Because She Can

by Bridie Clark

  “Got it,” I said uneasily.

  “Number three”—Phil reached into his pocket and fished out a business card, which he handed to me—“a good therapist. Start going now. This woman has been working with Grant Books employees for years, so she knows the drill. She’s expensive, and our insurance policy doesn’t cover it—but HR will. Grant Books has put her kids through graduate school at this point, but believe me, it’s the least HR can do.”

  “Thanks, but I really don’t think I need—”

  “Yeah, I know you don’t now,” Phil interrupted, “but just wait. Rule four: Okay, I’m not saying our phones are tapped. I’m just saying that it’s not a bad precaution to leave the building when making a private call.”

  “Honestly, Phil, you’re telling me that—”

  “And the final rule—the Golden Rule—is this,” Phil whispered. “When Vivian’s in a rage, never, ever, ever look her in the eye. And if the ax swings, duck.”

  “The ax?” I gulped.

  “Listen, Claire, I know it sounds cowardly,” he answered, “but when Vivian’s in a lather about something, you’ll only make matters worse if you try to stand up to her. Don’t fight. Don’t stick your neck out. Just duck.”

  My phone rang. Vivian’s extension popped up on the caller ID. Phil and I both stared down at it.

  “Speak of the devil,” he muttered, letting himself out.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  WOMEN WHO RUN WITH THE WOLVES

  Office walls! A window! An assistant! Oh my!” teased Bea after I’d run down the list of new perks at Grant Books. She and I were having our standing Thursday night dinner at Bilboquet, and with dramatic new developments in my two houses of love and work, I’d had the floor since our salmon tartare.

  “I know! I feel very important.” I ravenously shoved a handful of fries in my mouth. Lunch had eluded me again, as it had for the majority of the two weeks I’d been working at Grant. Today I’d found time to throw some peanut M&M’s down my gullet around 3:30, but that was all I’d had since my morning coffee.

  “So have you gotten a glimpse of her famous tantrums yet? Any staplers whizzing by your ears?” Bea had plenty of experience dealing with ridiculously high-strung clients, but she’d still been shocked to hear some of the rumors swarming around Vivian Grant. I’d forwarded her a few of the scarier e-mails that had been sent by my P and P colleagues.

  “Not so much as a small paperweight has been flung,” I reported. No need to mention the first meeting we’d had with Graham and Dawn or a few other minor skirmishes I’d witnessed. “Bea, I forgot to tell you, I already bought three books that I’d been trying to get green-lighted at P and P for months. All it took was a quick call to Vivian, explaining the concepts— she told me to go ahead and make a bid on each one! Do you know how refreshing it is not to jump through any hoops?”

  “Amazing!” Bea cheered. “Just what you’ve always wanted! Now you can focus on looking for great material and editing instead of assisting—”

  “Well, of course, right now I’ve got to spend most of my time getting the books I’ve inherited under control. Some of them are in pretty rough shape. But once they’re all moving in the right direction, then yeah, I’ll be able to build a good list for myself.”

  “Cheers, Claire!” Bea lifted her glass and clinked it against mine. “Sounds like you made the right choice. Just watch your back—there’s got to be some truth to the crazy stuff people say about her, right?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, feeling unexpectedly defensive. “I think she gets a pretty unfair rap. Vivian just wants people to work hard, to bring good ideas to the table. She’s killing herself to make the imprint a success, and she just wants a team that meets the same standards she holds herself to.”

  “Okay,” nodded Bea skeptically, taking a bite of her Cajun chicken. “If you say so.”

  Maybe it sounded as though I’d been sipping Kool-Aid all week—but the truth was, I felt a little bit sorry for Vivian. Minus a few blowups, I’d been nothing but impressed by her instincts, enthusiasm, supportiveness, and work ethic. “I’m learning from a genius,” I gushed. “Her mind operates at warp speed.”

  “I’m really happy for you, Claire. It sounds perfect. And speaking of perfection, tell me about Randall!” She clapped her hands together like a child in front of an ice-cream sundae.

  Randall. Things had been going so well between us—he’d been incredibly supportive during my first weeks on the job, calling every single evening to find out how my day had gone. He’d even sent roses to the office at the end of my first week. Last weekend, we’d shared yet another amazing meal—this time at Le Cirque—followed by an even more amazing good-night kiss. I was smitten. I’d named our kids.

  Last night had been our fourth date. I’d rung the doorbell of his apartment at 8:05, and Randall—in an unbuttoned oxford and jeans—had opened the door and ushered me into his home. I was expecting Randall’s place to be nice, of course, but by my standards that meant clean sheets, no visible signs of cockroach or rodent infestation. Nothing could’ve prepared me for Randall’s sprawling bachelor pad with its wraparound windows looking out on the Met and Central Park and Fifth Avenue and the Upper East Side … not to mention a contemporary art collection that lived up to the view.

  And to be honest, it completely spun me out.

  “Bea, he had a Rothko in the bathroom,” I whispered, still in shock, “and his bathroom—one of his five bathrooms, I should say—is larger than my entire apartment!”

  “Well, Claire, your apartment’s about a hundred square feet,” she noted, “Your shower is in the kitchen.”

  “My point exactly!” I exclaimed. “My shower is in my kitchen, whereas Randall has a Rothko over his toilet! Come on, Bea, that is not normal! And … and he has a live-in personal chef. Her name is Svetlana, and she looks like a Bond girl! And Bea, he had a vat of caviar out before dinner, and this long, stretched-out dining room table, you know, the kind dysfunctional rich couples always have in the movies—”

  “I cannot believe you!” Bea interrupted. “Will you listen to yourself, Claire? For years, I’ve heard you make ridiculous excuses for the serious flaws of every guy you’ve dated. And now you’re dating the most fabulous guy on the planet—don’t tell Harry I said that—the guy we’ve been worshipping from afar for a decade—and he seems to be really into you—and you’re judging him for being too rich? Too successful?”

  Well, it did sound pretty stupid when she put it that way. “But I’m really not judging him,” I corrected, “I’m intimidated by him.”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Bea, “but try to relax. This is Randall Cox we’re talking about. You’ve got to get over it.”

  Bea was right. I was being totally ridiculous. If I could get over the fact that James slept in the dusty crawl space of an abandoned Brooklyn warehouse, I should be able to get over Randall’s megapad and extravagant bathroom art. He’d shown himself to be nothing but sweet, supportive, and excellent at kissing … why was I being so ridiculous?

  And then the memory came back to me in painfully vivid detail … I’d practically run out of there last night! After dinner, Randall had led me back to the living room, tried to put the moves on—and I’d felt so rigid and uncomfortable that I’d made up a weak excuse about an early morning meeting and abruptly left.

  “I’m such a dork,” I moaned. “Randall probably thinks … I can’t even imagine what he thinks. What if I’ve completely blown my chances by being so awkward?”

  “Guys love a challenge. Maybe it’ll read as hard to get and work in your favor.”

  God, I hoped she was right. My phone vibrated in my bag. Caller unknown.

  “Go for it. Maybe it’s Randall,” Bea cooed, an eager smile on her face.

  I picked up.

  “Claire. Vivian.” I’d noticed that Vivian didn’t like to waste much time on greetings. Instead, she’d state her name and then launch into whatever she needed to say before concludi
ng with a brisk, “Call me back.” It was certainly efficient, if not the most charming approach to a conversation. “I need to talk through a few ideas for tomorrow with you. Do you have a pen and paper?”

  “Hi, Vivian.” I raised my eyebrows at Bea and grabbed a notebook out of my bag. “Okay, shoot.”

  Twenty minutes later, Bea smiled sympathetically, tossed a few bills on the table, and left. I felt bad that I hadn’t gotten to hear about what was going on with her—but I couldn’t focus on it long. My every brain cell strained feverishly to take notes as Vivian rattled off book concepts at an auctioneer’s pace. We’d spoken that afternoon, but since then she’d come up with about a dozen new ideas—half of which seemed to have legitimate potential. I kept scribbling for an hour, filling up half a legal pad with Vivian’s genius. Fortunately, the waiters at Bilboquet didn’t object to my hogging a table—a perk of being a regular, I guess. They even sent over a glass of rosé.

  “Give me an update on these projects by ten tomorrow morning, so we can move forward immediately,” Vivian concluded before hanging up.

  By 10:00? I gulped audibly. How would I possibly manage to research all of these ideas, line up potential authors, fill in enough gaps in the rough sketch she’d given me … by 10:00 the next morning?

  My stomach tightened, but I felt ready for the challenge. It was time to step up to the plate. Sure, I felt a little over my head—at work and with Randall—but maybe that just meant there was a lot of room to grow.

  When I walked onto the twelfth floor at 6:15 the next morning, I expected Grant Books to be deserted. Instead I found that half of my colleagues had already started their workdays—approximately three hours earlier than the rest of our industry. No wonder we’re able to crank out one hundred titles a year with a skeleton crew of editors, I thought. Doors were shut, but lights were on, and I could already hear the pitter-patter of keyboards typing.

  By 10:00, I’d worked my way through three cups of coffee and six of Vivian’s ideas—the six that seemed strongest to me. It was fun. I loved the creative challenge of building books from scratch. At P and P, most editors bought books that had been submitted to them through an agent, while at Grant concepts were originated and developed in-house—usually by Vivian herself, as she indisputably came up with the most and best ideas—and then the optimal author and ghostwriter were wrapped in. It was pretty exhilarating—pulling together the right concept and team, brainstorming the right approach—and the hours had flown by.

  Still, I felt a bit nervous calling Vivian’s office with my 10:00 a.m. update—I had, after all, been able to get through only half of what she’d rattled off last night. I’d get to the rest of it by noon if I continued to really crank, and I hoped that would satisfy her. I reasoned that it was better to give her something than to miss the deadline altogether.

  “Vivian Grant’s office,” said Gregory, the guy who sounded like Milton with a sinus infection.

  “Hey, Gregory. Is Vivian in? I was supposed to—”

  “She’s in L.A. I’m rolling calls at noon,” he answered sullenly.

  In L.A.? I hadn’t realized how much time Vivian spent on the West Coast—yet another thing that made her stand out from other publishers. She was constantly drumming up media crossover deals for our books, pitching television show concepts, actively pushing the sale of movie rights. “Okay, I’ll talk to her then. Thanks, Gregory.”

  There was a knock on the door and my new assistant, David, poked his head into my office. I’d had a great feeling about David from the first moment we met. A bright, ultracompetent, hardworking guy who’d recently graduated from Northwestern, David had been adrift at Grant Books for several weeks after the editor who’d initially hired him had abruptly quit. Since then he’d been reporting to three different editors, all of whom had been running him ragged with their urgent projects. I could sense that he was as grateful to have one boss as I was to have an assistant who knew the ropes a little bit. It was a little strange to have an assistant after being one for so many years—but David was so helpful, smart, and attentive, I knew that I’d get used to the new arrangement quickly.

  “Roses, just delivered for you.” David smiled, opening the door wider to reveal an enormous bouquet of three dozen long-stemmed red roses. I rushed over to read the note and felt a thrill rush through my entire body.

  Claire,

  To brighten up your day. The thought of you brightens up mine. The last few weeks have been wonderful. I can’t wait to spend more time with you.

  Randall

  “An admirer?” asked David.

  “I guess so.” I grinned. I felt like doing cartwheels! What a relief—so Randall hadn’t been thrown off by my aloof behavior the other night. Or at least he was willing to give things another chance. I couldn’t wait to tell Bea.

  “So what can I do for you this morning?” David asked, straightening his tie. I gave him two of Vivian’s ideas to research, explaining the kind of information he should try to pull together. David nodded, scribbling down the few details I’d scribbled down the night before. “I’ll have something for you in an hour,” he declared with a confidence I envied. It was a relief to be able to delegate—hopefully, I could get through most of the remaining four ideas myself in the next two hours.

  First, though, I called Randall’s office to thank him. Deirdre picked up, of course, and asked if I’d be available for dinner on Saturday night. I eagerly said yes. She told me that Randall would call me after his meeting ended.

  Exhilarated, I set back to work, stopping every few minutes to take a deep inhale of the roses and reread the note.

  Around 12:30, when I still hadn’t gotten a phone call from Vivian’s office, I asked David to go check in with Gregory. David came back a minute later, scratching his head a little.

  “Gregory’s gone,” he said. And then in a quieter voice: “I kind of figured this was coming. Apparently Vivian was irate yesterday after he failed to find her a private jet leaving for L.A. in less than twenty minutes. She let him have it with both barrels, and he was pretty shaken. He left about an hour ago and just called HR to tender his resignation.”

  Abrupt resignations in the middle of the day? The horror stories I’d heard from my old colleagues echoed in my head.

  “Anyway, I spoke to Johnny—that’s the new temp—and he seems to think she’s going to be stuck in meetings all day,” continued David, who seemed to be taking the disruption in stride. “My guess? She’ll probably just be calling in tonight—like around eight our time.”

  “I can’t believe Gregory would just quit like that—without any notice!”

  David closed the door behind him. “Actually, Claire, Gregory was here a full week, which is only slightly less than average,” he whispered. “The typical length of employment in that office is less than two weeks. Either she fires the person, or they pretty much run from the building. Or both, I guess. I’ve only been here eight weeks, and I’ve seen five assistants come and go.”

  “Are you serious?” I asked. David nodded, reaching for my ringing phone.

  “I got it,” I said, picking up. “Claire Truman.”

  “It’s Vivian,” she announced forcefully. My notes on the projects she’d asked me to research were strewn about my desk, and I scrambled to put them in order as Vivian continued to speak. “I have a few ideas I need you to look into for me. First, we should go after that girl who married the murderer convicted of killing her own sister. They tied the knot last night in his jail cell, did you read that? It was in The Star, tell your assistant to get you a subscription. Call and see if she’ll do a book—offer two fifty. Get me a list of ghostwriters for that, we should have it on bookshelves in eight weeks, before she’s gone from the headlines. Talk to Dawn about that deadline, and don’t let her tell you it’s not enough time—it’s never enough time, I’m sick to death of her whining about it! Secondly, we need to get out of that book we signed with Chef Mario. I know there’s a contract, but he’s so fuck
ing second-rate—has anyone even heard of him? It was Julie’s lame idea to bring him on board, and now she’s gone, so talk to Legal about how we can get out of the contract. We don’t need to spend that much money publishing a poor man’s Emeril.”

  My stomach sank. Julie was a former editor whose books I’d inherited—one of which was a cookbook by a legendary Arthur Avenue restaurateur. I’d called Chef Mario the day before to introduce myself and assure him that we were all very enthusiastic about his book.

  “You sound like a nice lady,” he’d concluded at the end of our conversation. “You’ve got to come into the restaurant soon! Bring your friends! On me, of course.”

  Drat. Getting out of the contract was not going to be a pleasant experience. I’d never had to break that kind of bad news to an author. Worse, I knew Chef Mario had been paying in good faith for the photographer, waiting for his first portion of the advance payment to come in. I hated the thought that we’d be leaving him in the hole … maybe I could just explain the circumstances to Vivian and make the argument for covering Mario’s expenses. She probably wouldn’t like it, but it was only fair. I’d figure out how much he’d already spent and bring it up with her later.

  “Oh, and I’m sick of listening to that right-wing blabbermouth Samuel Sloane spouting off on Fox every night. The guy’s an idiot—I know we published his books, but he’s a moron. I loathe him. He’s a bloated, disgusting, moronic publicity whore. Get me a list of authors for a book ripping him apart. They should be ready to deliver within four weeks at the most… .”

  Vivian threw five more potential projects my way before declaring that she’d arrived at “the studio” and would call me back in a few hours for an update. I realized I’d been holding my breath and took in a sharp inhale. More ideas to research? I hadn’t had a chance to finish my research or debrief Vivian on the earlier list.

  And the fun was only just beginning.