The Perfect Manhattan

by Leanne Shear

  Still, I had to get to the bottom of an even more pressing issue. “That doesn’t explain why you stole my screenplay.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I read in Variety last night that James Edmonton was in the process of selling a screenplay about a downtrodden prostitute to Rising Star Entertainment. There was no mention of my name.”

  My accusation didn’t seem to faze him at all. His face was the picture of serenity. “Cass, I did not steal your screenplay. Like I told you, I’ve been shopping it around to some people, but nothing’s come through yet. I had a couple of meetings with Rising Star, but that’s it. Obviously I’d never do anything without your input. We’re in this together.”

  “If that’s the truth, then why haven’t you told me about any of these meetings? Am I supposed to find out by reading the trades?”

  “No. Listen, you’re absolutely right. I should’ve told you, but I’ve just had a lot on my mind, and there’s a lot of bullshit in Hollywood, you know, and most times nothing ever even comes out of it. I didn’t want to get your hopes up. I’m really sorry.”

  I didn’t know what to believe. Maybe he was telling the truth.

  “Cassie, come on. You know I’d never do anything to hurt you,” he continued. “I love you.”

  Suddenly I was furious. “If you love me, then what the hell were you doing with Rosalind in the parking lot?”

  My question startled him. “Nothing. We were just talking, I swear to God.”

  “Give me a fucking break. Her legs were practically wrapped around you.”

  “Cassie, I promise, nothing happened. We were just talking. I’ve known Rosalind my entire life. She’s one of the few people who really understands my family, and I needed to talk to her about everything that was going on with my dad.”

  “Fine. But you didn’t need to maul each other while you talked, did you?” He said nothing, and his silence only fueled my fire. “And I know about how you two have been practically betrothed since birth. Camilla told me all about it. I didn’t think arranged marriages still existed, but maybe it’ll help both of your fathers’ fortunes if you two join kingdoms.”

  He walked over to where I was standing and took my hands. “Cassie, what are you talking about? You’re completely freaking out for no reason. Nothing is going on between me and Rosalind.” He laced his fingers in mine, squeezing my hands tightly. “Yes, our fathers have been trying to get us together since we were kids, but so what? I want to be with you. I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

  I dropped my head and studied the gray chipped paint on the old wrap-around porch. I couldn’t meet his gaze, and I couldn’t answer his question. I was so confused. I didn’t know what to believe.

  “Listen.” He sighed, pressing his forehead against mine. “I’m having dinner with my dad tonight, and if the timing’s right, I’m going to try to talk to him about us. I just don’t want to upset him, you know?”

  And then something clicked inside me. All the insecurity, embarrassment, awkwardness, desperation, and anxiety that had been bubbling beneath my surface all summer long erupted. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I looked up at him, tasting the bitter disappointment of seeing for the first time who he truly was. And, by extension, who I had become.

  “You don’t want to upset him? Why would you upset him, James? Because you’re still dating a trashy barmaid? And what about upsetting me? I’ve been trying so hard. I spent all the money I busted my ass for all summer buying dresses, and shoes, and bags for your polo matches and your charity events and your lunches at your dad’s country club. And you know what? I don’t want to do it anymore. I’m tired of being embarrassed by the fact that my dad’s a fireman or that I’m from Albany and went to a public school, God forbid. My parents love me more than anything in the world, and I have a great family. I should be proud of that. Not ashamed because their names aren’t listed in the fucking Hamptons Blue Book, or because my mom drinks White Zinfandel, or because Marshall’s is my sister’s favorite store. I’m tired of being uncomfortable around your friends and your dad because I’m a bartender. I work hard, and I support myself. So what if my parents couldn’t afford to buy me an apartment as my graduation present and I can’t live off a trust fund?

  “Do you even know how fucked up this world you inhabit is, James? The Hamptons are nothing but a bunch of selfish, shallow, boring people spending money trying to impress each other and cover up the fact that their lives are hollow and meaningless. How are these people really your friends? Doesn’t it bother you the way they treat other people? All that’s important to them is their own superiority—their rank in this fucked-up world.

  “So go ahead and marry Rosalind. You can have your wedding at the fucking Maidstone and go off and breed members of the superior race. And you won’t have to trouble your father’s lawyers with any pesky prenuptial agreements.”

  I took a deep breath. I felt like I’d been exorcised. All the toxic thoughts and insecurities I’d been harboring all summer had been purged from my system, and I felt an overpowering sense of relief, as though I’d finally stepped back into my own skin. James stood there processing my testimonial. It was a long time before he spoke.

  “So this is it?”

  A large part of me still ached at the thought of letting him go, but I knew I had no other choice. “Yes.”

  “What about your screenplay?” He looked fairly miserable.

  “You can have it. It’s total garbage about a poor girl who needs to be rescued. I can’t believe I even wrote it, and frankly, after this summer, I really don’t want my name attached to it.”

  He nodded slowly and then wordlessly turned and walked away. Any doubts I had dissolved as he descended the porch steps. He didn’t even have the guts to fight for me. I watched him cross the lawn and climb into his Range Rover. I listened to the engine spring to life and the unmistakable sound of his tires crunching on gravel. I watched as he backed out of the driveway and then sped down the wet road until the vehicle was little more than a glossy black spot in the distance. I did all this with just the slightest hint of longing. And not longing for him. Longing for an ideal that I thought I’d captured.

  The same eerie calm that had seized the house now took over my body. It wasn’t numbness. It was something else. I went inside and quickly packed up all my things. There was a 5:14 Manhattan-bound train leaving Amagansett, and I was determined to be on it.

  As the lush East End scenery whizzed by the window on my last commute back to the city, I remembered I still had one last item of unfinished business to take care of before I left the Hamptons for good. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Teddy’s number. Of course he didn’t answer. Promoters were never awake at the ungodly hour of 5:30 P.M.

  “Teddy, this is Cassie. I’m calling to tell you I’m not going to be able to take the job at Thunder. I appreciate the offer, but I think it’s better for me not to work there, because I’ve got a lot of other things I want to focus on this fall. But good luck with it. Bye.”

  I snapped my phone shut and peered out the window. As we coasted by a farm somewhere between East Hampton and Bridgehampton, I glimpsed two men working in the fields, harvesting the last of the summer strawberries.

  Cassie! Get over here!” Billy called from his end of the bar where he was pouring baby shots of Jameson. He handed one of them to me.

  “No, thanks.”

  “You’re still in detox?”

  “Yup.”

  “I’m proud of you, kid,” he said. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.” I lifted up my glass of club soda to meet the chorus of raised Jameson shots.

  “Ugh! That is the nastiest thing I’ve ever tasted. Why do we always have to do Jameson?” Alexis grimaced, slamming her lipstick-stained glass on the mahogany bar. She’d had a long week at Morgan Stanley and was using yet another one of my Thursday shifts to “unwind.”

  “It’ll put some hair on your chest,” Billy smirked.


  “Give her some more wine as a chaser,” Annie suggested. “And I’ll take another Amstel Light. Travis, you want another one?”

  “Sure. Budweiser, please.” Travis smiled at me.

  “Can I bum a smoke?” Alexis asked me.

  I smiled ruefully. “Lex, you know I quit.”

  “Hello, darling!” Martin bellowed at that exact moment, making his grand entrance. He came up to the bar and, taking my hand in his, tried to pull me in for his usual wet kiss on the cheek, just a little too close to my mouth. I politely extracted my hand before he could pull me any further and smiled at him from the other side of the mahogany bar top.

  “Hi, Martin. Ketel and tonic?”

  “No, no, dear! Summer’s long gone. I’m back to Johnnie Black and soda.”

  “You got it.”

  I fixed his drink and handed it to him, just as Laurel came clicking by.

  “Laurel, I’m taking Friday and Saturday off next weekend,” I told her. “I already asked Sean and he said he’d cover the shift for me—I’m heading home to Albany to see my family for a few days.”

  I waited for the inevitable frown and sigh, but it didn’t come. Surprised, I went back to my station at the service end, where I watched with amusement as Dan Finton affectionately introduced Martin to the newest waitress, Sarah. With her wide blue eyes and long brown hair, she had an uncanny resemblance to . . . me. Apparently she had just graduated from college and moved to New York—Dan had met her at the gym. She was looking for a job, and Dan was always on the prowl for new talent.

  “Sarah!” Laurel barked, holding up a steak knife and staring into it. “I thought I told you to always make sure you can see your reflection in the silverware before you place it on the table. I can hardly see myself at all. If you keep this up, I’ll have no choice but to let you go. . . .”

  Cass, I already cleaned up my end, do you mind if I head out? I gotta get up early tomorrow morning to work the day shift,” Billy asked as he untied his apron and slipped it off his waist.

  “No, that’s fine. I’ll lock up. I still have to count out my drawer. Want to give me your tip money and I’ll divide it up?”

  “Yeah. Here you go.”

  A minute later I handed him a stack of bills. “Two hundred and five dollars each. Not bad.” Especially since I had already covered my rent. Two days before I’d filled two huge shopping bags with all my frivolous summer purchases. Just when I’d thought I was starting to get over the pain of everything that had happened, opening my closet forced me to relive the events of the entire summer—from the pink Calypso dress I’d worn to the Bridgehampton polo match, to the blue dress from Saks I’d worn to the clambake—all over again. I’d taken them to Tokio 7 consignment shop on Seventh Street, where I’d gotten just under $1,000 for all of the items. A fraction of what I’d actually paid for them, but I thanked God anyway for small favors.

  Billy threw his messenger bag over his shoulder and exited out the side door.

  “I’ve got an early-morning meeting tomorrow,” Travis said regretfully. “So I guess I’d better be going too. Are we still on for tomorrow night?” He leaned in over the bar and took my hand.

  “Definitely.” I smiled at him.

  “You sure you’re okay to close up alone?” he asked.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  When they’d all gone, I looked around the empty bar, remembering how afraid I’d been to be left there alone when I first started working afternoons. Now it felt like all the ghosts were at peace and wouldn’t be bothering me anymore.

  I hit “No Sale” on the new Oasis computer and my drawer opened. I counted out the money, adjusted my credit card tips, and filled out a report. We’d run out of envelopes to drop our cash in, but Laurel had told me on her way out that there was a secret stash in one of the storage cabinets that lined the bar. I squatted down, careful not to let my bare knees touch the grimy bar mat, and tried to slide the cabinet open. Lime juice and liqueur had hardened the inside of the cabinets, making it difficult to open them. I pulled as hard as I could without derailing the door, and at last it slid to one side. As I pawed through dusty bottles of Amaretto and triple sec, I finally located the envelope reserves. I was just about to close the cabinet when a black-and-white marbled notebook caught my eye. I felt my heart flutter with hope.

  I knelt down on the mat. The wet rubber felt slimy on my knees as I reached back into the depths of the cupboard and pulled the book out.

  It was my long-lost notebook. Cassie Ellis was carefully inscribed on its tattered cover. I walked out from behind the bar, my register and tips completely forgotten, and took a seat on one of the bar stools. Paging through my records and observations of the summer, I realized what it was that I had in that notebook—a tangible documentation of my struggle to fit into the East End world of wealth, status, and power.

  That night in Finton’s, I finally saw the truth. The real me had always been there, even when I was afraid I’d lost her forever. I turned to a fresh page, but before my pen hit the paper, I glanced up at the ceiling and caught sight of the four carved mahogany devils. Images that had once seemed so sinister couldn’t hurt me anymore. I started writing fervently.

  ACT I

  SCENE I

  INT. FINTON’S BAR AND

  RESTAURANT—EARLY EVENING

  A brunette walks into a bar . . .

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To all of the VIPs in our lives . . .

  To our families—Lynn Erickson, Molly Shear, Jack and Dorothy Toomey, Kerry Toomey, Jack Toomey, and all the rest of our extended clans—you are our rock. Without your unconditional love and encouragement, we would never be who we are or where we are today. We love you with all our hearts. And even though bartending wasn’t exactly the profession you had in mind when you told us we could “be anything we wanted,” we thank you for never losing faith in us.

  To our friends—thank you for your unfailing love, advice, and support. We guess it’s payback for all the free drinks we’ve given you over the years!

  To our Matts—what are the chances that both of us would meet the loves of our lives behind the bar? Thank you for putting up with our mood swings and moments of self-doubt, and for being “the men behind the women.”

  To Elisabeth Weed, our agent extraordinaire—thank you for taking a huge chance on us and believing from the start that two bartenders had a story worth telling.

  To Ann Campbell, our unbelievably talented, industrious editor—thank you for being the essential ingredient in our Perfect Manhattan.

  To the rest of the Random House team—Ursula Cary, David Drake, Laura Pillar, and Julia Coblentz—thank you for sharing our philosophy that all business meetings should be conducted over drinks.

  To David Halpern—thank you for discovering us!

  To Chris Onieal and all the Onieals staff and regulars—thank you for all the good times, schedule flexibility, and endless inspiration.

  To the Hamptons—thank you for providing a backdrop that is both beautiful and bizarre. Honestly, you can’t make this stuff up!

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  THE PERFECT MANHATTAN.

  Copyright © 2005 by Leanne Shear and Tracey Toomey.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocoping, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information, address Broadway Books, a division of Random House, Inc.

  BROADWAY BOOKS and its logo, a letter B bisected on the diagonal, are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Visit our website at www.broadwaybooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

&n
bsp; Shear, Leanne.

  The perfect Manhattan: a novel / Leanne Shear and Tracey Toomey.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  1. Young women—Fiction. 2. Bartenders—Fiction. 3. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Toomey, Tracey.

  II. Title.

  PS3619.H4P47 2005

  813'.6—dc22

  2005042123

  eISBN: 978-0-7679-2161-9

  v3.0