Anna laughed while Madison looked confused.
“You broke out the industrial brassiere?”
“Definitely. If there is anything I don’t want to hear anymore, it’s a state of the union address on tits, gravity and the woman.”
Anna nodded in agreement “Oh yes. The pencil analogy. If you place a pencil underneath one and it falls, you’re firm. If it doesn’t fall, you’re drooping.”
“Which in essence means you can double as a bat rack for the Yankees,” Cathy added.
Madison feigned being uncomfortable. “I don’t want to hear any more of this talk; it might damage my gentlemanly sensibilities.” He pretended to cover his ears.
“Mr. Vibrating Cell Phone in My Front Pants Pocket has gentlemanly sensibilities,” Cathy quipped.
Anna laughed. “So you’ll be heading home after the meeting.”
“Yes, but I’m meeting Jim for lunch before the meeting.”
Anna raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure it’s lunch and not therapy?”
Cathy laughed. Anna thought she was more of a therapist than agent sometimes. “Yes, I’m sure it’s lunch. There’s always something going on his life.”
Anna picked up her briefcase. “I guess that’s why I’m an accountant. I know you get a percentage of his royalties, but it seems to me that you’re more than earning it.”
“Hey, it took two years and God knows how many rejections before we found a publisher for him and now he’s writing bestsellers. If he wants to vent and moan that’s fine with me. Anyway, I don’t consider him just a client, he’s also a friend.”
“Better you than me.” Anna turned to Madison. “Don’t you need a ride to the train station?”
“As a matter of fact I do, since you’re offering,” he answered.
“I know that’s the only reason you came over,” Anna said.
“Certainly not for my ego.”
“If you want your ego massaged, call one of your little harem girls.”
He winced. “I wish you wouldn’t call them that.”
“Would you rather we call them your stable of hoochie coochie mammas?”
“I like the sound of harem better.”
“I thought so.” Anna put her sunglasses on. “See you later, Cathy.”
“Have a good one, Cathy,” Madison smiled.
“I’ll see you two later.”
v
Cathy hadn’t started her career as a literary agent. Armed with a B.S. and a B.A. in business management from Yale, Cathy entered the work force as a paralegal. She was ten times smarter than the lawyers she worked for and they knew it. It was Cathy who researched the case law, wrote briefs and did everything short of appearing in court. It was an uptight existence. She gave becoming a lawyer serious consideration but she was a divorced mother of twins with mounting bills and major headaches.
To relieve stress Cathy would bake all kinds of goodies, using her great grandmother’s recipes from the Caribbean and her grandmother’s Southern recipes. On a lark, Anna told her to write a cookbook and the thought appealed to her. She gathered all the recipes, put together a book proposal and marketing plan. Then she pitched to every agent she could, including E.D. Smith. He decided to take a chance on her and together they got her book published successfully. In fact, they worked so well together E.D. suggested they become partners. Cathy had leaped at the chance to leave law behind. That was ten years earlier. Today the Chambers-Smith Agency represented 30 authors with a staff of two junior associates, two assistants and one office manager. E.D was the senior partner and Cathy the managing partner. Although sounding glamorous, the life of a literary agent took a lot of work and flexibility. Sometimes it called for Cathy to be a referee, a therapist or a hard line negotiator. Other days she was a sweet talking dealmaker, a challenging editor or a cheerleader. Nevertheless, it was a job she relished doing, most of the time.
The house quiet, Cathy took her briefcase downstairs. As she placed her briefcase on the table she checked the time. It was still early so she had a little time to watch Good Morning America in peace and get her thoughts together before heading into the city. Just as she got comfortable her cell phone rang.
“Wishful thinking,” she muttered, then took a deep breath before she hit the talk button.
“Hello?”
“Cathy.” It was the unmistakable voice of Jan Peters, Steven Anderson’s editor.
“Good morning, Jan. How’s it going?” She braced for the answer.
“Not bad but it could be better. Have you heard from Steven?”
“I spoke to him last week. Is there a problem?”
“I’m still waiting for him to complete the revisions on his current project.”
Cathy rubbed her forehead. “When I talked to him last week he said he was working on the final touches.”
“Really? I haven’t been able to reach him at all.”
“I’ll find out what’s happening and have him get in touch with you.”
“Thanks, Cathy. I’ve been trying to get in touch with him for the past week. I finally figured that I was better off calling you.”
“I understand. I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks a million, Cathy.”
“Not a problem,” she lied.
Cathy groaned as she searched through the programmed numbers on her phone. Steven Anderson was of her prima donna authors. He hated to be edited in any way. Cathy knew she had a fight ahead of her.
She got his machine. “This is Steven. I’m not available. Leave a message.”
“This is your agent, Steven. I just spoke to your editor. Please get your manuscript to Jan as soon as possible and that includes the third chapter as you agreed to do it. I’ll be in the city office this morning if you need to get in touch with me.”
She closed the phone.
Each of his three books had been with a different editor. He had already gone through two deadline extensions to finish this manuscript. If Steven gives me one more ounce of trouble I will kick his uppity butt ‘til hell wouldn’t have it again, she resolved. One day I’m going to get a life. At least I’d be worked up about a man I’m actually sleeping with, she thought as she un-muted the television.
Cathy watched the metropolitan news scroll on the bottom of the screen for the sports results. Yankees 3 Oakland 2. Yes! Anna had it right: She had watched the game and knew the final score but seeing it again just reinforced her Yankee smugness.
Being a Yankee fan had been a tradition in the Chambers family since the days of Babe Ruth. Cathy’s paternal great grandfather used to take her grandmother to see Ruth and Gehrig play back in the days when you could bring your wife and daughter for a quarter. The tickets had been a bit more expensive for Cathy’s dad but Yankee Stadium was the only place she could be a normal teenager. No one knew she didn’t celebrate birthdays, Christmas or holidays. At the stadium Cathy blended in with the crowd. In every other area of her life religious dictates made her stand out like a sore thumb.
Secretly she had wished her father would stand up to her mother so she and Anna could have a normal life, but as long as her mother could point to him as an adulterer, he was hard pressed to do anything but make sure he paid child support and alimony on time if he wanted to keep the peace.
Eventually Cathy and Anna rebelled in the only way they knew how: They got married young. Cathy thought it would deliver her from her mother and her religion’s controlling ways. As it turned out, her deliverance was scored by dueling banjos. Her husband cheated and left her to care for her twin babies, Alexander and Andrew, alone. She got divorced but stayed amongst the faithful for a while before disassociating herself in favor of giving her sons a chance at a normal life with all those things that had been taken away from her life, including real dating.
By the time Cathy got around to her love life after the divorce, she was 29 years old going on 16. With no dating experience she thought she’d hit the jackpot when she met Paul at one of her first real social functio
ns as a single woman. They dated for seven years before she caught him in the act with one of his students. It had broken her heart.
As the sports report wrapped up, Cathy rummaged through her bag for her train ticket. Her cell rang.
“Hello?”
“Mom?” the voice screeched.
“Alex? Is that you?”
“Yeah, Mom.”
“You have a cold or just a sore throat?”
“My throat is sore, Mom.”
“I can hear that. What have you done for it?” “Nothing yet. That’s why I called.”
Cathy stopped herself from laughing. At 6’3 and 6’2, respectively, her baby boys were quite grown. “You called me because you have a sore throat?”
He cleared his throat. “Yes.”
“You realize I am over 400 miles away on Long Island, right?”
“I know, Mom. What can I take?”
“I told you to pack the sore throat medicine.”
“What sore throat medicine?”
“The one I’ve been giving you for the past four years every time you got a sore throat.”
“Oh right. I forgot.”
“Don’t they have a place where you can buy something on campus?”
“Yeah.”
“Ask your brother to get it for you before he goes to his next class. Okay?”
“Yeah, Mom.”
“In the meantime, have some tea with lemon and honey. Don’t forget to gargle.”
“Okay. Did you see the game last night, Mom?”
“Of course I did.”
“Marcus Fox is the man,” he boasted.
“You’d better believe it.”
“You know, Mom, I didn’t think I’d find you at home.”
She looked at the clock. “I am going to the city a little later today. I have a business lunch and a staff meeting.”
“Sounds like a busy day, Mom.”
“It looks that way.”
“All right, Mom. I’ll let you go. I have to see if Andrew can pick up the medicine.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll talk to you later, Mom.”
“Okay, but don’t forget to take something for your throat so you don’t miss too many classes.”
“I won’t. Talk to you later, Mom.”
“Okay.”
She un-muted the television again.
At the end of her relationship with Paul nearly three years earlier, Cathy had decided she didn’t have the time or energy to devote to dating. The only man in her life now usually took her on a rollercoaster ride of highs and lows for six months before leaving her to pine away until it was spring again. That man was shortstop extraordinaire, Marcus Fox.
Marcus, the go to guy for the Yankees, was a convenient crush for Cathy. He personified all she could want in a man: He was good looking, smart, a gifted athlete and best of all, unattainable. After all, she’d been up to the plate once with her husband and once with Paul. Win or lose, it was the perfect relationship.
v
Marcus’ stomach made it hard to concentrate during the business meeting. It had taken his agent several weeks and God knows how many phone calls, emails and faxes to set up this endorsement deal for the car dealership. Marcus certainly didn’t want to blow it but he hadn’t eaten since seven that morning. He glanced at the highlighted numbers on the proposal. Who would have guessed that a kid from the suburbs of Michigan would have a payday like this? he thought. He was also fully aware that with the addition of more zeros, he’d come under greater scrutiny. While Marcus welcomed the money, he wasn’t crazy about the surcharge, the loss of his privacy. He started to fidget at the thought.
Ben Bradford knew that look all too well. His favorite and his only client was restless, so he made a move to wrap up the meeting. A spectacled, tall, distinguished looking, athletic WASP with salt and pepper hair, Ben was more like a favorite uncle than sports agent.
Ben stood up with his hand out. “All right, gentlemen. I think we’ve covered everything.”
Abe Bryant shook Ben’s hand. “I’m glad we got this worked out. I’ll have my attorney’s office fax over the final papers to your guy and if everything checks out we’ll messenger the contracts over.”
“Sounds good to me.” Ben smiled and turned to Marcus. “What do you think, Marcus?”
Marcus, who was staring blankly out the living room window, snapped into action. “I think it’s good.” He shook Abe’s hand and escorted him to the door.
Both Ben and Abe looked a bit discombobulated at how quickly Abe was being ushered out. Ben recovered the moment. “I know you have another meeting so we appreciate your taking the time to see us personally.”
“Not a problem. I was happy to do it.” He turned to Marcus. “Good luck at the game.”
“Thanks.”
Once Abe was out of the door Ben turned to Marcus. “My God, Marcus, you practically gave the man the bum’s rush.” He smiled. “He did just offer you a pretty big payday.”
Marcus slipped into his sports jacket. “I’m sorry, but man, I’m starving.” He patted his stomach as if to quell the beast.
“You want to order something in?”
“No. I’m in the mood for a nice steak.” Looking in the mirror, Marcus straightened his jacket. It fitted him as if someone had poured fabric over his broad shoulders and down to his trim waist. He looked razor sharp and he knew it.
“How about Keen’s?” Ben asked.
Marcus grinned. “Now you’re talking. You’re also buying, right?” he teased Ben.
“I’m not the one with all the zeros in my paycheck,” Ben joked.
Marcus put his arm around Ben. “I guess I could spot you this one time.”
The two men laughed as they left the apartment to wait for the elevator.
After stepping on, Ben pressed the button for the main floor. The elevator stopped two floors down and a lovely, lanky brunette got on. She batted her eyes at Marcus.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Fox,” she practically purred.
Marcus smiled. “Good afternoon.”
“Looks like things are heating up today. Wouldn’t you say, Mr. Fox?” she asked.
“It certainly does,” Marcus answered, ready to play her game.
“It will cool down soon enough, though,” Ben said, injecting himself into the conversation. Marcus got the hint.
For all his triumphs on the field, Marcus Fox hadn’t had much success with relationships. Some people thought it was due to all his high profile choices, while others said it was the race factor.
Marcus’s mother was Irish and his father African American. Naturally Marcus had his father’s skin tone. Most people, especially African Americans, identified him as black. Therefore, he’d taken a lot of heat for not dating black women exclusively. Occasionally he got some hate mail chastising him about it.
When they arrived on the main floor, Ben pulled Marcus back to let the brunette get a head start.
“What did you do that for?” Marcus complained.
Ben looked at him knowingly. “You know why I did it.”
Marcus dismissed the thought. “It was just a couple of letters, Ben. No big deal.”
“Well, you’ll have to excuse me if I take it more seriously than you do. I don’t take threatening letters lightly and you shouldn’t either. There are some crazy folks out there.”
“I know. Still, I don’t want to live in fear about my choices. If I date a woman it’s not because she’s white or black, it’s because there is something about her that attracts me. ”
“I know the heart wants what it wants. You should still be careful.”
Marcus patted Ben on the back. “I’ll take it under advisement. Right now I have to call for the car.”
“The car’s here.” Ben pointed to the front entrance.
“Cool. When did you do that?”
“That’s my little secret.” Ben laughed.
CHAPTER 2
There was something about being in N
ew York that despite the heat put a little pep in Cathy’s step. She had a rhythm as she walked through Penn Station. A person seeing her might think she was walking the fashion runways to the beat of the Bee Gees’ “Staying Alive” or the intro to Beyonce’s “Crazy in Love”. Cathy was as confident as she’d ever been in her life with her size 16/18 body.
Cathy stepped off the escalator near Herald Square and continued her strut before she stopped to look at her reflection in the window of Macy’s. Turning her body slightly, she made sure the v-neck shirt dress revealed a hint of her size 40 DD cleavage in just the right way. With her breasts she made quite an impression when she entered a room. She gave herself one last check. Everything as it should be, she continued her booty-licious assault on 34th street.
A welcome rush of cool air greeted Cathy as she arrived at Keen’s around twelve forty-five. Though she’d enjoyed her walk, she didn’t feel much like waiting around to get a table and Keen’s was crowded. Lucky for her she didn’t have a long wait.
“Cathy!” Dahlia, Keens’ exuberant and beautiful hostess, came over with arms outstretched for a hug. “How are you, darling? You look wonderful.” Dahlia had a way of making everything she said sound like a song.
“I’m good, Dahlia. How are you?” She shrugged her shoulders. “I can’t complain.” Dahlia’s warm smile brightened once again. “How about we get you a table?”
“That would be lovely,” Cathy sighed.
“Follow me.” She grabbed a couple of menus. Cathy followed Dahlia through the dining room to a
place near some gorgeous young women, all of whom looked like models; the table was a virtual kaleidoscope of beautiful women of all colors. Cathy felt a sense of dread. Oh God, it figures I’m actually hungry this afternoon. Should I wait and let Dahlia find another table further away? No sooner did the thought enter her mind, than she dismissed it. Keen’s was rather crowded and she was hungry; that was the bottom line. Besides, her client, Jim Weil, would surely appreciate the view more than she.
“Here you go, darling.” Dahlia placed the menus on the table.
Cathy sat down. “Thanks, Dahlia.”
Not His Type Page 2