Her Perfect Life

by Rebecca Taylor

  Clare shook her head and headed back to the stage. She sure as hell hoped at least one of these writers had their wish come true tonight. She scanned the crowd as she pushed her way back through it. What if this Simon Reamer wasn’t even here?

  She climbed back up the stairs, still processing Donna’s shitty remarks but deciding to let them go—for now—and switched on the microphone.

  “Ready?” she asked Donna, who was waiting at the back of the stage and nodded. “Have you seen your guy?” Clare asked.

  “Yes. He’s sitting at the bar. Jeans, black T-shirt, and a highball in his hand.”

  Clare looked out into the crowd and saw the agent sipping his drink and waiting for the readings to begin. She wondered if he’d just leave as soon as he heard Donna read or if he’d stick around for at least a little while. All these people here just because they heard he would be—and he likely had no idea.

  She tapped the mic a few times and listened to the audible pop, pop, then lowered her head to begin her introductions for the night. “Excuse me,” she spoke into the mic, but her voice was completely drowned out by the hustle and chatter of the room. Clare cleared her voice and prepared herself to speak louder. She opened her mouth, but right then, a large hand reached in and grabbed the mic from the stand in front of her.

  “You stay right here,” Brian said to her before raising the mic to his own fleshy lips. “Okay, listen up,” he said exactly once, and the room fell silent within seconds. “I know you’re all anxious to get started, so just a few things beforehand. One, for those that are new to the Blue Spruce, we do this open mic every Wednesday night. I am a huge supporter of writers and books and artists in general, so remember, Wednesday nights. Two, despite my great love for the work you all do, a man still needs to be able to keep the doors open. With that in mind, tonight we have a three-drink minimum.” He held up his three fingers once again for anyone who might need the visual aid. “And finally.” He raised up some rolled pages he had in his left hand. “Before we get started tonight, I think that it’s worth mentioning that one of our very own employees here at the Spruce has recently been discovered by the literary community and had one of her stories published.”

  With a growing sense of horror, Clare stood several feet behind Brian just left of his spotlight.

  Donna leaned forward. “What is he doing?” Donna whispered into Clare’s ear.

  Too worried about what Brian would do or say next, Clare could only shake her head.

  “It bears mentioning that this little lady launched the start of her sure-to-be-successful writing career right here.” He pointed the rolled pages to the stage below his feet. Clare was now almost certain that it was the latest issue of the Atlantic Monthly in his hand. “And just goes to show that if you keep at it, keep showing up here, Wednesday nights”—he threw in another reminder—“then one day you too could find yourself a huge success, just like our little Clare. Now.” He turned from the mic, grabbed Clare’s wrist, and pulled her back into the light as he replaced the microphone into its stand.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered as far away from the mic as she could.

  “It’s good for business.” He leaned back into the mic. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Blue Spruce’s very own Clare Kaczanowski.”

  A smattering of polite applause broke out throughout the bar and then stopped. From the spotlight, Clare gazed out at the people staring back at her.

  She sighed. She hated Brian. Really, truly, hated him.

  Clare licked her lips and leaned into the mic. “Ummm, thank you.” She glanced up toward the bar. Donna’s agent friend made direct eye contact with her, and a cold chill ran across her back.

  “And now it’s time for me to introduce our first reader. Up first tonight we have Donna Mehan. She will be reading a selection from her current, presently untitled, novel.”

  When Clare turned away from the mic, Donna stepped forward and avoided making eye contact with Clare.

  “Good luck,” Clare said and meant it despite Donna’s earlier remarks. Clare decided to let it go. Donna was probably just stressed about this moment. After all, Donna felt this could be her big chance to really break out. All that pressure would make anyone act a little crazy.

  “Thanks,” Donna said and stepped into the light.

  Clare figured one of two things would happen. Either the agent would speak with Donna later and tell her everything she most wanted to hear—in which case it wouldn’t matter how jealous she’d been over Clare’s publication because Donna would be living on joy planet. Or nothing would come of it, and it wouldn’t matter how upset she’d been with Clare because Donna would dive into a depression of epic proportions. Clare sighed and headed down the stairs to wait in the wings while Donna began her reading.

  In the dim light of the side stage, Clare stood near Liz, who was timing the reads with the microphone plug in her hand, and reviewed the reader list so she could prepare to announce the next writer.

  “Excuse me?”

  Clare looked up from her list. A man was standing by the speaker trying to get her attention. It took her half a second to place his face. It was the agent who was sitting at the bar with his highball, the agent who was supposed to be listening most attentively to Donna, who was onstage and barely through her first paragraph.

  “Yes?” she asked, glancing up to see if Donna had noticed he wasn’t sitting in the audience.

  “Clare?” he asked her and smiled.

  Clare nodded at him. If he was standing here talking to her, he obviously wasn’t listening to Donna onstage. “Is there something I can help you with?” She glanced again up at Donna, hoping he would take the hint.

  “Hello.” He thrust his hand out toward her. When she took it in her own, he continued. “I’m Simon Reamer, and I’m a literary agent. I read your story in this month’s Atlantic. Congratulations, by the way. I didn’t realize you’d be here, but then I heard that guy’s announcement and saw you onstage. I thought about waiting until the end of the evening, but it’s pretty busy in here and I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to meet you in person.”

  Clare pulled her hand from his and tried to process what this guy was saying to her while also trying to work out the response that would get him back to his seat and attending to Donna’s reading the fastest. “I work here, so I’ll be here all night,” she said.

  “Oh, yeah right. Of course.” He gave her a nervous smile and dropped his eyes to his shoes. “So do you think, you know, maybe after, you’d have time to chat?”

  Jesus, they were running out of time and this guy hadn’t heard a single word Donna had read. “Yes, sure.” Impatient now, she waved her hands, trying to usher him from the side stage and back to his seat in the audience. “Whatever you want,” she finished, and when he still didn’t make any move to leave, she took a step toward him to more physically encourage him back out front.

  “Great! That’s great.” He reached into the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out a business card, and handed it to her. “But just in case.” He pointed to the linen-colored card. “It is really busy in here, so just in case we don’t connect after. Please call me. I’m really interested in you… I mean, in your work… I’d like to read more of your work, for sure.”

  Clare blinked at him. “Okay,” she said, hoping he was leaving now.

  “Okay.” He smiled at her again and, finally, turned to go. Just when Clare thought it might be possible for him to at least hear Donna’s last page, he turned back around. “You swear,” he joked. “I mean, I know talent when I read it. Promise you’ll find me, or call me. There might be other agents here.” He looked over his shoulder, like it was possible someone else could be waiting to muscle in on him at any moment.

  “I swear,” Clare said, and shooed him with her hand while turning fully away from him and directing all her attention up at Donna on the stage, hoping
this would give him the clue he needed to pay attention.

  “Great!” he said.

  Clare didn’t dare turn and look or acknowledge him any further until she felt certain he had left. After a few seconds, she leaned back and checked to see if he had made it back to his seat. He was just settling back onto his stool and taking hold of his drink, turning toward the stage…

  Right as Donna’s voice dropped away at the end of a sentence, paused, then concluded with, “Thank you very much.”

  Clare closed her eyes. “Shit,” she whispered, then headed up the stage stairs to announce the next reader.

  Halfway across the stage, out of the spotlight but still in full view of the audience, Donna walked right up to Clare until their faces were only inches apart. “Did you have a nice chat?” Donna seethed, careful to keep her voice low enough so that no one else would hear.

  Intimidated by Donna’s obvious fury, Clare fell back a step. “I didn’t…” She glanced quickly out at the audience, who maybe couldn’t hear them, but they obviously could see. She looked back into Donna’s fiery glare.

  “You didn’t what?” Donna snapped, her eyes glistening from the tears beginning to form along her bottom lid. She shouldered past Clare and fled down the stairs.

  “Donna,” Clare called after her, wishing she could chase her friend.

  While she was still trying to process what she should do next, Brian rounded the side of the stage, his face pinched and pissed off. “What the hell are you doing?” He threw his hand in the air. “Get the fuck on with it already. We don’t have all night.”

  Feeling trapped, Clare took a breath and turned back to the stage and the spotlight. As she stepped up to the microphone with the list in hand, she scanned the audience, who didn’t appear to be in any particular rush as they sipped drinks, talked, and in general appeared to be having a good time. At the bar, Simon Reamer was turned toward her, his face alert and his body leaning slightly forward in his stool as he waited attentively for what was to come next.

  Toward the front of the bar, someone was pushing through the crowd, parting couples and groups, creating momentary gaps of space in the overstuffed room. It was Donna, her ratty messenger bag slung over her shoulder, head down, scurrying for the exit as fast as the sea of human bodies would allow.

  Clare leaned into the mic and, for the briefest of moments, considered calling Donna’s name, telling her stop, come back, wait…it’s not too late. Instead she watched as Donna yanked the right half of the double doors toward herself, then disappeared into the flow of the Brooklyn sidewalk at rush hour.

  Clare raised her list to eye level. “Okay, folks, up next we have…”

  It was nearly two in the morning when Clare finally announced the last reader on her list. Most of the bar had cleared out, and her eyes were scratchy and raw from hours spent in a cloud of cigarette smoke. She walked down the stairs for the last time of the night and headed for the bar to collect her purse from Rachel, still washing glasses behind the bar.

  When she saw Clare, Rachel tilted her head sideways toward the single booth, where the agent now sat along the opposite wall. He was one of only a handful of people still in the room. “What’s his name?” Rachel asked. “Simon? He wanted me to tell you he’d like to talk to you.” She raised her eyebrows suggestively.

  “It’s not like that,” Clare said. “It’s just business.”

  “Sure it is. But I was standing right here watching that guy lose his shit every single time you got up onstage to just read a name and title. I also fielded no end of questions from him about your own literary pursuits, of which I know not, and after several highballs, your personal, ahem, commitments, of which I know a little.” She smiled.

  “The only reason he’s even here is because of Donna,” Clare added.

  “Maybe. But as far as I can tell, you’re the only reason he stayed.” Rachel winked at her and plunged her hands back into her soapy sink.

  Clare sighed and slung the long leather strap of her purse over her shoulder. She turned from the bar toward the booths and met the man’s still expectant gaze.

  When he waved her over, Clare inhaled, gently rapped her knuckles on the bar once, then began walking over to his table.

  The moment he realized she was coming to see him, Simon Reamer stood up from his seat. He looked her in the eye, smiled, glanced away, smoothed his shirt, squared his shoulders, and looked her in the eye again, lost his smile, found it again, and finally reached out his hand when she was within striking distance.

  “Clare,” he said, sounding more breathless than she knew he would like.

  She took his hand, shook it twice, then slipped into the seat across from him. “Mr. Reamer, it’s nice to meet you…again, I guess,” she said, trying to lighten the mood.

  He laughed, a forced chortle that was too loud for the now-quiet space. He sat back in his seat. “I’ve been thinking about that,” he said, sounding so sheepish Clare felt a small bloom of sympathy crack open inside her. “I would love to have a really cool, smooth reason to explain myself. But if I’m being honest?” He took a breath and sighed before letting his shoulders droop a few inches. “I really, really loved your story.”

  Clare sat, silent. He was sending her signals that confused her. His words were about her story, her work. But his body language, facial expressions, and stumbling word choice communicated a different message. This was a guy who was into her. Just another one of the many New York men who flirted, flattered, and tried to figure their way into her bed and between her legs.

  The end result was both: This was not that; and yet, not entirely not that.

  “You’re interested…in my work?”

  He sat back in his seat and cocked his head to one side. Clare had the distinct impression he was hesitating. “Yes.” He nodded. “God, yes. I’m interested.”

  It was not lost on her that he failed to add in your work to the end of his emphatic declaration.

  She took a breath; a nervous excitement like an electric pulse radiated through her. What the hell was happening here? Something major, some Big Deal, something she knew For. A. Fact. Donna had hoped and planned would be happening for her tonight. Now here it was, unfolding for Clare. Clare who had no—zero—expectations about landing an agent and had barely wrapped her Casper, Wyoming, ambitions around the idea that she had been published in a major magazine. A happenstance that was, quite frankly, eating her best friend and roommate alive.

  She had spent most of the evening worrying over Donna. What she was thinking? How mad would she be when Clare got home? How catastrophically disappointed she probably was that her hopes about Simon Reamer, and advancing her career to the next step, hadn’t panned out the way she hoped tonight?

  Then again, Donna was the one who stormed out of the bar early. Simon was still here, had been available for her to speak with for hours after he missed her reading. She might have still made something of the opportunity if she had kept her fucking cool and tried to salvage the situation instead of rushing back home to tantrum to Sergio and Flynn—which was undoubtedly happening right now, along with a large bottle of wine.

  “So, what exactly did you want to speak to me about?”

  Simon put his beer bottle down, sat back in his seat, and folded his hands on the table. “Well, like I said, I’m a huge fan of what you have here. And having seen you up onstage…and hopefully I didn’t sound too weird earlier…” He shook his head and sighed. “I’m just going to say this… I think, have this feeling really, that you’ve got some real potential, Clare. And having that feeling, about your talent, I want to be the one to sign you—bring you to market.”

  Clare laughed. “Like a cow.”

  Simon’s brow furrowed. “No…I mean…I didn’t—”

  “I’m kidding. You were saying…”

  Her comment had rattled him, thrown him off his track for
a few seconds. When he started back up, he got right to the point. “I want to be your agent.”

  It was Clare’s turn to sit back in her seat. “Based on one story?”

  Simon bit his bottom lip for a moment. “Do you have other work? Stories? Essays? Maybe a novel? And it’s okay if you don’t,” he quickly clarified. “I can wait, but well, I guess I assumed…I mean, this is something you want, right? I find it hard to believe you simply conjured that singular story out of the gates the first time. You have written other things?”

  “Yes, I have other things. Not a novel, but some stories.”

  Simon’s face lit up. “Great! How many?”

  “Ever?” Clare considered the four moving boxes in her closet filled with journals. “Countless? I mean”—she smiled so he wouldn’t think she was taking herself too seriously—“I’ve been writing in journals since I was twelve. I’ve filled tons of notebooks. But believe me, they’re nothing you’d be interested in.”

  “So that answers my other question. You do want to be a writer.”

  “What makes you—”

  “You’ve been doing it your whole life. Practicing, getting good, even if you never realized that’s what was happening. You’re like those kids that spend their childhood in front of a piano and then end up at Carnegie Hall.” He took a sip from his beer, his eyes never leaving hers, then lowered his bottle back to the table. “Clare, let me be the one that gets you to Carnegie.”

  Chapter 25

  Simon

  If he wanted to, he could pretend she was upstairs right now. Locked away in her study; either buried, as she almost always had been, in her journals or sequestered behind her keyboard—writing, writing, writing. He had known Clare for sixteen years, been married to her for eight, and all that time, most of it had been spent exiled from her presence while she worked.

  He sat on the edge of his mahogany desk, his bare feet on the seat of his black leather desk chair, staring at his bookshelves from a perspective of his office he’d never taken before. The three enormous bookshelves held the collective works of all his author-clients. Clare had been only one of twenty-three writers he represented, and yet, her books and their foreign translations filled up over half of the shelf space. Before she started writing A Perfect Life, she had averaged between five and six books a year. Ever since he found a publisher for her first book and opened the door to editors for her, Clare had basically taken over, stampeded the gates, and flooded the world over with her words.