In Her Shoes

by Jennifer Weiner

  Maggie took a deep breath and, even though she’d practiced the poem a dozen times on the plane, had long since committed it to memory, she felt a tremor of nerves work its way along her spine. Ella raised her chin in the exact expression that Rose and Maggie both wore at times, and Charles smiled at her proudly from his seat in the back. Maggie exhaled, and nodded at her grandmother. Then she fixed her eyes on Rose, wearing the beautiful dress she and Ella had made, and began:

  “ ‘i carry your heart with me (i carry it in

  my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

  i go you go, my dear;and whatever is done

  by only me is your doing, my darling)

  i fear

  no fate(for you are my fate, my sweet)i want

  no world(for beautiful you are my world, my true)

  and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

  and whatever a sun will always sing is you’ ”

  Maggie’s throat closed like a fist. In the front row, Lewis nodded at her, and Ella was smiling through her tears, and her father was pushing up his glasses and taking fast swipes at his eyes, and the assembled guests were staring at her expectantly. Under the chuppah Rose’s eyes were wide and her lips trembling. And Maggie could imagine her mother, too, a ghost in the back row, the brightness of her red lipstick and gold earrings, watching over her daughters, knowing that in spite of everything both of them had grown up brave, and smart, and beautiful, that they’d be sisters to each other, and friends, too, and that Rose would always want what was best for Maggie, and Maggie would always want what was best for Rose. Breathe, Maggie thought, and began again:

  “ ‘here is the deepest secret nobody knows

  (here is the root of the root and the bud

  of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

  higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)

  and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart’

  “ ‘i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)’ ”

  She smiled at the crowd and smiled at her sister, and it was as if she could see the future—the house and the babies that Rose and Simon would have, the vacations where they’d visit her and Ella in Florida, where they’d swim together, Rose and Maggie and Ella and Rose’s babies, in a wide blue pool under the sunshine, and where they’d curl up together at night on Ella’s bed, side by side by side until they fell asleep.

  “E.E. Cummings,” she said, knowing that she’d done it, that everyone’s eyes had been on her and she’d said every word perfectly; she, Maggie Feller, had gotten it just right.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book would not exist without the help and hard work from three incredible women. My agent, the divine and beneficent Joanna Pulcini, is a tireless advocate and a brilliant reader. Liza Nelligan’s passion and commitment (along with her own tales from the Sister Zone) helped me more than I can say. Greer Kessel Hendricks not only took me under her wing and agreed to publish me, but also appointed herself the unofficial queen of my fan club and de facto personal publicist. No writer could hope for more careful readers and more vigorous champions, and I’m blessed and lucky to have them as my colleagues and my friends.

  Teresa Cavanaugh and Linda Michaels helped Rose and Maggie see the world. Joanna’s assistant, Anna deVries, and Greer’s assistant, Suzanne O’Neill, dealt swiftly with my telephone calls. Laura Mullen at Atria is a miracle worker and incredibly cool to boot. My thanks to all of them.

  Thanking all of the writers who’ve inspired me, encouraged me, and been incredibly generous would constitute a book in itself, so I’ll settle for making mention of Susan Isaacs, Anna Maxted, Jennifer Cruise, John Searles, Suzanne Finnamore, and J. D. McClatchy.

  Thanks to all of the members of my family who give me love, support, and material. Special thanks to my sister, Molly Weiner, the quick brown fox, for her grace and good humor.

  Thanks to my friends, who indulged me, encouraged me, laughed when they heard pieces of this book, tactfully refrained from mentioning the disastrous state of my home and my personal hygiene when I was knee-deep in revisions, and let me borrow pieces of their lives, especially Susan Abrams, Lisa Maslankowski, Ginny Durham, and Sharon Fenick.

  I want the world to know that Wendell, King of All Dogs, is still my muse; and that my husband, Adam, is still my traveling companion, first reader, and an all-around fabulous guy.

  Finally, most important, I’m more grateful than I can say to all the readers who came to my readings or wrote to tell me they liked Good in Bed, and to hurry up already with this one! I thank them for their kindness, and their generous support, and for taking the time to tell me that what I’d written hit home in their lives, and I look forward to telling them many more stories in the future. My Web site is www.jenniferweiner.com, and you’re all invited to stop by and say hello!

  Thanks for reading,

  —Jen

  THE NEXT BEST THING

  Actors aren’t the only ones trying to make it in Hollywood . . .

  At twenty-three, Ruth Saunders left her childhood home in Massachusetts and headed west with her seventy-year-old grandma in tow, hoping to make it as a screenwriter. Six years later, she has hit the jackpot when she gets The Call: the sitcom she wrote, The Next Best Thing, has gotten the green light, and Ruthie’s going to be the showrunner. But her dreams of Hollywood happiness are threatened by demanding actors, number-crunching executives, an unrequited crush on her boss, and her grandmother’s impending nuptials.

  Set against the fascinating backdrop of Los Angeles show business culture, with an insider’s ear for writer’s room showdowns and an eye for bad backstage behavior and set politics, Jennifer Weiner’s new novel is a rollicking ride on the Hollywood roller coaster, a heartfelt story about what it’s like for a young woman to love, and lose, in the land where dreams come true.

  Read on for a look at Jennifer Weiner’s new novel

  Available in July 2012 from Atria Books

  Excerpt from The Next Best Thing copyright © 2012 by Jennifer Weiner

  Chapter One

  The telephone rang.

  If it’s good news, there’s going to be a lot of people on the call, Dave had told me. Bad news, it’ll just be one person from the studio, the executive in charge of the project. I lifted the phone to my ear, feeling like the air had gained weight and my arm was moving through something with the consistency of tar. My heartbeat hammered in my ears. My jeans and T-shirt felt too small, my bedroom looked too bright, and the atmosphere felt thin, as if I was working harder than I normally did to pull oxygen into my lungs. Please, God, I thought—me, the girl who hadn’t been in a synagogue since my grandma and I had left Massachusetts, who’d barely remembered to fast last Yom Kippur. But still. I was a woman who’d lost her parents, who’d survived a dozen surgeries and emerged with metal implants in my jaw, the right side of my face sunken and scarred, and an eye that drooped. In my twenty-eight years, I hadn’t gotten much. I deserved this.

  “Hello?”

  “Hold for Lisa Stark, please!” came Lisa’s assistant’s sing-song. My breath rushed out of me. Lisa was my executive at the studio. If she was the only one on the call, then this was the end of the road: the pass, the thanks-but-no-thanks. The no. I pushed my hair—lank, brown, unwashed for the last three days—behind my ears and sat on the bed. I would keep my dignity intact. I would not cry until the call was over.

  I had told myself to expect bad news; told myself, a thousand times, that the numbers were not in my favor. Each year, the network ordered hundreds of potential new programs, giving writers the thumbs-up and the money to go off and write a pilot script. Of those hundreds of scripts, anywhere from two to three dozen would actually be filmed, and of those, only a handful—maybe four, maybe six, maybe as many as ten—would get ordered to series. My sitcom, The Next Best Thing, loosely based on my own life with my grandmother, had made the first cut three months ago. I’d quit my job as an assistant at
Two Daves Productions in order to work full-time on the script, progressing through the steps from a single-sentence pitch—a college graduate who’s been laid off and her grandmother who’s been dumped, move to an upscale assisted-living facility in Miami, where the girl tries to make it as a chef and the grandmother tries to live without a boyfriend— to a paragraph-long pilot summary, then a beat sheet detailing each scene, then a twelve-page outline, and, finally, a forty-page script.

  For months I’d been writing, holed up in my bedroom, or doing the clichéd thing of bringing my laptop to a neighborhood coffee shop, where I was surrounded by my more attractive peers, the ones who carried on long, loud telephone conversations in which they used the words my agent as often as possible, and did everything but prop tip cups and WRITER AT WORK signs in front of their laptops. I wrote draft after draft, turning each one over to the studio that had funded my efforts and to the network that would, I hoped, eventually air them. I considered each round of notes; I cut and edited, rewrote and rewrote again. I pored over books for expectant parents to give my characters just the right names, and spent days in the kitchens of local restaurants so I could nail the details of my heroine’s job.

  Two weeks ago I’d delivered the absolutely, positively final final draft. I’d brushed my lips against every single one of the pages, kissing each one lightly before I slid the script into the hole-puncher, then slipped the brass brads through the holes and pushed them shut.. To celebrate, I’d taken Grandma out to lunch at the Ivy, at her insistence. My grandmother, a petite and stylish woman of a certain age, was a great fan of the tabloids. Any restaurant where the paparazzi were a regular presence on the sidewalk was a place she wanted to be.

  When we walked up to the stand, the maitre d’ looked at me—in a plain cotton shift dress and five-year-old zippered black leather boots, with my laptop tucked under my arm—and gave a small but discernible shrug. My grandmother stepped toward him, smiling. If I dressed to maximize comfort and minimize attention, in shades of black and gray and blue, with a single necklace or a single bracelet and sensible shoes, my grandmother had style enough for the both of us. That day she wore a black-and-white cotton dress with a black patent-leather belt and black canvas espadrilles with bows that tied at her ankles. Her necklace was made of vintage Bakelite beads in poppy red, and she had a matching red patent-leather clutch in her hand and a red silk flower tucked behind one ear.

  “How are you today?” she asked.

  “Fine.” The host’s eyes lingered on her face as he tried to figure out if she was someone he should know, a screen star of yesteryear or one of the Real Housewives’ mothers. “This is my granddaughter,” said Grandma, and gave me a brisk poke in the small of my back. I stumbled obediently toward the podium with a can-you-believe-her look on my face, wishing I’d worn a necklace or a flower, or had thought to carry a pretty purse, or to have purchased one in the first place. “Ruthie is a writer.” The man behind the podium could barely suppress his wince. Writer, of course, was not the magic word that would cause him to usher us to the finest table in the restaurant and send over a bottle of free Champagne. Maybe writing for TV was a big deal elsewhere in America. In Hollywood, it meant less than nothing. Television writers were as common as cat dirt, and anyone with a working laptop and a version of Final Draft on her hard drive could claim to be one. You could almost see the word nobodies in a balloon floating above the man’s neatly barbered head as he led us to a table so far in the back it was practically in the kitchen. “Ladies,” he said.

  Grandma paused and rested her hand on the man’s forearm. She tilted her face up toward his, batted her eyelashes, and gave him her gentle smile.

  “Would it be possible for us to have a booth? Or a table with a little more light?” Even at her age—seventy-six, although she’d have shot me if I’d said it out loud—her skin was still smooth, her eyes still bright, face vivid with rouge and lipstick, eyeliner and curling false lashes. Her waist was still slim, and her teeth were all her own. “We’re celebrating.”

  He smiled back—it is, I have learned over the years, almost impossible to resist my grandma’s smile—and led us to a booth halfway between the open front porch, where the stars would pose and preen for the cameras, and the dim back room, where the nobodies were sequestered. We shared pasta and a chopped salad, had a glass of wine apiece, and split tiramisu for dessert. As we ate, Grandma told me stories from the set of OR, the medical drama where she’d been working as an extra that week. “The kids they bring in,” she complained, running the edge of her spoon along the ridge of whipped cream that topped the tiramisu. “They’re out partying all night, so by the time they get in their gurneys they’re exhausted. One of the ADs has to run around set five minutes before every take just making sure they’re not sleeping.”

  “Tough gig,” I said. Grandma herself was spending eight hours a day sitting in the fake OR’s fake waiting room. Every day, from ten in the morning until six o’clock at night, with union-mandated breaks for lunch and snacks, she’d get paid to do what she might have done for free on a normal day—sit in an uncomfortable plastic chair with a tote bag of knitting in her lap, looking somewhere between bored and worried as she waited for her name to be called.

  “You have to respect them,” she said, nibbling at the strawberry that sat on the side of the dessert plate. “Finding a way to get paid for sleeping. That’s initiative.”

  “Nice work if you can get it,” I said, and flagged down our waiter, and paid the bill. Then Grandma had gone back to the Radford lot in the Valley, a neighborhood ten miles away from and ten degrees hotter than Hollywood, where a number of television shows and movies were shot, and I drove back to Hancock Park, a pretty neighborhood with spacious sidewalks and green lawns, to our apartment in an Art Deco building called the Moroccan, to wait.

  The network had started picking up its comedies a week after our lunch. I’d spent my days with my phone in my hand, from the moment I opened my eyes to the moment I closed them. I would perch it on the edge of the sink while I showered or brushed my teeth, and sleep with it plugged in underneath my pillow. My thumb was permanently attached to the screen, hitting “Refresh” on Deadline Hollywood and L.A. Confidential and all of the websites that covered the industry. I’d quit going to the gym after I realized how much I was annoying my fellow swimmers by pausing at the end of each lap to check my phone, which I’d stowed in a waterproof plastic Ziploc bag and left by the deep end. I was too nervous to sit through a meal but I was snacking constantly, eating bags of pretzels and dehydrated carrot chips and Pirate’s Booty and sunflower seeds that I didn’t really want, and ignoring my boyfriend Gary’s phone calls, because there was, we’d learned, nothing he could say or do that would possibly calm me down.

  Now here was my news, I thought, waiting for Lisa to get on the line, and the news wasn’t good. Oh, well. At least I’d be disappointed in private. After I’d made the mistake of telling Grandma that I should be hearing something this week, she’d announced her intention of giving me my space. “You don’t need an old woman breathing down your neck,” she’d said, all the while hovering within five feet of my person, dressed in her at-home attire of lounging pajamas or a vividly embroidered silk robe, her slippered feet noiseless on the wooden floors as she found one task after another to keep her busy. So far she’d polished the silver, rearranged the china, emptied, scrubbed, bleached and refilled the kitchen cupboards and the refrigerator, and regrouted the powder-room tile. That morning while we drank the smoothies she’d made of pineapple and mango and Greek yogurt, she’d announced her plans to rent a steamer and replace the dining-room wallpaper, even though I’d begged her to leave that job to the professionals.

  “Nu?” she’d ask casually, just once every night, as she served dinner to me and Maurice, her gentleman caller. As usual, her nerves were made manifest in the reemergence of her Boston accent and in her cooking. On Friday, when the first wave of pickups was announced, she’d prepared a standing
rib roast, Yorkshire pudding, potatoes au gratin, and homemade horseradish sauce. On Saturday, she’d served a breast of veal stuffed with cornbread and sausage and studded with garlic and rosemary, and on Sunday, she’d produced an entire Thanksgiving dinner, complete with two kinds of potatoes and a turkey she’d brined in the hot tub (our down-the-hall neighbors, devoted fitness buffs, had howled when they’d gone up to the roof for a little post-hike relaxation and found, instead of clear water, a fragrant brew of bay leaves and garlic cloves and juniper berries, with a kosher turkey bobbing merrily in the middle).

  I would pick at my food, then excuse myself, telling Grandma and Maurice that I needed to work, closing my bedroom door behind me. Of course, I wasn’t working. I was staring at my phone, trying to will it to ring, and when I wasn’t doing that I was dialing the first nine of the ten numbers that would have connected me with Dave.

  “Ruth?” The voice on the other end of the line startled me so badly that I gave a little squeak. The assistant, who had probably grown accustomed to the quirks of neurotic writers, pretended not to notice. “I have Lisa on the line. Please hold for Tariq, and Lloyd and Joan from the network.” I got to my feet, my heart lifting as quickly as it had sunk. The network. Oh God oh God oh God. The network doesn’t call unless it’s a pickup, Dave had said. They give the bad news to the agent, not the writer, and probably you’ll read it online before someone has the decency of telling you to your face that your show is dead. But maybe Dave was wrong. It had been years since his own show was green-lit, years since he’d had to sit, in breathless, chest-pounding agony, waiting for the call, this call.