The Dirty Book Club

by Lisi Harrison

  “Congratulations, Dr. Hartwell!” she beamed. “I can’t wait to see—”

  A woman, age twenty-eight or maybe thirty-four, wearing a black sports tank and Lycra leggings in performance pink, bounced into frame. “I can’t find my keys!” She tipped over the railing to check the sand. Her suspiciously thick Victoria’s Secret hair spilled forward as if helping her search.

  Dan, respectfully avoiding eye contact with her high-definition ass, offered to check the kitchen. “Hold on a sec,” he told M.J. as he set down his iPad. A prop plane dragged a banner through the optimistic blue sky: REGGAE AT THE OASIS!

  M.J. snuck a quick peek of herself in the chat box. Her complexion was pigeon gray compared to their radiant California glows. Summoning the poor girl’s blush, she pinched her cheeks and accidentally scratched the left side of her face.

  “Found them!” the woman announced while M.J. applied pressure to the wound with a coffee-stained Starbucks napkin.

  “Who was that?” she asked when Dan finally returned.

  “Britt Riley. My Realtor.”

  “Well, Britt Riley is going to get a yeast infection if she keeps wearing her exercise clothes to work.”

  “They’re moisture wicking!” Britt called as she left.

  Dan winced.

  “Sorry,” M.J. mouthed, cheeks hot.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Well, I just insulted your Realtor—”

  “No, you have a scratch on your face and . . . when’s the last time you ate?”

  “Does toothpaste count?”

  “Come out here. Let me take care of you.”

  “Next Friday,” she reminded him. “Well, technically Saturday. I have to take the red-eye because I’m doing an interview for the Times.”

  “That gives us . . . what? Like a day and a half?”

  “I know, but I’ll be back for my birthday, then you’ll be here in June and—”

  “That reminds me,” he said with more enthusiasm than she would have preferred. “Randy just confirmed our surf trip. It’s June thirty-first. We’re doing seven days in Java.”

  “June only goes up to thirty.”

  “Really?” Dan rubbed the back of his neck. “I could have sworn he said the thirty-first.”

  M.J. quickly googled Java on her phone. “Indonesia? What if there’s a terror attack? Do they even have cell service? What if you drown?”

  “I’m going with two other doctors and a pro surfer,” he said. “We’ll be fine.”

  “Randy is a retired pro surfer,” she said, while making a note to fill that week with time-consuming meetings and late-night photo shoots.

  “Anyway, I wasn’t talking about a visit and you know it. I was talking about you coming here to live.” He smiled, boyishly. “With me.”

  M.J. sighed, tired of defending her choices.

  “I know we’ve only been together for eight months, but so what? We’ll get a dog, go on hikes, spend Monday through Friday together. You could start writing again.”

  “Dan, I’m not a writer anymore. I’m about to be named editor in chief of the most successful monthly magazine on the East Coast.” Something inside of M.J.’s stomach took flight when she said editor in chief. After two and a half caffeinated years of sweatshop discipline and unwavering dedication it was happening. Really, really happening.

  Dan drained his beer and set it down on the railing with a decisive thunk. “Tell them you don’t want the job.”

  “I can’t. I’m about to sign the contract in, like, two minutes.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  A calendar reminder popped up on M.J.’s computer screen. It was time.

  “Both,” she said. “I have to go.”

  “Have to go or want to go?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Stop.”

  “Fine. Skype me from the cab on your way home. I’ll give you a tour of the cottage.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I love you.”

  “How about ‘Good luck, M.J.’?”

  “Luck is the last thing you need. Actually, this promotion is the last thing you need.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Running that magazine isn’t going to make you happy.”

  “What?”

  “All those e-mails, and meetings, and articles you’re always editing . . . they’re excuses.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Cohn. Same time next week?”

  “I’m serious, M.J. It’s been three years since the accident. It’s time to start giving a shit again.”

  “I give a shitload of shit.”

  “About your job, yes. Not about—”

  “It’s not a job,” she snapped, because it wasn’t. City was so much more than corporate perks and cinematic views. It was a playground for the ambitious with rules that made sense. The more she worked, the more she achieved. No surprises, no unexpected calls from blocked numbers. Why was that so hard for him to understand? “Dan, this place saved me.”

  “It’s a place, M.J. . . . It can’t save you.”

  Her heart began to rev. “Why don’t you move to New York and open a clinic here instead?”

  “I just bought a house.”

  “And I own an apartment.”

  Eyes locked, nostrils flared, chests puffed, they glared at each other. Two soap opera characters enduring the awkward, lingering silence. They had arrived at this impasse many times before. How could they build a life together when neither of them would sacrifice what they had built when they were apart? And now with Dan’s new cottage and M.J.’s soon-to-be-signed five-year contract, a solution seemed further away than ever.

  “What do you want me to do, Dan? Move to the beach and work at an organic juice bar?”

  “Sounds kind of nice, doesn’t it?”

  “It does,” she admitted, if things were different, if she was different—but they weren’t.

  * * *

  ANN ROSE-COOKE WAS seated at the twenty-six-person conference table, shuffling papers and setting out pens, when M.J. entered. Standing, Ann welcomed her with a Let’s get it done handshake and a Thank God it’s Friday smile. No one had to tell this president of human resources how to commix business and pleasure into a single greeting. Ann made a career out of professional etiquette. She knew.

  “I just love daylight savings. The extra hour of sun makes all the difference.”

  M.J. glimpsed the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows with a concurring nod, though she had grown to resent the amenable weather conditions other New Yorkers so desperately craved.

  While perfect for those who wanted to toss a Frisbee around Central Park or linger at an outdoor café, blue skies and balmy nights did nothing for workaholics but underscore their tragic condition.

  “Are we late?” Gayle asked, blowing into the conference room like a nor’easter.

  We? M.J. thought. And then Liz Evans, president of marketing and the Queen of Happy Hour, followed Gayle through the open door.

  “What up, May-June?” Liz asked, in her ongoing effort to annoy M.J. by using her full name.

  “Liz and I just had a very productive lunch meeting with Rafferty Witt,” Gayle said, shooting a chummy wink at Liz as she settled into her seat at the head of the table.

  When had Gayle West—current editor in chief, soon to be CEO of Pique Publishing Group—started winking chummily at Liz? Crass humor, trashy style, and gold selfie sticks hardly seemed to be her thing.

  Liz muffled a burp. “Sorry,” she said, fanning the air. “Sauvignon blanc.”

  Gayle wagged a finger. “I told you not to order that third glass.”

  “I didn’t,” Liz boomed. “That was you.”

  “Ha! You’re right.”

  “Why don’t we get started?” Ann suggested.

  “Let’s.” Gayle clapped. “Liz, you begin.”

  “Sorry, but am I at the right meeting?” M.J. asked, tapping through her schedule.

  “Of course.” Gayle grinned, meeting M.J.’s eyes for the f
irst time. “I thought you’d want to hear the good news before we get to the great news.”

  “Sure. Yes. Totally,” M.J. said, cheeks burning and still confused.

  “And now . . .” Liz drumrolled her bloated fingers on the table. “For the first time in advertising history . . . Witt Holdings have pulled their ads from New York magazine and are making City their new home. And now back to you, Gayle.”

  M.J. drew back her head. “Does that mean . . . ?”

  “Everything!” She beamed. “Restaurants, boutiques, art galleries, even their luxury condos.”

  It was the first time M.J. didn’t want to smack the smug look off her coworker’s face. In fact, she could have kissed it. The score was impressive and the skank deserved to be proud. Witt Holdings would bring millions of ad dollars to the magazine. The additional revenue would placate the board members and maybe even reverse their position on shutting down City’s print division. Not to mention the personal win for M.J.: her first year as editor in chief would be the most successful one on record. “Incredible job, Liz. How did you do it?”

  “I took Witt himself to see Laser Floyd: Dark Side of the Moon and we had a blast.”

  “People still do that?”

  “They sure do,” Gayle bellowed. “I’ve seen that show at least ten times.”

  M.J. furrowed her neglected eyebrows.

  “Yes, honey, black people like Pink Floyd, too,” Gayle teased.

  “This isn’t about you being black,” M.J. insisted. “It’s about you being—”

  “Forty-seven?”

  “No.”

  “Female?”

  “No.”

  “Claustrophobic?”

  Laughing, M.J. said, “I didn’t know Rafferty Witt was a fan of Floyd,” because there was no respectful way to say she thought Gayle was more sophisticated than that.

  “The tequila shots and steak dinner didn’t hurt,” Liz added.

  “Well, it’s quite a win, Liz,” Ann said. “But I’d really feel much better if we could take the focus off alcohol and—”

  “God.” Gayle sighed. “I’m really doing this, aren’t I?”

  “Doing what?” M.J. asked.

  “Stepping down as editor in chief to become the CEO of Pique?”

  “Are you having second thoughts?”

  “More like pangs of nostalgia.” Gayle dabbed the corners of her pooling eyes with the sleeve of her tastefully sheer blouse. “I’m going to miss this place, but I know it will be in capable hands.” She went on to laud M.J.’s leadership skills, her tireless quest for perfection, the innumerable weekends and holidays she worked, and the magazine’s circulation, which was up 43 percent.

  M.J. gripped the two gold wedding bands on her thumb. Her parents would be so proud. “City is everything to me.”

  “Same,” Liz boomed. “Shit, I seriously can’t imagine a better partner.”

  M.J. thanked her with a humble grin. “I will be leaning on you and your marketing team a lot, especially during the first few months.”

  “Ha!” Liz said.

  “What’s funny?”

  “That was a joke, right?”

  M.J. looked from Gayle to Ann, then back to Liz. “No, why?”

  “As of Monday I won’t have a marketing team,” she said. “We’re the team now, May-June.”

  “I’m sorry but I don’t get what’s happening here.”

  Gayle fingered the layered chains around her neck. “Didn’t you read the e-mail?”

  “What e-mail?”

  She made ch-ch-ch sounds as she thumbed through her phone. “Here we go. Sunday, April 17, 2:13 AM. Subject: Exciting Changes.”

  “Never got it.”

  “Shoot,” Gayle said. “It’s in my drafts folder.”

  Ann began to straighten her already straight row of pens.

  Liz popped a Mentos.

  “Will someone please tell me what’s going on?”

  “In a nutshell?” Gayle was suddenly alight with corporate enthusiasm. “I’ve formed a coalition.”

  Liz bobbleheaded in agreement.

  “I still don’t . . .”

  “You and Liz,” Gayle said, as if they’d discussed it hundreds of times. “Coeditors in chief.”

  “Co?”

  “Yes,” Gayle said, delighted by her own ingenuity. “You run City in here, and Liz runs it”—she rolled her wrist toward the windows—“out there.”

  “I’m sorry, but what does that even mean?” M.J. glared straight into Gayle’s eyes, suspecting that maybe this wasn’t Gayle at all. The Gayle she knew wouldn’t gaslight her like that. That’s not how they worked. That’s not how they were. They were open and honest and collaborative. Gayle knew how hard M.J. worked. How capable she was. How she gave every ounce of her neglected self to this magazine. She knew!

  “You look a little . . . ashen. Do you need a moment?”

  M.J.’s heart began to pound like a fist at a protest march. “A moment? I’ll need more than a moment to understand why my new position has suddenly morphed into a . . .”

  “Coalition,” Liz offered.

  “Gayle, can I speak to you for a minute?” M.J. managed.

  “Great idea,” Ann said. “Would anyone like coffee?”

  “Depends where you’re going,” Liz said. “Sixbucks or the commissary?”

  “We’re going to the commissary,” Ann insisted.

  Liz stiffened. “Oh, right.” Then with a wine-scented whisper said, “Don’t worry, May-June, you got the better office.” Then she and Ann left the boardroom.

  “This is insane,” M.J. hissed once they were alone. “You know that, right?”

  Gayle extended her hand toward M.J. “I hate that it was sprung on you like this. I assumed you got the e-mail.”

  “And what? You thought I loved the idea so much I forgot to mention it?”

  “I’m trying to do what’s best for the magazine.”

  “And this is how I find out? Here, in front of everyone?”

  “It was stuck in drafts.” Gayle flashed her screen as proof. “I didn’t know.”

  “Oh, I think you did. I think you knew exactly what you were doing.”

  Gayle folded her arms and sat back in her chair. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, I think you knew I’d freak out and you were scared.”

  “Scared?”

  “Yes, scared. So you did that whole ‘break up in public so she doesn’t cause a scene’ thing. No, wait, what you did was worse. You broke up with me in public and invited your new lover to watch.”

  “I’m hardly breaking up with you, M.J., I’m giving you my magazine.”

  “You were giving me your magazine. Now you’re co-giving it to me and I have no idea why.” Tears, hot and sudden, blurred M.J.’s vision. She blinked them back.

  “Fine. You want to know why I did it?”

  M.J. nodded.

  “You’re no fun.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You get free tickets to every club, gallery opening, and concert in Manhattan and you never go. When’s the last time you took a client to dinner or came in late because you got the junior editors drunk?”

  “When was the last time I left the office before midnight?”

  “I get it,” Gayle continued. “I hate people, too. But Liz? She lives for that crap, and our advertisers can’t get enough of her.”

  “I agree. She’s great. I’ll give her a raise and a promotion.”

  “I considered that,” Gayle explained. “But—”

  “But what? Liz has no idea how to run a magazine.”

  “That’s why I need you.”

  “I know, but why do you need her?”

  “Liz has more cache as an editor in chief and more cache for Liz means more cash for us.”

  M.J. recoiled. “So that’s what this is about? Money?”

  “This is a business. You know that.”

  “And I gave this business everything. Every holiday, every idea, every e
verything! And now you’re giving it to Liz!”

  “She’s a strong spice, yes, but she’ll carry half the load and that will mean less pressure for you. You’ll have more time to see Dan and daylight and who knows? Maybe you’ll start writing again.”

  “All I want is what you promised me.”

  Gayle exhaled sharply. “Trust me, okay?”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Meaning?”

  “What if I refuse to share the position?”

  “M.J., I know you’re disappointed but—”

  “Disappointed?” This wasn’t disappointment—it was another death. Only this one wasn’t an accident. It was premeditated and carried out in cold blood.

  “It’s not personal, honey.”

  “Well, it’s sure as shit not professional,” M.J. said, as she pushed back her chair and began moving toward the door in strides that felt both swift and sluggish and not entirely her own. Scenes from a life not yet lived flashed before her—a life where she had no career, no reason to wake up, nowhere to hide from her pain. They came to her in fragments like flying shards of glass after an explosion.

  “At least consider it,” Gayle insisted. “Take a few days off. Think about it. I’ll hold the announcement for a week. What do you say?”

  M.J. wanted to come back with something so poignant and crisp that it would silence the busy streets below and echo through the empty chambers of Gayle West’s heart for years to come. But her throat was too dry and her words were spinning and colliding and impossible to grasp.

  “Wait!” Gayle tried. “Where are you going?”

  Without looking back, M.J. replied, “To the fucking beach!”

  CHAPTER

  Four

  Pearl Beach, California

  Sunday, May 1

  Waning Crescent Moon

  SUNSHINE SPILLED INTO the bedroom, waking M.J. like a messenger with urgent news.

  She rolled over onto Dan’s pillow and listened to Gayle’s latest voice mail. It was a reminder, her third, that it wasn’t too late to go back to City. But unless Gayle rescinded her offer to Liz, it most certainly was.

  M.J. pitched the phone onto the tangle of sheets, stretched lazily across the bed—their bed—and gazed out at the wraparound deck. Dan was there, lying on a yellow-and-white-striped chaise reading Emergency Medicine magazine. The tiny muscles in his shoulder twitched when he turned a page. She wondered what the birds were singing about, why the sky was so freakishly cloudless, and where that chaise might have come from, because it sure as Chanel wasn’t there yesterday.