by Bridie Clark
CHAPTER SIX
THE WAY WE LIVE NOW
Late!
I scurried to my subway station, iced coffee slopping out of the sweating plastic cup with each step. Phil had asked me to sit in on an early meeting with a prospective new author and her agent this morning, but I’d overslept—partially because I’d been at the office until 1:00 a.m. the night before. When Randall was out of town on business—Tokyo this week—I liked to take advantage by putting in extra hours at work.
My eyes hadn’t opened till 7:00, a solid hour and a half later than the alarm was supposed to rouse me. Fortunately, if getting ready in the morning were an Olympic event, I’d take home the gold. If necessary, I could complete my entire program in less than five minutes. Jump in and out of shower, run a comb through hair, smear on some moisturizer, deodorant, and mascara, spritz a little perfume, and throw on my standard work uniform: all black. Today, because of the intense August heat, that meant a black skirt and short-sleeved lightweight sweater. I’d given up on color coordination a few years ago—one of the first indications that I’d officially become a New Yorker—aiming instead at a wardrobe that could spit out an office-appropriate outfit to a blind person in less than ten seconds.
I took a thirsty slurp of my coffee, most of which had now trickled down my hand, before descending into the subway station.
Find your happy place, I coached myself after cramming into the packed local uptown train—but the ripe stench of the man next to me followed me there. Finally, we lurched to a stop at 51st Street and crowded out into the clammy, fetid subway air. As I edged my way up the stairs, I felt the familiar desperation of being one more cow in a slow, sticky stampede to work. Above me, the sidewalk traffic was barely inching along.
What was the holdup? After climbing two more steps, I saw for myself: There was an adult man, dressed in a baby bonnet and a sandwich board, handing out flyers to all the pedestrians he could get to accept one. I felt an itchy wave of hostility wash over me, my hands involuntarily balling up into fists.
“That’s right, folks, Buy Buy Baby is throwing their annual clear-out sale,” bellowed his voice down the stairs. “All inventory must go! That means spinning mobiles, baby clothes, diapers in bulk. Here you go, sir. You can’t beat a sixty percent markdown, folks.” I had almost made it to street level now. A few more steps.
“Never know when the stork might pay an unexpected visit!” the voice exclaimed. An older woman next to me was scandalized by that suggestion. The man on my other side—a conservative lawyer type in a navy blue suit—was having a full-blown debate with himself. And no wires, no handless phones stuck in his ears, either. Recently I’d noticed that more and more of my fellow New Yorkers—seemingly sane men and women—were unabashedly talking to themselves as they walked down the street. Apparently, the stigma of looking flat-out crazy had worn off during my five years living here.
I emerged into the open air—well, open, but still replete with toxic car fumes and the donkey punch of a street vendor already roasting some sort of spicy meat (I never got close enough to learn the specifics).
“Claire … Claire?” I was startled by a man’s voice calling my name. I looked around but couldn’t find any familiar face in the disgruntled throng of people.
Oh God, it was the overgrown baby!
He was coming my way, parting the crowd. I worried for a moment that I had lapsed into some sort of Ally McBeal–esque episode, but then the baby ambled over and his face became sort of familiar. But who was he? And what would ever, ever possess a person to flag down an old acquaintance when dressed so idiotically? I was blushing for him.
“Claire Truman?” he asked. “It’s Luke, Jackson Mayville’s nephew. We met—”
“Of course, Luke!” It all came back to me. Luke was Jackson’s starving artist nephew who’d refused to take a single handout from his parents, and was muddling by as a musician … or was he a playwright? Anyway, Jackson absolutely adored him. I’d heard about Luke often but met him only once. “Great to see you!” I said, keeping my eyes focused on his face so that it might seem like I’d missed his getup. “How’ve you been?”
“Right, well, regressing since I last saw you at Uncle Jack’s seventieth,” Luke said with a genuine laugh. “Suddenly, I feel pretty grateful that I put my foot down on the adult diaper idea.”
I laughed with him. Ridiculous as he looked, you had to admire the guy’s self-assurance. He definitely had the Mayville charm. Pretty cute, too, in a scruffy, Mark Ruffalo kind of way—if one could look past the bonnet. Which, granted, was a pretty hefty “if.”
“Hey, my shift’s almost done. Want to grab a coffee or something?” Luke asked, gently pulling my arm to guide me out of the traffic flow.
“Wish I could.” I cited the morning meeting for which I was now almost late. And tried not to glance at the oversize rubber pacifier hanging like an albatross around his neck.
We caught up briefly on the curb. Turns out Luke was working a string of odd jobs to pay the bills while he got his MFA in creative writing at Columbia, and he was nearly done with his first novel.
“I’d love to read it when you’re finished,” I offered, digging for my card. “I’m an editor at Grant Books now—it’s a much different place than P and P, as you might’ve heard, but I’m looking for great new fiction.”
“Great! I’d appreciate that,” he said. He gave me a hug (made awkward by the sandwich board) before we parted ways.
“Tell Jackson I send my love,” I called over my shoulder. Jackson had just started his new life in Virginia. We’d spoken a few times since I’d started at Grant Books, but I’d been so busy that I hadn’t had a chance to return his most recent call.
Luke said he would. And then I sprinted off down the block to the office.
“What the house really needs,” chirped my mother as I cradled the phone between my shoulder and ear to free both hands for sifting through my in-box, “is more citron yellow, more petunia pink, more aquamarine blue, more dark amethyst, more eye-popping fuchsia, more …”
Loud sound of phone slamming down onto my desktop. I could still hear Mom listing her rainbow of colors, though, so apparently she hadn’t noticed the loud crashing noise (when she gets on a roll, her usually high level of perception plummets).
Mom had home improvements on the brain. We still had several months until our annual party in my dad’s honor, but Mom was already hard at work trying to spruce up the house in preparation. The party was a really big deal to her, as it was to me, and I knew she wanted every detail to be perfect.
It was a tradition we’d started five years ago. On the Saturday closest to my dad’s birthday in January, we open up our house to all the friends, family, and community members who feel like dropping by, and everyone gathers to eat and drink and recite their favorite poems. Last year, we raised enough money in donations to start a university scholarship in Dad’s name. What started out with a dozen or so people gathered in our living room had quickly grown into a popular campus event. This year, Mom was expecting upward of two hundred people at the house.
“So do you think the kitchen would look better in a mint green or tomato red?” she asked.
“Go with the green, Mom. And what do you need me to do? Should I deal with the caterers and the menu? Or I could call Prairie Lights and see if they’ll donate books for the raffle?” Prairie Lights was an independent bookstore in the city. Every year on my birthday, my father used to take me to Prairie Lights—which had one of the best children’s book sections in the country—to pick out five new books. They’d always been generous in helping us with Dad’s poetry party.
“That would be great, honey, but are you sure you’ll have time?” Mom fretted. “You just started your new job. Why don’t you leave things to me this year?”
I hated to admit it, but she had a point. I’d been at Grant for only a month, but my to-do list was growing at an alarming clip. In the past week alone, I’d been asked to take on five new
titles, all inherited from an editor who, according to Vivian, was “a looney tunes who couldn’t handle the demands of the job.” I wasn’t sure about the accuracy of Vivian’s diagnosis, but in any case, the new titles filled up my plate.
Still, I had to do my part in planning Dad’s party. After all, Dad had never once let his work prevent him from helping me with my homework, watching my dance recitals and soccer games, tucking me into bed at night. I’d just have to make the time.
“Okay, dear,” Mom consented reluctantly, “but you just say the word if you get too busy. Don’t stretch yourself too thin.”
“Deal,” I agreed, rubbing my growling stomach. New e-mail popped up in my Outlook. I could tell at a glance that it was from Vivian: It was written in her trademark sixteen-point font, which had the effect of making every e-mail read like a shout. “Hey, Mom, could I call you back later, or tomorrow? I haven’t eaten lunch yet, and I’m famished—”
“You haven’t eaten lunch? Claire, it’s nearly four in the afternoon! I know this new job of yours is stressful, honey, but please don’t forget to take care of yourself.”
“I know, Mom, I will.”
“Bea tells me that you’ve lost weight!”
Argh. I hated when Bea got Mom worked up. “Mom, I’m fine … I’m just getting used to the new pace.”
“And she told me that you’ve been working past midnight all this week.”
Beatrice and Mom spoke all the time. In fact, they probably spoke to each other more than they did to me, especially since I’d started at Grant. I loved that they were so close—except when Bea leaked details about my life that made Mom lose sleep.
“It’s no big deal, Mom. I’m just getting up to speed here, that’s all.”
“Well, okay. Just don’t let this Vivian woman push you around. Bea tells me—”
“Mom, she’s not pushing me around,” I interrupted. “She’s teaching me a ton! It’s the opportunity of a lifetime! I don’t know why I’m the only one who seems to appreciate—”
“Okay, I know. I’m sorry.” Mom sighed a little.
“I’ll call you later this week, Mom. Love you.”
I felt bad for snapping, but I was so famished that I could see dots in front of my eyes. I quickly checked Vivian’s e-mail—nothing that couldn’t wait ten minutes—and grabbed my wallet. Burger Heaven—the aptly named diner across the street—was calling my name.
Unfortunately, the door to my office swung open before I could leave.
“Hel-lo, you gorgeous, sexy pants mamasita!” bellowed the one and only, larger than life Candace Masters, teetering into my office in her four-and-a-half-inch stilettos.
Candace, one of my new authors, had been an international supermodel in the 1980s, partied at every hot spot from Studio 54 to Bungalow 8, adhered to a strict “billionaires only” dating policy, battled through addictions to every substance on the planet, gone under the knife more times than she could count, married a few times, had a few kids, and pumped out a few best sellers about all of it along the way. She was still very striking, although her regular visits to Dr. 90210 were starting to give her a slightly Madame Tussaud look. And she was incredibly vibrant and vivacious—so vivacious, in fact, that one might suspect she hadn’t quite kicked every chemical substance out of her diet.
“Hey, Candace! How’s it going?” I said, wishing I’d had a heads-up on her visit. David stood outside in the hallway, his shoulders raised apologetically, but it wasn’t his fault. Stopping Candace from barging into my office would’ve been on a par with halting a charging elephant.
“It’s going, baby love, it’s going,” she answered, running her fingers through her spiky platinum hair. “What do you think of my new micro-mini? Gucci, baby. This is a four Gooch day for me.” With a Vanna White flourish, she pointed to her shoes, her bag, her skirt. Then she reached her hand down her skirt ever so slightly and fished out the skinny leather strap of her G-string. It was a sight that a few generations of men across America would’ve lined up to see, but it just left me feeling awkward. “Gooch,” she boasted.
“Um, very nice!” I nodded.
“I thought of the subject for my next book!” she shrieked, stooping down to give me two air kisses. “Wait, doll, before I forget, I brought you a little somethin’-somethin’.” She reached into her bag and fished out a balled-up red lacy thong, which she tossed playfully in my direction.
I thanked her, not picking it up. I couldn’t help wondering whether the thong was clean—or something she’d peeled off the night before and shoved in her handbag.
“Wear ’em in good health, doll!” She blew me a loud kiss, and then she was off again, flitting over to my bookshelves where she proceeded to pull out dozens of Grant books, tossing each one into an enormous Chanel shopping bag. “I like to stock up while I’m here,” she explained, working her way through each shelf. Phil had warned me about Candace’s compulsive book-hoarding sprees. One time she’d brought four assistants into the office to help her haul her loot. Phil was convinced she was selling them on eBay.
“Okay, so my book,” she finally said, handing off the Dumpster-size shopping bag to her intimidated young assistant, who’d materialized in the doorway. “My search for Mr. Right—and all the perverts, scoundrels, and dogs I’ve endured along the way. Like this one guy I dated last summer in the Hamptons. Huge textile fortune, drove a big red Hummer, major spread on Gin Lane, always VIP at Jet East—seemed like the catch of the day, you know? Until one night he peeled off his shirt with the light, and I realized that he had vaginas tattooed all over his body! Freak! Can you imagine? So, you know, it’d be a book about extreme red flags and the men who wave them. Sound good? You like?”
A book about bad men and gritty sex? That had Vivian’s name all over it. More than one agent had confessed that they sent Vivian any proposal in which the woman was persecuted, the man to blame—knowing she’d get behind those authors 100 percent. Add in some crazy sex, and you had her favorite formula.
“It sounds good, Candace,” I encouraged. “Why don’t you start jotting down the specific stories you want to include—obviously, we’ll want to go for the juicy stuff you haven’t covered in your earlier books—and have your assistant get that list to me. Then we can go from there.”
“Perfect, doll. Kendra!” The assistant popped back into the office, eager to serve. “Please collect my things. And is the driver outside?”
“Yes, Candace, on Fifty-fourth Street.”
“Rock on. Okay, I’m just going to say a quick hello to my man Phil, and we’ll be on our way. Thanks, Claire. I hope you stick around.” With a wink, Candace gave me two more air kisses and floated off down the hallway towards Phil’s office.
As I was gingerly lifting the thong off my desk and into the trash can, the phone rang.
“Any chance you could get out of the office at a reasonable hour and come to yoga?” Bea asked. “There’s a class at Om that starts at eight. It’s right next to your office, and I think it’d be great for you to unwind a little. And maybe we could grab a bite afterwards—you know, since you’ve bagged our last two Thursday dinners.”
At the moment, yoga sounded torturous—I had less than no energy. But maybe after I got some food in me, it would become more appealing. I agreed to meet Bea there.
Burger Heaven. Time to make a break for it.
“Back in five,” I shouted over my shoulder to David, rounding the corner to the elevator bank at the exact same time as Lulu. She pulled a sour face. Oh crap. Now we had to pretend to be friendly for twelve floors.
And it would definitely be an act on my part. Lulu had done nothing but undermine me since I’d started. During our editorial meetings, she went out of her way to argue against every point I made. If I said a submission looked interesting, she’d stifle a yawn. If I said it was the worst thing I’d ever read, she’d ever so politely ask if I’d mind giving her a copy. You know, just for a second opinion.
Well, I’ll suck it up
and make the first effort, I thought as we stepped into the elevator in silence. “Hey, Lulu, how’s it going? That’s a pretty shirt.”
Lulu pressed the button for the lobby and kept her eyes fixed straight ahead. “Claire,” she pronounced slowly in a low voice.
And that was it. No friendly chitchat on our way down—not even a hello! Just my name. No other sound escaped from Lulu’s perfectly lipsticked lips.
Forget it. Why did I even bother? Each floor seemed to take an eternity, but we finally reached the lobby and the golden doors opened to release us. Lulu stepped off first, of course, striding through the lobby with a glassy smile on her face, wiggling her fingers at the security guard as if she weren’t the biggest bitch on the planet.
Fortunately, there was no chance she was also heading to Burger Heaven. According to Phil, Lulu only ordered salads from the organic health food place down the street. Tofu Hell, as he called it. Well, as far as I was concerned, she could burn in it.
Bea and I lay flat on our backs, waiting for class to begin. The room was crowding fast, but there was still some space next to my mat. I shut my eyes for a moment, willing myself to relax from the stresses of the day. None of the petty irritations were important. I would let go of Alexa Hanley’s slime-ball manager calling me “sweet cheeks.” Let go of the irate phone call I’d received from an agent hunting down an embarrassingly overdue acceptance payment. (We’d already published the book in question, but for some reason Vivian refused to accept that the work had been done. “I hate that book,” she explained, as if that were a valid reason for not paying the author.) Let go of the image of Lulu’s smug face during the elevator ride.
When I opened my eyes, a meticulously groomed blonde—right down to her perfect French pedicure—was unrolling a sticky mat with Louis Vuitton logos emblazoned all over it. It took me a second to recognize her.
Lulu. Even her name sounded unnecessarily cute.
Her mat was less than a foot away from mine. What were the odds? Should I try to be friendly again? I couldn’t exactly pretend not to see her, and besides, I didn’t want to stoop to her juvenile level.