by Bridie Clark
I took a sharp breath and forged ahead. “W-well, I’m getting up to speed on a few books I’ve taken over this week.”
Vivian could smell fear through the phone lines, and she pounced. “Do not interrupt me when I’m speaking. And anyway, what’s to ‘get up to speed on’?” she mimicked me in a high, tinny voice. “You read the file, you talk to the author—it’s not rocket science, and it shouldn’t take up this much of your time. Oh, and I got your message about another literary novel you want to bid on. I’ve seen enough of those submissions, Claire. We can do a couple, fine, but they’re just not profitable! Enough, enough, enough. Maybe Jackson Mayville went for all that highbrow literary crap that ten people buy, but not me. Grant Books is a tight ship, Claire, and you’ve got to climb out of your ivory tower if you want to survive here. You need to get in touch with what people want to read. Why am I the only one who gets that? Why am I the only person with goddamn instincts? All you elitist snobs, you out-of-touch Ivy-Leaguers. You’re so fucking … so fucking anemic, it makes me sick.”
I couldn’t breathe. I felt as if I’d just taken a wrecking ball to the gut. Was Vivian actually saying these things to me? After I’d busted my ass to prove myself as a capable editor—after I’d taken on twenty-five books without a hint of a complaint, even though it barely left me with time to pursue my own projects—after I’d given up every weekend since I started …
“How old are you, twenty-six?” Vivian snapped, rage shooting through the phone receiver I was now gripping tightly, “You’re a child. You’re in way over your head. I don’t know what I was thinking when I hired you. Anyway, I have to go. I have work to do, Claire, I can’t waste my whole night on the phone with you.”
Click.
My head dropped in my hands. I couldn’t breathe. For a few minutes, the otherwise silent office was filled with the sound of me gulping for air.
The logical part of my brain had always expected that one day, like every other person Vivian had ever worked with, I would be on the receiving end of her anger. But a delusional sliver of my brain had harbored a ridiculous hope that maybe I’d be the exception, the golden protégée, the star pupil.
I gathered my things, heart heavy, and left my office with files strewn about. For a lifelong approval glutton, it came as a serious jolt to the system to have my boss essentially tell me that I sucked. Nobody had ever yelled at me before—at least, not in such a scathing, vitriolic way.
The honeymoon was officially over.
“Sweetie, it couldn’t have been that bad,” Randall clucked, swirling the ice in his Scotch. Since Bea had already driven out to Long Island, I’d called Randall as my backup choice for some sympathy and support—new ground for us. He’d agreed to meet me for a quick drink at Hudson Bar & Books before he had to head back to the office. “She probably had a tough day and was looking for a scapegoat. Happens all the time in the business world. When I was climbing the ladder at Goldman, I got torn a new one on a daily basis. If I took it personally every time one of my MDs yelled at me for something that had nothing to do with me … why, I wouldn’t have lasted three days.” He chuckled at the thought.
I knew Randall was right. I was being a baby, and I needed to toughen up. So my boss had yelled at me—happened to millions of employees, day in and day out. I should be able to handle it. I just wasn’t used to it—that was all. I’d been sheltered for my entire life. Coddled. “Just do your best, and we’ll be proud of you,” my parents had always assured me. “A” for effort. Jackson had operated under the same principles. I knew they had the best intentions, but they’d turned me into a thin-skinned wimp.
But now I’d taken on a new level of responsibility, and part of that meant learning to roll with the punches. Randall was right.
By my second quickly downed glass of wine, I was feeling a little better than I had leaving the office. My tears had subsided, and now my mind felt heavy with a calm exhaustion. Still, there was a dark feeling lurking beneath it, a vestige of Vivian’s rage that an entire lake of chardonnay couldn’t quite dissolve.
What if Vivian decided I was so inept that she fired me? I couldn’t bring myself to admit this particular insecurity to my overachieving boyfriend, but people got canned all the time at Grant Books. I could be out of a job—maybe I’d have to crawl back to P and P after just a few months away. How humiliating! If I could incur her wrath by working hard on a Friday night, who knew how long it’d be before there was a stapler flying at my head and a pink slip on my desk? Vivian got rid of employees as thoughtlessly and regularly as most people emptied their trash cans.
I waved to the waitress for a refill. The hopes I’d had five months ago—proving myself as an editor at Grant, finding great books, moving my career ahead several paces—now seemed like delusions. Who was I fooling? I was just a kid, and though I’d been killing myself to do a good job, maybe I didn’t have the experience I needed to take on so many projects. Maybe I was in over my head.
“I hate seeing you this upset, Claire-bear,” said Randall, using his newly coined nickname for me. He rubbed my shoulder gently. “Maybe it’s not worth the stress. Maybe—”
“No way,” I interrupted him, shaking my head. As shaken as I felt, I knew I couldn’t quit. I’d vowed to last a year, and it would take more than one beating to throw me off the track. “I’m going to prove her wrong,” I muttered, more to myself than to Randall. I’d just have to try harder. I took a big gulp of wine.
“I’m sure you will, sweetie,” Randall said encouragingly. “You’re a star, and Vivian Grant is lucky to have you. She knows it, too—she just had a bad night, and you happened to step into her line of fire. I’m sure this will blow over, Claire-bear.”
“Thanks, Randall,” I said, kissing his cheek. “I’m feeling better already.” He’d done a great job as Bea’s stand-in.
“I’m glad.” He kissed my nose. “I hate seeing you so upset. I wish I didn’t have to go back to the office”—Randall frowned, checking his watch—“but if I don’t get this memo done tonight, I’ll have to deal with it tomorrow.”
“No, I promise I’m good,” I assured him. Secretly, though, my heart ached at the prospect of heading back to my apartment alone. I didn’t feel like hearing my own thoughts tonight … or worse, the echo of Vivian’s. I could go back to Randall’s and wait for him—but who knew how long he’d be stuck at the office, and I always felt uncomfortable being alone in the apartment with Svetlana.
Randall strode over to the bar to settle our tab. I took another glum sip of my wine, watching the attractive female bartender gazing at my boyfriend as he waited. It didn’t faze me, strangely enough—I knew what a solid, trustworthy guy Randall was, and I’d never seen him so much as glance at another woman. Not a chip off the old block in that regard. Besides, I couldn’t blame the woman. In his expertly tailored suit and Hermes tie, Randall, as always, looked beyond handsome.
Well, I cheered myself, maybe my job has hit a huge brick wall, but at least I still have the perfect guy.
He walked back to the table and rested a hand on my shoulder. “Pick you up tomorrow at three? Oh, and I almost forgot. My parents are in Southampton, very unexpectedly, for the weekend—I think they’re meeting with a contractor about a new guest cottage on the property. Anyway, do you think we could carve out an hour to visit with them before heading out to Montauk? If we stop by for a cocktail at six, that’ll give us plenty of time to get out to Bea and Harry’s for dinner.”
“Your parents? Sounds great,” I answered, standing up to kiss him good-bye. The perfect guy who’s dying to introduce me to his mom and dad. Yeah, life could be worse.
CHAPTER NINE
EAT THE RICH
Of course I want you to meet my parents. Unless you feel—”
“No, no, I’d love to meet them, it’s just that—”
Randall put his finger to my lips. We’d been intermittently having the same conversation for two hours since leaving the city, neither of us capable
of completing a sentence. Yes, I’d agreed the night before to having cocktails with Lucille and Randall Cox II before our dinner in Montauk with Bea and Harry. And of course I wanted to. But I was a little nervous. What if they didn’t think I was a suitable girlfriend for their son? One crushing blow to the ego per weekend was about all I could handle—and thanks to Vivian, I’d already hit my quota the night before.
“You have nothing to be nervous about. My mother is absolutely euphoric that I’m dating the daughter of Patricia Truman,” Randall insisted. “Believe me, it’s her wildest dream come true.” From the driver’s seat, he reached his arm around me, then pulled my head down so that it rested awkwardly on his muscular shoulder. I stayed put for a few uncomfortable moments until he hit a pothole and my temple banged against him. I shifted back into the upright position.
“We’re here!” he announced a few minutes later, squeezing my knee.
We were? I thought we’d been driving down a quiet lane, lined on either side by huge oak trees, but now I realized that it was actually the long private driveway to the Cox estate. Randall put his Porsche in park, and I climbed out of the car, taking in the full view: the enormous, shingled Stanford White home, the rolling lawns, the perfectly kept tennis courts, and the sun setting on the water just behind the house. I’d stumbled into The Great Gatsby. And Randall—stretching athletically, his polo shirt lifting to reveal a strip of taut stomach—was perfectly cast in the scene.
“We made great time,” he said, affectionately patting the hood of his car.
As we entered the enormous marble foyer, I could hear a rich bass laugh mingle with a trilling soprano giggle. Randall took my hand and pulled me toward the sound of laughter and clinking glass.
“Darling!” Lucille Cox flew up at us the second we entered the living room, grabbing us both in a tight embrace and planting a slightly damp kiss on each of my cheeks. She was the tannest, thinnest woman I’d ever seen, impeccably dressed and topped off with a meringue of bleached hair. “Randall, my darling! And you must be Claire. We’ve been so looking forward to meeting you, my dear. Randall says the most glowing things about you.” My heart warmed instantly. Randall had glowed about me?
Randall’s father, previously unable to get a word in edgewise, inched forward and shook my hand. I could see where Randall got his looks. Now in his sixties, his father was still handsome. His jowls drooped a little, and clots of hair poked out from his nose, but his face hadn’t given up its original design. “Pleasure to have you here, Claire,” he declared in a stentorian voice. “Now, first things first—what I can get you to drink?”
Two shockingly stiff vodka tonics later, we’d become a quartet of laughing voices, and I gazed tenderly at everyone in the room. This is a family I can get used to, I thought as Randall II topped off my glass once more and Lucille offered me another Dunhill. It was refreshing to meet people who refused to outgrow their vices.
My stomach grumbled quietly—I hadn’t eaten more than a bite all day, my nerves were too jangled from the combination of Vivian’s tirade and the parental meeting—and on cue, a maid dressed in a crisply ironed uniform materialized with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. I gratefully took a piece of melon wrapped in prosciutto. Just in time. If I didn’t get something in my stomach, I’d never make it to dinner. Randall’s dad didn’t mess around with his vodka.
“No, thank you, Carlotta,” Lucille demurred, not so much as glancing at the tray.
“Not for me,” echoed Randall.
The maid rested the silver tray between me and Mr. Cox, who happily gobbled up a few mini–crab cakes. “These are delicious,” I said, snagging my second.
Mr. Cox nodded. “Try the salmon puffs,” he suggested helpfully.
“How do you keep your lovely figure, my dear?” asked Lucille with a tight smile as I picked up a puff from the gleaming tray.
“Mother,” Randall whispered in a warning tone. I dropped the puff into my cocktail napkin, suddenly feeling as though I should have a snout. No wonder this woman had a grown son who chewed every bite of food one hundred times.
“Claire, I just adored your mother in college,” Lucille purred, resting her bony fingers on my arm. Instantly the conversation split in two. Randall and his father launched into a discussion about investments, legs crossed toward each other, revealing identical cashmere socks above their matching Gucci loafers. Lucille pulled her meager body closer to mine.
“Oh, thank you,” I replied. “She’s said the same—”
“We were like sisters at Vassar! We shared absolutely everything—hairbrush, study notes, clothes, even boys on occasion!” Lucille let out a trill of laughter over the memory. “You know, I’ve never had such a close friend in my life, before or since. Tish-Tish was one of a kind.”
Tish-Tish? I’d never heard anyone refer to Mom by that dreadful nickname before. How sad, that a friendship could drift as far apart as theirs had. I thought of Beatrice. Lately I’d been so preoccupied with work and my new relationship that our conversations had been reduced to two-minute “check-ins.” Could our lives ever diverge in the polarized way that Mom’s and Lucille’s had? It had never occurred to me before—and it was a chilling thought. To hear Lucille tell it, she and Mom used to be inseparably close, too—but it’d been more than a decade since they’d last seen each other.
“I miss your mother more than I can tell you,” Lucille continued melodramatically. Her little forehead quivered slightly–if her commitment to Botox were any less resolute, my guess was that I’d be seeing a brow knit with sadness. “It’s just too bad, Claire. You know, how she’s living out there. My heart goes out to her. I so wish we could convince her to move closer to New York.”
How Mom was living? The last time I’d checked, she was living in a beautiful little farmhouse on a gorgeous piece of land. She was living among a community of friends who loved her and had known and loved my dad. Her work had never been stronger, and to her enormous delight, she’d started to sell to small galleries across the country.
“I think she’s pretty happy with how she’s living, actually,” I corrected Lucille.
“Oh, I know she says she’s happy, my dear, but really, how can she be? Living in the sticks? Isolated from culture, unable to travel much, and even forced to sell some of her own paintings? If only your father had been able to … well, I suppose we shouldn’t blame the dead.”
Blood rushed hotly to my face. I shot Randall a sharp look, but he remained absorbed in whatever his father was saying and offered no buffer. Was his mother trying to make me fly off the handle within twenty minutes of meeting her? Because if she was, making an insulting insinuation about my dad and a patronizing comment about my mom was a pretty reliable way to go.
Don’t lose your temper, Claire. I took a deep breath.
“Mrs. Cox, she really is happy,” I said firmly. “Iowa City isn’t exactly bright lights, big city, but you’d be surprised by how rich the cultural life actually is. And Mom is thrilled that there’s a growing demand for her paintings. I think that’s satisfying on several levels, including a financial one.”
“Uh-huh.” Lucille nodded, clearly unconvinced. “Well, dear, I do hope you’re right.”
Mom liked this woman? They’d been friends?
“I know Vivian Grant, too, you know,” Lucille continued, gesturing for Carlotta to refresh our cocktails. I noticed that Randall’s father looked up ever so briefly from his conversation at the mention of Vivian’s name, but Lucille didn’t notice. “Dreadful woman, Vivian. She was always so driven. Oh, I respect what she’s done with her career, I suppose. But what about the rest of her life? It’s important to keep a balance between the demands of work and home, don’t you agree?”
Lucille was right: Vivian was dreadful. And after the lashing she’d given me last night, I was particularly in the mood to hear criticism of her—no matter what it was. I took another sip of my vodka tonic and nodded vehemently in agreement.
Uh-oh. The room kept wobbl
ing a little after my head stopped.
Lucille smiled warmly at me, as if I’d cleared some invisible hurdle. “It’s so refreshing to meet a young woman who feels that way, Claire. Especially one with whom my son seems so smitten. Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you this, but his last girlfriend, Coral”—she pulled a face that let me know exactly where she stood on Coral—“was so focused on her career. It was all she could talk about, really. Not that there’s anything wrong with a woman wanting that, it’s just—selfishly, as a mother, I’d like to see Randall with someone a little … softer in her ambitions.”
What? Was I soft in my ambitions? “Actually, I work pretty hard, Mrs. Cox—”
“Of course you do, dear, I didn’t mean to say that you don’t take your job seriously. Forget I mentioned it at all.”
Her timing, at least, was good: Having downed three whoppingly strong cocktails on an empty stomach, I might not find it hard to forget the comment.
“And then there was the whole issue of Coral’s parents,” Lucille rambled, still apparently fixated on Randall’s ex. “How do I say this delicately … well, I can’t. She was born in a trailer park, Claire. Literally, a trailer park. That may sound like an absurd and ridiculous exaggeration, but I assure you it is not.” Lucille shook her head as if she were still having trouble digesting the fact. “Which is fine, of course, we can’t hold that against the girl—she’s done well for herself, Yale Law and all that—but Randall’s father and I just thought that it would make it so much more difficult, you know, not coming from similar backgrounds. What happens when young Randall wants to become a member of the Bath and Tennis, or Shinnecock? I know, it’s terrible, but some of the best clubs are very exacting, even when you’re a Cox. And why make your life more challenging when you don’t need to?”