by Bridie Clark
“My boyfriend loves pasta Bolognese,” I blurted out, looking at the menu. It had no basis in truth, of course—Randall would never touch something so calorie laden, nor were we completely there on the boyfriend/girlfriend label. Still, despite last night’s minor fizzle, I was absolutely crazy about him—and I needed to put his existence out there. The last thing I wanted to do was lead Jackson’s beloved nephew into believing this was more than just a friendly dinner.
“Consider yourself lucky.” Luke smiled, glancing up from the menu. “My girlfriend’s a strict vegan, which means I’ve got to endure more than my share of meals at Zen Palate. I’ve just managed to convince myself that the soy gluten nuggets are edible.” He paused, thinking it over. “Nah, actually, not there yet.”
Girlfriend? I’d just assumed he was single. The presence of a girlfriend was unexpected … and frankly, a little disappointing. Luke would’ve been just right for Mara. Cute, smart, from a close-knit family, and those sexy dark eyes. And Mara was an absolute sucker for men with great smiles. Oh, well. My matchmaking efforts would be thwarted, but it was probably better that Luke was dating someone, too. No danger of him getting the wrong idea. I sank back in my chair and took a relaxed sip of my wine.
“I feel like I know you through Uncle Jack,” said Luke. “He’s such a big fan of yours.”
“I miss him so much. Have you been down to Virginia yet? Carie was just telling me that she rides every day now, and Jackson has really gotten into hiking.” I suppressed a laugh at the thought: Jackson was the least rugged person I knew. I couldn’t imagine him hacking through the woods. I couldn’t even picture him wearing shorts.
“Uh-huh. I think hiking, for Uncle Jack, means forgoing the valet.”
I smiled. “I just wonder how he’s getting through each day without his red pen. Have you ever met anyone who loves to edit more than Jackson? I mean, I’ve seen him mark up published books with that pen.”
“Oh, I know. One time, he and I were walking down a street, and he stopped to correct some graffiti scrawled on the side of a bus stop. Uncle Jack might’ve retired, but I guarantee the red pen is still working overtime.”
I drizzled some olive oil over Mimi’s freshly baked bread. “It still must be a strange transition, retirement. Not being in the office. I can’t imagine not working full-time.”
“Yeah? So you’re born to edit, too?” Luke smiled.
“Well, that might be a slight overstatement. But I do love it. It was my father, really, who taught me to edit. He bought me my first Chicago Manual of Style. I can still hear his voice in my head sometimes, reminding me when to use ‘which’ and when to use ‘that’—catching me when I accidentally split an infinitive—”
“And I thought my family knew how to have a good time,” Luke teased. “Is your father an editor, too?”
“He was a poet, mainly, and also a professor at University of Iowa. He died a little more than five years ago.”
“I’m really sorry, Claire,” said Luke. He refilled our wine glasses, then looked up quickly. “Hang on. His first name wasn’t Charles, was it?”
“Yeah, Charles Truman. Have you read his work?”
“Have I read—I love his work! I had ‘Tranquility’ tacked on the wall by my desk all through college! I’ve probably read that poem more than a hundred times! I can’t believe Charles Truman is your father.”
I could feel myself beaming. My father’s devotion to his poetry had been second only to his devotion to Mom and me. That his work would be treasured by others filled my heart to the brim.
“May I tell you tonight’s specials?” our waiter asked. He whipped through the list, each dish sounding more mouth-wateringly delicious than the last.
“Maybe it’d take less time if we told you what we didn’t want,” Luke joked, eyes twinkling. We ordered as though we’d both been stranded on a desert island for months and this was our first meal back in civilization.
The hours flew by. Luke and I seemed to flow from one topic to the next—from our all-time favorite authors (his: Faulkner and Hemingway; mine: Salinger and Kundera) to our biggest pet peeves (his: food in teeth; mine: Americans who peppered their speech with Briticisms, such as “I knew him at university, he was completely bollocks!”).
“Here you go,” said the waiter with a warm smile, laying the check down between us. We both reached for it immediately—I grabbed it first, but then Luke’s hand clasped mine, sending an unexpected shiver through my body.
“Please, let me!” I insisted. “I can expense it, you’re a prospective author—” I completely hated the thought of letting him pick up the tab—he was the starving artist, so to speak, and I’d witnessed the jobs he took to make ends meet.
But Luke kept his grip firm. “Of course not, Claire. You were nice enough to come out and celebrate, despite how busy you are. And despite the fact that you very recently saw me wearing a bonnet.”
He smiled, and I noticed again how much his eyes shone. Well, maybe things wouldn’t work out with the vegan girlfriend—and Mara could have a shot after all.
After winning the battle of the bill, Luke insisted on walking me home, even though it was at least ten blocks out of his way. When we reached my awning, he kissed me gently on the cheek.
I found myself smiling as I walked up all seven flights of stairs to my studio (normally, my expression is more of a flush-faced grimace). Once inside, I slipped into my PJs, placed the cannoli Luke had insisted I bring home on a plate, climbed under the covers, and began to read his manuscript.
The next day, exhausted but exhilarated, I knocked on Vivian’s office door. I had a fresh copy of Luke’s manuscript in hand. I’d asked David to run off ten copies first thing that morning so that I could get reads on it immediately. He’d been engrossed in it himself ever since.
“Come in,” shouted a distant voice. I opened the heavy door, felt the blast of freezing air (Vivian kept her office at subzero), and found my boss poring over five or six magazines. As I got closer, I realized that they were all Hustlers.
“What do you think about this girl for the cover of Just Do Me?” she asked.
Just Do Me was a smutty novel based on twenty years of one woman’s sexcapades, spanning from orgies at summer camp to a tryst with a fellow soccer mom. It would best be described as an antonym for “good” or “decent.”
“I think the book will sell better if we revamp the cover,” Vivian continued, flipping to a new centerfold and holding her up for my scrutiny.
Switching the cover of Just Do Me seemed like changing deck chairs on the Titanic. I evaded the question by nodding and pretending to cough.
“Vivian, I wanted to talk to you about a book I’m very interested in buying,” I began seriously. “I’ve never read anything quite like it. I was up all last night and couldn’t put it down. It’s an up close look at—”
“Literary or commercial,” Vivian asked, unscrewing the cap on a bottle that looked to be filled with algae. She took a swig. “New diet. All I can eat is kale and raw onions.”
“Um, literary, but with universal chords that—”
“And flaxseed. But come on, it’s not like anyone ever pigs out on flaxseed. The question is, will the book sell.” Most of Vivian’s questions came out as statements, orders. It was as if she didn’t want to acknowledge that she was turning to someone else for the answer to anything.
“Yes, I think it definitely—”
“What’s the title.”
“No title yet. The author’s name is Luke—actually, he’s the nephew of Jackson Mayville. He just finished his MFA at Columbia and—”
“Jackson’s nephew?” Vivian threw back her head and snorted like a wild horse. “God, why didn’t you say so? Man, would that make old Jackson turn over in his retirement, knowing that I was publishing one of his relatives! I love it. Love it! Let’s do it. How much do you think you need to offer to get the book immediately off the table?”
What? Could it really be that simple? As many times as
I’d rehearsed this conversation in my head during my morning commute, it had never gone this way. Vivian hadn’t read a word of Luke’s manuscript—would she really make a decision based on an immature desire to irk Jackson?
“Earth to Claire!” Vivian snapped. “How much?”
“I have no idea, we haven’t discussed money yet. I just got the manuscript yesterday.”
“Does anyone else at Mather-Hollinger have it,” she asked.
“No, but I think Luke said he gave it to another friend at FSG.”
“And no agent?”
“No agent,” I confirmed.
Vivian looked pleased. “Well, offer a hundred. It’ll be worth every penny to make Jackson squirm.”
I paused for a moment before thanking Vivian and leaving her office. I didn’t love her reasons, that was for sure, but I wanted the book far too bad to quibble. Hopefully, Jackson’s discomfort with Vivian as the publisher would be offset by my involvement as the editor.
And fifteen minutes later, after he’d excitedly accepted our offer, I was officially Luke Mayville’s editor.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHE’S COME UNDONE
Ow! Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow.
I was bone-tired, almost limp with the exhaustion of an eighteen-hour day spent dealing with difficult authors, cranky agents, and unreasonable demands. There were a few things I could’ve used: a hot bubble bath; a deep-tissue massage by a gifted Swede named Hans; copious amounts of fudge.
And some things I truly didn’t need—which would include my shin whacking against the unforgiving porcelain edge of the bathtub as I sprinted to find my ringing cordless phone at 2:00 in the morning.
Not bothering with the towel, leaving a trail of puddles across the floor, I ran toward the shrill ring. Who could it be at this hour? I tried not to panic as my mind scrolled through the possibilities. Randall was on an overnight flight to Europe, another business trip. Vivian didn’t have my home phone number—on Phil’s advice, I’d never given it out. Only in an emergency would Mom or Bea call me this late… the thought made my heart leap into my throat and I didn’t notice the open drawer of my dresser, and—
OW, OW, OW. What is the mean-spirited cosmic force that dictates that once you’ve smacked your shin once, you’ll re-smack the same spot on everything sharp and hard that comes within a thirty-foot radius? I dove across my unmade bed to rummage for the … There it was.
“Hello?” I panted.
“Claire. Vivian. What have you put together for the Sweet D-licious book?”
Vivian. My heart rate didn’t slow down. How the hell did she get my home phone number? It was unlisted, and I’d lied to her assistant and said I used only my cell phone. I’d even asked Randall to keep it confidential. How had she found it? And why was she calling me at 2:00 in the morning?
“Claire? You there? Where are we with Sweet D? I don’t have all night!”
The truth? I hadn’t put together a single thing since Vivian had mentioned the concept to me a few days ago. Because she loaded me up with so many ideas to pursue on a daily basis, some slipped through the cracks. Sweet D, unfortunately, fell into the neglected category. He was one of the hottest stars in the rap firmament—his last album, Bronx Tail, had gone platinum, and he’d been shot at twice. Vivian wanted to publish a book of his lyrics, uncut and uncensored. I’d called his manager three times but hadn’t heard back.
I knew it was the wrong answer. The right answer would’ve been: Well, Vivian, when I hadn’t heard back from the agent in twenty-four hours, I marched straight down to his office and camped out there until he finally agreed to see me. Then I convinced him that the next step in Sweet D’s trajectory had to be getting a book out to his fans, Grant Books had to be the publisher of said book, and they had to agree to do it for a song. So to speak.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have much yet,” I answered instead, stomach clenching. I’d managed to last four months without incurring Vivian’s wrath—which Phil insisted was a company record—but now I was sure my lucky streak was about to end. “I’ll get more information together for you first thing tomorrow.”
There was silence on the line. I imagined a lit fuse burning steadily toward a bomb.
“Okay,” Vivian finally said.
Okay? I exhaled. That was really it? No tirade, no tantrum?
“So how are things with Randall?” Vivian asked. I shivered, wrapping my towel around me. “His father was crap in bed. Thought he was God’s gift, but that man was hung like a pimple. It was better than nothing, though, which is what I’ve got at the moment. Do you know the last time I got laid?”
Actually, I was pretty sure I did know. In the middle of a staff meeting the previous week, Vivian had provided a graphic account of the afternoon tryst she’d had with a sexy bellboy at the Beverly Hills Hotel. He drove a Vespa and waxed his chest. “Usually,” she’d confided to twenty of her nearest and dearest employees, “younger men don’t know how to pleasure a woman. Like you, Harry, you probably wouldn’t know which end was up. But Vespa guy was an exception.” Harry, an assistant in the art department, had blushed purple. He’d quit the next day.
“I am so horny,” Vivian continued as I sat down stiffly on my couch and tried to mentally detach from the conversation, “I just humped the arm of my chair. My son walked in while I was going at it and screamed, ‘Mo-om!’ That pretty much took all the romance out of it. Well, it gives him something to talk to his shrink about.”
Something told me the kid wouldn’t be hurting for material.
“You’ve never called me at home before, Vivian,” I said, looking at the clock on my nightstand through bleary eyes. “How’d you get this number? I’m barely at home, so I don’t think I gave it out as a contact.”
“Oh, Lulu passed it along,” Vivian said nonchalantly.
Why’d I even bother to ask? Of course she did. How Lulu had found it, I could only imagine. I rested my head on my pillow, willing myself to stay awake as my boss launched into the story of how she’d lost her virginity.
I pulled out my day planner, adding “Change home phone” to my pages-long to-do list.
At the end of my fifth month of work, it happened.
I’d decided to stay late at the office on Friday so that I could get a handle on the ten books I’d inherited from my most recently departed colleague.
Over the past five months, I’d begun to feel much closer to the rest of the staff—through a shared grimace in the hallway outside of Lulu’s office, a sympathetic smile during an editorial meeting, a quick “r u ok?” e-mail after a huge new drift of work had been dumped—but our good-byes were completely unceremonious. At P and P, we’d routinely organize farewell drinks for each departed colleague. If we did that at Grant Books, we’d all be alcoholics.
The only ritual at Grant was the passing of the files. In the wake of each exit, a huge stack of documents and folders would land on my desk. Against one wall of my office, I watched with increasing anxiety as the mountain of new files grew steadily by the week.
My newest authors had been especially shell-shocked by the time I reached them. Most had already been handed down through three, maybe four Grant editors. When I called to introduce myself, one woman wearily expressed her hope that I’d last longer than her last editor. I assured her that I would, and they pretended to believe me—but I could tell they’d heard the promise before.
Friday evening, after a week of mayhem, the twelfth floor was silent as a tomb. Vivian had flown to L.A. the day before, and the rest of the staff had trickled out for a well-deserved weekend off.
I was looking forward to a wintry weekend off, too. Randall and I had decided to “play hooky” and drive out to Long Island to spend the night with Bea and Harry in Montauk. I couldn’t wait. It would be great to get out of the city, especially now that it looked like I’d be trapped here over the holidays. I had so many deadlines clustered around the end of the year, including a book that needed to be edited over Christmas weekend, so
Mom had generously offered to spend the week with me in New York. Less than ideal, but at least we’d be together.
Hopefully she’d get to meet Randall during her visit. And I was eager for him to spend more time with Bea and Harry this weekend. The double whammy of our respective work demands left us with a few stolen moments together each week, not much more, which made it nearly impossible to plan double dates. It was strange, given that we’d now been dating for almost six months, but I’d still not met a single friend of his. Well, once we bumped into his colleague from Goldman on the street—a guy about Randall’s age, who’d practically genuflected at my boyfriend’s feet—but that was about it.
My boyfriend. It still felt like a dream. Randall was proving to be just as wonderful a boyfriend as I’d always imagined he would be. He was so thoughtful—planning dinners at the best restaurants the city had to offer, always asking about my day, showering me with flowers at the office. And I’d been right not to read too much into our false starts in the bedroom … it had just taken us a few weeks to get into the swing of things.
Deep in these thoughts, I jumped in my chair when I heard the phone ring in Dawn Jeffers’s office, just to the left of mine. Then I heard it ring in Lulu’s office, diagonally across the hall. I glanced at the clock on my computer screen: nearly 11:30. Had it gotten so late already?
The phone rang in my office. Unfortunately, I picked up.
“Where the fuck is everybody?” Vivian snarled into the phone. She sounded absolutely livid. “I leave the office and everyone decides that school’s out? I’ve been up since five in the morning and I’ve got three more meetings tonight. Why am I working harder than the entire staff put together? And what have you been doing all week? I haven’t heard a word from you—I don’t know what you do in that office all day—”
I froze, shocked, my pen poised in midair over my notepad. Did Vivian realize how late it was in New York? Had she mistakenly dialed my extension? Did she think she was speaking to someone else? I’d heard her berate nearly everyone on the staff, but so far I’d been granted relative immunity. Not that she’d been lavishing me with praise for the past five months, but she hadn’t ripped me limb from limb, either. I wasn’t expecting my good fortune to run out when she’d reached me working late on a Friday night.