Everything's Relative

by Jenna McCarthy

  “But the fact that you’ve never had a single art class is what makes you so remarkable,” Jules had argued. “We could make you some promo cards and take them out to some galleries or artists’ agencies, and just see if you get any bites.” But Lexi was having none of it and Jules was at a loss. It wasn’t like she could go showing her sister’s work around without her permission. Besides, Lexi was taken care of. It was herself she needed to worry about.

  Ever since that awful writers’ conference, she couldn’t shake the idea of writing a book for children. She had pages of notes now, something she realized was probably a diversion, a way to occupy her time and distract her mind from the more pressing task at hand: finding an agent for the manuscript she already had, the one she desperately needed to finish—and at least make an effort to sell.

  Jules had spent hours writing and rewriting her email to Derek Stanford, Mr. Wiley’s literary agent friend, and she was mostly pleased with the latest incarnation, which was sitting in her drafts folder. She’d pored over the Query Letter sections of her many writing books, and crafted what she felt was a well-written, compelling sales pitch. She’d given a concise overview of her story, briefly mentioned her dad and his work (it couldn’t hurt to have a published author for a father, she supposed) and then explained that she was looking for an agent who could help her hone and sell her manuscript. But she just couldn’t bring herself to send it. What if there was a typo in it she’d missed? What if this Mr. Stanford laughed at her when he read the sample chapters she planned to attach? What if she never heard from him at all?

  But time was running out. A good plan today was better than a perfect plan tomorrow. There were other agents if this one passed. She couldn’t afford to put it off any longer. Jules pulled up her draft and scanned it one final time, touching each word on the screen with her finger as she did, to make sure they were actually there. When she was finished, she attached the sample chapters and hit Send before she could change her mind.

  Now Jules took a deep breath. The moment felt terribly anticlimactic. She hadn’t expected anyone to shout YOU DID IT or for her computer to explode with a soundtrack of bells and whistles, but she thought she’d feel . . . something. Sweet relief or gut-churning anxiety or anything, really. You sent a lousy email; big deal, she chided herself. You’ll feel something when something actually happens to you.

  That much settled, she could get back to the other pressing item on her to-do list: Project Billy. She’d written him back—as Brooke, of course—and explained that she’d never written that letter at all; that, unfortunately, it must have been Juliana. Billy had responded, horrified, and apologized for believing even for a minute that she would write him off like that. He should have known better, he said. Jules had insisted that she forgave him, on Brooke’s unknowing behalf. Things were moving along perfectly, except for the fact that he was three thousand miles away. Maybe it was time to invite Billy for a little visit.

  Brooke

  Brooke had added the Kaplan Literary Agency to her phone’s contact list after her fortuitous meeting with George, and she’d been holding her breath ever since. It was snack time at Little Me Preschool when she saw the call coming in. She told the assistant teacher she needed to run to the bathroom and dashed out, ducking into the nearby art room for privacy. She left the door propped open because that was the rule ever since the huge scandal last year when two of the teachers had been caught doing it in the computer lab. In the middle of the day! Brooke wasn’t sure having an open-door policy would have stopped those two, but what else could they do?

  “This is Jules,” she said. The words felt strange coming out of her mouth.

  “Jules, George Kaplan,” he said, and she could picture his smile when he said it.

  “Oh, hello, George,” she said, hoping she sounded casual and confident. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well,” George said, drawing out the word. “I was just calling to tell you how disappointed I was when I read your manuscript.”

  Brooke didn’t know what to say. What a jerk! Really, he had so much time on his hands that he felt the need to call her and tell her how disappointing her manuscript was? Well, how disappointing Jules’s manuscript was, but whatever. Wouldn’t a polite not-my-thing note or even just no follow-up at all have sufficed? She was so glad she’d done this behind Jules’s back. What an awful call to have to get if you were in reality the author.

  “Okay, then, thanks for letting me know—”

  “May I finish?” George asked.

  “Oh gosh, I’m sorry, please do,” Brooke stammered, angry at herself for being so polite to this guy.

  “I was disappointed reading your manuscript to find out that you’re married, Mrs. Richardson. Because frankly, I was hoping that you weren’t.”

  Brooke couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Fortunately, George rescued her swiftly.

  “But alas, I’m in the business of finding new and fabulous talent, not meeting eligible women,” he said. “And I’m not about to let the little fact of your romantic unavailability stand in the way of a relationship. A working relationship, that is.”

  “Do you mean . . . Are you saying . . . you liked the manuscript?” Brooke actually crossed her fingers when she asked this.

  “It’s wonderful, Jules, truly. Oh, it needs some work, don’t get me wrong, but I’d like to be the one to help you shape it. You’re an incredibly talented writer, and I don’t have to tell you that your story is, well, one in a million. I’d love to represent you. What do you say?”

  What else could she say? What would Jules say? Brooke channeled her older sister. “That’s fantastic, George,” she gushed on Jules’s behalf. “I accept.” She felt like she’d just won the lottery. Jules’s head was going to explode with excitement—wasn’t it?

  “I’ll have my office send you our agency agreement. It basically just says I have the right to shop this around to various publishers and that you’re not working with any other agents. Boilerplate stuff, although it can take a while to put together. In the meantime, I think we should meet for a drink to celebrate. Bring your husband, of course. I’d love to meet him. Sounds like a top-notch guy, from what I read.”

  “You’re right, Shawn is wonderful and I’m sure he’ll be eager to meet you as well,” Brooke said with a newfound confidence. “The problem is that he actually works nights so it could be tough to coordinate with him. But I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I met you alone. Especially after I tell him why we’re meeting. Besides, he’s not the jealous type.” She was flirting with a man—a successful, good-looking man, if she recalled correctly—who had just told her that he found her attractive? Brooke wondered if maybe pretending you were somebody else was the unknown secret to dating.

  “How about tonight, then?” George asked. “I had a client meeting that just canceled. Are you by any chance free? I could meet you at six.”

  “It just so happens that I am,” Brooke purred, surprising herself at how bold and sexy she sounded as Jules Richardson, author extraordinaire. Tiny pangs of guilt were dancing around her brain, but she pushed them away. She wasn’t doing anything wrong, she was certain. She was doing her due diligence, for her sister’s sake. She was only meeting this guy so she could get some more information about his plans for Jules’s manuscript. And fine, she wanted to see him again. But first and foremost, it was a reconnaissance mission. When she had all of the information she needed, and she’d gotten to know George a little bit better and knew she could trust him, then she’d come clean. To both of them.

  “Plow and Kettle, six o’clock?” he asked now.

  “See you then,” she said.

  The Plow and Kettle was a newish, upscale farm-to-table-type bistro just a few blocks from Little Me Preschool. Brooke had plenty of time to run home and freshen up after work—she was officially off the clock at three thirty—but she didn’t need Jules asking her
a million questions about where she was going or why she was getting all dolled up, so instead she texted her sister that she’d be at a staff meeting until late and went to the mall. She slowly perused the various makeup counters in Macy’s, stealthily checking out the salesgirls. Brooke couldn’t understand why most of them looked like either a scary Halloween witch or a drag queen. Did this actually help them sell makeup? It was mind-boggling.

  “Are you familiar with Shameless?” asked a pretty, fresh-faced young girl behind the counter Brooke was ogling. The products and the packaging were beautiful—soft earth tones in simple, elegant tubes, with just a touch of shimmer here or there. She was spellbound by the display.

  “Pardon me?” Brooke said, blushing. Was she familiar with shameless? Was she ever, considering where she was headed after this. But how did this woman know that?

  “We’re totally vegan; one hundred percent organic; and also cruelty-, gluten- and chemical-free. Nothing we make has BHA, BHT, coal tar, formaldehyde, perfume, parabens or petrolatum. All of our formulas are mineral-based and there’s not a product in our collection that has more than nine ingredients. Oh, and we use seventy percent recycled materials in our packaging. Would you like to try something?”

  Brooke tried to process all of this information. She’d never even heard of half of these words, and had this woman said gluten-free, vegan makeup? What on earth did that mean? Did her dollar-store lip gloss and her crusty, trusty tube of drugstore mascara—the one she knew she should replace every few months but was probably two years old at least—have flour and beef and all of those scary chemicals in them?

  “Oh, I was just looking . . .” Brooke trailed off. She didn’t even want to let herself imagine how much a PETA-approved lipstick in a recycled Coke can might cost.

  “We give free makeovers—not that you need one of course!—and there’s no pressure to buy anything, ever. We just want customers to experience the brand. Plus, you’re already beautiful, so it makes my job that much easier. My name is Summer, by the way. What’s yours?” She smiled warmly at Brooke.

  Brooke looked around nervously. Just because this woman didn’t look like a hooker didn’t mean she wouldn’t make Brooke up to look like one.

  “It’s Brooke, and thank you, but I don’t wear much makeup,” Brooke said. “I really prefer a natural look.”

  “Oh my gosh, me too!” Summer leaned over the counter and spoke in a conspiratorial voice. “I promise I won’t make you look like one of these clowns I work with.”

  Forty minutes and a hundred and sixty dollars later, Brooke was a department-store makeup convert. She knew that was an obscene amount of money to spend on makeup, but she could justify it a million ways to the moon. She rarely splurged on herself. She never ate out. She worked hard. She was living rent-free for the moment and had paid down a good chunk of her once massive debt. Oh yeah, and she was this-close to being a millionaire. Brooke hoped this little overindulgence wasn’t a sign that she was going to be wasteful and irresponsible with her inheritance. She made a mental promise to herself that the very first check she wrote from her seven-figure bank account would be to charity.

  “Seriously, what did you do to me?” she asked Summer. “I mean, it doesn’t even look like I’m wearing makeup, so why do I look so much better? Not to brag or anything, but I look amazing! Look at my cheekbones!” Brooke turned from side to side in the mirror, mesmerized by her own reflection.

  Summer laughed. “That’s what makeup is supposed to do. Some people don’t seem to get that.” She shifted her eyes from side to side, silently indicating her overly made-up coworkers at neighboring counters, and then winked at Brooke. Brooke thanked her profusely and gathered her purchases. She still had an hour to kill, and was meandering through the store when she spotted a familiar-looking woman. She’d be cute if she wasn’t wearing a tablecloth as a dress, was her first thought. Then she realized she was looking in a mirror.

  Another two hundred dollars in the hole, Brooke left Macy’s wearing a brand-new black sheath dress and hot-pink heels. The dress was elegant and fitted and showed off her surprisingly toned arms beautifully. She’d closed her eyes when she’d handed over her credit card and prayed that it wouldn’t be declined, and miraculously it wasn’t. When she got outside, she shoved her wadded-up tablecloth dress into the first trash can she passed.

  Brooke knew for a fact that she had never looked better—at least not in the last decade. Still, as she walked into The Plow and Kettle, her heart was pounding in her chest so hard that she was positive it was both visible and audible. She wasn’t sure if it was because she knew George had been attracted to her, or because she was a big, fat liar.

  “Wow, Jules. Just . . . wow,” George said when he saw her. He’d been waiting just inside the door for her, and she was grateful that he was prompt and that he’d recognized her immediately. Brooke tended to have the sort of social anxiety that caused her to forget the names of even her closest friends and to introduce herself to seeming strangers only to be told that they had actually met dozens of times. George was beaming at her now, clearly pleased to see her.

  “Hi, George,” she said, blushing. “It’s nice to see you again.” She held out her hand to shake his, but he laughed and put his arm around her instead, pulling her into a friendly hug. George was tall, at least six feet if not a few inches taller, and she could feel his taut back muscles straining beneath his crisp blue business shirt. She felt almost petite in his arms.

  “If we’re going to be working together, we can’t have any of that hand-shaking formality,” he said. “And I hope you don’t take this the wrong way—because I accept and respect the fact that you are happily married—but you’re even more beautiful than I remembered.”

  It was at that moment that the maître d’ appeared to take them to their table. Brooke trotted behind him on wobbly legs, conscious of George’s eyes on her back.

  “So,” George said after they’d been seated. “Awkward almost-advances aside, I’m certainly glad you wandered into our offices looking for Ms. Zachary.” His eyes were dancing again and Brooke felt a flush creeping up her cheeks.

  “I’m glad I did, too,” she said, sipping her ice water.

  “Allison wasn’t even an agent,” George explained. “She was an assistant, and a terrible one at that. She’d been given several notices—it’s the protocol before you fire someone, as you probably know—and in her last week, out of spite I suppose, she contacted every single person who’d submitted a query and requested a full manuscript. That’s why poor Lucy, our receptionist, was so frazzled the day you came in.”

  “I guess I got lucky,” Brooke said, smiling nervously.

  “You have no idea. I have to tell you, I find very few promising new authors in what we call the slush pile, and even fewer who waltz through the front door trying to endear themselves to a fired employee. So kudos to you, Jules. Your writing is fabulous, and your timing is just as good.”

  This would be the perfect time to tell George who she was and what she’d done. “Well, the truth is,” she could have said, “I’m not in fact the author of that manuscript. It’s actually my sister—my married sister. And for the record, I am very single, Mr. Kaplan, and by the way, my name is Brooke.”

  But she couldn’t do it. Not yet. For one thing, she didn’t know George Kaplan from George Clooney; she certainly didn’t know him well enough to be sure he wouldn’t try to have her charged with plagiarism—which is essentially what she was guilty of, and a plagiarism claim could be an excellent publicity stunt for his agency. For another thing, he was part of the literati; he was probably attracted to her because he believed she had this incredible writing talent and he found that impossibly captivating. She would bet that he would never have given Brooke-the-glorified-babysitter the time of day. Plus, she needed to tell Jules first so that she could immediately pass the baton before George got angry or lost interest. Mo
st of all, she was rather enjoying pretending to be a wildly gifted aspiring author. She felt confident and brave and a tiny bit reckless in her alter ego, and she definitely wasn’t ready to go back to being boring old Brooke Alexander. At least, not yet. When their server came, she ordered a glass of pinot noir. She had no idea what that was, but it sounded sexy, like something an up-and-coming new author would sip.

  George talked about his agency and their philosophies and Brooke wanted to melt into a puddle at the sound of his voice. She knew she should be taking notes or at least paying attention, but right now all she wanted was to enjoy this moment, to bask in the glow of the attention of a man who thought she was talented and interesting and fabulous. She hardly even noticed when the server brought their wine.

  “To a wildly successful partnership,” George said, lifting his glass.

  Brooke batted her mascara-coated lashes and clinked his glass, toasting to an entirely different partnership than the one George obviously had in mind.

  Lexi

  “I’m not trying to be nice or anything, but you look really great,” Lexi told Brooke. Brooke had asked her if she wanted to come along on one of her dog-walks—which were becoming definitive runs—and Lexi figured it was better than sitting around the house watching reality TV or fantasizing about how she was going to spend her millions. Lexi didn’t like to admit it, but it turned out she was really bad at imagining what being obscenely wealthy would look like. She tried not to beat herself up about it, though; there’d be plenty of time to learn the rich-girl ropes.

  Brooke laughed. “Oh, well, as long as you’re not trying to be nice, then thanks.” She twisted one of her leashes, deftly thwarting a schnauzer who was trying to dart through her legs.