“Writer,” Chase pronounced triumphantly.
“Yes!” Nadine nodded. “He is a writer.”
“I haven’t even heard of this segment. When is it supposed to run?”
Nadine drummed her fingers on the table like she always did when she was dreaming up her next fib. She clasped her hands together decidedly. “Well, that hasn’t been determined yet. It’s really sort of a favor to one of the board members, I think. He’s the author’s uncle or some sort of thing.” Which was another way of saying, it was a back-end segment that would be chopped to pieces and used to fill up the hour when the lead stories (like the Sienna Skye story!) left a few minutes of dead air.
“But don’t worry, Chase has been working on this for some time. I’m sure it’s practically finished, anyway.” Nadine blushed. Chase beamed. I scowled.
chapter 3
Many New Yorkers viewed brunch as a shrewd social maneuver. They saw it as a neutral date to be offered in lieu of a more time-consuming commitment. It served as an agreeable meeting ground for sort-of friends, old acquaintances, out-of-towners, or new alliances—essentially, anyone who didn’t quite clear the “let’s go out Saturday night” bar.
For my friend Tess and me, however, Sunday brunch was now a tradition—a breach of its standing would be a first-degree offense to our friendship. Of course, we talked on the phone nearly every day, but nothing could replace our once-a-week heart-to-heart over scrambled eggs and strong coffee at Café Colonial.
I walked past the swirling line that had already begun to snake around the corner of Elizabeth Street and winked at Alberto (whose undying affection for Tess had won us a specially reserved table) as he stacked coffee cups behind the bar. Others may value their stock tips, their summer shares, or their courtside Knicks tickets, but I had come to cherish our table at Café Colonial to an unhealthy degree. I could not count how many perplexing guy issues, frustrating work fiascoes, and general I-feel-like-my-life-is-overwhelming-mehow-do-I-get-out-of-this-funk conversations I’d had at this very table. I suppose it’s probably sacrilege to ascribe the wondrous catharsis of a religious experience to a vinyl seat and a plate of pancakes, but there you go—how else is an agnostic/lapsed protestant supposed to find enlightenment?
Tess was already seated. She looked immaculate as usual—her pale blond hair was gathered in a neat, low ponytail and her sea-green eyes gazed out the window. Tess always reminds me of a beautiful cat: serene, impeccably groomed and a little mysterious. She is the type of girl who uses words like “handsome” to describe men, can wear a string of pearls without a trace of irony, and hasn’t owned a TV since she left home for boarding school. She has no problem sitting through the endless card games and executive dinners at the Metropolitan club with her current companion, Stanley. In fact, she has no problem with the name Stanley. Don’t get me wrong, Tess is not a prude, far from it. She could sling one-liners and swill cocktails with the best of them. She just approaches her life from a different perspective than most (myself included). Sometimes, I can’t help but think she understands me and my life so well because she is on a different plane altogether.
Tess is a two-kiss greeter. She has dated so many Europeans it has become second nature. I am strictly a one-cheek girl, but I leaned down and indulged her all the same. I slid into my spot next to the window and felt my body relax instantly.
“Sweetie, you look exhausted. I’m getting you a drink.” Such endearments would normally annoy me—hon, honey, sweetheart—coming from anyone except my mother or my amore, but as with all things Tess—normal rules simply didn’t apply.
She held up one delicate hand and I could almost hear Alberto snap to attention. Two bellinis appeared instantaneously.
“So, what matters of business do we need to cover this morning, my dear?” Tess was only half kidding. I knew she took these sessions as seriously as I did.
“Hey guys, sorry I’m late.” Parker had appeared at our table, seemingly out of nowhere. “Had to get one last fight in with Brad while I was trying to get a cab,” she said, struggling with her coat.
Tess gave me a look that, if expressed in words, would have said something like Oh, I see that Parker has joined us for another cycle. I responded in kind.
It had been at least three months since either Tess or I had heard from Parker (aside from the occasional group e-mail updating us on our bridesmaids’ responsibilities—yes, she was marrying Brad) and much longer since she had made it to Sunday brunch. Of course, this kind of separation was not all that unusual after a certain age, when couples seemed to drift off into their own private biospheres. It’s something a single girl must learn to accept in the way that she must accept painful blind dates, anxious mothers, and the sole responsibility of killing bugs and constructing bookshelves.
“Brad, I will talk about you if I damn well please…fuck you, too!”
Tess and I shared a confused look and then Tess remembered. “I always forget you wear that phone headset wherever you go. Good thing I didn’t start laying into that no-good Brad like I usually do,” Tess said mischievously. We could hear the muffled strains of an irate Brad through the earpiece. Parker smiled as she turned off her phone and removed her sunglasses. Her eyes were red and swollen.
I’d known Parker since college, but it seemed like she had been at least three different people since then. When we first met, she was deep in the throes of her party-girl persona— I think the first conversation we had took place as we both got sick in side-by-side stalls in a beer-soaked frat-house bathroom. Soon after, she gave up her hard-living ways and began her passionate quest to single-handedly launch the second women’s lib movement. She grew out her hair, threw out her makeup, and even tried to adopt unisex pronouns in her speech. Then she met Brad.
Despite the transient nature of our friendship, she was the most direct link to my past life. She witnessed firsthand the Greg saga, in its glory and its tortured defeat. In fact, Parker, Brad, Greg and I had spent the better part of our undergraduate career in tandem. This shared history would perhaps be a source of comfort had it not meant that I would soon have to see Greg again at Parker and Brad’s upcoming nuptials. Anyway, now she’s a publicist and the professional world seems to suit her. She has a closet full of Gucci suits, wears dark-rimmed glasses without a prescription, and has cut her dark hair into a sleek pageboy. Even better, she can easily work herself up into a genuine tizzy over anything from the newest line of lip glosses to the latest PalmPilot upgrade.
“Well, I think we better start with you, Parker. What’s going on?” Tess said, observing the damage.
Now, knowing Tess, this suggestion was very much intentional. Parker, when present, always went first. Why, you might be wondering, would the least reliable friend be allowed to go first? Very simple. Both Tess and I (and very likely even Parker) knew that she would quickly launch into a twenty-to-thirty minute monologue on the actual and tangential issues relating to her current crisis. She would insist vehemently (and completely unconvincingly) that this time she would cancel the wedding.
Meanwhile, Tess and I would simply nod or smile or frown, when appropriate, while we finished our breakfasts (French toast with lingonberry sauce for Tess; eggs Florentine with fruit salad for me). By the time she was finished, Parker would very likely have come to her own conclusions about her quandary or at least have exhausted herself by turning it inside out. Tess and I, now fully satiated, would have had enough time to properly caffeinate ourselves for our own respective rants.
I was polishing off my second bellini when I knew this was going to be a very specific type of Sunday affair. Every now and then, our brunch would extend well beyond the “meal” and turn into a messy, drunken, no-holds-barred, daylong event of relentless self-examination. And today was one of those days. It surely wouldn’t be over until one of us had cried, argued, or made a spontaneous phone call to an angry ex or an unsuspecting crush.
I knew this because, against my better intentions, I could hear
myself unraveling the tightest knots of minutiae about my failed relationship with Nick to the rapt attention of Parker, Tess and Wanda the cashier, who had joined the table after her shift was over.
“Honey,” Tess said solemnly. She moved my head with her hands so that, had I not lost all ability to focus, I would be looking her in the eyes meaningfully. “You’ve got to stop romanticizing these boys.”
“You’re right,” I said. And she was. It might seem strange to take such advice from someone who had gauzy scarves draped over every light fixture in her apartment, but I had to admit where men (or boys as she stubbornly insisted on calling them) were concerned, Tess had figured some things out. She understood my problem. Hell, even Wanda understood my problem at this point.
“Sweetheart, here in New York he’s an artist with a sexy accent,” Tess continued. “I’ll bet you back home in Liver-pool, he’s just a short bloke with a coloring-book fixation.”
“Wait.” Parker put down her drink sharply and pulled herself back from the table dramatically. Tess and I looked at her expectantly.
“He’s…short?” Parker looked dumbfounded. “You’re getting this upset over a short guy?”
“I’m with Parker,” Wanda said, picking at Parker’s cold French fries. “Case closed.”
With that, glasses raised, we all burst into the gleeful laughter of four drunk girls, gaily skewering the male species for sport.
Oh, to bottle those moments of alcohol-induced clarity before they hit the wall of sober confusion. Why couldn’t those moments last longer than the hangover?
I didn’t make it back to my apartment until dusk. Not entirely drunk, though certainly not sober, I was getting that slightly apprehensive, sinking-stomach feeling I always got as Sunday night descended. Plus, having spent the majority of the day avoiding necessary errands, household chores and, of course, work, this anxiety was laced with a heavy dose of slothfulness.
Determined to at least portray the idea of productivity, I turned on This American Life, straightened up my disheveled living room and set up my computer. Whether I actually did work was less important than the comforting idea that I could, if necessary. I poured a tall glass of water and set about the not-too-painful task of answering e-mail. And then, this one caught my eye.
Hello Lena,
Chase Bolton gave me your name as the new contact person for my segment. Could you possibly let me know what’s going on with it? It’s been dragging on for some time now and I’m leaving town in a few days.
Thanks,
Colin Bates
I felt an inexplicable rage begin to well up inside me: Who does he think he is—writing me like this, pressuring me to get going on “his” segment? I found myself typing furiously.
Mr. Bates,
While I appreciate your predicament, I must also demand your patience. I was only recently handed this assignment and cannot be held responsible for the actions, or lack thereof, of my predecessor, Chase Bolton. I also do hope you’re aware that this segment will be quite short and has no determined airdate.
Regards,
Lena Sharpe
With a haughty sniff, I sent it off. Who did he think he was? He was just some no-name writer telling me how to do my job. I looked down at the screen—a new message was blinking—it was from Colin Bates. Suddenly I began to feel painfully sober. I read nervously.
Hey Lena,
Not a problem. Just let me know when you can. And please, call me Colin.
—cb
What? I was beyond confused. Why was he playing this humble act?
I picked up his book, realizing that I hadn’t even looked at it yet. It was plain and relatively thin, with the author’s name printed inconspicuously below the title My Indian Summer. Oh God, I thought, no doubt it was the poor little rich boy’s story of his fab summer vacation!
I flipped to the back—okay, so it had gotten some good reviews, even from the Times (but it wasn’t Kakutani so it didn’t count as much, I consoled myself). On the inside flap, there was a picture of a man’s legs from the knees down. Underneath, it read: “A view of the author from the perspective of his dog, Emmylou. The two reside in Grafton, Vermont, where they enjoy playing Frisbee and taking long afternoon naps.” I found myself smiling in spite of myself. I responded:
Colin,
Sorry for the terse message before. I was caught off guard when Chase handed over the story—just trying to get my bearings. Thanks for understanding.
Lena
Okay, so I wasn’t playing hardball, but Jesus, after my work drama Friday and my brunch catharsis earlier that day, I was feeling pretty drained. Colin responded in moments. This was getting weird.
Lena,
Please—you’re the one stuck with documenting my boring life! Anyway, I have to ask, what’s the deal with Chase? I think he probably left me 20 messages about what I should wear for the sit-down interview. Strange one, no?
—cb
I was starting to like this guy. I wondered if he lived in a farmhouse. I could almost picture him lounging on a front-porch swing looking out at an apple orchard…no! I scolded myself. I had made a pact with myself—it was time to face reality. This was business. I sat up straight and began typing purposefully.
Colin,
If you wouldn’t mind, I’ll need you to provide me with a list of friends, family members, fellow writers, etc. that we can interview for background material. You can forward me the information via this e-mail address.
Lena
There. That wasn’t so hard.
Lena,
Sure, no problem. Though, I have to say I feel a little silly getting all this attention. You’re going to know everything about me and we’ve never met. I will get to meet you, won’t I?
—cb
I thought for a moment about how active my imagination could be, how much trouble and heartache it had caused me over the years. And then gradually, imperceptibly, I found myself thinking about gingham tablecloths, jars of apple butter, and crickets at night. Dammit.
chapter 4
“Oh, Lena,” Tess said wearily as she took a glass of champagne from a circulating waiter.
We sat down on a red velvet banquette and surveyed the crowd—a quintessential Parker production, more commonly known as a press party.
I didn’t respond to Tess. I regretted having said anything to her at all about Colin and tried to look preoccupied with the scene around us, but that was almost futile. I had been to so many of these types of events, I was on a first-name basis with the waitstaff. It was always the same party with the same food—an assortment of tuna tartare on toast, mini quiches, and duck spring rolls. The cast of characters rarely changed—the usual mix of suit-wearing executives, a cluster of chain-smoking models, the stray B-list actor, and the odd club kid or two thrown in for the illusion of street cred.
“Hey, Lena, I’m sorry.” Tess touched my arm gently. “It’s just that I thought you were going to try to stop getting ahead of yourself. I don’t want to see you get hurt again, you know?” Why did the avoidance of “getting hurt” always involve some other type of pain? I wondered.
“Tess, don’t worry. I just think he’s intriguing. He’s a writer. He lives in the country. He has a golden retriever, for God’s sake,” I said. “He couldn’t be more different than Nick.”
“Well, that’s a good start,” she said.
“Besides, I haven’t even seen him. It’s fun just to daydream, you know?” I said lightly. In fact, I had not responded to Colin’s last e-mail immediately for this very reason. The sheer ambiguity of our exchange allowed me countless fantastical projections about just who Colin Bates was and how our obvious connection would evolve. Could he have soulful gray-green eyes and a talent for making homemade pasta? Why of course! These questions (and my imagination’s affirmative answers) could go on for days. I would sit at my desk happily sorting faxes or stapling Nadine’s “memos” fueled by the giddy daydreams of Colin reading to me from his new manus
cript as we slurped down freshly made gnocchi. Sigh.
“Just promise me you’ll go slowly, okay?” Tess said, not giving up.
“Of course,” I said, but she eyed me suspiciously. “I swear, Tess!” I said, and looked away.
Circles of guests performing their festive obligations collided around us. I noticed a woman wearing men’s pinstripe pants and a tie wrapped around her chest like a bandeau top. A pencil-thin woman balanced a toddler on one hip and chatted on a cell phone—doing her best Jade Jagger-esque approximation of a bohemian parent. I spotted Parker expertly weaving her way through the crowd toward us, clipboard in hand, of course. She was in her element—a beautiful space, beautiful people and, most importantly, the position of authority to determine exactly who would be selected to enjoy it all. (I felt sure if Sleazy Cheese worked for Parker, he would be busy scrubbing floors in the back.)
“Thanks for coming, you guys—my agency friend flaked out on me again so we’re a little short on the model quotient, but you guys help fill the space,” she said brightly.
Tess and I shared a mental eye roll. It wasn’t personal— Parker was like a choreographer and press events were her ballet. To her, Tess and I were the klutzy understudies that always came through when the prima donna ballerinas got sick—or, in this case, got last-minute bookings for a Stuff magazine photo shoot. Parker adjusted her headset and perched herself on a windowsill cluttered with party detritus.
“I’m also glad you’re both here because I wanted to talk a little bit more about the dresses.”
And we were trapped. Tess flagged the waiter for another round and we girded ourselves, secretly praying for a heated coat-check incident to carry Parker and her premarital monologues away. As if a sign from God, Tess’s cell phone interrupted Parker’s intense dissection of the difference between periwinkle and robin’s-egg blue.
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