Novelista Girl

by Meredith Schorr

  Nicholas shook his head. “It was a disappointing showing all in all. Although Bad Lucy made an appearance. She bet Mary she could hold a full glass of wine in the palm of each of her hands for twenty seconds.”

  My eyes bugged out. “Holy crap. What happened?”

  Nicholas gave me a half smile. “What do you think happened?” He pushed the platter of fried calamari toward me. “Take some more.”

  Happily scooping a few pieces of the squid onto my plate, I said, “Mary won the bet?”

  Nodding, Nicholas said, “And Bad Lucy went home with red wine stains all over her cute yellow dress.”

  I shook my head. “Poor Lucy.”

  “And rich Mary. Lucy owes her a hundred bucks.”

  I giggled. “How is Mary? Aside from being a hundred dollars wealthier?” A friend of Nicholas’s from way back, Mary Jones was in her third year at law school but had worked as a summer associate at the firm the year before and would be returning in September as a first-year associate. With her blond locks, golden skin, and toned physique, she was Beach Barbie in the urban jungle. When I spied her eating lunch with Nicholas one day before we started dating, I assumed the two of them were an item and hated her. Naturally. But then another one of Nicholas’s friends told me Mary was a lesbian, and now I loved her—not because she wasn’t into men—because she was a sweetheart. Of course, her lack of sexual interest in my man didn’t hurt her position.

  “She’s already freaking out about taking the bar exam. I told her to pass all her courses first, graduate law school, and then worry about the bar.”

  “Good advice.”

  Gazing at me fondly, Nicholas said, “But enough about Mary. This is your celebration. Let’s talk about you.”

  “You won’t get any arguments from me, Counselor.” I smiled at him.

  “Did Felicia send you the contract?”

  “It landed in my inbox this morning, in fact.”

  “Hand me your phone, I’ll take a quick look at it now.”

  I waved him away. “I’ll have Rob review it at work on Monday.”

  Nicholas raised his palms upward and shrugged. “What? You don’t trust me to give you good legal advice?”

  Cocking my head to the side, I said, “Don’t be silly. Of course I trust you, and if you have time, I’ll print it out and show you tomorrow. But not during my celebration dinner. It’s not exactly sexy.”

  “You don’t find indemnity, termination, and royalty clauses provocative? You don’t know what you’re missing, Kimmie.” He winked.

  Angling my body so the sleeve of my white boatneck sweater hung off my shoulder to reveal the blue silk strap of my negligee, I leaned closer to him over the table and whispered, “Neither do you.”

  Nicholas glanced at my shoulder and back to my face, his dark eyes piercing mine. “I propose we skip dessert.”

  I shook my head. “I can never be a proponent of skipping dessert.” I paused dramatically. “But if you’re suggesting we move elsewhere…say to our place…for that course, I support your plan wholeheartedly.”

  Nicholas looked down at the main courses the waitress had brought to our table only moments ago. “First one to finish their plate goes first, if you know what I mean.” He raised his eyebrows.

  I knew exactly what he meant. As I twirled as much linguini onto my spoon and into my mouth as possible, I silently thanked Caroline for devising yet another genius plan. I was beginning to think she was my guardian angel of love.

  * * *

  Without a word, Nicholas shut the door of our apartment behind us and in one swift motion, turned me around so my back was against the entryway. I arched my body against the steel as his fingers deftly lifted the bottom of my sweater. Breathing in my ear, he whispered, “What are you hiding under this heavy sweater, Kimmie?”

  Summoning all of the self-control I could muster, I pushed him away. “Patience. Meet me in the bedroom in five minutes.” Peeking past him toward the piano at the back of the living room, I said, “Scratch that. Wait in the bedroom until I call your name. Then come out and find me.”

  Nicholas gave me a pained expression. “Five minutes is an eternity,” he said before bending down and nipping at my lip. I pressed my lips against his and buried my tongue in his mouth until I found the strength to untangle myself from his embrace. I held up my hand and wiggled my fingers at him. “Five minutes.”

  Nicholas stroked his jaw in his fail-proof “drive Kim crazy” move. “Hurry,” he said.

  I ran to the bathroom, kicked off my white patent leather platform shoes, and slid out of my stretch blue velvet leggings until I was wearing nothing but my baggy boatneck wool sweater and thong panties. I stood in front of the full-length mirror and contemplated whether to keep the sweater on Flashdance style and make Nicholas work to get to the sexy garment underneath. But I wanted to watch his eyes as he scanned the length of my naked body, fully visible underneath the translucent material. I removed the sweater and, in only the lingerie, took a deep breath. This was hardly the first time I’d been intimate with Nicholas, but I was as nervous as a virgin. I giggled at the absurdity. After flipping my hair upside down for added volume, I gave a final glance at myself in the mirror and breathed in. Ready or not, here I come. I walked out of the bathroom and straight to the piano bench, where I sat down with my ankles crossed and my knees facing opposite directions. I called out, “Come out, come out wherever you are” in a high-pitched voice and felt my heart slam against my chest while I waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  “Nicholas?”

  The silence was deafening, and I wondered in annoyance if he was trying to take control of the seduction. Tonight was meant to be a utopia of my creation, not his, and I wouldn’t let him win. I ran a hand through my hair, adjusted my teddy, and stared at the bedroom door willing Nicholas to walk out. “Don’t you want your surprise?”

  When a minute passed and he still didn’t come out, I reconsidered my position. So what if Alpha Nicholas came out to play? Would the end result not be exactly the same—earth-shattering violent endings for both of us? In fact, in most of the books I read, the main character lusted over a guy who would probably do precisely what my real-life red-blooded boyfriend was doing right now. With the confidence of a book heroine who already got the guy, I made my way to the bedroom, twisted the doorknob open, and walked in. “You win,” I said, before posing seductively at the entrance.

  “Nicholas?” I stepped closer to the bed, where my boyfriend was fast asleep, naked aside from his record-emblazoned boxer shorts. If my nipples were hard in anticipation of Nicholas’s touch, they withered like raisins at the sight of him passed out in a slumber, along with my celebratory mood.

  Rather than try to wake Nicholas up from his repose, I wiped away the tear that lodged in my eye and crawled under the covers next to him. Unable to slow my breathing, I studied Nicholas in his peaceful sleep, his eyelids fluttering rhythmically. After a few minutes, I got up, removed my coral-colored fleece blanket from the closet, and relocated to the living room.

  Chapter 24

  When my eyes opened for the first time the next morning, rather than sigh contentedly in the knowledge it was Sunday and I didn’t have to get up early, I bolted off of the couch and into the shower. The cascading hot water did nothing to scrub away my embarrassment at putting Nicholas to sleep last night with my attempted seduction—what should have been a no-brainer. Rationally, I knew it was not my lack of appeal that led Nicholas to lose consciousness before he could even manage a “quickie,” as he’d been very eager before I banished him to the bedroom for the five-minute break. But it had only been five minutes—three hundred seconds. He was so exhausted that he couldn’t keep his eyes open for three hundred seconds—enough time to behold my see-through negligee? I knew why he was tired—working eighteen-hour days will do that to you—but I
doubted he fell asleep in the middle of the Patent Prom. Couldn’t he have tried to stay awake for me too? Didn’t he want to?

  I couldn’t face him. I wouldn’t face him. Not yet, anyway. I got dressed as covertly as possible, did a half-assed braid in my wet hair, and headed to the café with my mini laptop and e-reader.

  While sipping my coffee and nibbling on a sesame bagel with cream cheese, I glanced around the crowded coffee shop in wonder. So this was what other people did at eight thirty on a Sunday morning while Nicholas and I were unconscious in bed. Forcing thoughts of Nicholas out of my head, at least for the time being, I clasped my hands together, intertwined my fingers, and stretched my arms out in front of me. I was ready to dig deep into my edits.

  In the original version, my protagonist Laurel became so fed up with her boyfriend Henry for never putting her needs ahead of those of his dysfunctional family that she cheated on him in a moment of weakness and bad judgment. In the new draft, I nixed the cheating in favor of her blogging about her frustrations—resulting in a flood of bad advice from her followers she ends up taking out of desperation. Although misguided, none of Laurel’s actions would be considered by readers to be unforgiveable or fatal to her happily ever after with Henry. At least I hoped not. This version was also much funnier.

  When my phone pinged the receipt of a text message about forty minutes into my writing session, I knew it was Nicholas. Ignoring the increase of my heart rate, I leisurely reached into my bag and read the message.

  “Where are you?”

  I quickly wrote back, “I’m writing,” and tossed the phone back in my purse.

  Before my fingers had time to make contact with my keyboard, he responded, and I retrieved the phone from my bag once again.

  “So early? I’m impressed.”

  “The early bird gets the worm.” I rolled my eyes and made a mental note never to use the phrase in my writing. It was so cliché. I placed the phone on my table in front of me and stared at it while awaiting another text. When about a minute passed with nothing, I closed my eyes and took a deep inhale determined to focus on the book. I would deal with Nicholas later.

  Ping.

  Or I would deal with him now. I read the text.

  “I’m sorry about last night, Kimmie.”

  I let out a long deep breath. The apology was welcome, but it didn’t change the reality. I could escalate the drama by saying “I’m sorry” didn’t fly, but what good would it do? We couldn’t jump in a time machine and redo the night, complete with a shot of espresso after dinner or Red Bull and vodka instead of wine. Besides, reaming the guy out for falling asleep was over the top. Nicholas was too tired to have sex last night. Big whoop. He was an ambitious guy trying to get ahead in his career. Exhaustion came with the territory. Last night was not our one and only opportunity to sleep together. It was one night. I knew this to be true, but the ache in my gut suggested it was so much more than a one-off.

  Not knowing what else to say, I responded: “It’s okay.” When in doubt, take the passive-aggressive route.

  I could almost hear the scratch of a broken record when I read his next message. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

  My mind went to the final season of Sex and the City when Aleksandr Petrovsky insisted he would make more time for Carrie Bradshaw “as soon as…” Was Nicholas my Aleksandr Petrovsky? I thought he was my Mr. Big.

  Practicing Jonathan’s twenty-second rule to avoid saying something I would regret, I asked the woman next to me to watch my computer while I went to the bathroom. When I returned to my seat, I wrote back: “I know. No worries. I’ll be home later.”

  “K. I might head to the office for a bit.”

  Mumbling, “What else is new?” to myself, I buried my phone at the bottom of my bag and vowed not to look at it for the rest of the morning.

  Needing a break from my edits, I read a few chapters of the latest novel in my review queue. I was pleasantly surprised by how much I was enjoying Olivia Geffen’s new release, mostly since I was underwhelmed with the New York Times bestseller’s previous book, but also a tiny bit because Ginny Webber said there wasn’t a market for A Blogger’s Life, and I feared it would bias me against one of her clients. After I made a decent dent in my reading, I reviewed the slew of submissions flooding my inbox in response to my advertisement for an associate reviewer. In only a few days, I received almost fifty applications. The majority of them were not of Pastel Is the New Black caliber, and many more were well written but lacked the je ne sais quoi. I chuckled to myself. Je ne sais quoi? I sounded like Hannah Marshak.

  One submission stood out tall from the others—Pia Chin. Her review of What a Fool Believes sparkled. Not only was it grammatically correct, it was thorough and witty. She even included her casting for the main and supporting characters. I notified her by email that she made the short list and asked when she would be available for a video chat or phone call.

  Pleased with my level of productivity despite my emotional turmoil over Nicholas, I checked my Facebook account to find a message from Hannah herself. Maybe her ears were burning.

  I hear congratulations are in order for your little book. I knew Felicia loved me, but even I didn’t realize the extent of my influence. We should celebrate. Cocktails and snacks at HanGawi. Wednesday night, 7:30. (I’m on a vegan cleanse.)

  Bisous Bisous.

  Hannah

  PS: I’m finalizing the schedule for my blog tour. What day did you plan to post on Pastel Is the New Black? I’d prefer a Monday to take advantage of #MondayBlogs or Friday for #Fridayreads on Twitter.

  A pang of guilt washed over me as I realized my intention to thank Hannah for the introduction to Felicia had yet to come to fruition. After so many years of discomfort at her hands in junior high and high school, being indebted to Hannah seemed as unlikely as me being the tallest girl in a room full of grown-ups. If someone had told me back in high school that Hannah would willingly and voluntarily pave the way toward me securing a literary agent in a decade’s time, I’d have dismissed it with a hearty laugh and possibly a punch in the nose, but here we were. I couldn’t decline the invitation. (Although in typical Hannah fashion, she didn’t even ask if I was available so much as assume it as a given.) Being Hannah’s plus-one for an evening left me unsettled, but it was not negotiable. I owed her. Before I could change my mind, I wrote back and told her I would meet her.

  Chapter 25

  Rob lowered the contract onto his desk and fixed his gaze upon me. “It looks pretty standard.”

  My heart slowed down marginally. I was afraid Rob would spot a deal-breaker in the contract that would force me to open up negotiations with Felicia. What if asking for modifications to the agreement resulted in Felicia reneging her offer?

  “There is one thing I’m not sure you noticed,” Rob pointed out.

  I leaned forward in my chair. “What is it?” Please don’t be a deal-breaker. Please don’t be a deal-breaker.

  Rob gave me a soft smile. “Don’t panic. It’s nothing unreasonable. She included a clause reserving the right to terminate the agreement if the rewrites aren’t up to snuff. Sorry if I sound cynical, but it’s not a done deal yet.”

  I let out a sigh. “I’m well aware. I sent the revised draft to her this morning and have been glued to my email waiting with bated breath ever since.” As heat warmed my neck, I backpedaled. “In between diligently handling my work assignments, naturally.”

  Rob rolled his eyes. “Naturally.”

  Ignoring his sarcasm, I asked, “So should I sign it?”

  “I don’t see why not.” He picked up the agreement, and I watched his eyes scroll the length of the document. “It covers all the bases: you’re giving her agency exclusive rights to seek a publisher and a buyer of film rights…” His eyes met mine again. “I assume the squad will be invited to the Oscars when the movie is nominated for an Acad
emy Award?”

  “Maybe not the entire squad,” I said, smirking.

  Rob smiled knowingly and began reading again. “She gets fifteen percent of the profits. The term is twelve months after which both sides can terminate with thirty days’ notice. Blah blah blah.” He handed the contract to me across his desk. “Like I said: standard. I would recommend signing it unless you’re having doubts about this agent and want to keep querying. What did Nicholas say?”

  “I didn’t show it to him. He offered, but he’s been so busy lately, and I didn’t want to waste what precious time we had together discussing legal stuff.”

  Rob narrowed his eyes. “But it’s perfectly acceptable to take time out of your eight-hour workday to pester me about it?”

  I dropped my chin toward the ground. “I’m sorry, Rob. Rest assured, your work is getting done. And besides, you’re a far more experienced attorney than Nicholas.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

  I smiled. Rob loved compliments on his legal prowess.

  “Except when you rub my more advanced age in my face.”

  Cringing, I said, “You know that’s not what I meant. I’m so grateful for your guidance, but when it comes time to review the publishing contract, I promise to go to Nicholas. Okay?” Hopefully, I would be over the events of the past weekend, and Nicholas and I would be in a better place by the time that happened. If it ever happened. Four days after the fact, and I still hadn’t confronted him. How do you say, “I’m hurt you fell asleep in the middle of sexy time” without sounding like a silly, needy girlfriend? And, really, what could he say in response that he hadn’t already told me? “I’m so sorry, Kimmie. Work is crazy. I promise to make it up to you.” So instead of calling him out, I was going through the motions of being his happy-go-lucky girlfriend even though I felt like a volcano about to erupt.