by Leslie Wells
Vicky and I always met at a diner halfway between our offices. Today she looked very professional in a conservative gray suit. “I have to get back to the office in an hour. We’re having a goodbye toast to Daphne at three,” she said as I slid into the booth.
Vicky had introduced me to the editor-in-chief’s assistant at her company. “She’s leaving?”
“Yes, it’s pretty horrible. Bill called her into his office and said that because she hasn’t acquired anything, she should start looking for a new job since he can’t promote her. But everything’s shut up tight as a bad clam with this recession. He’s already given her position to the sales director’s nephew, or else you could have tried out for it.”
My stomach sank. “The minute there’s an opening, it always gets filled by someone with inside connections. I’ve been to three ‘informational interviews’ in the last six months, but the only information is that they aren’t hiring.” I tried to flag the waitress, but she ignored me and kept talking to the busboy.
Vicky frowned. “I don’t see how they think you can just magically acquire a book if you don’t have an expense account to lunch the agents. That’s the way to get them to send you projects, right?”
“That’s pretty much it. You’re supposed to talk yourself up during the meal. I feel so awful for Daphne. What is she going to do?” This was just the kind of fate I dreaded. It was entirely possible to grind away for years and then be told you’d reached a dead-end.
“She’s moving back to St. Louis, where she’s from. She’s going to stay with her parents while she figures things out.”
“God, that’s depressing. Sometimes it seems like I’ll never make it here. It’s so hard to get ahead.”
“I know. If you stay an assistant for more than two years, you get typecast as just a secretary. And editorial seems worse than the other departments; I guess because there’s such a glut of you English majors,” Vicky commented.
“If I don’t acquire a book soon, Harvey will probably fire me too,” I said glumly. I waved at the waitress again.
“That’s not going to happen. He’d be lost without you to do all his work.” She glanced at the laminated menu. “So I hear you’re going to a party with Jack next Saturday.”
“I was going to tell you if you hadn’t been too busy to return my call.”
“I’m in the middle of booking a tour. Every time I think I’ve got the schedule nailed down, the author changes it.”
“I’m just kidding, I know you’re busy. Is Sammy taking you to this party? It’s for a guy who plays with the band; one of the backup players I guess.” She and Sammy had been hot and heavy ever since they’d first gotten together. Vicky was blasé about it, saying she was just going to enjoy the sex, free pot, and booze while it lasted.
“Sammy said he wasn’t invited. I think the birthday boy has a beef with him over something. Probably a good thing for you to be alone with Jack.”
“I was stunned when he asked me. Especially after what I did.” The waitress finally took our orders, and I told Vicky about my beer-spilling episode.
“Geez, Julia. Way to arouse the guy.”
“I know. But he was a good sport about it. He seemed to think it was funny.”
“Sammy did say Jack likes your sense of humor. And the fact that you don’t act too impressed. So maybe you’re the woman of the moment,” she said as our food arrived.
“He must have women coming out of his ears—or whatever body part they’d be crawling out of. By the way, I’m not mentioning Jack to anyone. Saturday will probably be the last time I ever see him.”
She gave me a sarcastic glance. “I promise I won’t tell anyone a famous rock musician wants to take you out. I mean, Jesus, how embarrassing is that.” She shook the catsup bottle a few times to get it going, and the liquid erupted in a spreading puddle.
“That’s a lot of catsup,” I observed.
“It’s okay, our President says it’s a vegetable.”
We split the bill and went out onto the white-hot sidewalk. Vicky frowned at my second-hand suit. “You’ll need to wear something other than your usual gear. Come over Saturday and pick out one of my party dresses. I have an outfit that’ll remind him he wants to do you.”
Vicky’s story about Daphne made me dread becoming another unemployment statistic. The minute I got back to the office, I called the Chelsea Hotel and asked for Isabel Reed. A sleepy-sounding voice at the front desk told me he’d take a message. I repeated my number twice and spelled out the company’s name. Just as I was packing up to leave, the phone rang.
“Julia Nash?”
“Yes, this is Julia.”
“I’m Isabel Reed. Did you call me?”
I started to get excited. Her voice sounded vaguely like I remembered from the show.
“Yes! I did. I saw that you were writing a memoir. I wondered if you had a literary agent.”
Isabel sighed into the phone. “I barely have an acting agent, much less a literary one. Although maybe that will change if I get this part in the movie.”
That was good news; if she had an agent, he’d probably skip over me and send the manuscript straight to Harvey. “I was a huge fan of your show. I’d love to see whatever you’ve written. I work with the publisher here.” I figured I shouldn’t start off by saying I was just an assistant.
“Well, there isn’t much yet, but I can give you what I’ve got. I’m out of town next week for the audition, but I’ll call you when I get back.”
“That would be great! I look forward to meeting you.”
I hung up, my mind buzzing. Maybe I’d finally hit upon something that even Harvey couldn’t dismiss.
I had a lilt in my step as I walked home, excited about Isabel’s call and still pinching myself that I would see Jack on Saturday. He was much easier to talk to than I would have thought. And beneath the cool persona, he struck me as very intelligent. But my god, he was a rock star, and I was, well … a glorified typist. Or at least a work-in-progress. I’d puzzled over his interest in me until I gave myself a splitting headache. Surely there was a line of models and starlets waiting their turn—but could he be tired of those types? I guessed I’d just go with it and see where things led.
As I was switching off my lamp, the phone rang. “Were you going to call me this week?” came my mother’s two-pack-a-day voice.
“Sorry, I was really busy. Did you just get in?”
“Yeah, I was down at Buck’s for a while. When are you coming home? I haven’t seen you since Christmas. You can’t be—” she coughed— “that busy.”
“I’m not sure. I have a lot of deadlines coming up.” Immediately I felt guilty; I knew I needed to pay her a visit. “Maybe I can get there in August when it slows down.”
“This guy I know from the bar drives a truck up to New Jersey every so often. I told him I might hitch a ride with him and come see you. Lately the weekends have been pretty quiet around here.”
“I imagine you’ve had more going on than me,” I said, trying to discourage her. Dot’s personality was way too big for my little loft. “What’s happening at the store?”
“I finally asked Erwin for a raise, but he’s hemming and hawing, the skinflint. This week he’s got Marie and me double-checking the inventory. Oh, by the way, her cousin did wind up getting back with that guy.”
I couldn’t recall which cousin this was; the extended families of her friends tended to coagulate in my mind. “I hope that goes fast for you. I’d better turn in; I’ll talk to you soon.”
“I’ll be at Buck’s again tomorrow night, so don’t call until after ten.” She hung up.
I wondered how much my mother was drinking these days. After Dad left, she’d gone on some real benders. I remembered struggling with algebra homework back in high school, forcing myself not to call the bar because it annoyed her. One night I’d picked up the phone at twelve, then cradled it. By two a.m., I’d resolved to call in half an hour if she didn’t show. Finally I hear
d her Dodge Dart roll up the driveway at quarter to three. I ran out into the freezing February darkness, clutching my denim jacket over my gown. My mother was tilting sideways in the front seat, fumbling for something on the floor mat.
“Dropped my smokes,” she mumbled. What remained of her lipstick was smeared, and her eye shadow had bled to her cheek. Her shoulder-length shag, an unnatural blonde with coppery highlights, was flattened against her face. I crouched and picked up her cigarettes from the gritty mat. “Come on, let’s go in,” I said, shivering.
Later as I tried to get to sleep, I wondered if my Dad was going to come back for me. Ever since he’d left in September, I’d envisioned him pulling up to the house, saying, “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I had to get myself situated. Go pack your things.” At first I’d given him a deadline of Christmas, but when the holidays came and went with no phone call, I’d decided he just needed to get set up wherever he’d landed. Now I wondered if he was ever going to show.
I blamed Dot one hundred percent for the destruction of our family. And after all that, her affair with her manager had only lasted six weeks, and then she’d had to quit because it was too awkward to keep working together. To my mind, she almost deserved having to worry so much over paying the bills. And I loathed the way she chased after men. The older I got, the more I picked up on the desperation in her voice when she talked to them on the phone.
That night, I’d turned my face to the wall and watched the shifting shadows from the occasional passing headlights. In the morning, I dragged myself out of bed to call my mother’s new boss at the convenience store to tell him that, yet again, she was feeling “fluish” and wouldn’t be in today. I knew it was only a matter of weeks before she got fired.
Harvey stopped in my doorway. “I have someone for you to meet,” he said. “This is Briar Greene. She’s coming from TownTalk magazine to join us in editorial.”
A smug-looking girl about my age stood beside him, surveying me with a self-assured smile. Wearing a stylish suit that showed a lot of leg, she gave me a dismissive glance. “I majored in Lit at Princeton, so I always wanted to get into books,” she said in a boarding school lockjaw.
“Julia’s also an assistant editor. She can show you where the bodies are buried,” Harvey said. “I expect great things of Briar. She has an incredible rolodex from her year at the magazine.”
With that, he led her down the hall toward publicity. I stared at the piles of paper on my desk, shaken by the directly competing hire. With Briar sharing my position, we’d both be vying for the next rung on the ladder. This is how he repays me after all the grunt work I’ve done for him? I thought miserably.
Meredith poked her head in. “Did you meet the new person?”
“I just did. She let me know within the first sixty seconds that she’d gone to Princeton.”
Meredith shut the door behind her. “Harvey’s always impressed with the fancy schools. I don’t see why he needs anyone else; you keep on top of everything.”
“He mentioned her amazing rolodex,” I said dispiritedly. “I’m really in shock. Is he trying to edge me out?” A chill ran down my spine as I thought of Daphne’s firing.
“I suppose he thinks she has some great contacts from being at TownTalk.” Meredith gave me a motherly pat. “But she doesn’t look like the type to work her fingers to the bone, and that’s the only way to get ahead. If it doesn’t pan out for her here, she can always take her Princeton degree back to magazines, where it’s more glamorous.”
Chapter 8
The Girl Can’t Help It
All Saturday, my nerves were jangling. I had stopped by Vicky’s that afternoon, and her clingy black party dress was now hanging from a nail on my wall. Just looking at it made me even more jittery.
By ten I had my makeup on and was bopping around to Little Feat in my jeans. Jack called to say he’d be there soon. There was a lot of noise in the background, so I assumed he was still at the studio and didn’t rush to put on the dress. Shortly thereafter I heard someone on the street. I went to the window and stuck my head out. It was Jack, peering up at me from below.
“Rapunzel! Throw down your key.”
I laughed. “I’ll be there in a second.”
“ ’Punzel! Toss it down.”
Why didn’t I finish getting ready? I hope he doesn’t think my place is pathetic. I stuffed my key in the sock and threw it to him, then I opened my door and listened to him tromping up the steps.
“Whew, that’s some climb,” Jack said, handing me the sock. He wore a tawny jacket over a silky peach-colored shirt and tight black pants that accentuated the muscles in his thighs. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, and his dark hair was sticking up all over. He looks amazing, I thought as he took off his jacket and laid it on my chair. I haven’t been this nervous since I presented my thesis to a roomful of professors. Come to think of it, that doesn’t even compare.
“How are you, Miss Julia?” Jack said, smiling at me.
“I’m fine. Do you want a beer? I just have to get dressed.” I bounced up and down on the balls of my feet to release a little tension.
“Sure, I’ll take a beer. It’s warm in here; you don’t have your AC on?”
“I don’t have air conditioning. I get a good cross-breeze from the windows.”
I meant for him to sit on my couch, but he followed me to my fridge. “I see you have your books and records.” He indicated my wooden crates stacked on top of each other. I handed him a bottle, and he went past me to the back of the room. “These your outfits?” he asked, inspecting my clothes hanging there.
“This place didn’t come with a closet, so I just put a few nails in the wall. Maybe not the best decorating move.”
He swung over to my futon, which was covered with piles of paper. “What’s all this?”
“That’s Timothy Collins’s book. I’m trying to move things around; it helps to separate the chapters. I don’t have a table big enough.”
“You pick all that up every night?”
“Once in a while I just sleep on the couch.” Nice one, Julia. You sound like some lonely spinster.
Jack went to the sofa and pushed down on a cushion. “You’ve got a few springs poking up.”
“I’m used to it. Do you want to sit there and I’ll get changed?”
Jack sat and took a gulp of beer. “Hey, did you lose my number?”
“Oh no, I still have it.”
“Show me where you wrote it in your little black book.”
I fetched my address book and showed him the scrap of paper he’d given me. “See, it’s right here in front.”
“This could fall out. I’m going to write it in permanent. D’you have a pen?”
Thinking this was a good sign, I handed him one. “I’m going to get my dress on. I’ll just be a minute.” I went into my cramped bathroom, quickly stripped, and stepped into the beaded sheath. I caught a glimpse in the mirror; my cheeks flushed with excitement, my eyes a deeper blue than usual, the pale curve of my breasts rising and falling above the shimmering dark fabric. My hands were trembling so much, I had trouble doing up the zipper. As I struggled with it, Jack called out, “Who’s George?”
So now he was poking around in my addresses. “Friend of mine. Really great guy. Gay.”
“Hmm.” I heard pages rapidly riffling. “Ted?”
“Friend from college.” Quickly I slipped on my heels.
“Jane?”
Laughing, I walked out of the bathroom. “Friend from publishing. You really are kind of nosy, you know.”
“You’re only just now finding that out?” Jack mused, turning another page. He looked up at me and rose from the sofa with an odd expression on his face.
Oh no, maybe the dress is all wrong. “Is this okay?” I asked.
“Verrry okay,” he replied after a moment’s pause. “Better than okay.” He went to get his jacket and gazed out the window as he put it on. “Nice view.” For a minute he stared at the sooty rooftop across
the street, then turned and held out the notebook. “Here, I’ve put my number in ink. Non-erasable.”
I laid it on the table. “All right, I guess we’re all set. Can you keep my key? My backpack doesn’t quite go with the dress.”
“Sure, I’ll hold onto your key. Anytime.”
I followed him downstairs, my knees practically knocking. I’m going to a party with Jack Kipling of the Floor. I hope he can’t tell how jumpy I am—but he must be used to girls going into shock.
Rick opened the back door of the car. Jack turned, dark eyes sparking, and gestured me in with a flourish.
“Come into my lair,” he said, his accent heavy on “lair.” “Enter at your own risk.” He smiled, and I shivered as I slid across the leather seat.
Jack climbed in beside me and we took off. I was conscious of my bare legs in the short dress, right next to his rangy limbs in the black pants. Maybe I should have worn hose. I gave my hem a tug, then realized I’d just exposed a good inch of cleavage. Hastily I yanked up the neckline. I glanced at Jack, who seemed to quickly erase a grin.
He crossed his arms, his shoulder touching mine. “So what did you do last night, more editing?”
“I went to a movie with my friend Erin. This is a big weekend for me; I don’t always go out two nights in a row.”
Jack gave me an appraising look. “You live kind of a quiet life for someone your age. You’re what, twenty-three?”
I wondered how old he was; I assumed in his early thirties. “Twenty-four. Not that quiet really. Maybe compared to you.”
“My life isn’t that thrilling these days. I’ve had to mend my ways a bit in recent years; too much burning the wick at both ends. I had a couple of close calls a while back. But when I was twenty-four …” He shook his head. “Everything came on so fast, I kind of insulated myself with various chemicals for a while. You seem so well-behaved, though. What do you do to cut loose?”