by Karma Brown
“Everyone has secrets!” He laughed, delighted by her resistance. Feeding on it. “I’ll tell you one if you tell me one.”
This was typically how their interactions went. James uninterested in doing what was required of him, trying to change the game ever so slightly. They’d also had a similar conversation a few weeks earlier, at a dinner with Georgia and his agent, where they’d discussed the plan for his next venture—a screenplay he’d been promising to write for a year but hadn’t yet gotten to. While Georgia went to freshen up in the ladies’ room and the agent took a call, James asked Alice to tell him something that scared her and he promised to do the same. She made up some bullshit about a plane crash—she had fears, but that wasn’t one of them—and he told her his was being irrelevant. So predictable, she’d wanted to say.
“We have to get down there. We can talk secrets later.”
He pouted, crossed his arms over his chest. “All work and no play makes James a very dull boy.”
He poured more bourbon into his glass, then filled another one, which he handed to Alice. He generally stuck with vodka until later in the evening, so the addition of bourbon this early on meant things were going to get messy.
“If I tell you a secret, do you promise to come downstairs with me?” Alice asked.
He took a gulp of the bourbon, nodded.
“Fine.” Alice sipped her drink. The bourbon burned, but she didn’t mind the flavor. “I ran over the neighbor’s cat when I was sixteen and told everyone it was the FedEx driver.” She tipped her glass back, finished the drink so quickly her eyes watered. “I’m allergic to cats. It might not have been an accident.”
James stared at her, a small smile playing on his lips. “Really?”
“Really,” Alice said. It wasn’t entirely true. It was her high school friend who drove over the cat (by accident, backing out of the driveway too fast, the day after she got her license), and then blamed her elderly neighbor. But when her friend’s dad reminded her they had security cameras trained on the driveway, she’d had to confess.
“See?” James said, pointing his glass toward Alice. “You are hard on the inside. And I’m getting hard just thinking about it.” He said the last part quietly, as though he never intended Alice to hear it. But she did, and it took everything in her to not walk out the door.
“Okay, drink up and let’s go.” Alice’s phone continued to beep and buzz. They were late, and James Dorian was not going to keep her from this promotion.
“Don’t you want to know my secret?” he asked, eyelids drooping as he drained his glass. Damn. She’d have to water down his next few drinks if they had any hope of getting through the ceremony. “It’s a good one.”
“Sure,” she said, grabbing her purse and checking her phone. Georgia. “Tell me your secret.” She typed back a quick response, letting Georgia know they were on their way. She expected to be underwhelmed by whatever Dorian said, so she was barely paying attention. He was one of those men who believed everything he did was fascinating. He was a brilliant writer, she’d give him that, but the rest of him could use an upgrade.
“Sit, sit,” he murmured. Alice contemplated telling him there was no time to sit; they had to go. But curiosity won out and so she sat. He rested his hand back on her thigh, tickling her skin through the skirt’s fabric.
“James,” she said, warning in her voice. Her phone buzzed again. “So what’s this secret?” Alice was impatient, irritated by his fingers and by Georgia’s constant texts.
“Oh, it’s a good one.” His hand slid higher.
“Stop it,” Alice said, her jaw tense as she clenched her teeth to prevent herself from spitting in his face, or telling him exactly what she thought of him. There was a moment of tension between them before James shrugged, letting his hand drop.
“Christ. Take it easy, Alice.” He got up from the couch, swaying like a flag in a stiff breeze, and walked to the full-length mirror. “So, my book, Widen the Fall?” he said, trying to straighten his bow tie as he looked in the mirror, making it more crooked. Widen the Fall was his most famous novel, published eight years earlier, which launched him from a highly acclaimed yet soft-selling novelist to his current status of world-famous, award-winning author.
“What about it?” Alice held her impatience in check. Georgia was getting more pissed with every passing text. Alice needed to speed things along and went to stand beside James so she could straighten his tie.
But he turned and leaned close to her, rested his hands on her shoulders (letting one settle too close to her breast), and used them to prop up his weight. She flinched but engaged her muscles to hold him up. Alice raised her eyebrows. Waited.
“I didn’t write it.” He released her all at once, putting her off-balance. The he clapped his hands together and said, “Okay, let’s go.”
“Wait. What do you mean you didn’t write it?” she asked, steadying herself. But James was rifling through his pockets, talking to himself under his breath as he did. Completely oblivious now that he had her undivided attention. “James, what do you mean you didn’t write it?”
“I didn’t write it. It was my idea, and I had an outline obviously.” Sure you did. “But I paid this college kid in one of my classes—Robbie Jantzen—who was desperate for a grade I would never give him otherwise and was a total suck-up. But he was talented. I could tell right away, and I knew,” he started, holding up one finger, “I knew he could do it. Raw talent. Terrible judgment, but an excellent writer.”
“Does Georgia know about this?”
“Now, come on, Alice. Don’t tell me I misjudged you.” He gave her a wry look. Yes, Georgia knew. She didn’t take on clients whose narratives she couldn’t control, and being able to do that well meant knowing their secrets.
Alice stood motionless, taking in what James said. That his most famous work—the one the New York Times called “brilliant and cunning and sure to become an American classic”—was in fact written by a twenty-something college student with a debt to pay and a hard-on for the elusive A grade James Dorian never handed out.
James put his finger to his lips and let out a long Shhhhhhhh. “But don’t tell anyone, sweet Alice. Maybe one day you and I could collaborate on something. You want to write a novel, right?” Alice couldn’t remember ever having shared that with him. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. All you girls want to write a goddamn novel. As transparent as your short skirts and desperate ambition.” Alice pressed her lips together, wishing she could tell the loathsome James Dorian where he could stick his assumptions. But he wasn’t wrong, at least about the ambition when it came to writing—Alice had on occasion imagined her name printed on the cover of a book, had been playing around with a loose idea set in the public relations world.
“Anyway, I bet we could come up with something fantastic.” He swayed again, fiddled with the fly on his pants. Alice looked away. “I have to take a piss. Be right back.”
James went on to win his award, and Georgia gave Alice a loaded look after they stuffed the semiconscious author into the car service limo, smiling as she said, “That was your ticket, my dear.”
Alice burst into the bedroom when she got home, woke Nate up, and told him the promotion was hers. He was so proud of her. “No one deserves this more,” Nate said. Alice agreed and, feeling altogether powerful and accomplished, gave Nate a blow job without any added encouragement.
* * *
• • •
But then Alice made a grave mistake. It was so stupid, actually, she was still trying to sort out how she let it happen.
She and Bronwyn had gone shopping the evening after the award event, trying on dresses for a friend’s upcoming wedding in side-by-side changing rooms shortly before the store closed. Alice had already filled her best friend in on her latest James Dorian story and, thinking she and Bronwyn were alone, confessed the Widen the Fall ghostwriting secret. She
did mention she couldn’t be sure it was true—James was drunk and generally couldn’t be trusted in that state—but imagine if it was? How the mighty would fall. They’d laughed somewhat cruelly and when they came out to show off their dresses were shocked to find another person in the changing room area. A woman around their age, who gave them a quick look before leaving the room. At which point Alice had gasped and turned to Bronwyn, clutching her friend’s hands. “Oh my God. Do you think she heard me? Did I actually say his name? Shit. Did I say his name?” Bronwyn assured her she hadn’t, or at least she didn’t think so, and even if she did, who cared? They made their purchases and went to have dinner, and by the next morning Alice had forgotten all about it.
At her performance review the next day, Georgia did give her a promotion of sorts—a few thousand dollars extra on her salary, an office with a window, and the promise she could soon ditch babysitting James Dorian, but, “For now, I need you to keep doing what you’re doing, Alice,” Georgia had said. “He likes you. And a happy James is what we want.”
Alice had been at first shocked, and then furious. She asked about the director position. “Like I said, keep doing what you’re doing and it will be yours within a year,” Georgia announced, before kicking Alice out of her office to take a call. A year? No. She couldn’t.
She strode back into Georgia’s office and waited for her boss to finish her call, like she had every right to barge in and interrupt.
“James Dorian didn’t write Widen the Fall.” Alice spoke calmly, folded her hands in her lap so Georgia couldn’t see them shaking. “But I suspect you already knew that.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“He paid one of his students. Some Robbie Jantzen. Apparently, a great writer,” Alice said. “James spilled it the other night. Drunk and loose-lipped as usual.” While her insides quivered—she had never spoken to Georgia like this before—she was fierce on the outside.
“You won’t say anything,” Georgia said, her voice not carrying its usual bravado. She pushed her shoulders back, hardened her expression. “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, I might, actually. But it’s entirely up to you.” Alice leaned forward, held Georgia’s gaze.
“What do you want, Alice?”
Alice rested her forearms on the desk, her sweaty palms sticking to the papers stacked there. “I want the promotion you promised me. Director.”
“No.”
“No?” Alice was confused, certain her strategy would work.
“No, Alice, I am not going to let you blackmail me—or blackmail our biggest client. You know why I didn’t give you the job?”
Alice stared at Georgia, her heart beating furiously.
“Because you aren’t good enough. Not yet, anyway. You have to earn it here. I’ve always made that clear, Alice.”
Without another word Alice walked out of Georgia’s office and into the washroom, unsure if she was going to throw up or burst into tears. Shaking, she splashed water on her face and then, once composed, told Sloan she was sick and going home. She didn’t look well, pale-faced and red-eyed, so it wasn’t a hard sell. Curled under her duvet a few hours later, she almost didn’t answer her phone, but when it rang for the fourth time she begrudgingly picked up to Georgia shrieking, “What did you do, Alice?”
Confused, Alice had bolted out of bed. “What are you talking about?”
Turns out, as terrible luck would have it, the woman in the changing room that evening with Alice and Bronwyn was a New York Post reporter, and she had, in fact, heard everything. What are the fucking chances? Alice thought, as Georgia continued to yell at her. This reporter’s editor was an acquaintance of Georgia’s and, as a professional courtesy, had called her before they ran the story. The reporter had been able to quickly corroborate it thanks to Robbie Jantzen, who was glad to finally take credit where credit was due—especially because his debut novel had recently published (to little fanfare) and he believed any publicity was good publicity.
Georgia hung up on her after only three minutes, her parting words being, “You’re fired, Alice. I’ll have your things sent to you.” Stunned by how swiftly things had fallen apart, Alice sat with her phone to her ear for another couple of minutes in shock. Her career was over—Georgia, well connected in Manhattan’s publicity world, would see to it. And once the Post story ran, everyone would know what Alice had done; she was upset, but she was also deeply humiliated. The repercussions of this one stupid blunder would cling to her like pet hair on black pants—there for all to see, including her husband, who up to this point believed her wise and talented and certainly not someone who would screw up her career by sharing gossip in a changing room. And with sudden clarity, she understood she had to get ahead of the story. Quickly. Like she had been trained to do, she prepared her spin, starting with Nate.
Early the next morning, she snuck out of their tiny bedroom while Nate slept and ate a big bowl of cereal, before sticking her finger down her throat, leaving the bathroom door open so Nate would hear her throwing up. When he came in to check on her she told him she had to quit because Georgia was verbally abusive and denied her the promised promotion despite everything Alice had done for her (for James Dorian), and she couldn’t deal anymore. Alice was sick from the constant negativity of the office, her stomach wrecked from the stress.
Nate was appropriately concerned, encouraging her to file a complaint with human resources. Alice resisted, said she wanted to move on, and declared she was finished with the dishonesty of public relations. At that Nate reminded her, as good husbands do, that she was too talented for such a lack of appreciation.
“My smart girl,” he murmured, dampening a washcloth in cold water and pressing it to the back of her neck as she hung over the toilet bowl. “This is for the best, babe. Now you can write that book you’ve always talked about. And who knows . . . maybe it’s a good time to start working on the baby thing?” He sounded pleased; life was so straightforward from his perspective. As though he believed Alice could simply turn off her drive, or shift it without breaking stride. An unnerving heaviness filled her at the realization that she might have overshot her plan, and she threw up again—this time without any effort.
When the news hit, Alice’s messages blew up. Had she known James Dorian was a con, having worked so closely with him for years? How could he have gotten away with it? And from Bronwyn, a pointed text after Alice hadn’t answered her six calls, which read, Was it that woman in the changing room?? She ended up telling Bronwyn but made her swear not to say anything—to anyone—until she could figure things out, because she’d already lied to Nate and didn’t want to compound the problem.
James Dorian swiftly went from literary darling to pariah. Not only were there demands for him to return awards, but his most current book suddenly disappeared off the publisher’s schedule, and Robbie Jantzen sued for damages. Alice stuck to her “I quit” story, and because she wasn’t named in the Post’s exposé (a small miracle) she remained an anonymous source in James Dorian’s decimation.
“Wow, your timing couldn’t have been better,” Nate declared when he read it, never suspecting Alice’s part in it. “Glad you got out of there when you did.”
Looking back, the lie was slight and mostly harmless—more an omission than a lie, really. It would have been easy to tell Nate the truth because it had been an honest mistake, a moment of poor judgment on Alice’s part that snowballed into disaster. And she might have confessed—despite her pride—had it not roused something in her, a curious yet intoxicating feeling of control that would pave the way for more significant lies with more perilous consequences. Alice was a good secret keeper, as long as it suited her.
15
Nellie
JUNE 11, 1956
Bread and Cheese Pudding
2 cups soft bread crumbs
4 cups milk
1 tablespoon butter
¼ teaspoon baking soda
A dash of paprika
2 cups grated cheese
5 eggs
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon pepper
Scald bread crumbs with milk, and add butter, baking soda, salt, pepper, and paprika, then combine with the cheese and slightly beaten eggs. Pour into greased baking dish and set in larger pan one-third filled with hot water. Bake slowly for 1 hour in 350°F oven.
Richard was late coming home, and dinner was growing cold. But no matter—Nellie actually liked the cheese pudding best chilled, straight from the fridge. Plus, she was happy to have a few moments alone. She’d had a piece of the Busy Day Cake with Miriam only a couple of hours earlier and so still had no appetite for dinner. But she knew Richard would come home expecting a warm meal on the table. She slid a piece of aluminum foil over the casserole dish, pinching the edges to hold in the heat.
Tonight’s dinner had been one of her mother’s regular dishes, often served for Sunday luncheon after church. It was dead easy and filled with simple ingredients a prepared housewife typically had on hand. Nellie liked to add a few of her own special touches, like a teaspoon of ground rosemary or sage, or maybe some fresh herbs from the garden. She twisted the lid off the cheese shaker jar that held her homemade herb mix, a Swann family recipe. It was less than half full, and Nellie made a note, as she set the jar on the table, to dry more herbs tomorrow for another batch.
Hearing the car pull in, she sliced a piece of cake for Richard’s dessert, carefully arranging the sugared violets even though he wouldn’t notice or appreciate the effort when he finally arrived home.
“Nellie?” he called out. The front door slammed. Nellie paused, hands held taut above the cake. She tried to determine his mood from the tone of his voice. Sometimes it was hard to tell.