Come Dancing

by Leslie Wells

  “Left my extra picks in the dressing room.”

  “I’ll get them.” I spoke at the same time Mary Jo said, “I’ll go.”

  We looked at each other. I smiled, but she didn’t. “Should we draw straws?” I joked.

  Mary Jo gave me a venomous glare, turned on her heel and scurried down the corridor. It suddenly hit me that her warning me off Jack might not be out of concern for my well-being. I had a feeling his manager had a little crush on him—or maybe a really big one.

  “We’d better go sit down,” Suzanne said. She took my arm and we made it to our seats just in time.

  The songs came in an order completely different from what either Jack or Patrick had discussed by the pool, but it worked like an elixir on the audience, which seemed even more hyped than the night before. The whole house was rocking as they finished their sixth big number. Patrick bowed and looked over at Jack, who took his guitar off his shoulder and walked over to Sammy. Jack handed Sammy the guitar, and the crowd started rumbling in confusion. Jack sauntered back to the drums and took Mark’s seat, to a collective gasp. Patrick gave his bass to Mark and sat at the keyboard. They swung into one of their simpler early hits, but were almost drowned out by the hysterical reaction. I glanced over my shoulder; the L.A. Times guy’s jaw had dropped. “I’ve never seen anything like this, ever!” he shouted. The men made it through the tune without stumbling and pounded into the finale. Grinning amidst the roaring acclaim, they traded instruments, resumed their usual places and plunged into the next song.

  “That was amazing! Did you know they had that planned?” I shouted into Suzanne’s ear.

  “I had no idea. They must’ve practiced it in secret,” she replied.

  After a while, Patrick went offstage as Jack brought out a stool and tuned his acoustic guitar.

  “Hey, Julia,” he said, looking directly at me. The hair stood up on my arms as everyone in the surrounding rows craned to see who I was. Jack began strumming and eased into a song I’d never heard before. Its melody was mournful and haunting: Sick of crawlin’ round filthy dives, what I want’s right by my side. But I ain’t out to pasture yet; still wanna be rode hard and put up wet.

  When he finished, I sat stunned as the crowd screamed his name. Jack smiled at me, Patrick ran out and grabbed the mic, and the rest of the show went at fever pitch. Mary Jo never showed up to claim her seat.

  “I’m gonna make an ice run,” Mark said. We were relaxing in his and Suzanne’s suite after a long, rowdy post-concert dinner in the Villa’s restaurant.

  “I’ll come with you,” Suzanne said, jumping up. She was smoking her hundredth cigarette and looked haggard from chasing him around all night.

  “Let me know what time we’re hitting the studio tomorrow,” Jack said.

  I hugged Suzanne and told the guys goodbye. Jack and I returned to our room and went out on the balcony to gaze at the starry night sky, the pool an aquamarine opal glowing in its dark setting.

  Jack wrapped his arms around me. “Too bad you can’t stay longer.”

  I was elated that he felt that way, but unfortunately my plane ticket was for tomorrow morning. “I’d love to. I would if I could.”

  He thought for a minute. “’I Would If I Could.’ Now there’s a title for a song.”

  “That new one you sang tonight was so beautiful. I felt like … you were singing it to me.”

  Jack’s eyes shone in the reflection from the glittering pool. “That’s what’s bothering me. I was singing it to you.”

  Chapter 26

  Highlife

  The office was a whirlwind when I returned on Tuesday. Newly tanned from a long weekend in Martha’s Vineyard, Harvey charged back in a cantankerous frame of mind. He dove into “working the phones”; if I heard him say “When I was at Esiness” once, I must have heard it a million times. His stack of submissions grew in a sloughing pile. Like Sisyphus, no sooner did I reject three, than another ten arrived in the mail. On top of that, he gave me two of Briar’s manuscripts for a “backup read.” I tried to find out what was happening with her celebrity project, but neither Erin nor Meredith had heard an update. At least Isabel finally had made progress and gave me a juicy chunk about her television career. I was determined to skimp on sleep until I got it rewritten.

  Jack and I had only had one rushed conversation on the phone since I left. I’d tried calling him, but he hadn’t picked up. I didn’t get the sense he was spending much time in his room, but I knew they were on a deadline with the mixing. After the long weekend, missing him was like a constant itch that I couldn’t scratch. I was counting the minutes until I saw him again.

  Adding to my turmoil was a call from Art. He said he was preparing lecture notes for his fall classes and wanted my take on the material, but I was pretty sure that was just an excuse. Before we hung up, he invited me to a symphony at Lincoln Center. I declined, but felt a slight tug when I did.

  “Please tell me you don’t have plans tonight.”

  I wondered what Vicky had in mind. “I don’t.”

  “Good. Can you help me out with Lucinda Matlock’s party? Our other publicist went home sick.” Lucinda was a bestselling women’s novelist with a rabid following; previously Vicky had described her as “high-maintenance”.

  “Emily’s taking the agent, and I’m supposed to pick up Lucinda at her hotel and deliver her to her rich friend’s penthouse on Fifth,” Vicky continued. “Then I have to work the door, make sure Lucinda schmoozes the reviewers, and get her to sign a book for every single guest. I could really use another warm body.”

  “That sounds like fun. The most exciting thing I’ve done at work lately is make Harvey’s lunch reservations.”

  “When it’s all over, you can tell me how much fun it was. I’ll stop by your office at six. The theme is Chinese since the book’s set in Shanghai, so I’ll bring you an outfit.”

  Vicky showed up with an Asian-style dress, borrowed from one of her Garment District friends. I slipped into it in the bathroom and we rode the elevator down in our shantung silks. A long black limousine was waiting on the curb.

  “You’re kidding, we’re going in a stretch?” I said. The driver opened the back door and we slid inside.

  “Only the best for Lucinda. She complained the last time I picked her up in a town car.” Vicky cracked a window.

  “Pluttner Press must be raking it in. Harvey gets annoyed if the editors take cabs.”

  “Lucinda’s the reason we didn’t have layoffs like everyone else. Her last novel stayed at number one for twelve weeks, so I really can’t blow this.”

  The driver pulled a sharp U-turn. A van laid on its horn, and our guy gave the international signal for “Fuck off.”

  “We’ll pick her up at the Plaza and then head to the party,” Vicky said as we zoomed up Park Avenue. “So tell me more about L.A. How are things with the long, lean love machine?”

  “I had an amazing time with Jack, and the concerts were incredible,” I said. “Jack even sang a song about finding what he’d been looking for—then of course the last verse was about not being ready to settle down. When I left, he was saying he wished I could stay longer. Although he hasn’t picked up the phone in three days.”

  The limo stopped for a column of taxis being sluggishly digested into 42nd Street. A man with a dripping squeegee approached, but the driver waved him off.

  “They’re probably working nonstop to finish the album,” Vicky said. “Sammy once mentioned that the record company was freaking out. Speaking of work, I had some good news: I booked my first author on the Early Morning Show. As a reward Emily upped my expense account.”

  “Congratulations! That’s really great, Vick; I’m so happy for you. I just got something from my boss too.”

  “From Harvey?” She rolled her eyes. “What, gonorrhea?”

  “He’s dumping the work that his star assistant doesn’t feel like doing on me.”

  “What a putz. When are you going to show him Isabel’s
manuscript?”

  “As soon as I get this section ready. So far she’s had two ménages and fellated three film agents, so it should be right up his alley.”

  The limo stopped in front of the Plaza. “There’s Lucinda. I lied and told her the party started at six-thirty so she’d be on time,” Vicky said. The driver opened the door for an impeccably groomed woman in her forties, dark hair coiffed and expertly made up.

  “I can’t wait to see the book,” Lucinda said to Vicky as she tucked in her scarlet mandarin dress. “That box you said you sent never arrived.”

  “I would have messengered some to your room if I’d known,” Vicky said. “I was rereading it last night. I loved the way you described the couples switching partners in the car. Oh, Lucinda, this is my friend Julia.”

  “Do you have any hand lotion? This city smog wreaks havoc on my skin,” Lucinda said impatiently, ignoring the introduction.

  Vicky dug around in her purse and produced a vial. Lucinda briskly rubbed some in, then took a can of hairspray from her own bag and spewed an asphyxiating cloud.

  “How do I look?” she asked, patting her stiffening helmet.

  “Gorgeous,” Vicky choked out.

  The mansions across from Central Park glowed softly with inner light. We entered the Fifth Avenue building and whooshed soundlessly to the top floor. The apartment glittered in candlelight, opulent vases of red tulips a brilliant burst of color against the all-white decor. A wide expanse of windows overlooked the Metropolitan Museum and the lush emerald-green park.

  An elegant man in his fifties embraced Lucinda. Emily arrived with the agent, and they swooped over to surround the author. A short, curly-haired woman came up to us. “Hi Vicky. I see you got her here in one piece.”

  “She was bitching that she hadn’t seen the book yet, but I shipped a box straight from the warehouse,” Vicky said.

  “Don’t worry about it. She’ll see it tonight.”

  “Sarah, this is my friend Julia Nash who’s helping me with the signing. Julia, meet Sarah Wittner, Lucinda’s editor.”

  “So you’re Harvey’s assistant. You have my sympathies.” Sarah smiled. “I worked with him briefly at one point.”

  “I’m hoping my stint will be brief,” I said, smiling back at her. “Although fetching his coffee is a thrill. It’s nice to know there’s life beyond.”

  “We should have a drink sometime, compare horror stories. Uh-oh, she’s spotted me. I’d better go kiss up.” Sarah rushed off to exclaim over Lucinda’s outfit.

  Waiters in black tie navigated the rapidly filling room, and we snagged some eggrolls and fortune cookies. “I didn’t have any lunch,” Vicky said after wolfing down three wontons. “Do I have scallions stuck in my teeth?”

  “Just a little soy sauce on your chin. This party must have cost a mint; one of those floral arrangements would keep me in groceries for a month.”

  “Her friend made a killing in the stock market, pre-oil crisis. Okay, I see two reviewers I have to introduce to Lucinda. In a minute we’ll set up her autographing table.”

  Vicky went to corral the critics. Hoping for a good omen about my future, I cracked open my cookie: “You will be hungry again in one hour.”

  Sarah dinged her glass and made an elegant speech about Lucinda’s new novel. As Emily began her own tribute, I fantasized about someday having bestselling authors of my own, mingling with the hoi polloi at lavish parties and making witty toasts. Vicky interrupted my daydream. “Can you help me unpack the books?” I followed her to a marble table, and she handed me a box-cutter. “Once she starts signing, just try to keep the line flowing,” she said as we ripped into the cardboard.

  Lucinda approached, and with a flourish, Vicky handed her the first copy. “Congratulations; doesn’t it look great?”

  Lucinda glanced at the cover, then flipped it over to the full-bleed photo on back. “This isn’t the right picture!” she shrieked. “This makes me look ancient!”

  Vicky examined the image. “Your hair looks perfect, and that blouse goes so well with your eyes.”

  “But my expression! This is the worst headshot of all. I can’t believe they screwed it up!” Lucinda wailed. “Tell you what—I’m just going to rip the back covers off.” She made a motion as if to do so, eyeing Vicky as she did. Emily and Sarah began to hurry over from the far end of the room.

  “I know exactly how you feel,” Vicky said calmly. “Go ahead and tear it up.”

  I was startled that she’d suggest this. Lucinda stared at her. “You think I should?”

  “Sure, if you’re not happy with it. There’s no excuse for a mix-up like that.”

  Lucinda reached for the first copy.

  “I do feel badly for all these reviewers who’ve come to see you. I’ll make an announcement that due to publisher’s error, they won’t get an autographed copy tonight. I suppose they’ll have to wait for Desdemona Bricknell; she’s in town next week,” Vicky added, naming another bestselling novelist.

  Lucinda’s eyes grew wide. “Oh no, I wouldn’t want you to do that. I hate to disappoint the press. I guess it’s not that bad,” she said, scrutinizing the jacket. “I just wish they’d used the one I told them to.”

  “All right, if you’re sure you want to go ahead with it. I can imagine how upsetting this must be.”

  “It is, but I’ll have to manage,” Lucinda said with an air of hardship.

  “Everything all right here?” Emily asked breathlessly.

  “Everything’s under control,” Vicky said. “Let’s get started.”

  She gave me a nod, opened the book to the title page, and placed it before Lucinda. I sent the first person over, and we kept the line moving until the last guest left clutching their copy.

  “Oh. My. God,” Vicky said, peeling off her shoes. We had dropped Lucinda at the Plaza, and were sprawled back in the limo as it headed downtown. “You certainly got to see our bestselling author in top form.”

  “I really thought she was going to tear up the books. Very impressive, the way you handled her.”

  “I find it helps to think of them as small children, then they’re not quite so irritating. But Lucinda really knows how to push my buttons.”

  “Well, that was an adventure,” I said.

  Vicky grinned at me. “Confucius say: ‘Next time, make sure author see headshot before party.’”

  Chapter 27

  Stranger in the House

  Jack didn’t get in touch with me until the day after he got home; he said he’d been too wasted to call the previous afternoon. I raced out of the office as soon as I could and made it to his place by six. He looked completely wiped out, deep shadows under his eyes. I put my arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.

  “How did the rest of the mixing go? I called a few times, but you weren’t in your room,” I said.

  “Pretty intense. We hit a lot of parties afterwards.” He rubbed his face tiredly.

  “Do you want to rest? You look exhausted.”

  “I may lie down for a bit.”

  I followed him to his room, disappointed that we wouldn’t get to make love, but excited to be with him. The covers were rumpled; obviously he’d been asleep earlier. He flopped down on the bed and I snuggled next to him, stroking his back as he drifted off. Actually this is a good thing, I thought to myself. We can just relax with each other now; it doesn’t always have to be about sex.

  I woke once in the night, listening to his breathing on the pillow next to me. I moved closer so we were spooning, my cheek against his warm back, my arms wrapped around his waist. In the morning he was still asleep when I had to leave, so I found a takeout menu, wrote a sweet little note and left it on his kitchen table, along with the set of keys I’d had made for him. Walking uptown to the office, I felt so happy. It seemed like we’d turned a corner; we had become a real couple.

  When I handed Meredith a jacket mechanical, she told me she’d liked the rewritten chapters on Isabel’s TV career. My confidence b
oosted, I finally got up the nerve to give it to Harvey.

  “Well, you’ve been quite the eager beaver,” he commented. “But I still say her career’s washed up. Who cares about Isabel Reed anymore?”

  “She just landed a role in a new movie that sounds promising. And her story’s really compelling. She had a tough childhood and clawed her way up all on her own.”

  “I’ll take a look, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up. Pryce Rayner, on the other hand, had some very interesting things to say in the meeting he took with Briar. She’s looking into getting him hooked up with a ghostwriter. I have a feeling it’s going to happen very soon.” Harvey narrowed his piggy little eyes at me. “Of course you and I could discuss your project over dinner one night. If you aren’t all tied up with your rocker buddy.” He smiled, and my spirit shriveled. “By the way, how do you handle his friends—two at a time, or all four at once?”

  “None of the above.” I thrust the pages at him and left.

  That afternoon we had a fire drill in the office building and afterwards maintenance couldn’t get the alarm to shut off, so we all had to leave. I considered stopping by my apartment, but decided instead to go to Jack’s place and surprise him. I spoke to Tom, who said he’d just come on his shift and didn’t know if Jack was home. I stepped into the loft, anticipating his arms around me, but the place seemed empty.

  “Jack?” I called out. I heard a rustling in the back. I dropped my bag on the couch next to his guitar and walked toward the bedroom. The door was cracked a tiny bit. I went in smiling, expecting him to be waiting for me.

  There was someone in the bed. Pale blonde hair flared over the pillow. Big tanned breasts flopped as she rolled to her side and propped her head on her hand.

  “Jack’ll be back in a minute. He went to get me some cigarettes,” Trina said. “Did you need something?”

  I stood there in shock as the meaning of it sank through my skin. Backing out of the room, I turned and ran to the door. I have to get out of here before he comes back! was all I could think. I got into the elevator and dry-heaved. The door opened, and blindly I stumbled through the lobby and into the too-bright street. If I can just make it home, I can hide away and never come out.