Andy was the one who noticed how distracted I was. “Go up to the room and work,” she’d say, with her warm laugh. “You know that’s what you want to do. We can entertain ourselves.”
By the time we were back in the States, I had finally written a proposal of sorts. Nancy took me out for a drink and I showed it to her. She read it and paused a really long time before she said, “Well, we all know it’s the details that make the story.” Then she added, “Why don’t you write up a few chapters to flesh this out before we send it to Gramercy?”
“No problem,” I said cheerily. Then I went home and threw up.
But I was still determined not to disappoint Jake. I continued going to gallery openings and fancy dinners held to raise money for research on obscure diseases—Jake and I never got invitations for A-list illnesses like cancer—but I was crying a lot, and I’d gained ten pounds.
Jake tried to help. “Why don’t you join a gym?” he suggested. “It’ll get you out of the house and away from that damn computer for a couple of hours.” I tried to explain that I needed concentrated time—blocks of it—to do my kind of work. “Okay,” he said, and he gave me a little kiss. “But it’s so depressing to watch you.”
For the next few days, I did my damnedest not to be depressing. I swear I tried. But it seemed like every time I might be getting a handle on my story, I had to quit to get dressed up so Jake and I could go somewhere and hang out with a friend who suddenly seemed to me to have the IQ of an avocado.
“When did you become antisocial?” Jake asked angrily, as we were going home in a cab one night. I didn’t have an answer for him.
I wrote and deleted the first chapters of my book five times. And I learned the painful difference between writing a book you love and throwing words at a book you wish you wanted to write. I started being afraid it would be like this for the rest of my life.
I told Jake I had to take a rain check when he asked me to go out to California. He had impressed the starlet from Italy and was in negotiations with her people to work as the director of a documentary about endangered species for her wildlife charity.
“This could be the start of a whole new career for me, Francesca,” he said. “I’ve been a cinematographer before, but this is my first shot at directing. I’d like you to be with me. I went with you on your book tour.”
“Please try to understand,” I begged. “I just need to get an outline on paper.”
“You’ve been saying that for months.”
“Weeks,” I corrected, with what I hoped was a cute grin.
Jake didn’t grin back.
“It just seems longer.”
“You can say that again.”
“I don’t know why this book is so hard. I didn’t have this kind of trouble with Love, Max.”
“Stop worrying. Just sit down and get it done. This is getting frustrating.”
I FINALLY ADMITTED my problem to Nancy, who told me in soothing tones that what I was suffering from was called Second Book Syndrome. “It happens all the time,” she said. “When you have a hit with a first book, the expectations can be so great that you freeze. You’ll work your way out of it.”
But it didn’t feel like I was working my way out of it. It felt like I was drowning.
At the same time Jake was out in LA, where he was being wined and dined by the starlet and her people. And of course he hung out with our pal Andy—who had some bad news to report. She hadn’t been able to sell Love, Max to the television people.
“She said to tell you it has nothing to do with the book,” Jake said on the phone. “Lifetime has too many projects in the pipeline already, and Hallmark is putting everything into turnaround because of budget problems. The Big Three aren’t doing long form anymore, and the actor Andy pitched, the one with the deal at Fox, said he didn’t want to play second fiddle to a dog.”
“Wow, it’s impressive how you do Hollywood-speak,” I said.
“Francesca, you don’t have to try to be funny. I know you’ve got to be feeling a little disappointed.”
That was like saying someone who has just been through a tsunami is feeling a little waterlogged. What I was was numb. “Have you had a chance to meet Sheryl?” I asked, so we wouldn’t have to dwell on me and my feelings.
“She’s a sweetheart,” he said.
Sheryl was a little more cryptic about Jake. “I think he’s the kind of man who doesn’t like to be alone,” she said. Then she paused, and I could feel her picking her words carefully. “He’s so … outgoing. And I don’t think he really understands how important your writing is to you, Francesca.”
When Jake came back, I tried to explain it. “I feel like I’m fighting for my life!”
“Don’t you think that’s a little over the top? It’s just a book, Francesca.” He gave me a kiss—was it my imagination, or was it the kind of kiss you’d give your mother?
“I can’t seem to do all the running around we do and work. I need to lie low—just for a little while.”
“How long?”
As long as it takes! I wanted to scream at him. “Give me a few months.”
“You’ve already had months.”
The point of telling you all of this is: There were signs. But I was so busy trying to beat Second Book Syndrome, I didn’t pick up on them. No, let me be really honest: I didn’t want to. I should have known better. I did know better. I’d learned that lesson the hard way when I was a kid.
CHAPTER 6
I’d finally reached our apartment building. I checked the clock in the lobby; it was still too early for Jake to have left for Andy’s awards dinner. It wouldn’t take me more than five minutes to get ready if I dressed fast.
“When did my husband get in?” I asked the doorman, as I walked by him.
“I don’t think he’s back yet, Ms. Morris.”
That stopped me for a second. But doormen working at big New York City apartment buildings don’t always see everyone who goes in and out. This guy could have been on the phone when Jake came in; there were dozens of other possible scenarios. I got into the elevator and went up.
None of the lights were on. I was greeted at the door by Annie, who made a frantic break for the hallway. Clearly she hadn’t had her evening potty break yet, which meant the doorman was right; my husband hadn’t come back home. I called out, “Jake, are you here?” just to make sure. There was no answer. I grabbed Annie’s leash and the pooper-scooper—Annie and I are good citizens—and we hurried outside so she could do her thing.
A part of me expected to see Jake in the lobby when I walked out of the elevator. He’d be pressing the button anxiously, and he’d say he was sorry he had worried me. But he wasn’t there. When Annie and I went outside, I couldn’t help waiting for him to come up the street, running because he was so late. I promised myself I wouldn’t get mad or demand to know where he’d been. I’d just be grateful that he was back. But Jake didn’t rush up to me on the street with his hair mussed, breathing hard. Jake wasn’t anywhere.
And now the memories that were flooding through my mind were getting scary. I stood next to the curb outside my apartment building, while Annie sniffed around for that one perfect spot, and tried to block them, to stop remembering what I’d done—and hadn’t done—during the time when I was trying so desperately to recapture the lightning in a bottle that was Love, Max. But memory is a pesky thing; once you start it rolling it’s almost impossible to turn it off.
IT TOOK ME a year, but I finally finished the first half of my new book—at least, I hoped that was what I’d done—but after my editor, Debbie, read it she didn’t seem happy.
“Why did the dog get so mean?” she asked.
Because I got desperate.
“He was funny the first time, but he’s not anymore, Francesca.”
Well, neither am I.
I took another six months, rewrote the first half of the book without the dog, and showed it to Nancy.
“It’s not any fun without Max,” sh
e said.
I decided to abandon the book I clearly couldn’t write and start over with a brand-new one. “I’ve always loved the Victorians,” I told Nancy. “I think I’ll try my hand at a historical novel.” I bought dozens of history books and spent months doing research in the library. I sketched out a plot and worked feverishly at it for a few more months before I had to admit to myself that, when you got to know them, the Victorians were unpleasantly smug and their personal hygiene left a lot to be desired. Plus, my heroine was a self-righteous pill. I dumped the historical novel. “I’m going to do a courtroom thriller,” I told everyone I knew. “After all, I wanted to be a lawyer once.” It only took me a couple of months of research to remember why I hadn’t followed up on my legal career. The good news was, I never started writing that book. The bad news? I gained another ten pounds. Oh, yeah, and I still didn’t have a new book for Gramercy Publishing.
Pete suggested I take a break from writing and do some other kind of work. Sheryl suggested that I go to Weight Watchers. Alexandra suggested that I try my hand at nonfiction. But I was a novelist—one who’d had an impressive debut. I kept on going into my home office every day to sit in front of my computer and stare at the blank screen. I’d write opening lines I would read and immediately delete. And eat chocolate.
Once, I tried to tell my new gal pals about my writer’s block. “Actually it’s not so much a block as a boulder,” I said, with what I hoped was a light little chuckle. A shudder ran around the table. I translated that to mean I had their sympathy. Maybe even their compassion. “I’m so afraid I can’t do this,” I confessed. “I’m afraid I’m going to fail.”
You’d have thought I was announcing that I had a terminal, highly contagious disease. I could actually feel them backing away.
“Oh, God,” someone finally said. “This is so depressing. Let’s change the subject.”
Andy was in town to work with Jake on one of their projects, and when I told her about the incident she shrugged. “What did you expect, Francesca? Those women are all swimming with sharks—the last thing they need is you reminding them of what happens when there’s blood in the water. You want my advice?”
I nodded eagerly.
“Get your toes done.”
“Excuse me?”
“Get a great pedicure, buy a really expensive pair of sandals, and go out to lunch. No one will know you’re having writer’s block.”
“But I am.”
“People don’t want to know that. Look like a winner, Francesca.”
That particular chunk of wisdom reminded me of one of Jake’s favorite Hollywood stories; it was about some actor and his wife who had been big TV stars but their show had been canceled, and after several years of not working they were broke. When they finally landed a network meeting, they took out a second mortgage on the house, emptied what was left in the bank account, raided the kids’ college fund, and bought a huge diamond ring for the wife to wear. I’m sure you can write the ending to this story. The wife flashed the bling, the network suits were so impressed they figured no way the couple was all washed up, contracts were signed and … huzzah! The couple were back on the tube and back on top! “It’s all about appearances,” Jake used to crow at the end of this little tale. “To hell with the real you.” Which was pretty much what Andy had said to me. She and Jake were totally on the same page when it came to the importance of appearances.
By now Jake had officially had it with Francesca the Suffering Artiste. “Screw your work,” he said. “I have some free time, and we need a vacation. Stop driving yourself crazy, and let’s have some fun.”
Fun? How the hell could I have fun when I was terrified that I couldn’t write another book? I had to keep on fighting until I’d proved to myself that I could do it. “Why don’t you go by yourself for a couple of weeks?” I said. “I think I’m close to a breakthrough.” That was the thing—I always thought I was close to a breakthrough. Each morning when I got up I was sure that this was the day.
Jake looked at me for a long time. “I don’t like all this drama, Francesca,” he said. “I’m Shallow Guy, remember?”
“I just want to write a book again. I just want that feeling you get when everything is flowing.”
“And I want to have a life. Everything can’t stop dead for your creative muse.”
But writing was the only thing I’d ever done well. I’d loved the feeling of being good at something. And yeah, I’d loved the applause afterward. I’d gotten hooked on that.
Jake went to a resort in Mexico by himself. And our buddy Andy flew down to hang out with him for a day. And yes, I know how that sounds—how it probably would have sounded to me if I’d been paying attention. If I hadn’t been so busy failing as a writer. But when Jake called to tell me how much fun they’d had, and Andy got on the phone to tell me a funny story about Jake trying to bargain in the local market for a hat he wanted to bring me—or maybe it was a handbag—it seemed perfectly innocent. I mean, a man can have a woman friend, can’t he? We’re all adults here, right?
So Jake went to Mexico and came back. And I was still beating my brains out trying to come up with a new idea. I reread books I’d loved and rented old movies, telling myself I was looking for inspiration. Finally I stopped lying to myself and admitted I was hoping to find a story I could cannibalize. But I couldn’t even do that. Nothing worked.
Meanwhile, my loved ones were getting on with life. My brother was given a grant by a prestigious foundation to design the definitive green city someplace where there was perpetual sunshine—I forget the country. His wife had her own grant to work with him on the ecological and environmental components. Their little daughter, who was now two, was already speaking both English and Spanish, and her parents were talking about starting her on a third language. My mother was profiled in a college textbook about influential women of the late twentieth century. I tried to be pleased for them, but to be honest, the fact that they had all gone into super-achiever mode was driving me nuts.
Then, just to put the cherry on the Misery Sundae, Nancy announced that she was quitting the business. “I’m adopting a little girl from China,” she told me, at the last of our lunches, “and I need some time off. So I’m going back to California to be near my mother.”
“But you’re one of the best agents in the city.”
“I’m not getting any younger, Francesca. I’ve always wanted to be a mom, and it’s now or never.”
She was two years younger than I was—that was the first thing I thought. Then I wailed, “What’ll I do without you? Who’s going to sell my books?”
Nancy’s eyes met mine and we had one of those awkward moments. The words What books? hung in the air. That was when I realized it had been three years since I published Love, Max.
“Congratulations on the adoption,” I said, in my chirpiest voice. “If this is what you want, I’m so happy for you!”
“Me too.” Then she drew a breath. “Francesca? I still believe in you.”
I managed not to cry then. It wasn’t until I was standing on the subway platform on my way home, and this guy pulled out his violin and started playing it after putting his hat on the ground in front of him for tips, that I started to sob. I’m pretty sure we all know what the life lesson here is. When you start weeping because someone is playing “Ave Maria”—very badly—in the subway station, you’ve got a big problem.
I finally gave up my fight to write a book. I haven’t looked at the computer in four months. I wish I could say that I’ve taken a vacation with Jake and had some fun. Or at least that I joined Weight Watchers. But I wasn’t sure they’d understand about chocolate. And lately, every time I’ve suggested that Jake and I take off and go somewhere, he’s been busy. As I said, he and Andy have joined forces to work together, and they’ve been bouncing back and forth between LA and New York, rounding up the funding for their first project. In fact, they just got the final chunk of it last week. So the awards dinner for Andy that Jake an
d I were attending that night—the one where Jake was going to introduce her as his friend and partner—it was going to be like a celebration for both of them.
ANNIE FINISHED HER business and there was still no sign of Jake. I told myself not to get upset. Somehow, some way, Jake had gotten past me and gone upstairs. I raced into the building and up to my apartment, but it was still dark. And quiet. And empty.
I remembered that we still had an answering machine hooked up to the phone in my office. Now that we had cell phones, it didn’t get a lot of use, but sometimes Jake liked to leave messages the old-fashioned way. I rushed to the office and, sure enough, the red light on the machine was blinking. I pushed the button.
“Francesca?” Jake’s voice said. “Look, I know you’re probably going to blow off Andy’s dinner tonight the way you always do….” He trailed off. Then he spoke again. “We need to talk, Francesca,” he said. As if I hadn’t heard him when he said it earlier.
Annie was jabbing her nose into my stomach, which is her way of telling me that it’s past her dinnertime, and since I have an opposable thumb and she doesn’t, I’m the one to get busy with the can opener. I went into the kitchen, fed her, and tried to think rationally. According to our big clock in the foyer, it was seven. The awards dinner started at seven-thirty and the hotel ballroom where they were holding it was on the other side of town. No way Jake was coming home this late, he was probably at the hotel already. He’d gone there directly from … wherever he’d been for the last couple of hours. And whoever he’d been with.
Because suddenly I knew Jake hadn’t been alone. This was his night to celebrate his new partnership with Andy. After he’d had his Talk with me. But I’d screwed up that timetable by taking off for the park. So Jake had gone for a little advance celebration with his partner, which had lasted a bit longer than he’d thought it would. I wondered if he had a spare tux in her hotel suite—the awards dinner was black-tie, and Jake would rather chew glass than screw up a dress code.
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