by Bridie Clark
I blinked. “You’re offering me a job?”
“Oh yeah. An offer. What’re they paying you at P and P?”
I told her. It was a number all too close to my age.
“God, that’s really pathetic. I’ll triple that and give you the editor title. You’ll be expected to carry a lot of books here, but it’s an exciting, fast-paced environment. That work for you?”
I told her I’d think about it and get back to her quickly. She smiled at me with amusement. “I hope you’ll say yes,” she said, standing up. “I could use someone like you here. Someone smart, ambitious, ready to take on the world.”
I wondered briefly how she’d been able to forge such a generous opinion of me from the three sentences I’d uttered during our interview, but I decided to accept the compliment. My head was spinning as Vivian shook my hand and vanished down the hallway. A beleaguered Milton rematerialized—still scowling, looking even more dejected than he had before—and ushered me out to the lobby.
I have a lot to think about, I mused as the golden elevator doors squeezed shut and I was carried back down to the lobby.
When I got back to the office, Mara was grinning maniacally at me. “You have an admirer,” she sang.
I looked at my desk. An enormous bouquet of bright pink peonies had overtaken it completely. I raced over to read the note: “Can’t wait to see you again. Hope it went well today with Vivian. —R.”
I pinched myself. Ouch—same place I’d pinched the night before, apparently.
“You have got to fill me in!” Mara squealed. “C’mon, let’s go to lunch. I need to know everything that led up to those flowers. And Vivian Grant! Are you seriously entertaining the thought of working for that dreadful woman?”
“How ’bout sushi? My treat. And keep your voice down,” I shushed, although our editorial department still looked pretty much like a ghost town. I guess a handful of people had decided, like Jackson, that it wasn’t worth coming in on a summer Friday, opting instead to work from home.
As we walked the block to the restaurant and I filled Mara in, I felt myself growing more and more excited. By the time we plopped down into a big red booth at Hana Sushi, I could barely restrain myself from pumping my fist victoriously in the air. Work and love were finally clicking into place! The perfect man had reentered my life after a decade of daydreams, and I was finally going to be an editor! Vivian might be eccentric, but she would give me the reins to acquire books that I’d long dreamed of editing. She’d teach me to approach books with her true marketing genius, she’d show me how to lift a book over the flooded marketplace. I’d be challenged to reach my full potential! And I could finally stop worrying about making ends meet. Mr. Lew would be happy.
All in all, I thought, days don’t get much better than this.
“So can I tell you what I think?” Mara asked as we popped edamame in our mouths.
“Shoot.”
“I know the money’s great, and the title, but Claire, this Grant woman is an absolute horror. I know a girl who worked there for six weeks after working for four years at Little, Brown. She was so traumatized by Vivian’s tantrums that she moved to Wyoming and took up macramé, tossing her whole publishing career down the drain. Another friend of a friend was in double sessions of therapy every week and still coming apart at the seams. She developed this nasty skin rash from all the stress—” Mara shuddered at the memory. “You probably don’t want to hear about it while you’re eating. Anyway, Vivian is brutal, Claire. Nobody wants to work for her. She looks for green, eager-to-please young editors and basically piles crazy amounts of work on them, without any support, until they burn out in a few months. There are reasons why she’s not going after senior people, experienced editors. They wouldn’t put up with her crap.”
I winced, ego bruised. Suddenly I didn’t feel so much like doing my victory dance. Was Mara suggesting that Vivian hadn’t offered me the job because she thought I had great potential—but, rather, because she couldn’t find anyone else who’d work for her?
“Don’t get me wrong,” Mara backpedaled, realizing that she’d hurt my feelings, “she clearly recognized that you’re a rising star. And who knows, you might learn a ton by being thrown in the deep end without a life jacket. But I don’t know anyone who hasn’t been miserable working for her, and I’d just hate to see that happen to you.”
We ate our shrimp shumai in silence as I ran my options through my head. I thought about what Mara had said. So what if Vivian was looking for a workhorse? Maybe drive and work ethic meant more to her than experience. And so what if I did burn out a little at Grant Books—I could handle anything for at least a year, I reasoned, and by then I’d have a much improved résumé and track record.
One year of hard labor in exchange for a major breakthrough in my career. It seemed like a worthwhile trade-off, all things considered.
“But enough about work stuff,” Mara piped up. “For God’s sake, Claire, please tell me why Randall Cox is sending you flowers!”
I gave her the rundown on the night before, which had ended with the perfect good-night kiss in his town car before he dropped me off. It had been just right—not too dry, too wet, too long, or too short. And most miraculously, I’d found the strength to pull away first. I, Claire Truman, had left Randall Cox wanting more.
Mara gazed across the table, loving every word.
After lunch, the workday over, I walked to my apartment from the Christopher Street subway station. I’d lived in the same tiny studio apartment on the same block for the past five years—and even though my street was crawling with hustlers and crowded with kinky sex shops, it felt like home.
I fished out the business card that Randall had given me the night before and took a deep breath. I’m not eighteen years old anymore, I reminded myself, trying to calm my jitters. I shouldn’t be this nervous about calling a boy. Another deep breath. I dialed his office number.
“Randall Cox’s office.”
“Oh, hi—is Randall in? This is his friend Claire.”
“I’m sorry, Claire, he’s tied up in a meeting. I’m Deirdre, Randall’s secretary.” Deirdre sounded reassuringly middle-aged and professional. “Actually, Randall had asked me to call you. He wanted me to check your availability for dinner on Monday night. Unfortunately, he’ll be away on business this weekend, so that’s his first opportunity to see you. Are you free?”
“My availability for … oh, yes, Monday works for me.” That was a little strange. I’d never been asked out by anyone’s secretary before. But then I’d never dated anyone as successful and important as Randall before.
“Lovely. Randall was hoping you could meet him at Bouley at eight-thirty p.m.”
“Sure, that sounds great.”
“Lovely. And did you receive your flowers?”
“I did, actually, that’s really why I was calling—to thank Randall for connecting me with Vivian Grant, and for the beautiful peonies. They’re absolutely—”
“Lovely,” Deirdre cut me off. “I’ll let Randall know you called, dear, and he’ll see you Monday at eight-thirty p.m.”
“Lovely,” I echoed. Uh-oh. Maybe Deirdre’s one-word vocabulary was contagious.
I swung open the door to my apartment, dropped my bag on the floor, took two steps, and collapsed like a 1940s film siren on the couch.
I was grateful to have the afternoon off. Lots to think about. Lots to mull over. Big decisions. Would taking the job with Vivian be selling my soul to the devil, as Mara seemed to think, or would it be the booster shot my career desperately needed?
But the truth was, I already knew my answer. Vivian Grant had me at “editor” and “triple the salary.” How could I possibly say no?
CHAPTER THREE
THE AGE OF INNOCENCE
Waiter! A bottle of ’82 Lafite Rothschild. We’re celebrating!” Randall called out rather grandly, steering me toward the back of Bouley.
Exactly what I needed: a drink. What a day. Between telli
ng Jackson about my job offer and then telling Vivian that I would accept it, I’d run the emotional gamut. On the bright side, all that drama hadn’t left me much time to get nervous for my second date with Randall.
But now I was making up for lost time. Taking a deep breath, I straightened the black Calvin Klein pencil skirt that Bea had convinced me to buy at the Barney’s warehouse sale two years ago. Thank goodness she had, as it was the only thing in my closet—save the red dress, which had already made the rounds—that seemed adequately sophisticated for a date with Randall Cox.
And I’d paired off the skirt with my first ever pair of Jimmy Choos, purchased during a panicked sprint around Saks’s shoe department that day. I’d planned to wear my usual black heels—Nine West, slightly scuffed but still professional—but during my lunch break, it suddenly struck me that a date with Randall Cox practically required Choos. Even if they maxed out my credit card.
As beautiful as the Choos were—and they were, truly, with delicate stilettos and a thin silver strap around the ankle—they were also precarious. As Randall propelled us briskly toward a small candlelit table, the combination of my snug skirt and four-inch stilts made me feel as if I were walking a tightrope very quickly with my legs bound together.
Please do not let me bite it, I prayed to the gods of fashion. They weren’t used to hearing from me, but I hoped they’d show some mercy anyway. If you just let me wiggle my way to that chair, I prayed, I will sacrifice my entire collection of coed naked T-shirts once and for all … maybe even my worn-out Snoopy nightgown. Just ten more steps.
Finally, we reached our designated nook on the south wall, and Randall pulled out my chair. I sank into it gratefully. Unfortunately, not gracefully. As I planted down, I teetered just the littlest bit, thanks to the shrink-wrapped skirt. Trying to steady myself, I knocked my hand against an already filled water glass. I watched in horror as a stream of water cascaded across the table and splashed Randall’s suit jacket.
“Ah!” he cried out involuntarily, dabbing frantically.
“Oh—I am so—sorry, Randall, I’m so sorry!” I wanted to crawl under the table. Why was I such a klutz? Two minutes into the date, and I’d already gone and ruined his suit!
Putting down the napkin, Randall laid his hand on my arm and laughed. “Don’t worry, Claire, it’s honestly no big deal. I just get a little protective of my Turnbull and Asser.”
“I’m really sorry,” I repeated, still feeling miserable. Why’d I always have to go crashing around? I tried to regain my inner poise as I helped the waiter soak up the spill.
Randall reached out to take my hand. “He’ll take care of that, Claire,” he said gently, and the waiter nodded.
I pulled my hands onto my lap, wishing that I could hit the restart button. I’d rewind the tape to the moment when I walked into the restaurant and spotted Randall standing by the maître d’, looking breathtakingly debonair … and then his face breaking into a huge grin when he saw me.
Of all the men I’d dated during the past five years in New York—the compulsive gambler; the artist who painted portraits of famous penises; the Legal Aid attorney with horrific, deal-breaking back-ne; and most recently James, the bass playing philanderer—I’d never felt more conscious of wanting to win someone over.
After work, I’d spent more time on my stupid outfit—which was all black and pretty boring, but hopefully in a more Carolyn Bessette Kennedy kind of way—than I’d spent getting dressed for the past three months. Then Bea had showed up at my apartment with her enormous makeup kit, trying desperately to locate my cheekbones, tweezing my eyebrows with a feverish glee that suggested she’d been waiting years for the chance.
I was glad we’d put in the effort. In a pin-striped suit (now a bit damp) and a French blue shirt that showed off his perfect Hamptons tan, Randall looked as though he’d sprung off the pages of a GQ spread. More to the point, he looked as though he should be dating a girl who’d just stepped out of Vogue. I wasn’t nearly there yet, but at least I was closer than I’d been that morning.
“Cheers! To your new job!” Randall beamed across the table, his smile shining through the candlelit darkness. I held up the glass of wine that the waiter had just poured. “I’m so impressed, Claire. You really won Vivian Grant over, and she’s no easy critic.”
“Well, it would’ve never happened without you making the introduction. Thanks again for doing that,” I said, briefly wondering what color eyes our kids would have—Randall’s were blue, mine were light brown.
“So, how’d Jackson take the news?”
“Um, well—he took it pretty well,” I answered vaguely. I didn’t want to insult Randall by casting aspersions on Vivian, his connection, but Jackson’s reaction was still weighing heavily on my mind.
That morning, I’d brought Jackson a fresh sticky bun (since he’d missed Friday’s) and closed the door of his office gently behind me.
“I have some good news,” I began, expecting that Jackson would be delighted to hear about the leap my career was about to take. He knew better than anyone—well, maybe anyone but Mara—how eager I was to take on a greater level of responsibility. And the timing was perfect, really, with each of us heading out the door at the same time—him to a relaxed retirement full of grandkids, me to a fast-paced environment where I could develop my skills as an editor. “I met with Vivian Grant on Friday, and she’s offered me a job,” I continued, filling Jackson in on the offer she’d made.
Jackson’s face immediately dropped all color. He’d taken one enthusiastic bite of his sticky bun, but now he laid it back down on the napkin and pushed it away.
“Vivian Grant?” he repeated quietly. You’d think I’d announced that I’d met a nice boy named the sultan of Brunei who’d graciously invited me to join his harem.
“I—I know she’s a little high-strung, Jackson,” I stammered.
“Oh, she’s much more than high-strung.” Jackson laughed humorlessly, rubbing his brow. “Vivian Grant is arrogant and abusive and cares more about her own ego than publishing quality books. She’ll chew you up and spit you out, Claire! The woman makes Attila the Hun seem like a giver.”
My jaw dropped. Was Jackson Mayville trash-talking someone? He was the quintessential southern gentleman; I’d never heard him say a negative word about anyone. “Did you know her when she worked here?” I asked.
“I did, unfortunately. She made all of our lives a living hell. To put it bluntly, she’s a lunatic. Listen, Claire, I know she’s very successful, and her approach to publishing can seem very renegade and intriguing. But you really should not rush into this. She made the offer on Friday. Now it’s Monday. Give it some time. I can’t urge you strongly enough to reconsider.”
I sank back into the couch, mind reeling. I was speechless.
“But what’s the alternative?” I finally challenged him. I’d always deferred to Jackson’s judgment and felt uncomfortable pushing back against it—but maybe he didn’t understand how stagnated I’d been feeling lately. “It’ll be years before I can get that level of responsibility—not to mention, salary—anywhere else. And with you gone—” I cut myself off quickly … but the words had slipped out. The last thing I wanted to do was guilt-trip Jackson about his retirement. My waterworks had been bad enough.
“Claire, listen,” Jackson said in a solemn voice, “I know my retirement leaves you untethered here at P and P, but I hate the thought that it could in any way drive you into Vivian Grant’s grip. Unfortunately, we both know that P and P won’t be able to match the salary she’s offered. But maybe I can convince them to come up a little—and your next promotion should be around the next corner. You’re well respected here, Claire. You’re young, but Gordon knows that you’ve got great potential. Think longer before you decide to jump ship to work for Vivian.”
That was the thing. I didn’t have much time. Maybe Jackson was wise to recommend proceeding with caution, but that morning I’d gotten a voice mail from Milton, Vivian’s assistant
. In grim tones, he’d informed me that Vivian’s offer would be available until Monday morning at 10:00 and not a second later. If I was interested in taking the job, she needed to know immediately.
“Typical,” Jackson grunted when I told him this.
Suddenly I felt a tiny kernel of rebellion pit itself in my stomach. Why was Jackson being so unsupportive? Maybe Vivian was tough, maybe she was even a little crazy, but where was the wisdom in stalling my career when I had the chance to push it ten steps forward? Besides, Jackson’s days of struggling to make ends meet on a junior editor’s salary were long behind him, and he’d published so many great books that he’d actually had enough of the experience. I was still starving for the experience! Did he appreciate just how hungry I was? He line-edited and discussed concepts with authors while I methodically filled out art logs, contract requests, and expense reports. He ate lunch at Michael’s with Joni, Binky, and other big-time agents while I brown-bagged it at my desk and answered his phone. How could he tell me not to grab the reins and go for it?
The decision was mine to make.
“I’m going to take the job, Jackson,” I announced. “Maybe it’s not the perfect scenario, and I know it’ll require a lot of hard work. But I figure if I can hang in for a year, it’ll really accelerate my career—and I’ll gain some valuable experience.”
Jackson nodded weakly, unable to hide his disappointment. “Well, you know I’m always here if you need anything. I hope it works out, Claire, I really do.” He forced a smile.
“Thanks. I know it’s the right move for me,” I lied, feeling not at all certain of anything at the moment.
I walked back to my desk, feeling shaky. “How’d it go?” Mara asked, popping her curly head over the cubicle wall.
I frowned. “He’s not such a fan.”
Mara nodded and plopped back down in her chair, not saying another word.
It was now 9:43. The window of opportunity was closing, and despite my display of bravado in Jackson’s office, I was feeling less sure of my decision than ever.