floor. She moved toward the door and waited impatiently for it to release her. “Good luck,” she said dully on her way out.
“Thank you!” said Ingrid brightly at the same time that Simon called out, “Keep up the good work!”
Florence walked directly into the handicapped bathroom and locked the door. She turned on the hot water, waited until it was scalding and held her hands underneath it until her skin glowed red
. Amanda’s novel? What fucking novel? She looked in the mirror. Tears were gathering in her eyes.
“Don’t,” she snapped at her reflection. She shoved the hot heels of her hands into her eyes. When she removed them, the tears had cleared, and she managed to put a smile on her face.
“Better,” she said.
On her way to her desk, she detoured to talk to Lucy, who was hunched in front of her computer screen, clicking through pictures of dogs available for adoption on petfinder.com.
“You should just do it,” Florence said behind her.
Lucy jumped in her seat and put a hand to her heart. “God, you scared me,” she said.
“Seriously, why don’t you just get one?”
Lucy looked at Florence like she’d suggested drop-kicking an orphan. “Oh, no, I couldn’t. I work too much. It wouldn’t be fair.” Florence shook her head. She never understood people who denied themselves the things they wanted. Her problem was that the things she wanted constantly seemed out of reach.
“Have you heard about Amanda’s novel?”
Lucy nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought it might upset you.” Lucy had no interest in being a writer, but she knew Florence did.
“Upset me!” Florence exclaimed more loudly than she’d meant to. “Why should it upset me? Believe me, that is not the type of book I have any interest in writing.” She still knew next to nothing about it.
“No, of course not. It sounds super cheesy.”
“It does?” Florence asked eagerly. “Have you read it?”
“No, but Sam has it.”
“Douchebag Sam or ginger Sam?”
“Ginger.”
Florence hurried off to find Sam, who promised to email her the manuscript. “It’s actually not terrible,” he said.
“That’s what I hear,” she replied grimly.
* * *
Florence spent the day reading the manuscript on her computer. It was ten at night by the time she finished. Agatha had left hours earlier, as had everyone else on her floor. Florence turned off her computer but made no move to pack up.
Sam was right. It wasn’t terrible. Even worse—it was good.
Florence shoved the heels of her palms into her eyes until she saw sparks. It simply wasn’t fair. Amanda already had everything. Now she got to be a published novelist too? The one thing Florence wanted more than anything else? And to work with Ingrid Thorne? She imagined Ingrid and Amanda having cozy working dinners. Talking about art and inspiration. Talking about fucking Brecht.
What did Florence get? A tiny room in a shitty Astoria apartment? A mentor who would rather talk about her doula than German playwrights? A one-night stand with Simon Reed, who probably wished it had never happened in the first place?
Something about that last thought snagged in Florence’s brain. Who probably wished it had never happened.
A smile spread across Florence’s face. She looked around the empty office and laughed out loud. Why hadn’t she seen it before?
Of course Simon wished it hadn’t happened. But it had. He knew it had, and she knew it had. Why hadn’t she recognized the power in that? Why had she let him think that she was disposable? Why had she thought she was disposable? Poor Simon had lost the upper hand the moment he put it on her leg in that grimy bar.
If he could publish Amanda’s novel, he could publish her book too. She could make him publish her. She would gather all the stories she’d already written into a collection, and there was her manuscript. It wasn’t ideal, getting published through blackmail, but nothing in life is pure. You don’t throw away a winning lottery ticket just because it gets a little dirty in your wallet.
Florence hurried home. She stayed up until three in the morning making minor edits to the stories she’d written in Gainesville. Reading them for the first time since Amanda had convinced her of her own ignorance, she could still see their flaws, but now she saw something else that she’d missed before: the sheer joy she’d felt while writing them. Hours had passed like mere seconds.
She had originally wanted to be a writer so that everyone would know that Florence Darrow was a genius. But during those years in Gainesville, what she’d loved most was the rush of not being Florence Darrow. For brief periods of time, in front of her computer, she’d left that self behind and become anyone she wanted.
It was an amazing thought: If she did this one thing well enough—inhabiting someone else’s life—her own life would finally be worth something.
* * *
The next day was cold and sunny. At nine thirty, when she knew Simon would be in his office, but before his morning meetings started, Florence took the elevator upstairs. His assistant Emily was displeased when Florence asked to see him. She was sweet—she’d been the one who’d tried to include Florence and Lucy in the conversation that first night at the Red Lark—but like many assistants, she had pinned her worth to her boss’s prestige. Still, she dutifully stuck her head inside his office, and when she reemerged told Florence she could go in.
“Well, Florence, to what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked, holding out his hands like a magician with nothing to hide.
Florence told him about her stories and handed him the pages she’d printed out that morning. “Since you’re taking submissions from the bullpen…” she said. He set them carefully on the desk and patted them gently. He looked relieved that this was the reason for her visit.
“Splendid,” he said. “I’ll try to start them this weekend. I’m looking forward to it.”
Florence stood in front of his desk for a moment, unsure what to do next. They smiled at each other in silence.
“Okay, then,” she said, and walked out.
* * *
That night Florence couldn’t sleep. She was going to be a published author!
All weekend, she was visited by visions of herself in a beautiful apartment with casement windows, antique rugs, and gourd-shaped vases. She was at a party and everyone wanted to talk to her. She wore black and her cheeks were flushed in the candlelight. There was jazz playing. It was winter. Florence loved winter; it was as far from Florida as you could get. She liked going out with three or four layers between her skin and the sharp air, seeing her breath hover in front of her. Your soul made manifest, Pastor Doug from her mother’s church used to say, even though the temperature in Port Orange rarely dropped below fifty.
On Monday she went back up to Simon’s office, but Emily told her he was in a meeting. She returned to her desk but couldn’t concentrate. Finally, at 5 p.m., an email from Simon pinged in her inbox. Florence scanned it quickly.
Some good stuff here.
You’ve got talent, but your writing needs more life experience behind it.
Find your story.
Florence read it again, certain she’d missed something. But that was it. He’d said no.
10.
Florence sat on the windowsill in her bedroom with her bare feet dangling outside. It was past 2 a.m., and the streets below were quiet except for a dashed line of cars running across Thirty-First Avenue. She tapped her heels against the gritty bricks and scrolled through photos on her phone. There were dozens of Chloe and Tabitha in their school uniforms and a handful of Ingrid from the day she’d picked up the girls herself. Florence zoomed in on Ingrid’s face. The wrinkles around her eyes were smile lines, she realized.
By what algorithmic glitch had she ever come out ahead of Ingrid Thorne, even for just a night? What could Florence Darrow give Simon that Ingrid could not? She was weak and talentless and pathetic. She was the polar opposite of Ingrid Thorne.
Well, maybe that was the point. Maybe Simon had wanted a break. He’d wanted oatmeal instead of steak, just for a night. His jaw was tired.
What a glutton, she thought.
She could just imagine Simon’s life. Sleeping in ironed sheets. Collecting first editions. Counting out tips for his doormen at Christmas. Fucking Ingrid. Fucking Florence. Fucking who
ever the fuck he wanted. Simon’s life was just how Simon wanted it. So comfortable. So well-curated. So safe.
He’d never really thought that that night—or Florence herself—would change his life one bit. And they hadn’t. He still woke up in ironed sheets next to his lovely wife. So…unthreatened. Unblemished.
She took a sip of the glass of bourbon balanced next to her. As it went down, she felt it warm her insides organ by organ, like someone walking through an old house, turning on the lights.
If I could just mark him a little bit, she thought. Nothing drastic. Just a scratch on the lens of his glasses, an annoying little reminder that wouldn’t let him look at life as something unmarred and pristine and safe anymore. A reminder to be grateful for what he has.
And without another thought, she emailed him all the photos of his family. She smiled as she typed the subject line: Some good stuff here.
11.
Florence woke the next morning with the sense that the person she had been until the night before had simply toppled off, like a dead toenail forced to cede its position to a new one growing underneath. In its place was something foreign and denuded, something that had been building for months without her even realizing it, until the pressure was simply too great to contain it.
She felt energetic and hopeful, though she wasn’t deluded. She knew that Simon wasn’t just going to change his mind about publishing her stories. It was just as likely that he’d forward her email to HR. But, for the moment, the thought of his face while he read it was enough for her.
As soon as she got into the office, she learned which choice he’d made. A blinking light on her phone indicated a new voicemail. It was the head of HR, asking her to meet him in his office immediately. Three days later, a courier arrived at her apartment at seven in the morning to serve her papers. Not only had she been fired, Simon and Ingrid had taken out a restraining order against her.
Who is Maud Dixon? Page 5