Novelista Girl

by Meredith Schorr

  “Her dad was a deadbeat, and her mom didn’t make enough money on her secretary’s salary to afford more than the basics. Daneen had to pay her own way through college and law school with no encouragement from her mom, who saw no value in a woman’s education despite her own poverty. To this day, she rarely comments on Daneen’s successes.”

  Remembering her attempt the previous year to put down my alma mater, I sat up straighter in the bed. “Why did she say she wished her parents let her go to a party school when they clearly had no interest in her college education either way?”

  Nicholas shrugged. “No clue. Trying to make you feel bad, probably.”

  “Aha. I’m sorry she had such a tough upbringing, but she seems to have come through it just fine. And it doesn’t excuse her treatment of me.”

  “I don’t know what her deal is, but she’s not my concern—you are.” He patted my back in a circular motion. “In any event, I’m sorry.”

  I flipped over. “I forgive you.”

  “Good.” He smiled toward his computer monitor.

  “Whatcha doin’?”

  Continuing to type, he said, “Working. Still catching up on what I missed helping you move in.”

  Tickling his arm, I said, “I sure hope I’m worth the overtime.”

  “Uh-huh.” Nicholas tousled my hair absently without turning around. “You’re going in tomorrow, right?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “No one ever got promoted for taking the most personal days,” he said with a wry grin. “One of my dad’s ‘isms.’ Did I ever tell you he never called out during his entire time in medical school?”

  With a crooked smile, I said, “I can see where you get your drive.” By going to law school, Nicholas broke the Strong family tradition of studying medicine, and I suspected this decision was the force behind his ambition. If he wasn’t in the medical field like the rest of his clan, at least he’d be at the top of the legal field.

  “He’s way more type A. You’ll meet him soon enough.”

  “I can’t wait,” I said, even as butterflies danced in my belly. Nicholas’s parents were coming in from Vermont the following month, and I was meeting them for the first time. What if they pictured their son with an attorney, medical professional, or at the very least, an agented author?

  As if reading my mind, Nicholas said, “She was only one agent. One of many. You’ll see.”

  I nodded at him, like an eager puppy, urging him to continue—to implore me not to give up.

  “Atta girl, Kimmie,” he said and gave me a peck on the nose. With the pep talk successfully concluded on his end, he fixated his attention back to his work while I rolled over on my stomach with more than a lingering of doubt.

  Chapter 9

  Glancing at the retro glitter wall clock above her entertainment center, I said to Bridget, “It’s time.”

  Bridget took one more sip of prosecco before leaning over her laptop and clicking the icon to start a new video chat with Caroline. It was nine in the morning in China, the current stop on Caroline’s world tour. I’d met Caroline years earlier in a book club and was thrilled when she hit it off so well with Bridget too. Caroline risked a coveted position as vice president of a Fortune 500 company, along with a salary in the high six figures, to chase her dream of traveling the world. She said it was now or never—before she got married and had kids and saw the fantasy disappear in her rearview mirror.

  Even though she was currently romantically unattached, and a wedding didn’t seem to be in her near future, I admired her courage. And I was touched when she said I inspired her by following my heart and completing my first novel despite my rampant fear of failing—a fear seemingly destined to become reality.

  After a few moments of staring at the computer monitor and listening to the outgoing ringtone, there was a notification that Caroline was joining the chat, and then her radiant face appeared on the screen. Waving at us, she said, “Hi girls.”

  “Hi,” Bridget and I said in chorus.

  “You look so good,” I gushed, immediately noticing the brightness in her blue eyes and the healthy color in her typically fair-skinned cheeks. Her blond locks were pulled back into a long ponytail. “Your hair is getting so long.”

  “Thank you.” Caroline beamed. “Six months of not working does wonders for the skin and yes, I’m due for a trimming. I made an appointment to have my hair cut and styled at Christophe Robin when I get to Paris.”

  “I’m so jealous,” Bridget said, even though I knew she was undesirous of a break from her budding career as a self-employed web designer—even more so now since Jonathan, a freelance graphic designer, shared the office located within the confines of their apartment.

  “Me too,” I said. “What’s Shanghai like?”

  “Times Square, except I can’t read any of the billboards.” Caroline laughed.

  After we finished our initial greetings, Caroline filled us in about her trip, including some of the edible “delicacies” she’d had the guts to try. Her adventures in food sounded more like an episode of The Amazing Race than a vacation, and I was relieved the takeout Chinese food Bridget and I ate for dinner had already been digested or I might have needed a barf bag. Eventually, the conversation was steered toward my living arrangements. I told the girls about my fight with Nicholas over whether the toilet seat should be left up or down. Nicholas eventually conceded it should remain down at all times after I almost fell in when peeing in the middle of the night. At first, he tried to blame the near miss on my petite frame, but I argued my small behind was precisely why the lid on the toilet seat needed to be placed down. Then he said I should have been a lawyer.

  “Sounds like things are going well,” Caroline said with a chuckle. “How’s the agent search?

  Through my peripheral vision, I caught Bridget slide her hand across her throat.

  Caroline’s eyes opened wide. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Shrugging, I replied, “No worries. Nothing new to tell. More rejections, including one from my dream agent. I might as well give up.” I turned away from the monitor momentarily to avoid seeing pity reflected in Caroline’s eyes.

  “And Hannah’s second book is coming out in a few months,” Bridget said.

  “Way to rub it in, Bridge,” I muttered, my eyes still cast downward.

  “Sorry, K.” Elbowing me gently, Bridget said, “Maybe book two will suck. What is it called, again? Burning at the Stake?”

  Chuckling, I said, “Tearing at the Seams.”

  Bridget rolled her eyes. “Burning at the Stake could be the title of her postmortem memoir. She is a witch.” Although I had made a peace of sorts with Hannah, Bridget still held a mighty grudge from our high school days.

  “She wants me to do a cover reveal and maybe an interview on my blog as part of the prerelease.” I hadn’t answered her yet, and my conscience was not pleased at my display of rudeness. I made a silent promise to check my blog schedule and respond with a few available dates when I got home later. Like it or not, featuring popular authors was part of the blogger gig, and like it or not, Hannah Marshak was a chick lit writer to watch. “And my sister thinks I should ask her for advice on getting an agent.” I shook my head, bewildered as to why anyone would think that was a clever idea and hoping Caroline and Bridget would share my horror at the prospect.

  From the other side of the computer—and the world—Caroline said, “Actually, Erin might be on to something.”

  I blinked in shock. “In what galaxy?”

  “I’d like to hear this too. I can’t imagine how Hannah could help Kim. And even if she had it in her power, Kim would probably have to sell her soul in exchange. Or at least her Louboutins,” Bridget said, referring to my favorite pair of designer shoes. The ones I probably shouldn’t have splurged on until I made bestseller status. Or at least snagged a pu
blishing deal. Or an agent.

  Caroline raised a finger in the air. Shaking her head softly, she smiled and said, “You guys…” She was very entertained by Bridget’s disdain of Hannah and liked to play devil’s advocate.

  “You have the floor. We’re listening.” If Caroline hadn’t urged me to fight for Nicholas the summer before, we wouldn’t be sharing an apartment now, and I’d probably still be heartbroken. At the very least, I could hear her out.

  Ignoring Bridget, who muttered, “This should be good,” Caroline pled her case. “First of all, I don’t want to hear any talk about ‘giving up.’ Judy Blume received rejections for two years, and Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind was rejected thirty-eight times. You’re in good company.”

  A glimmer of hope was ignited. I didn’t know about Judy Blume.

  Caroline continued, “Second of all, Hannah was once where you are. She had a completed manuscript and no agent.”

  “Exactly what Erin said.” I wasn’t convinced.

  “The way you probably imagine it, Hannah’s dream agent came to her and not the other way around.”

  Not true. I knew Hannah’s agent didn’t magically knock on her door. But I bet she didn’t receive twenty rejections. “Not exactly—”

  Dismissing me with a wave of her hand, Caroline said, “Let me finish.”

  “Fine.”

  “I bet you can’t imagine Hannah’s email inbox flooded with rejections though. Am I right?”

  Nodding, I said, “You’re right.”

  Caroline pursed her lips. “I’m willing to bet Hannah’s agent search was not as effortless as you imagine.”

  “Maybe,” I acquiesced.

  “But that’s not even my point.”

  Downing the rest of her wine and walking into the kitchen, Bridget called out, “So what is your point?”

  Raising her voice so Bridget could hear her from a distance, Caroline said, “My point is Hannah has no qualms about asking Kim to help her out despite their rocky past. What would be so odd about Kim asking her for advice in return?” Staring me down, she added, “And the timing is perfect since, if I know you at all, you’re procrastinating getting back to her on this latest request.”

  “Call me Captain Predictable.” I wasn’t swayed yet, but my logical side was headed there. My emotional side was stubborn.

  “Why don’t you ping her back and tell her you’ll try to make room in your blog schedule to reveal her cover? Then you can subtly mention you have a favor to ask too, if she has time. If you don’t offer her a specific spot on your blog outright, hopefully she’ll treat it like an exchange and eagerly offer her services.”

  “Lightning might strike after I say this, but Caroline’s idea is kind of brilliant. As long as you keep it all business,” Bridget said, returning to the couch with Jonathan at her side. He’d been directed to stay out of the living room so we could have a proper girls’ night like old times.

  Angling his head toward the laptop, he said, “Hey, Caroline. What morsel of genius are you sharing with us today?”

  Caroline opened her mouth to respond as Jonathan added, “Never mind. I don’t care.” With a wry grin, he added, “No offense.” Then he removed a cigarette from Bridget’s pack and walked over to the windowsill as Caroline laughed.

  “None taken.”

  It was no use attempting to dispute Caroline’s no-nonsense thought process. So much for Nicholas’s claim I should have been a lawyer. In desperate need of a subject change, I said, “Okay. I’ll do it. Thanks, Caroline.”

  Caroline directed her gaze at Bridget. “And what about you, missy? Anything new in your world?”

  Shaking her head, Bridget responded, “Nada.” She smiled. “But I’m totally fine with the status quo.”

  As Jonathan finished his cigarette and retreated to the bedroom, I muttered, “Very convenient for Jonathan.”

  Bridget’s eyebrows squished together. “You lost me.”

  “Jonathan is happy with the status quo too, right?”

  Bridget flinched but didn’t respond.

  Caroline chuckled. “You guys seem to be speaking in code.”

  “It’s nothing.” Presenting Caroline with a sheepish grin, Bridget said, “Anyway, the Belgian beer was a huge hit with the boys, but I’m hoping the next care package will be for us.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Preferably in the nature of a visit from you.”

  “I miss you guys too,” Caroline said.

  A few minutes later, we concluded our chat session with Caroline, and Bridget walked me to her front door. “Thanks for hosting the girls’ night, Bridge,” I said, reaching up to give her a hug. She was only five foot three herself but seemed to tower over me in her hot pink platform Vans.

  “My pleasure. Glad Jonathan kept his distance for most of it. Although I may or may not have promised something in return, if you know what I mean.” Bridget waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

  I held up my hand. “TMI.”

  Folding her arms across her chest, Bridget said, “Speaking of Jonathan, what was with your passive-aggressive dig before?”

  I dipped my chin to my chest for a beat before meeting her eyes. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it in front of Caroline. I’m sorry.”

  With a hard smile, Bridget said, “I don’t get why you mentioned it at all.”

  Reaching out to touch a leaf of the mass cane plant by Bridget’s door, I said, “We’ve shared our fantasy wedding stories more times than I can count. Remember flipping through pages of Bride Magazine—flagging our favorite dresses?”

  Spots of color entered Bridget’s cheeks. “We were sixteen, Kim. It was fun to play pretend. We’re almost thirty now. My priorities have changed.” She yawned. Bringing a hand to her mouth, she said, “Sorry. I’m so tired, K. Can we talk about this another time?”

  Releasing a heavy sigh, I replied, “Of course. I’ll let you go. I’m exhausted too.”

  After another hug goodbye, I headed to the subway and back to my apartment.

  As the almost empty 6 train pushed its way through the darkness, I set aside my concern for Bridget temporarily. Fixating my stare on a spot through the dirty glass windows, I revisited the possibility of asking Hannah for help.

  My stomach was tangled in knots as I tried to visualize how the conversation with Hannah would go. To the outside observer, I gave as good as I got back in junior high and high school. Hannah tried to knock me down with her petty accusations and rumors, but just like Chumbawamba said, “I got back up again.” As far as Hannah was concerned, I was a tough little bitch. The only time I let her see me sweat was when she caught me crying at Starbucks over my breakup with Nicholas and my growing paranoia he was dating Daneen. Over a couple of vodka martinis, she gave me the lowdown on Daneen, and I discovered Hannah had moments of humanity. Despite a lousy bedside manner, Hannah helped me that day. Was it possible her experience and wisdom could also assist in my quest to become a published author? And was it worth risking my bold—albeit tiny—exterior to find out?

  Like Caroline, Nicholas was very results-oriented, and so I knew without asking he would tell me to tuck away my pride and ask Hannah for help. I would have preferred to double-check, but he was working late, and it was too complicated to discuss via text. My choices were either to take a calculated risk and write her now—without awaiting positive reinforcement from Nicholas—or sleep on it and ask him in the morning. But my brain was too wired to sleep, certainly not without the aid of Tylenol PM or something similar. Even Bridget was able to see past her bias against Hannah to acknowledge the upshot of reaching out to her under the circumstances.

  My decision made, I sent the email before I could change my mind and got ready for bed. After a few minutes of tossing and turning, it became clear a sleeping pill would have been helpful regardless of which decision I had made.

&
nbsp; Chapter 10

  After a rather productive lunch hour—I tore through the last two chapters of Baby or Bust, the first in a series of British chick lit novels I was reading for my blog, and scheduled tweets of my most recent reviews—I returned to my desk, hopeful the afternoon would fly by. And then I checked my email.

  From: DBarnett@EmanQuinn.com

  To: KLong@EmanQuinn.com

  Subject: Urgent: Orange Essence Exhibits

  Kim,

  We’ll need four collated copies of Exhibits A-K in the conference room on 24 by 2:15. Each set should be fastened together with a butterfly clip. (No paper clips. No binder clips. NO staples.)

  Daneen

  No “thank you” either, huh, Daneen?

  I whistled through my teeth in annoyance as my fingers moved rapidly over the keys to access the exhibits in the W drive. Daneen wrote me at 1:49 p.m., and it was now 2:02 p.m. She knew I took lunch at one o’clock and wasn’t expected to check my Blackberry on my breaks. In fact, on the rare occasions I needed access to work email on off-hours, I had to dump the contents of my entire bag to find the antiquated device at the bottom, hiding under my makeup case, hairbrush, bank receipts, chewing-gum wrappers, and a slew of other more frequently utilized items.

  After printing out four sets of the eleven exhibits, I sprung out of my chair, grabbed them from the printer, and placed them on the carpet of Rob’s office to organize. The office was empty since Rob was presumably waiting for me in the conference room with Daneen. Carefully collating the documents using butterfly clips (since Daneen’s aversion to binder clips rivaled Mommy Dearest’s hatred of wire hangers), I walked slowly and assuredly to the conference room. It was already 2:23 p.m., but it was the best I could do without Olympic secretarial skills or, at the very least, a faster printer.

  The door was closed, and I didn’t want to drop the copies, so I knocked with my elbow, immediately receiving a muffled “Come in” from Rob. My first instinct was to snottily announce I could use some assistance opening the door, but I kept my mouth shut. Instead, I bent down and carefully placed the copies on the floor. When I lifted myself to a standing position, I came face to face with the sexiest man alive. Not Adam Levine. And not Channing Tatum either. Nicholas. My Nicholas—who I lived with. Or, as Daneen would obnoxiously correct, with whom I lived.