Come Dancing

by Leslie Wells

  I was so turned on. I was so dizzy …

  God, I was drunk.

  “Jack,” I gasped as his lips moved on me. “I think … I drank way too much champagne.”

  He pulled away, hands still gripping my waist. “You sure?”

  “I’m sorry.” My eyes were almost crossing.

  “It happens.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been in that condition a time or two myself.”

  “Can you take your necklace so I don’t lose it?”

  Jack lifted the chain and put it over his head. “Will you be okay walking up?”

  “I’m fine … so sorry.” I stumbled up the stairs before I could change my mind.

  I didn’t get out of bed until nine; I’d had a restless night. Every time a truck rumbled by, I awoke remembering Jack’s warm hands on me, his seductive tongue, his lips moving down my neck. I wish I’d brought him upstairs instead of idiotically getting trashed on champagne. Hopefully he’ll call me soon, so we can pick up where we left off. I can’t wait to kiss him again—and again and again.

  As I popped a slice of bread in my dysfunctional toaster, an unwelcome memory smacked my pounding head. Art and I had been to see an exhibit of Robert Frank films at the Whitney last fall. Snuggling in the cab on the way downtown, he’d whispered the words in my ear. My chest welled up with happiness; I’d been hoping he felt the way I did.

  “I love you too,” I said, and we kissed.

  The very next week, he informed me that he was getting back together with Phoebe. I staggered back to my apartment in a daze. Naively I’d thought that someone wouldn’t say they loved you unless they really meant it.

  A scorching smell reminded me I’d forgotten to watch my toast. Holding the charred remains, I thought of the girls groping Jack at the party.

  I hope I won’t get burned this time around.

  Chapter 9

  Career Opportunities

  “Where do you go for lunches in this neighborhood?” Briar stood in my doorway, hand on the hip of her chic black dress.

  “There’s a good diner a couple blocks up. And a pizza place on the corner.”

  “I don’t mean a diner. Where do you take literary agents?” Seeing my surprise, she smirked. “Never mind, I’ll ask Kate.”

  Reeling, I went to see Meredith. She put down her watering can. “What’s up?”

  I slumped against the doorframe. “Harvey’s given Briar an expense account. She just asked where I lunched agents—as if I’ve ever been allowed to take anyone out.”

  Meredith frowned. “What is he thinking? She’s never edited anything other than her own resume.”

  “It’s tantamount to promoting her. She’ll be in, and I’ll be out.” My voice wobbled.

  Meredith sat at her desk. “I’m sure she’s good at chatting them up, but that doesn’t mean she knows how to cobble together a book.”

  “I really need to acquire something, fast. There’s one project I’m pursuing that has potential, I think. I read that Isabel Reed is writing a memoir. Remember the Singing Schoolteacher? I’m meeting her at the Chelsea Hotel on Thursday to talk about it.”

  “Julia, that’s fantastic! I used to love her show. That’s just the kind of thing we need for the list. If you bring it in, Briar won’t have a chance of upstaging you. When you get the manuscript let me read it too, so I can help you talk it up.”

  That calmed me down a little. “Thanks, I really appreciate it. I mentioned it to Harvey the other day, but he didn’t seem too intrigued. He said Isabel was passé.”

  “He may take a little convincing, but we can work on that. I hate to ask, but how’s the Timothy Collins novel coming along?”

  “I’ve been plugging away at it, but I haven’t gotten as far as I’d wanted.”

  Something in my tone must have clued her in. “New extracurricular activity?” she asked with a knowing grin.

  I hesitated for a moment. “I met a guy recently that I like a lot, but I’m not sure where it’s going.”

  “Well, I hope it works out. You know, I was married at twenty-two, and then divorced by twenty-six. The whole thing was a mistake; we were just too young. But I have to say, I never dreamed I’d be thirty-five and alone,” Meredith said thoughtfully. “Time can really get away from you.”

  “Was there anyone serious after your marriage?” Meredith always seemed so self-contained; I was flattered that she was opening up to me.

  “Oh, I went out with various people, but nobody long-term. Then the dates sort of dried up a few years ago. I see friends and keep busy, but sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be in a relationship again.” She took off her half-rims and considered me. “If you think this guy is somebody special, then I wouldn’t let it slip away. It’s important to focus on your career, but we workaholics have to remember there’s another side to life.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “And you have to promise me that if I wind up as one of those publishing women living alone in a smelly apartment with six cats, you’ll roust me out once in a while.”

  “I don’t think that’s even a remote possibility,” I assured her.

  I was reliving Jack’s kiss yet again Tuesday night when the phone rang. Telling myself It’s not him, I forced myself to walk over slowly.

  “I hope I didn’t pull out too much of your hair the other night.”

  I sat down before my knees buckled. “It’s starting to grow back. By next spring it should be all filled in.”

  Jack laughed. “I didn’t think I did that much damage.” His accent had to be the sexiest on the planet.

  “I was exaggerating; you’re good at untangling necklaces. Sorry I was such a party-pooper.”

  “’s all right. I went back and partied at Patrick’s.”

  I’ll bet you did, I thought, picturing all those girls. We both waited for a beat.

  “Are you doing anything Friday? I thought I’d stop by your place first, and we could get dinner.”

  “That would be great! I mean … sure. I’m free.”

  “See you then.”

  For a few minutes I sat there in a dreamy haze. Then I got a Floor album from my wooden crate and blasted it, singing along and dancing around the room. Only when my downstairs neighbor called did I lower the volume and collapse on the couch. I was going to see him in three days—actually if he came by at seven, that would be two days and … 21 ½ hours. Or seventy hours altogether, if you rounded it up.

  How was I going to make it through seventy hours until I saw him again?

  As I was checking the photo captions in a bird-watching guide, Harvey buzzed me on the intercom. I was dismayed to see Briar sitting in his office; I hated interrupting their tête-à-têtes.

  “Freeman Fyfe just delivered his next opus. I want it ready for sales conference in November. Can you polish it up by then?” Harvey asked.

  “I’m sure I can,” I said, excited at the prospect. I had loved working with Freeman on his latest novel, which we were publishing in September. Although he was our biggest author, he was also one of the nicest. Whenever he called, he always took the time to ask how I was doing; he was a real class act. And I assumed editing Harvey’s books gave me some points toward my merit badge.

  Briar sat forward in her seat. “I’m a huge fan of his. I’d love to have a go at it.”

  “Great. You two can read it together and compare notes,” Harvey said.

  Briar gave me a triumphant smile. “I can’t wait.”

  I snatched up the manuscript and took it to my overflowing bookshelf. I’d have to finish plowing through Collins before I could start on Freeman, which would be a treat. And I’d be damned if I was going to share it with that little snot.

  Veering around two loudly arguing women in white hot pants and platform heels, I continued down 23rd Street for my appointment with Isabel Reed at the Chelsea. All my dreams of thriving in the city and moving up at work hinged on this one meeting—and whether she’d like me enough to entrust me with her memo
ir. In the lobby, a man at the front desk said he’d buzz her. He continued his conversation with a heavyset woman in a pink muumuu until I cleared my throat, whereupon he seemed to recall that I was waiting and told me to take the elevator to the fifth floor. Ghoulishly I wondered if that was where Sid murdered Nancy.

  I went down the gloomy hallway and found the apartment. A voluptuous woman with bright blue eyes and curly auburn hair opened the door. She wore a low-cut silk blouse and flowing slacks in rich earthy hues. If I looked closely, I could see the resemblance to the perky TV teacher of yesteryear.

  “Hello, Julia. Come on in. I’ve got some tea brewing.” Inside, two cats immediately wound soft figure eights around my legs. “I hope you’re not allergic.”

  “Oh no, I love cats. What are their names?”

  “Dinah and Chess. Don’t worry, he growls when he’s happy,” she said as the larger one gave a guttural rumble.

  I sank into the plush sofa and told myself not to dwell on the fact that my entire future was hanging in the balance. As she went into her kitchen, I scratched the chin of the tabby and looked around. The room was bursting with potted plants, framed photographs, faded Persian carpets, and threadbare furniture, the cats having ripped through the upholstery of several chairs. Above the mantel a black and white blowup of the actress in her heyday beamed down at me. It was fascinating to finally see one of the apartments in the fabled Chelsea, a building I’d heard so many lurid tales about. Actually it looked similar to the Upper West Side apartments I’d been to; no used syringes or emaciated dead girlfriends lying about.

  Isabel returned with mugs of tea and a pretty plate of little cakes. “I was glad to hear a publisher’s interested in my book,” she said. “Lately I’ve had time on my hands to work on it. Before this film role, my agent hadn’t sent me a part to read for in months.”

  I decided not to mention that I wasn’t exactly the publisher. “I think your memoir would have a really big audience; so many people were fans of the show. I never missed an episode, and I watched all the reruns too. How did your audition go?”

  “I won’t know unless I get a callback. I really need this part. My career’s been pretty dormant the past few years.” She sighed and stirred her tea.

  “I’d love to read what you’ve written so far. Do you have an outline?” I edged forward on the cushy sofa and took a nibble of cake.

  “Oh, I don’t believe in outlines; I’m far too much of a free spirit. You’ll see, once we start working together.”

  Isabel took a plant mister from a side table, spritzed a fern and then gave her own face a couple of squirts. Droplets drizzling down her cheeks, she gave me a sharp look. “You seem young to be handling my memoir. Have you edited anything else?”

  Suddenly I felt very small and inexperienced. “I did just get out of school last year, but I dove right in. I worked on Freeman Fyfe’s new book; it’s coming out in September.” I’d used Freeman as my calling card before with skeptical authors.

  “I’m sure that will be a feather in your cap, as will mine,” she commented. “Well, you look like you can understand passion. That’s what my life story’s about—passion, and the places it can take you.” She folded her arms. “So you said you were a longtime fan.”

  Now for the sucking-up. I rotated my plate and took another bite as I concocted my reply. “The show’s impact was huge; it inspired people to think more creatively about education,” I said, inflating its importance in a way I hoped would flatter her. “And you were the reason it was such a gigantic hit. I used to love it when you turned the spelling lesson into a song. Your voice is so beautiful.”

  “Thank you. And yes, it was huge,” Isabel said with a reminiscent smile. “I got letters from kids all over the world. And some surprisingly graphic ones from a number of daddies. I had lots of adventures leading up to it, too. I grew up in a tough Chicago neighborhood with my father and two brothers. My mother wasn’t around.” She handed me some loose pages. “I hope you aren’t squeamish; I started sleeping with older men when I was fourteen. All that will be in the next section.”

  “I’ll bet the public would enjoy anything you’d like to reveal.” If she wanted to bare the seamier side of her life, I figured Harvey would be happy to help with the disrobing.

  Isabel gave herself another blast with the mister. “You have to keep hydrated if you don’t want to turn into an old hag,” she said as beads of water dripped down her face.

  “I don’t think there’s any danger of that. Thanks so much for the tea. I’ll read this tonight and call you tomorrow, if that’s okay.” I unpinned Chess from my lap, and Isabel saw me to the door.

  “When would you be planning to publish it? If I get this role, it would be great to have the book out in time for the film.”

  “First I’ll have to present it to our editorial board to get the go-ahead. Then if it’s approved, I’ll be able to sign it up. But let me read what you’ve written, and we’ll talk.”

  Walking back to the office, I was thrilled the meeting had gone so well and I had her pages in my hot little hands. I hoped Harvey would come around and see that this had commercial potential.

  I sped through the chapter as soon as I got in. The raw material was interesting, but it wasn’t in good enough shape to show to anyone. I guessed there was a reason most celebrities used a ghostwriter.

  Meredith stopped in my doorway. “How did it go with Isabel?”

  “I liked her a lot, and she gave me a chapter. That’s the good news. The bad news is, it reads like a ten-year-old wrote it. In my excitement I kind of forgot she might need a ghost.”

  “Let me see a page.” Meredith perused it through her half-rims. “Hmm. I’m afraid you’re right.”

  “Is there any way to hook her up with a writer? I need to get it fixed up before Harvey sees it.”

  “She’d have to pay for it herself. Would she be willing to do that?”

  I pictured Isabel’s cat-shredded chairs. “I don’t get the sense she’s rolling in it. Her furniture was falling apart.”

  “Why don’t you take a stab at it? Half the time you’re rewriting anyway.”

  “That’s a great idea. I’ll give it a whack.”

  Invigorated by the need to outshine Briar, I took the pages home with me. It was slow going, but the thought of being passed over for Prickles spurred me on.

  Chapter 10

  Could You Be Loved

  The next night I walked home, so glad it was Friday, I was levitating two feet above the sidewalk. Jack had said he wanted to come up to my place, and I was more than fine with that. To be honest, I was an ecstatic mix of nerves and excitement. I paced around until I heard him calling my name from the street and threw down the sock. As he clumped up the stairs I waited in my open doorway in jeans, a sheer sleeveless top and bare feet, having put on and rejected my leather skirt and heels. I had started to go braless, but that felt too slutty. Hopefully my naked toes will remind him there’s even more nakedness attached.

  “Hello, Julia,” he said, smiling and handing me the key.

  He was outrageously handsome in denim that hugged his thighs, worn almost bare in places, and a cowboy shirt with metal buttons. His face had a bit of dark stubble that made me want to rub my cheek against it. Instead, I just said hello and asked if he wanted a drink. “I bought some whiskey.”

  “I’ll have some of that.” He followed me to the fridge. “Give me a glass; I don’t want to drink so much tonight.”

  I wonder if that means what I hope it means. I handed him the bottle and let him pour his own.

  “You don’t get hot in here?” He pinched the front of his shirt and fanned it.

  “I’m used to it. Plus I get—”

  “I know, you get a cross-breeze. Hey, you’ve still got that manuscript on your bed.” He ambled over to my futon, where several chapters were spread out.

  “I’ve been working on it.” Stupidly I’d forgotten to finish clearing them off in my muddle over wha
t to wear. I repressed the urge to leap on the bed and kick them all to the floor.

  “So where are your blues records?” he asked, going to my wooden crates.

  “In a special place.” I sat on the couch, watching him prowling around.

  “Where? I want to see what you’ve got.”

  “I don’t have nearly as many as you.” Please, please don’t look in that crate.

  He turned to me, frowning. “That’s okay, baby, just show me. I’m in the mood for something good. You got any Muddy?”

  Great; now I’m in for it. “In that covered one there. Lift up the scarf.”

  He draped the scarf over his shoulder and peered into the crate. “Hmm, what have we here … you’ve got all our albums.” He thumbed through them and looked at me, eyebrow raised. “You’ve got our stuff in here with your blues. Is this the place of honor?”

  “Um … it might be.” Why didn’t I realize this might happen?

  “I didn’t even know you listened to my music. You sure kept that bit of information to yourself,” he said, eyeing me.

  Pull yourself together, Julia. “You don’t need me to tell you how good you are. You have enough people doing that.”

  He held up an Albert King. “You think I have a swelled head? Thanks a lot. Here we have Howlin’ Wolf; very good. Here’s Otis and Billie … Wait, what’s this?”

  He held up an index card I’d taped to the front of the crate. “Please Do Not Touch,” he read.

  A flush crept up my face. “Sometimes my friends aren’t careful with my records. I just didn’t want those particular ones to get scratched.”