The Pink Ghetto

by Liz Ireland

  I was not sure whether I could believe that. A guy like Luke was probably lonely maybe one or two nights of the year.

  “It’ll be nice to have a face across the coconut curry,” he mused.

  “This sad-sack bachelor thing is not an act I’m buying.”

  He laughed. “To be honest, I had another reason for bringing you here.”

  Now this interested me. “What?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I wondered if it had anything to do with some kind of first-date ritual. Like he had a prejudice against women who didn’t use chopsticks, and this was a test. Maybe it was something else. Fried squid, or grilled. The meal began to seem more like a challenge.

  Not that I was even sure whether this was an actual date. It felt more like an after-work thing. And he probably considered himself to be on business, because we were going to see Sylvie after.

  In the traditional exchange of thumbnail sketch life histories, I went first, but only because he asked. I gave him the bowdlerized version—leaving out weight issues, crushing feelings of insecurity, and anything dealing with my short catalog of disastrous romances. Basically, when I was done the man knew I came from Ohio, I won the citywide spelling bee when I was ten, and I came to New York and worked for Sylvie. (But he knew that last bit already.) I tried as hard as I could to make it sound like a charmed life.

  Luke wasn’t buying it. “What about Cassie?” he asked when I was done.

  I craned my neck forward. I couldn’t believe he even remembered her. And I have to say, I wasn’t exactly thrilled to have her name brought up on my date. “What about her?”

  “You were having a nervous breakdown that day in the elevator, remember?” He would remember that. “What happened to her?”

  “Oh…she got a job somewhere else.”

  “I thought she might still be there—you seemed a little stressed out when I picked you up at work.”

  “Well…that was something else. A book deal gone south.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t think you want to know.”

  “Sure I do.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I love long stories.”

  I told him. The unbowdlerized version. I even had to backtrack and tell him about growing up with weight issues, and crushing insecurity, and about how meeting Fleishman made me suddenly feel part of a cool crowd. As if I were giving a rebuttal to Cutting Loose, I spilled everything, but from my point of view. Even as the words tumbled off my tongue, I felt I was probably deep-sixing any chance I had with this guy. He looked like he had led a perfect life. But if that were the case, I would rather he knew the worst about me now, rather than getting my hopes up and going out with him only to have him realize later that I was a mess. I thought I was inoculating myself against heartbreak.

  Clearly, I had learned nothing.

  During the crab fried rice, I finished with a flourish by telling him about Fleishman writing the book, and kicking us out of the apartment, and then selling the book to someone else.

  “And that brings you up to today,” I said.

  He took a moment to sip some tea. “Well, that’s a lot more interesting than winning a spelling bee.”

  I laughed. “It’s a big muddle. Maybe I should be asking your advice on whether I could sue him for defamation of character.” I shook my head. “Or maybe just exposure of defamed character.”

  “That’s not my line. My only comment would be, success is the best revenge.”

  “That’s what they say. But what reason did I ever give him to take revenge on me? We were friends.”

  He indulged me with a smile. “What I meant was your success could be revenge on him.”

  “Oh! Right.” That thought—having success myself—hadn’t really occurred to me lately.

  “Don’t let him get under your skin. People like your friend Fleishman tend to see a shortcut to success and then fizzle. He’ll blow his advance on gadgets and vacations, and then where will he be? I’ve seen a million of guys like that. Moreover, I’ve written a million of them out of their parents’ wills.”

  The idea of Fleishman flaming out was so appealing. I still couldn’t imagine myself achieving a level of success that would make him envious of me, but maybe I was on the road to recovery.

  Belatedly, as we were taking the last sips of tea, I asked Luke for his life story.

  He was another Midwesterner, from Chicago. His father was a dermatologist. Private schools the whole way. Hardship occurred when he ran low on cash during a side trip to Greece during his junior year abroad and had to take steerage on a boat to Athens before he could wire home for money. Law school had seemed pretty easy. He got his job with McAlpin and Etting right after passing the bar, which had been no sweat.

  No sweat could have been his motto. After the hairy tale I’d laid on him, you’d think for my benefit he could have dredged up something more traumatic than a little discomfort crossing the Mediterranean.

  He paid the check. “Shall we go see Sylvie?”

  On the street, I turned toward the subway and he grabbed my arm, spinning me back. He was laughing. “Where are you going?”

  “The subway’s that way,” I said, pointing.

  He gestured in the other direction. “And my garage is that way.”

  “Garage?”

  His forehead wrinkled adorably. “An enclosure where an automobile is stored.”

  My lips formed an O. “You’re the first person I’ve met from Manhattan who owns a car.”

  He took my arm. “It’s why I brought you to the Thai place, so we could be near the garage.”

  It was hard to hold back a sigh of disappointment. Then it had nothing to do with first date rituals. He probably didn’t consider me date material at all.

  Damn. I could have used my fork.

  Chapter 20

  You wouldn’t think a Romance Journal event would be the type of thing Andrea would go for, but at one forty-five sharp she was rounding up people. She was all dolled up in a beige jersey dress with cool five-inch heel boots. I had dressed up, too, but my hair was just normal, while hers was done up as if ready for her style shoot.

  She hadn’t looked like that when I’d left the apartment this morning. But come to think of it, I hadn’t seen her since then. “Where have you been?”

  “I splurged for a facial and makeover.” Then she added, unnecessarily, “Also, I got my hair done.”

  “You look fantastic.”

  “A lot of people in the industry are going to be there.”

  I shot her a look. “I thought you were staying put.”

  “I am!” she insisted. “But we’re representing Candlelight. We have to look nice, don’t we?”

  “What a liar!” I said.

  Old habits died hard. Some girls dropped off on their pillows dreaming of finding the perfect man; Andrea probably dozed off envisioning the perfect job.

  “Let’s move ’em on out!” she yelled, as if she were riding herd.

  “Okay, okay.” I grabbed my purse, laughing. “We don’t want to represent Candlelight by being tardy.”

  Rita hurried over. She was wearing her usual meeting suit, but in a bow to the formality of the occasion she had a smear of lipstick across her lips. “I thought the Pulse Pod could share a cab. My treat.”

  “You’re expensing it, right?” Andrea asked.

  “Well, yeah…”

  “Where’s Lindsay?”

  Rita looked doubtful. “Is she coming?”

  “I just saw her a while ago. She was all dressed up.”

  Of course, in typical Lindsay fashion she was all dressed up in a silvery satin top decorated with aquamarine sequin dolphins. It didn’t exactly go with her blue skirt, but it was hard to see what exactly that shirt would have matched. Clearly, however, she had made an effort.

  Andrea tugged us all along. I think she didn’t want to be caught in visual proximity to that dolphin shirt. “Your protégé will
catch up.”

  Ever since I began my effort to get Lindsay promoted, Andrea had taken to calling her my protégé. For fun she liked to spin All About Eve fantasies in which Lindsay played Eve to my Margo Channing.

  “All About Eve, the slapstick version,” I’d say. “There’s not even a hunky guy for Lindsay to steal.”

  “What about Luke?” Andrea said.

  Luke was a frustrating subject. He was working on hunting down R.J. Langley for Sylvie. He liked to take me out for dinner or for drinks and keep me updated on the case. But he hadn’t made any moves toward more.

  When I pointed out this fact, Andrea was incredulous. “It’s only been what? One week?” And then, later, “Relax. It’s only been what? Two weeks?”

  At Sunday brunch just days before, he’d spent most of our time together telling me about all the ways people could abscond with money and hide it offshore. Of course I had to come home and spill my frustrations to my housemates.

  “Two weeks and he hasn’t become any more intimate than holding my hand as he hauls me out of a cab’s backseat.”

  “Well?” Wendy asked. “He’s a gent.”

  “Too much of a gent,” I lamented.

  “But he keeps asking you out,” Andrea observed.

  “Only because of Sylvie. He’s acts like we’re on a case together. It’s like we’re Holmes and Watson.”

  “Hm. Maybe I could be your Eve and steal him away from you.”

  “You probably could,” I said, dispirited.

  Andrea thought for a moment. “It might make our living arrangements a tad uncomfortable…”

  “We’re used to that,” Wendy deadpanned.

  The hotel was on Central Park South. In the lobby there were signs pointing to the Romance Journal party on the second floor…but you could have just followed the trail of gussied up women. Some meeting area called the Boardroom was having a reception sponsored by a new sports channel. Anything male was filing in that direction. It was tempting to peel off from the crowd and go with them.

  In the ballroom, an impressive scene greeted us, along with the soothing sound of a flute and harp duo playing Debussy’s greatest hits. The room was huge and elaborately decorated in a way Liberace might have appreciated. The whole place seemed dripping with cream and gold, except for a strip of crimson carpeting that split the room in half and led up to a dais at the front of the room. There were round tables set up with white cloths with a centerpiece of creamy roses arranged in a ring. Rising from the middle of each ring was a plaster bust spray-painted gold; each was wearing an elaborate costume jewelry piece.

  “What’s the purpose of the red carpet?” I asked.

  “Looks like we’re going to have a fashion show,” Andrea said. She had to speak loudly to be heard above the crowd, which was approaching a roar. The place was so thick with editors and authors and other industry folk that it was hard to see how we would all fit at the tables.

  I recoiled a little as I scanned the room. I had known there would be people there I recognized—a lot of people from the conferences I’d attended. But I hadn’t really been thinking that, given my history as the Calamity Jane of industry functions, these might be people I wouldn’t want to see again. Everywhere I looked now I spotted people I’d inadvertently insulted with business cards, had stage fright in front of, and vomited on.

  “Okay,” Andrea announced, “I’ve got to mingle before the Contessa makes us sit down.”

  She disappeared. I stayed with Rita. “I don’t see Lindsay,” she said, visually sifting through the throng of people.

  “It would be hard to find her in this crowd.”

  Rita looked at me as if I were out of my mind. “In that dolphin shirt of hers? It would be impossible to miss her.”

  She was right, although Lindsay would not have been the only besequined person there, by any means. The Contessa herself was sparkling around the room in a dress with a gold sequined bolero-style overjacket. I had never seen her before, so this was exciting for me; I only recognized her from her pictures in Romance Journal.

  “Maybe Lindsay’s gone to the wrong Helmsley,” Rita conjectured. “There’s one in Midtown.”

  I had told Lindsay she needed to keep being assertive; now I felt compelled to assert for her. “I’m sure she’ll find the place. She’s really been knocking herself out lately. Haven’t you noticed?”

  “It’s true, she’s not quite the fuckup she used to be,” Rita admitted, albeit reluctantly. Then, as she stared over my shoulder, she exclaimed, “Well! Look who’s here!”

  I turned, expecting for some reason to see Lindsay. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Standing so close that I nearly stepped on her foot was Muriel and a friend.

  Rita greeted her like a long lost friend, even though Muriel had been behind the receptionist desk when we left. We had last seen her about a half hour before.

  Though I might have glanced at her answering phones, I really hadn’t looked at her. Because, I have to say, Muriel really had her geek on that day. She was dressed up in an empire waist blouse with ruffled sleeves over a long shapeless blue velvet skirt. Little black ballet shoes complemented the ensemble. If that skirt had gone the extra three inches to her ankles, the outfit might have been suitable for prom night, 1976. It was couture to listen to The Best of Bread by.

  “It’s good to see you here, Muriel,” Rita said.

  “Thank you, Rita. Kathy Leo was kind enough to offer me her invitation, since she couldn’t make it. I brought my friend, Melissa.”

  We all said hello to Melissa, who I have to say looked more normal than Muriel, but a lot more nervous. “All these people!” she said. “And I recognize a lot of them from their book jacket photos. Look—there’s Valerie Martin, the romantic suspense author!”

  Valerie Martin was talking to the Contessa.

  “Are you a romance fiction reader?” Rita asked Melissa.

  The woman nodded. “I read a lot.”

  “This is Melissa MacIntosh,” Muriel said, looking straight at me.

  Which was weird, since the woman had already been introduced. We nodded politely.

  Rita nudged me with her elbow. “I’m going to sneak out on the terrace for a little bit.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  Muriel was smiling at me. “Melissa has been dying to meet you, Rebecca.”

  “Really?” That was a first. I wasn’t exactly one of the celebrities in the crowd.

  “Or, actually, I should say that she has been dying to meet you in person.”

  I felt my smile freeze. Something weird was going on here. I trained my gaze on Melissa, who still had that anxious glaze in her eyes that I had seen somewhere before. It took me a moment to place it…and then I remembered. It was the expression I had seen on the faces of some unpublished authors during editor-author appointments at conferences. Was she an author?

  I couldn’t quite recall…

  Oh God. I swallowed back a gasp of sudden recognition. Melissa MacIntosh!

  My heart sank, even as my brain whirred in confusion. This couldn’t be Melissa MacIntosh. Muriel was Melissa MacIntosh.

  Or maybe she wasn’t.

  “You rejected my book,” Melissa said, unnecessarily by now. “The Rancher and the Lady?”

  “Oh!” I attempted a bright tone. “Right!”

  “Melissa was so excited when I told her that you would like to sit her down in person,” Muriel said.

  I had said that?

  Maybe I had. In the hospital. But that had been when I assumed Muriel was Melissa MacIntosh. I hadn’t known I would really have to talk to her.

  “She said you had all sorts of ideas,” Melissa said.

  She looked so hopeful. And I couldn’t even remember the book.

  Well. It wasn’t even a question of remembering. I had never read all of The Rancher and the Lady.

  Instinctively, I cast my gaze about, longing for rescue. Hoping Andrea would be coming back toward me, or Rita. Anyone who would know
how to defuse this situation. I had never been confronted with one of my rejectees before.

  That’s when I saw her. I was already feeling frantic, and then I caught sight of my old nemesis.

  Cassie.

  I don’t know why I hadn’t expected to see her here, but I hadn’t. Frankly, in the past weeks, I had almost forgotten about her. But there she was, barely recognizable because she was so happy looking and radiant, and yet essentially so Cassie that there was no disguising her. She had cut her hair; her page boy had been lopped off and layered. She was wearing makeup and dangly earrings off her chunky little lobes. And—most amazing of all—her figure was encased in Natasha Fleishman’s purple and turquoise Mainbocher dress.

  My dress, I thought, outraged. Except of course I had never worn it.

  And it was never exactly mine.

  But what was Cassie doing with it?

  My gaze shifted a few degrees, and there he was. Herbert Dowling Fleishman the Third and Cassie Saunders. A team.

  I stood there with my mouth agape. It was as if the floor were going wobbly.

  Was I a fool? In the week since Dan Weatherby told me that someone else had bought Cutting Loose, the identity of the rival editor had never crossed my mind. I had been so focused on the idea of my losing that I hadn’t stopped to consider who had won. If anything, I had wondered more about the publishing house than the individual editor. That’s what had consumed Mercedes’s curiosity about the whole affair.

  But this was worse, much worse, than anything we had imagined.

  All those months I had spent nights at home moaning about Cassie trying to undermine me. Cassie making my work life a hell. And who had Fleishman let his book go to?

  Cassie.

  Maybe he had even told Dan he wanted Cassie to look at it. He probably thought Cassie would move heaven and earth to wrestle the book from me.

  He was right.

  As I gaped and gasped, basically feeling like a tugboat that had just been torpedoed, Dan Weatherby sailed into view, joining them. That completed my own private axis of evil.

  I must have been radiating distress, because at that moment, Dan’s head rotated and he caught sight of me. He lifted his hand in a wave—he had been hailing people all across the room with more than his usual amount of smarm. His smile to me wasn’t even the least bit tentative, either. We might have been old buddies.