“It was an inspired negotiation tactic, if I do say so myself,” Max said. “I expect the U.N. to call any moment and offer me a job. So where’s Sloane today? I felt fortunate to have gotten out of the house without having to talk to her.”
“Arlene is doing the tour guide duties again today,” Katie answered, “which means they’ll both get lost. In any case, she leaves tomorrow, thank God. I can’t take anymore Benji’s.”
***
Later, just as Max and Gresham were finishing lunch Max’s mobile rang. Looking at the caller ID and seeing Katie’s name displayed the novelist knew what the topic of conversation was going to be.
“Yes, Katie darling?”
“It’s a comedy!” was her greeting.
“Yeah, so?”
“But…I mean…but…It’s a freaking comedy, Max!”
“Yes, I know. I wrote it, after all. However it does gratify me that I wrote it well enough for you to recognize that it’s a comedy.”
“But, Max…”
“Yes, Katie darling?”
The woman sighed expansively over the phone.
“I wasn’t expecting a comedy, Max. Look, I’m not trying to criticize or anything, and I’m soooooo grateful you did this for me but this didn’t seem to be the type of subject which called for comedy.”
“Oh, I dunno,” Max replied. “I think I managed to make it work quite well. Rachel told me that she’s never laughed so hard.”
“Yeah, I know! I’ve been sitting here in my office cracking up! I even spilled some of the very nice Eroica I bought all over the quarterly reports! The story is hilarious, Max.”
“Glad you like it, now if you’ll excuse me I’m only allowed a certain amount of lesbian minutes per month on my calling plan so—“
“Wait a minute!” She paused a moment. “Max, I’m a little worried. I’m not sure that your story, well, fits in with all the others I’ve gotten so far. I mean, as much as I appreciate it and all.”
Max smiled.
“Katie darling,” he said, “I need you to take a deep breath and then I need you to do something for me.”
“What do you need?” she asked after he heard her suck in a huge amount of air and then blow it back out.
“I need you to trust me. It’s as simple as that.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Katie, listen, I want you to think about my story, okay? Now, I know it was funny and I know that initially the humor may cause a reader to overlook other aspects of it but I want you think hard about the story. Did I not get across how upsetting it was for Camilla to suddenly find herself homeless?”
“Well, yeah…”
“And did I not get across how frightened she was when for the first time in her life she knew what it meant to be utterly starving with no idea when her next meal would be?”
“Yeah, you did.”
“And what about that scene in which she couldn’t get into a shelter? She takes refuge in an abandoned warehouse and accidentally comes upon a group of toughs who were also staying there, and then she had to hide from them while they tear the place apart looking for her. Did I not get across how terrifying that is for a woman?”
Katie sighed.
“Yes, you did,” she concurred.
“Alright, then. What you gotta understand is that your little collection of stories is gonna need my tale precisely because it is funny. That’s another reason why I insisted it be placed last. After reading God knows how many pages of depressing, serious-toned stories about downtrodden people it’ll be refreshing for your readers to finish that book with a few laughs.”
There was silence for a few seconds. Katie was evidently mulling over what Max had told her. Finally, she told him that she was worried the Sisters would be reluctant to include the story in the anthology.
“Well, that’s their prerogative,” Max said unconcernedly. “I really won’t care.”
“But I’ll care,” Katie admitted. “Max, you did this as a favor to me and if your story is rejected I’ll feel horrible.”
“That’s ridiculous,” the novelist insisted. He then explained that if it was indeed rejected he’d then be free to use bits and pieces of it in a future novel. And if he didn’t do that…
“Then one day, after I’m dead, you and Danielle can make a fortune by including Camilla’s story in a book titled ‘The Unpublished Works of Max Bland.’ Katie, trust me, you don’t have to worry about my feelings being hurt.”
“Okay, fine.”
“Can I go now?”
“Yes, sorry about interrupting your lunch. But there’s one more thing.”
“Yeah?”
There was a moment of silence before Katie said:
“Thank you so much for the dedication. I love you.”
Then she hung up.
***
When she hung up the phone Katie picked up the thirty unbound pages of Max’s submission. The first page sported the tale’s title: A Hackney Lass and the Harms of CIA Rendering. Typical Max Bland title. But she lifted that page off and stared at the second page for it was this one that was her hands-down favorite and even made her lip quiver with emotion.
On this page was a single paragraph that read: Dedicated to Katie Shaw…my friend and my sister. A man can never know just how deficient he is until he meets the likes of you. Your tireless efforts to make a world ruined by mankind into a better place provide solace to this cynical heart. Consider yourself on a pedestal, my dear. Never will I measure up.
Max’s first novel, The Remarkable Reign of Pope Anne I, had been dedicated to his parents; both of his subsequent novels, however, bore no dedications—a true oddity in the literary world and one which continued to generate discussion. When asked about this omission by interviewers Max always refused to shed any insight by brusquely declaring it was an unimportant question. Therefore, if this story Katie was holding in her hands did in fact get published it would only be the second Max Bland story published bearing a dedication; a fact, Katie surmised, which may very well make the dedication as famous as the story itself.
Rereading it now it made her eyes water until a single tear loosed itself from the others and streamed down her face. Even Danielle hadn’t been so honored with a Max Bland dedication—and Katie realized that unless Max corrected that soon there was bound to be some trouble in the family dynamics. In fact, Katie was tempted to call Max back right now and suggest, politely, that he instead rewrite the dedication for Danielle. But she couldn’t; despite her love for Danielle she jealously wanted to hold onto this.
Katie finally put the story down. She blew her nose and checked her makeup in a mirror on the wall to make sure her mascara was still intact. Then she left her office with the manuscript and headed straight for the copy room. She made two copies of the story which she handed to Jesminda on her way back, instructing her secretary to have them delivered right away upstairs to the forty-ninth floor.
Chapter 32
Intimidation Rule Number One: appear far too busy to extend even the simplest of courtesies.
To that end, Danielle had her secretary, Siobhan, ring up Harold at the Holiday Inn to say that Ms. Edwards would be by to collect him at four that afternoon and would he please be ready at that time. Then, about an hour later, Danielle instructed Siobhan to call Harold back to say that unfortunately, something urgent has come up which will prevent Ms. Edwards from meeting him at the hotel as originally planned; would he now take down the address of the restaurant and arrange to meet his daughter there at around four-thirty?
Intimidation Rule Number Two: orchestrate a carefully managed display of wealth.
This one was tricky. Her initial idea, send the Bentley to collect Harold, was quickly disregarded because Danielle felt her father didn’t deserve the Bentley—he could walk for all she cared; so successful implementation of rule number two hinged on the choice of venue and after careful consideration she finally decided that the restaurant to have this tête-à-tête in would be n
one other than Fortinbras—the new establishment by Michelin-starred chef Jean-Michel Depardieu who was determined to loosen Gordon Ramsay’s hold as the king of haute cuisine in the United Kingdom. In a nutshell, Fortinbras was obscenely pricey, very exclusive and not at all the type of restaurant her father frequented; indeed, it made even the classiest place in Phoenix look like a high school cafeteria.
Intimidation Rule Number Three: be the one everyone else waits for.
Four-thirty? Danielle had no intention of showing up at four-thirty. She had no intention of showing up at five. Of course, she knew her father would be prompt as always—“A good rule of conduct, young lady,” Harold had told her many years ago when he was still on the clock, so to speak, as her parent, “is to arrive for any appointment at least ten minutes early”—but Danielle didn’t shimmer into Fortinbras until a quarter past five, escorted by the obsequious maitre d’ to the table where Harold had been waiting for nearly an hour.
Harold stood at her arrival, his best sheepish expression on his face. He didn’t seem to know how to greet her—he started to open his arms for an embrace, seemed to think better of it, then started to extend his right hand for a shake, seemed to think better of that also and in the end just stood there as though waiting for her to indicate what she wanted him to do. Apparently, she wanted him to sit, for that’s what she did.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Harold said.
“Hello, Harold,” Danielle replied.
“Gee…Harold, huh? I remember you only used to call me that when you were a teenager and I had done something to either embarrass or enrage you. Thanks for coming to meet me.”
“Well, your messenger, Max, was very convincing.” She looked up at the waiter who now appeared. “Martini with two olives for me, please; Scotch on ice for him.”
They sat in silence until the waiter returned with their drinks; they then placed their dinner orders. Harold, having already had plenty of time to peruse the menu, asked for the truffle-dusted filet mignon while Danielle simply requested her usual Fortinbras dish: herb-encrusted salmon salad. As the waiter walked away Harold said, “Hopefully Max also convinced you to somehow forgive me?”
Danielle grinned. It was a cold grin.
“Max doesn’t give a shit if I forgive you, Harold; he knows better; so does Katie so don’t bother trying to get to her. Forgiving you, or not, will be my decision and my decision alone.”
“Fair enough,” her father conceded, “fair enough. So, may I begin my defense now?”
“Such as it is.”
After taking a swig of his Scotch Harold said, “Okay, to begin, what I did those many years ago—cheating on your mother, I mean—was a horrible thing to do.”
“This is some defense,” Danielle quipped.
“Would you prefer I patronize you by sugarcoating it, sweetheart? Most men in my situation would.”
“Telling me that cheating on Mom was a horrible thing to do is patronizing me, Harold, by telling me something I already know!”
“Danielle, please, just let me do this in my own way, okay? It’s hard enough.” He imbibed another sip of his drink. “What I did was a horrible thing but—”
“Let me stop you right there,” his daughter interrupted again. “You’re not about to give me the old ‘men are weak and I couldn’t resist the charms of another woman’ spiel, are you?”
“No.”
“Or the old ‘I wasn’t getting what I needed from your mother so I had to seek fulfillment through another woman’ spiel?”
“No. In fact, speaking of your mother, what’s this I hear about her getting married? And what’s this I hear about her being gay?”
Danielle sighed. She was tired of talking about her mother—with Katie, with Max, with anyone—even with her mother. But knowing this was an unavoidable topic of conversation right now she gave her father the Cliff’s Notes version of events concerning Arlene since Arlene’s arrival in Britain.
When she was finished, Harold stated, “I want her back, Danielle.”
“Ha, that’s a laugh! Even if she wasn’t gay and all set to marry a woman the fact still remains that you cheated on her! For decades!”
“But you said yourself that you originally thought she wasn’t really gay, right? That it was just your mother being your mother. I just refuse to believe that she has no love for me any longer,” Harold insisted, “and I want another chance to continue growing old with her.”
“Harold, if you want to waste your energy trying to get Mom back then do it on your own time,” Danielle seethed. “Don’t ask me to help.”
Chastened, Harold nodded.
“Okay,” he said, “where was I?”
“Jesus. What you did was a horrible thing…” his daughter prompted.
“Right. What I did was a horrible thing. I cheated on my wife; I broke my promises to her and risked losing my family; there’s no excuse for it. And because I did this horrible thing I ended up with another daughter.”
“But…”
“But can you honestly say that any of that had any bearing on the pretty terrific childhood you had, Danielle?” he asked, using the very argument Max advised him against using the night before, and if Max had been present at this summit he would have foreseen the way Danielle’s brow now darkened.
“Harold,” Danielle began, “do you want me to reassure you that you were a good father? Fine. You were a good father. My childhood was, as you say, pretty terrific. But what difference does that make?”
“I think it makes all the difference in the world, sweetheart—“
“Stop calling me that.”
“Fair enough. As I was saying, I think it makes all the difference in the world. I may have had another family in another state but you did not suffer from it. I put a roof over your head; I never missed a birthday; I taught you how to ride a bike and drive a car; I think I spoiled you with presents and—”
“God, men are so stupid,” Danielle muttered looking at her father with eyes that had softened with sympathy for his sex as a whole. “You really, really are stupid—the whole lot of you. Do you really think that this issue boils down to things you bought me and taught me? Harold, even if my pretty terrific childhood had been less terrific by several degrees I’d still be this pissed.” She sighed and then said, “Damn it, Harold, don’t you understand? Don’t you understand that children like to grow up believing they were the only children their parents loved? And girls, in particular, like to grow up believing they were the only girls their fathers loved? You didn’t just cheat on Mom—maybe I could’ve forgiven that because I know men are bastards but you didn’t just cheat on Mom,” she continued, “you also cheated on me. You gave another girl something that should’ve been mine alone.”
Now it was Harold’s turn to be indignant.
“Well, that seems pretty selfish of you, Danielle,” he declared.
“Selfish, you prick? You created this situation, Harold, don’t you fucking dare start calling me names.”
“But what would you have had me do when Cora told me she was pregnant?”
“I don’t know,” Danielle admitted.
“I had a responsibility to that child, surely you can see that?”
“Of course.”
At this point the waiter arrived with their soup—an aromatic offering filled with crab meatballs the size of marbles which was a Depardieu specialty. But despite how tempting the soup was neither father nor daughter bothered with it.
Danielle just didn’t know how to proceed with this discussion, or even if she wanted to. On the one hand, she did understand perfectly that Harold had had a responsibility to his pregnant mistress and then to the infant Sloane; however, her capacity to understand this fact was doing little to diminish the hurt she was feeling about it. She didn’t want Harold pointing out to her that despite what he did she had still had it good—namely, a doting, caring father who let her wrap him around her finger. So what did she want, she wondered now, using a spoon to swir
l the meatballs around in her soup.
“I want time,” she said aloud softly to herself, watching the meatballs dance in the broth.
Harold asked, “What was that you said?”
“Hmmm?”
“You just said something I didn’t catch.”
Danielle hadn’t realized she had spoken aloud and for a moment felt angry with herself for being so unguarded.
“I want time,” she stated firmly. “I want you to give me time. I want you to stop calling me; to stop e-mailing me; to stop trying to see me. Just leave me the hell alone, Harold. Let me deal with this at my own pace.”
“That is proving to be very hard so far,” her father replied.
“Too bad; get used to it. Right now, I’m furious with you, as I feel I have every right to be. I used to think you were this great guy, a great dad but now that image is destroyed, and it meant a lot to me, that image. I have girlfriends whose fathers were less than stellar human beings, but I was always able to say ‘My Dad was great! He was the best father a girl could hope for!’ But now that image is shot to hell, isn’t it? Danielle can’t brag about having the best father in the world anymore because guess what, he’s such a deceitful guy he got away with an incredibly massive lie for almost thirty years!”
Harold was staring down at his soup.
For her part, Danielle shut her eyes, took a couple of deep breaths and tried to consider what to say next. Finally, she said:
“Look, there’s a chance, Harold, that you and I can move past this but it’s not going to happen any time soon. You may be very old before I’m ready to be as warm and affectionate a daughter as I used to be. I need an opportunity to adjust to this new reality. And fuck you if you think I’m being unreasonable and fuck you if you think I’m being selfish. I don’t care. If you’re sincere in wanting to remain in my life then you can start by getting out of it for a while.”
Her tone of voice was so firm—that of a woman who would brook no objection— that Harold had no choice, really, but to nod acquiescence. He even seemed relieved, as if this had gone better than he had hoped.
Two for One-Relatively Speaking (The Two for One series) Page 29