by Lolita Files
“That’s her there,” he said, “in the pink jacket. And don’t let her size fool you. She’s a dynamo. A bit on the pushy side, but it’s all worth it. If you want to write books, that’s the person to have on your team. Beryl Unger. Wave at the people, Beryl! Let ’em know who you are.”
“God,” Beryl groaned as she flashed half her smile, raised her hand, gave it a quick shake in the air. She could hear people buzzing around her, could have sworn she felt a few closing in.
“You must hate when he does that,” a voice beside her said.
Beryl looked up into the most beautiful face she’d ever seen. His eyes were the ocean, his hair was the sun. He was smiling at her.
She heard harps, real harps, and angels singing indecipherable songs in her head. Trumpets blared. Cupid drew back his bow with the bicep of a thousand quarterbacks, and released his weapon with malicious intent. It hurtled toward her in a rush of emotion, spearing her hard, right in the center of hope, with earthquake impact.
She grew dizzy, dizzy, and then she went down.
When she finally came to, she was lying on a couch. Penn was kneeling before her, clutching her hand. Messier was standing just behind him. Two hundred voyeurs crushed into his back.
“Are you all right?” Penn whispered, stroking her palm.
“Beryl!” shouted Messier. “You scared the shit out of us! What the hell is wrong with you?”
Penn flashed him a scowl.
“What?” asked Messier.
Beryl struggled upright, her eyes on Penn.
“I don’t know. I’m tired, and I didn’t eat lunch today. I’ve been pulling a lot of late hours. I’m probably just a little carb-depleted.”
Someone handed her a giant Frappuccino.
“Are you gonna be okay?” Messier asked. “Do you need to go to the hospital or anything?”
“No, Canon. I’ll be fine.” She held on to the freezing drink with one hand and Penn with the other.
“Good.” Messier turned to Moira, the B& N community relations manager who had organized the event. “Let’s get going so I can sign books.” There were two publicists from Kittell Press at his disposal, but he ignored them. They tagged along after him and Moira.
Messier cut a path through the throng. The crowd about-faced and raced after him, desperate to be among the first few in line.
It was just Penn and Beryl. He was still kneeling. He took the Frappuccino from her hand and set it on the floor.
“I get the feeling you don’t want this.”
“I hate Frappuccinos.”
“Me, too. Your hand is freezing.” He cupped her hands inside of his, rubbing them vigorously to warm her up. Beryl couldn’t move. She was paralyzed with awe.
“Somewhere on an island in the South Pacific, there’s a villainous scientist conspiring to destroy the world, one Frappuccino at a time.”
She giggled.
“Seriously,” Penn said. “And it’s working. Since when were adults prone to casually guzzling down coffee covered with mountains of whipped cream and caramel? That was the kind of thing you only saw in ice cream parlors. Now you see people clutching Frappuccinos on the train, as they walk down the street…check this out…there was this one guy, I kid you not, he was standing next to me in the bathroom, at the urinal. He was taking a piss with one hand, and was slurping his Frappuccino with the other.”
“You lie!”
“I swear to God. It’s not natural. Frappuccinos are the work of an evil, evil man.”
Beryl grinned, her mouth wide, showing all of her teeth.
“Wow. You’ve got a really beautiful smile.”
“Thanks,” she said, lowering her eyes.
He stopped rubbing her hands, placing them gently in her lap.
“There,” he said. “That’s better. Would you like some hot tea? I could run down and get it. That way you don’t have to worry about walking.”
“I’m okay, really, I’m a little hungry, but—”
“Would you like me to grab you some food from somewhere?”
She was staring at him again.
“I’m sorry,” Penn said, getting off his knees and sitting on the floor at her feet. “You probably think I’m some kind of stalker or something. It’s just that, well, I was standing over there talking to you one minute, and then you just—”
“It’s okay. I’m glad you’re being so helpful. Everyone else seems to have abandoned me.”
Penn smiled, following her eyes toward Messier at a table in the back, furiously signing, smiling, and indulging photo ops. The line of anxious fans clutching his book snaked around the room.
“He’s a monster of my own making, I’m afraid.”
“I somehow doubt that,” Penn said, his eyes meeting hers.
Beryl felt herself flushing all over.
“I’m Penn.”
“I’m—”
“Beryl.”
They both said her name at the same time. They laughed.
“I think everyone knows who you are by now. Your Frankenstein over there made sure of that.”
A tall, skinny man approached them, his shoulders hunched forward as he tried not to seem too obtrusive. He cleared his throat.
Penn stood.
“Miss Unger,” the man asked. “Uh, Miss Beryl Unger?”
“Yes.”
“Uh, I was wondering, uh, Mr. Messier just signed a book for me and we were just talking and, uh, I told him about the book I wrote and, well, uh, he said I should come over here and, uh, talk to you.”
Penn stepped aside, his hands folded behind his back.
“Yes,” said Beryl, “well, now might not be a really good ti—”
“I brought a manuscript,” the man said, reaching into a knapsack and whipping it out. It was weatherbeaten and much handled, with food stains and scattered splotches of something nuclear green. Beryl didn’t want to touch it.
“I’ve been told it’s pretty good. My mom’s read it, and, uh, all my friends. Everyone thinks it’ll be a bestseller.”
Penn watched Beryl’s face to see how she handled this type of thing.
“I’m not going to be able to take it, Mister, um, what’s your name?” She proffered her hand.
“It’s Temple. Adrian Temple.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Temple. I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to take your manuscript. It’s our policy not to accept unsolicited material.”
“That’s not true,” Adrian said. “I know somebody who sent a manuscript directly to CarterHobbs with nothing but a query letter.”
“It happens, but it’s not something we recommend,” she said. “Manuscripts like that usually wind up in the slush pile and most of us are too overwhelmed to be able to give it the attention it deserves. I would think you’d want your work to have the proper attention from an editor.”
“The guy I know got a call a week later, and guess what? CarterHobbs bought his book.”
Beryl squirmed. The man was a nuisance. On top of that, she could feel Penn watching her with those amazing blue eyes. She was suddenly aware of herself in a way that made her very nervous. Was her hair okay? Her makeup? Her mascara was probably smudged. What if she had a big mascara smear on her face? She had blacked out, after all. Shit. She needed to get her compact out of her purse. How could she do it without being conspicuous? She noticed a couple of girls standing off to the side, college-aged girls, pretty. They were whispering to each other, making eyes at Penn. Did he know they were there? God. She needed to get out her compact and check herself.
“Did you hear me?” asked Adrian. “CarterHobbs bought his book. So what do you have to say about that?”
“We bought his book?” Beryl said, casually rubbing under her eye and inspecting her finger for mascara. “Really? Well, I suppose you could risk it, but your best bet would be to get an agent. Why don’t you try querying agents mentioned in the acknowledgments of books you feel are similar to yours. That’s always a good approach.”
/> “I’ve tried. I’ve been trying for over two years. Agents are jerks. They’re all a bunch of bloodsucking asswipes.”
Penn cut his eyes at the man, sickened to realize he had something in common with such a pathetic sort.
“So are you gonna take it or not?” Temple said, thrusting the disgusting thing under her nose. “I could be the next John Irving for all you know.”
Beryl and Penn both fought back a snicker. This gangly creature was no John Irving. Several evolutionary life-forms from now, he’d still be off.
“I’m afraid I can’t, Adrian. I’m just too busy to take unsolicited work. But if you can get an agent to submit it, I promise I’ll—”
Temple snatched his filthy manuscript away, cramming it back into the knapsack.
“Forget it. This is probably the universe doing me a favor, saving me from a preditor like you.”
“Hey, hey now,” Penn said, stepping toward the man. “That’s not necessary. The lady said she can’t take unsolicited material. You’re going to have to respect that.”
“What are you, another overpaid preditor like her?”
“Predator?” Penn asked, growing impatient. “I’m nobody’s predator, sir.”
“You look like the type,” Temple said with scorn, eyeing Penn. “With your Abercrombie and Fitch and the whole pretty-boy thing you got going.” Temple had been stammering when he first approached, but now he was broadband. Continuous streaming.
“Everything’s gotta be so perfect with you people. You’re only interested in working with celebrities and writers who are already famous. Nobody gives a damn about nurturing real writers anymore, and it’s because of preditors like you”—spittle flew from his mouth—“that someone like me can’t get anybody to look at my book!”
The community relations manager rushed over.
“Is there a problem?” Moira asked.
“There’s no problem,” Temple said, storming off. “No fucking problem at all.” They watched him leave. He glanced over his shoulder just as he was about to round the corner.
“Preditors!”
Penn and Beryl looked at each other and broke into laughter. Moira was lost.
“What was that about?”
“Some nut,” Beryl said, still laughing. “He tried to give me his manuscript, then got really pissed when I told him I couldn’t accept unsolicited material. He kept calling me a predator.”
“A predator?”
“Yeah. He said something about me only being interested in working with people who were already famous.”
“Oh,” Moira said, then, “Ohhhhhhh. He called you a ‘preditor.’ With an i, not an a.” She laughed. “Haven’t you heard that term before?”
“No. What’s it mean?”
“Think about it, Beryl,” Moira said as she reached for the melting Frappuccino. “You don’t want this?”
Beryl shook her head, still lost by the comment. Moira tossed the calorie-packed goop in the trash.
“I get it,” Penn said. “Predatory editors. Preditors.”
“Yeah, that’s it.” Moira gave Penn the thrice-over, although her words were meant for Beryl. “I can’t believe you’ve never heard it before.”
“I live in a bubble,” Beryl said. “I can’t believe he called us that. I can hardly go to the bathroom without getting stalked by somebody who’s trying to pitch something. My manicurist pitched me the other day. She wants to do a book about acrylic nail art. You should see what happens to Kitty, and God, the head of the publishing house. They can hardly step outside without somebody pitching them. It’s ridiculous. And they call us ‘preditors’? We’re more like prey.”
Moira laughed with exaggerated girlishness, cutting her eyes at Penn. Beryl seemed visibly annoyed by the way she was looking at him.
Penn noticed her irritation. Here was his moment.
“I know we just met but, you said you were hungry. Did you want to grab something to eat?”
“That’d be great.”
“Moira!”
It was Messier, screaming from the back. “I need you! Get over here!”
Moira looked at Beryl.
“You don’t have to say it,” said Beryl. “He’s a handful, I know.”
“But he sells a lot of books.”
“Tons of them.”
“Moira!”
“I better get back over there.”
“He’s got the publicists helping him.”
“C’mon now,” she smiled. “If it’s not you or me, he doesn’t really care. Although I did hear him tell them they’re taking him to dinner since you’re not feeling well.”
Beryl laughed. “Good. Then I’m off the hook. Those two are in for a long, long night.”
Moira turned to Penn.
“Nice meeting you, um, I didn’t catch your—”
“Penn Hamilton.”
“Great name. Hopefully we’ll see you around here again.”
“Moira!”
“I’m coming!”
She rushed off.
“Let me help you up,” Penn said, giving her his hand.
“I’m really okay,” said Beryl as she took his hand and let him pull her up. Their eyes met and she quickly looked down. She was nervous, almost afraid. Not in a bad way. It was kind of fear that comes from seeing something prayed for finally materialize.
Meeting this man had been such a rush of emotion, it caused her to cataplexy. She hadn’t taken her medication for the day because she had been late calling in the prescription. The pills were in her purse now, but they were still unopened. Her ritual was to pop them first thing, as soon as she arose from a full night’s sleep, but this day had been crazy, filled with meetings and rushing around, and there’d been no pills to pop that morning. She had never waited this late to call in a refill. She usually did it a few days before. She didn’t think anything drastic would happen if she missed a dose.
But something had happened.
Penn.
“So what do you feel like?” he asked.
“I could go for some mulligatawny soup.”
“That sounds good. Since we’re so close, do you want to go over to Indian Row?”
“Okay.”
“You sure? We can take a cab if you like.”
“I’m fine, really,” she said. “Let’s walk.”
Indian Row was a block on Sixth Street between First and Second avenues in New York’s East Village that was populated by a slew of dives specializing in Indian fare. That was “Indian” with a question mark, as many of them were Bengali-or Pakistani-run, but that was no matter as there was plenty of curry-this and tandoori-that, as well as lots of spicy vindaloos, naan, dal, and samosas to be had at dirt-cheap prices, all served up nice and greasy, in environments dressed with colorful lights and colorful music that ranged from the really bad to the truly awful. It wasn’t top-shelf dining, although there were a couple of standouts on the block, but it was hearty sustenance in settings cool enough for first dates, cheap dates, old friendships, and newfound pals.
Beryl wasn’t sure which of those she fell under, as she was just meeting this man, yet he seemed connected to her soul somehow. It was silly, this feeling, but it was clear, like a bell. It was the feeling she had been waiting and preparing for all those sixteen years between age sixteen and now.
They were dining at Mitali East, a Bengaliese restaurant that was one of the better joints on the block. She knew she should have been more cautious, taking off with a stranger the way she was doing. But this was Beryl, and Beryl had a dream, and the dream had materialized in front of her, fairy-tale style, just as she had been insisting it would. This was the work of fate, and fate, in her eyes, could never be denied.
It had been a quick walk over from Astor Place, barely five minutes. In that five minutes she learned he happened to be in Barnes & Noble looking for a book on Sartre when he discovered Canon Messier was scheduled for a reading. She learned his parents were dead, just like hers, and that he was an on
ly child. Just. Like. Her. He was younger, five years younger, but that wasn’t a deterrent, and he was tall, sweepingly tall, hovering over her by more than a foot. He made her walk on the inside, buffered from the traffic, and clutched her hand unthreateningly before they dashed across the street. He held the door for her. She was already smitten the second she saw him. By the time they reached the restaurant, she was thoroughly smote.
She watched him now, reaching for one of the three hot poori the waiter had just put on the table with a side of mango chutney. He tore it down the middle and placed half on her bread saucer without asking. Beryl liked that, the way he took charge. He plunked a spoon into the condiment and held it just above her plate.
“Chutney?”
“Yes, thank you.”
He emptied the spoon next to her bread, plunged it back into the chutney, and heaped a fat dollop on his own plate. He dragged the other half of poori through the spicy relish and wolfed it down, his fingertips covered with grease and sauce.
“How’s your soup?” he asked around bites.
“Good,” she said. “It’s hitting the spot.”
“Better than that Frappuccino?” he kidded. “No way.”
She laughed.
He reached for another poori and tore into it, giving Beryl a chance to really examine his face. His jawline was Grecian, clean and elegant, leading into a chin that squared off and merged in a gentle cleft. His deep-set eyes were crystal pools of azure framed with long, lovely lashes. His nose was a slope of—
“You’re staring at me.”
“Excuse me?”
“I can feel your eyes on me.”
His gaze was penetrating. Beryl’s stomach knotted.
“I have something on my mouth, don’t I?” He wiped at the corner of his lip with a napkin. “How embarrassing. It’s the poori. I lose my mind over the stuff every time I come down here, even though I know it’s not exactly healthy with all that oil and everything. This place makes the best poori in the city.”
“It was just a crumb,” she lied.
He wiped again.
“Did I get it?”
She gestured at the right corner of her own mouth. He dabbed at his.