She grabs her phone and checks Instagram. @KGPartyof5 hasn’t written her since Savannah. A few nights ago, after the blowup with Birdie, Charlotte actually considered messaging her to vent about it, and even began typing a note under the guise of asking how her own kid was doing, but then she deleted it, quelling the temptation.
Her phone dings. A text from Wendy: Sorry I’m late. Uber stuck behind maybe a motorcade??? The president????
Can you see the license plate? Charlotte types back. 800–002 if it’s prez, and there will be a couple dozen cars around. Big black car, almost a limo, flags and the seal on the side.
No, not a bunch of cars, Wendy writes. Five-ish? A light on top, like on a police car.
Prob just a cabinet member then, Charlotte types.
HA! Who knew? Wendy types back, adding the shoulder-shrugging, palms-in-the-air emoji to the end of her text. Sorry again—see you soon.
No problem, Charlotte says. I don’t teach another class today, so I have all afternoon. We’re good.
It’s funny, given all that they’ve been through over the past few years, that Charlotte and her agent have met in person only twice. Wendy is a dynamo, quick-witted and funny and a terrible gossip—and as much as Charlotte is desperate for her brand of distraction, she can’t deny the dread looming in the back of her mind because she knows why Wendy’s made the special trip.
It’s not that she doesn’t want to publish a follow-up. It’s just that she doesn’t want to write one. And therein lies the problem. She thinks of Birdie screaming at her the other night, and a phrase pops into her head: time affluence, which means feeling like you have enough time for all of the things you need and want to do. It’s a central tenet of happiness, per the research, and there’s a whole chapter about it in her book, with a dreamy opener about how she always felt like she never had enough time to catch up with extended family until she started her daily morning check-ins with her mother, which “has the double bonus of making me feel like I’m strengthening our connection and helps me start the day more relaxed, all for the simple act of a ten-minute phone call.” It might be the biggest line of BS in her whole book, one that made Jason laugh out loud when he read it for the first time. But the book’s release, and everything that had ensued, had actually dissolved any actual sense of time affluence she had. She wonders now, how she can write another book, when the success of the first one has been so damaging to her actual life?
She looks out the window, watching an older woman with a coiffed pompadour and big black sunglasses shuffle past the restaurant. The sidewalks seem more crowded than normal, almost certainly because it’s an outrageously beautiful day: bright blue sky, a slight breeze, the temperature just warm enough for short sleeves. Her eyes lock on a woman about her age in front of the Mexican restaurant across the street, who’s wrangling the leash of a large black Lab trying to access the smattering of broken tortilla chips underneath one of the iron tables out front. People shuffle to maneuver around her, stepping off the curb and bumping into one another, but the more the dog pulls in one direction, the more she rears back, trying to get her footing like they’re playing a game of tug-of-war.
Charlotte watches as a busboy who’s clearing the table says something to the dog owner, laughing good-naturedly before disappearing into the restaurant, and then another woman approaches from behind and starts chatting with the woman, pulling something from her pocket and offering it to her dog.
The woman looks vaguely familiar. Long, curly hair, khaki pants, sneakers . . . and then Charlotte realizes: Of course! Jamie! The last time she saw her was at her husband’s funeral. How awful that was, she thinks, feeling a pang of guilt for how she treated Jason the other night; when, first, he tried to hug her, and then comfort her after Birdie blew up. In the moment, she just couldn’t talk to him. It felt easier to walk away and sulk in private, with the aid of a glass of chardonnay.
Jamie’s talking animatedly, waving her hands, laughing with the other woman, and Charlotte smiles to herself, pleased that she looks like she’s doing so well. But then a split second later, she notices someone sidling up beside her. Jason? What is he doing in Georgetown?
The three of them begin chatting easily, like old friends. Jason points to the dog, now lying at his owner’s feet, and says something that makes Jamie throw her head back in laughter.
And then she clasps Jason’s upper arm, threading her hand around his bicep.
Charlotte freezes. This doesn’t faze him. He doesn’t stop talking, he just keeps going, like Jamie’s hand on him doesn’t even register. But she’s his coworker . . . The gears turn in Charlotte’s head, piecing something together. They look so . . . Anyone might think . . . What are they doing in Georgetown? Jason never leaves the zoo’s campus during the workday, not ever. What are they doing, period?
She tries to swallow but her mouth has gone dry. They’re walking away now, waving goodbye to the dog lady, still laughing, but walking slowly—strolling, really—like they have all the time in the world. A wave of nausea passes over her. Jamie’s hand goes back to Jason’s arm, just like before, and Charlotte can see, even from here, how Jamie squeezes it, just above his elbow, before letting go.
Charlotte flies out of her seat, her chair knocking the one at the table behind her, and rounds the corner down a couple of steps toward the entrance of the restaurant, forcing a waiter in a starched pin-striped shirt to press himself against the wall as she bolts past. “Is everything okay?” she hears him call after her. She has to catch them! She has to find out— She pushes the heavy wooden door open with both hands and, chest heaving, scans the block, but they’re gone. How could they have disappeared so quickly? She can’t find them anywhere. I’ll go anyway, she thinks. I’ll try the side street. She starts toward the crosswalk, but then she hears a voice behind her, calling her name.
She turns. “Wendy!” she manages, gulping in air like she’s just been underwater. She feels dizzy, her thoughts spinning. Wendy, in her black on black, is walking toward her, one shoulder slumped low to balance the weight of her huge leather tote.
They hug and air-kiss, and Charlotte wishes, as Wendy pulls away, that she could lean on her to steady herself. A million questions buzz in her head; blaring, zipping, Times Square billboard thoughts: Did I actually just see what I thought I did? Where were they going? What were they doing? Or about to do? She sees Jamie’s hand again. On his arm. On his shoulder.
“I’m so sorry I’m late!” Wendy’s yakking. “This place looks adorable. How are you? I’m starved!”
They’d looked like a couple. Anyone passing them on the street would think they were a couple. “Char, are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah,” she says, shaking herself back into the present. “I’m sorry. I thought I saw someone I knew so I hurried out to say hello and then you—” She waves her hands in front of her face. “Never mind.” She forces a smile, knowing she must look deranged. “It’s so good to see you, Wendy! Let’s go eat.” She gestures toward the door, letting Wendy go first, but just before she steps inside, she turns to scan the sidewalk one last time.
As they sit, Wendy oohs and aahs about the restaurant’s homey decor, smacking her lips like it’s literally delicious: “Oh, this scrumptious wallpaper! And this fabric on the chairs!” Charlotte notices some of the other diners turning to see who’s cooing with such enthusiasm. With her loud Chicago accent, her hair dyed bright cherry red, the hyperglow lipstick, Wendy makes an impression. Charlotte has always secretly believed that aside from her obvious acute business sense, one reason why she is so successful—she started her own agency three decades ago, when she was just twenty-seven years old, with a roster of bestselling clients who’ve made her millions—is because she is impossible to forget.
“God, you’re gorgeous as always,” Wendy says, flopping down into her seat. “If you would just let me put you on a book cover, I swear you’d sell double.”
“Please,” Charlotte starts, wiping her hand along her dam
p forehead, feeling her blouse cling to her back.
“I know, I know.” Wendy shoos a hand at her. “Not your style. I know!”
The waiter she almost knocked over is now patiently standing off to the side, a sweating silver pitcher of water in his hands, and seeing him, Wendy taps her copper-colored fingernail to her chin. “I think just a seltzer for the moment,” she says. “Just plain. No lime, no lemon, nothing.” She looks at Charlotte and pats her hand against her middle. “I feel a little queasy. Not the best Uber driver. Hit the brakes every five seconds and the car reeked of smoke.”
“Water still okay for you?” the waiter asks Charlotte.
She looks down at the menu, really wanting the viognier she spotted when she first arrived. “Yes, it’s fine.”
“So!” Wendy says. “How are you? It’s been what . . . almost a year?”
“Something like that,” Charlotte says. “Since the 92nd Street Y talk.”
“Right, right, of course!” Wendy says. “What a boon that was!” She clicks her tongue. “Anyway, how have you been? Such a beautiful day here. I saw the cherry blossoms from the plane! Breathtaking!”
“Yes,” Charlotte says. “You’re lucky you caught them. The bloom season is so short.”
“That’s right.” Wendy raises her finger to the air. “Here today, gone tomorrow. Which . . .” She wiggles her eyebrows at Charlotte, a mischievous look on her face. “Is also a good metaphor for what we don’t want to happen to your career.” She clasps her hands on the table and leans in. “As I can imagine you’ve gathered, that’s why I’m here.”
Charlotte smiles. “Wendy, listen, before we go any further, I really don’t have anything new for you yet. Like I said when we talked last week, I just need to get through this semester and the Montana talk. Once it’s summer break, I can start thinking seriously about a follow-up.”
Wendy leans back and raps the fingers of both hands against the table, studying Charlotte like they’re opposing players at a poker game. “We need to get you working on another book sooner than that. You don’t want to be a one-book wonder, do you?”
“Of course not,” Charlotte says, rearing back a little. “You know I don’t.” She also knows that she’s been promising a proposal for over a year now. “I was mulling that workbook idea. You know, workable exercises and strategies based off the info in the last—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Wendy says, waving her hand back and forth. “But that’s more of an ancillary thing, a supplement. Not a follow-up. We need your next bestseller and we need it now. I know it might not seem like it given how busy you are but if too much time passes, people will forget about you. Remember my client Todd Marshall?”
“No,” Charlotte says.
Wendy leans forward. “My point exactly. He was a former Navy SEAL. His book was a health guide, it sold at least as well as yours. And then he never wrote anything again.” She flicks her fingers in the air, like poof. “One-book wonder.”
The waiter arrives and sets down Wendy’s seltzer. “Have you had a moment to look over the menu?”
“We haven’t even looked yet,” Charlotte says.
“I’ll give you another minute.”
“Actually,” Wendy says, holding up a finger. She narrows her eyes at Charlotte, as if considering something. “Could we have a couple glasses of champagne?”
Charlotte’s ears perk up. Champagne is exactly what I need, she thinks. Also a shot or two of tequila.
“Certainly,” the waiter says, walking off.
“You can handle a glass of wine at lunch,” Wendy says.
“Apparently I’m going to,” she says. “Thank you!”
“I’m trying to butter you up.” Wendy rubs her hands together then clears her throat. “So here’s the thing: I’m not going to make you sit here and promise me a second book idea that I know you don’t have yet.”
“You’re not?” Charlotte says, feeling at once relieved and sheepish.
“Nope,” she says. “Because I actually have one for you.”
“You do?”
“I do. You know my new assistant? Noelle? You’ve spoken to her on the phone.”
Charlotte nods, wondering where on earth this might be going.
“She is a bulldog. So smart. She actually reminds me quite a bit of myself at that age!” Wendy laughs. “She’s been doing a lot of research.”
“Okaaay,” Charlotte says. “What kind of research?”
“You wouldn’t believe it actually,” Wendy says. “She had these spreadsheets on her iPad . . . she’s looked at the demographics. The people buying your book, the people attending your talks, the people attending your talks and then buying your book, and not that this is any big surprise—I mean, we know this just by looking at your social media—but Noelle and I really believe that the evidence shows that the secret to your success with the next book is . . .” She puts her palms up, mouth open, waiting for Charlotte to answer for her.
“Women between the ages of twenty-five and fifty?” Charlotte guesses.
“Well, yes,” Wendy says. “Yes. But more specifically, it’s moms.”
“Moms?” Charlotte says.
“Yes.”
“Well, that isn’t exactly surprising.”
“No, it’s not,” Wendy says. “But think about it: You’ve got your exhausted working moms, your exhausted stay-at-home moms, your moms in the sandwich generation, caring for both their kids and their aging parents. Noelle—” She raises a finger. “Hold on.” She reaches into the tote bag hanging on the back of her chair and rustles around for her phone, then taps on the screen a few times. “Okay. Here we go. According to a study that Noelle found, it is moms between the ages of thirty-four and fifty who are most likely to be diagnosed with depression.”
“Right,” Charlotte says, straightening up in her chair. “I’ve reviewed that research. There was a study out of UC Davis just last week that said as much.”
Wendy runs her finger along her phone’s screen. “And also,” she recites. “Another study says that mothers in midlife are the fastest-growing group when it comes to abuse of alcohol and prescription drugs.”
“That one is from polling out of UNC,” Charlotte says. “It was all over the news a few months ago,” she adds, thinking of Jason’s accusation about her wine drinking last week. How could he, she thinks now, when he’s cheat—She shakes the thought away, not ready to go there. “You know, the drug thing, that was on Oprah, like, twenty years ago.”
“Well, Valley of the Dolls, ‘mother’s little helper,’ we can go back even further, can’t we?” Wendy says. “But it’s worse now than ever. By far. You know that.”
Her pointed manner lands in a way that stings Charlotte, even though she’s sure it was unintentional. “Right.”
Her agent’s face falls. “This doesn’t seem to excite you,” she says.
“No, no,” Charlotte says. “It’s not that. I guess that it’s just not exactly breaking news.”
“Well, not to you, of course, but you’re mired in this stuff every day, Charlotte. It’s your life’s work.”
“True,” she concedes.
The waiter arrives with two flutes of champagne, and Wendy gestures for Charlotte to take a sip. Charlotte lifts the glass to her mouth, feeling the exquisite tingle of the tiny bubbles against her lips. It tastes like relief.
“You’re a mom, Charlotte,” Wendy says. “You’re right in this. You’re busy, at the top of your game at work, and raising this wonderful girl, too . . .”
Charlotte takes another sip.
“You know exactly what the challenges are. And the solutions!”
“So what are you thinking, then?” Charlotte asks. “A happiness guide for moms? That just seems a little . . .”
“It’s not just anything,” Wendy says. “You have a platform, Charlotte. This could inspire real change. You could really help a lot of women.”
Charlotte raises her eyebrows.
“Why are you so resis
tant?” Wendy asks.
“I’m not resistant,” Charlotte says. “It just seems a little . . . maybe, in a way—” she says, her thoughts taking shape. “Is it a little shortsighted? Because women who haven’t chosen motherhood feel a lot of the same pressures.”
“Right, but if we’re talking about families—traditional ones, at least—women still shoulder so much of the crap at home, right?”
“Well, sure. Statistically.”
“And statistically, they’re the ones suffering. Stealing pills out of the medicine cabinet. Drinking their ‘mommy juice.’”
Charlotte rolls her eyes.
“True, though, isn’t it?”
“Well, sure,” Charlotte says. “I can guarantee I wouldn’t be depressed if I wasn’t responsible for so much.”
Wendy cocks her head. “Are you depressed?”
Charlotte stiffens. “Jesus, no!” she says. “You know what I mean. Just busy and stressed, the usual, you know.”
Wendy considers her, and then her eyes drift toward Charlotte’s glass, which is nearly empty now, and Charlotte feels herself flush. “Exactly,” Wendy says, lowering her head and looking into Charlotte’s eyes like she’s giving her an ultimatum. “So why not use your expertise and personal experience?”
“Wendy,” Charlotte says, feeling her stomach churn. “I don’t know . . .”
“All right, listen,” Wendy says. “I’ll be straight with you. I thought you were going to love this idea.”
“It’s not that I don’t love—” she starts but Wendy stops her.
“Maybe this will help,” her agent interrupts. “I spoke with your editor a few days ago and I mentioned the mom idea, and once we started talking, the thing just snowballed. The publisher loves the idea, and they even have a title: Perfect Happiness: Family,” she says, flicking her fingers in the air like she’s putting the words in lights. “They think it’ll be big. That’s why . . .” She gestures toward the champagne.
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