by Jessica Jiji
“Absolutely,” I said, knowing just what I’d wear.
I hung up the phone and threw it in the air, screaming, “YES!” Lucien didn’t even need to ask. “Oh, Laurel, how wonderful!” he said, hugging me tightly. “Let’s celebrate. I think I have some champagne in the fridge.”
As he went to get it I made a mental list of all the people to call. Vanessa first and foremost. Then all the members in my writers group, plus my family and Trish.
I was wondering how to get in touch with my old professors from Vassar when Lucien returned carrying on a silver tray the bottle of champagne and two delicate flutes garnished with strawberries. He poured the bubbly, and we toasted. “To my brilliant author girlfriend, Laurel,” he said. “I’m sure this will be just one of many great novels in your future.”
Our glasses clinked, and I savored the tangy taste of champagne rolling on my tongue. “You know,” he said, “Gallant Publishing started as a magazine in 1903. A silly little rag about agriculture that the family built into one of the most powerful media empires in the United States.”
“Wow,” I said, feeling like I was taking off in a helium balloon. “It will be such an honor to be part of that great history.”
“Wait,” he said, jumping up. “I think I have a book about this somewhere.” Before long, we were studying the list of titles published by Gallant over the decades. Lucien was familiar with most of them and explained a little about each. By the end of the evening, I was an expert on their enterprise, and grateful that such a gorgeous personal tutor had prepared me for my meeting.
- 11 -
Everyone congratulated me when they heard the news, but no one more effusively than Jenna. “Oh, sis, I always knew you could do it,” she said, conveniently ignoring the fact that for years she’d been trying to convince me to give up on writing. Feeling expansive in my good fortune, I chose to ignore it, too.
“Thanks, Jenna.”
She insisted on treating me to lunch at the Rainbow Room at the top of Rockefeller Center, and I graciously accepted the invitation. I had to concede she’d been trying hard, and now that she was starting to respect me, maybe we could actually be friends.
We were halfway through our grilled Atlantic salmon and wild rice when Jenna’s congratulatory tone turned tender. Placing a gentle palm against my cheek, she looked into my eyes and said, “Sweetie, I’m so happy for you, but the truth is, I’m also a little worried.”
Jenna had lived through so many of my near misses, she probably thought this one would fall through too, so I reassured her. “Oh, it’s a done deal; I got the word straight from Gallant’s assistant.”
“I know your book is going to be published,” she said, “but that’s exactly what concerns me. Your success.”
My success was a topic I had always thought I’d enjoy discussing with Jenna, but, leaning back in my chair, I was starting to doubt this would be much fun.
“Victory is a double-edged sword. I know. You probably don’t remember this, but it was right after I got the silver medal in the state gymnastics championships that my eating disorder began.”
Not remember? I wish. I’d spent half of fifth grade in family therapy listening to Jenna moan about how she wasn’t perfect enough.
“Jenna, this is completely different,” I said, feeling my teeth clench. “It’s not going to be stressful for me to finally be acknowledged and praised after years of lonely struggle. You missed the stressful part. Now you want to have lunch with me, but where were you when I got all those rejection letters?”
“Maybe I could have been more supportive, but I’m trying to help you now. Let me tell you something: When they put that silver medal around my neck, it felt like a noose. Sure, it was an honor, but suddenly everybody was talking about my next meet. On to the nationals. And then the Olympics. I knew I wasn’t Olympic material, and all I could see in the future was more pain and disappointment.”
“So what are you trying to tell me? That I’m not Olympic material?” I could feel a Jenna headache starting to build.
“Look, I hope you win the Pulitzer. I hope you win the Nobel Prize. But I’m warning you: This is only the beginning of a very long road. Have you given any thought to your next book?”
Leave it to my sister to not even wait for dessert to ruin my congratulatory lunch.
“Laurel,” she said, lowering her voice, “I know from experience. The higher you rise, the harder you fall. I just don’t want to see you—”
“You just don’t want to see me happy, that’s all. It kills you that I might get some attention for a change. Instead of admitting that you’ve been wrong about my writing all these years, you twist my good news into some prophesy of doom just so you can feel superior.”
“They’re going to ask you at that meeting on Friday what other projects you have, and if you don’t have an answer—”
“Thanks, Jenna,” I said, cutting her off and throwing my napkin down on the table. “Thanks for being such a sweet, caring, concerned older sister,” I spat. “But I think I’d rather handle my life on my own.” I grabbed my bag and left.
With tears clouding my eyes, I walked directly to Vanessa’s glass high-rise near Columbus Circle. This was an emergency; a phone call just wouldn’t do. The doorman recognized me from the many times we’d met in her lobby and rang Vanessa before handing me the phone.
“Do you have some time?” I asked. “I just had the worst fight with Jenna, and—”
“Of course, Laurel. I’ll be right down.”
As I sat in the luxurious lobby, waiting for my adopted big sister, I marveled at how she was always there for me at the drop of a hat. She never seemed to have any personal concerns that took precedence over our relationship. It was amazing. Sure her husband traveled a lot, but I sensed she still had various responsibilities in relation to the charities she mentioned now and then. But it was almost like Vanessa was a professional friend.
Vanessa took me by the arm and guided me out the door. We crossed the street to the Time Warner Center, where she brought me to a quiet café overlooking Central Park. After I’d cried my way through two packets of her tissues, explaining what had happened, Vanessa rolled her eyes and laughed.
“Your sister is a real piece of work,” she said. “Why do you think she’s lashing out at you at this particular moment?”
“Because she’s a jealous bitch,” I said, catching my breath.
“It’s deeper than that,” she explained in her familiar, soothing voice. “Jenna’s not just jealous, she’s threatened. Your change in status dethrones her, and she wants to stage a comeback. But first she has to get you out of the way.”
“What makes me sick is that she pretends she’s doing me a favor.”
“Of course she does, because she can’t acknowledge to herself her own subconscious inadequacy. It all gets projected onto you.”
I sniffled. “So you don’t think that after I sign that contract I’m going to stop eating?”
“After you sign that contract, you’re going to have the best meal of your life. At the Four Seasons. On me.”
With reassurance from Vanessa, my gorgeous clothes from Bergdorf Goodman, and a sexy send-off from Lucien, I was in top form when I entered the venerable Gallant Publishing Headquarters on Broadway. To my surprise and delight, I was ushered into the office of the president himself, and as I took my seat in a maroon leather armchair, I thought of the many brilliant writers who had been there before me.
Nona, a humorless-looking woman with black owl glasses that overwhelmed her face, was poised to take notes. Anderson, wearing a Mr. Bubble T-shirt, was pacing excitedly. His father, Preston Gallant, presided with a stately air from behind his mahogany desk.
“Here she is: my protégé!” Anderson announced.
“This is one long-awaited day,” the old man began, stuffing a pipe.
“Yes, sir,” I replied. “I began this novel eight years ago, and—”
“Oh, I’m not talking about f
or you. You may have been writing for eight years, but it’s taken me a quarter-century to get my son to do some work. I don’t know what it is about Napoleon’s Hairdresser, but you must have something in this book if Anderson Gallant can get past page three. I don’t believe a book has held his attention this long since Treadmills for Dummies.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.
“Dad, I’ve been using that NordicTrack every day!”
“Granted you have, son, granted you have, but sports has never been your weak point,” Preston Gallant said. Pointing the pipe stem at me, he added, “We wasted seventy thousand dollars to get this boy into Yale, and all he ever did was ski.”
“But I’m really excited about this project, Dad,” Anderson said. “We need to mobilize our entire publicity department to start the buzz right away. I want this whole town to know the name Laurel Linden before the first book comes out. Get our biggest authors to write endorsements for the cover. And I want praise. High praise.”
“Mr. Gallant, we will need to do some revisions first,” Nona interjected.
“Well, you’ll take care of that,” he said with a dismissive wave.
Anderson was pointing to imaginary headlines in front of him. “‘Life-changing!’ ‘Breathtaking!’ ‘The literary masterpiece of the century, the millennium, of all time!’”
“You get the idea,” Preston said. “We’re putting you on the fast track with our A-list authors; you know, the Hollywood madams, ex-wives of sports stars, and political tattletales—all the big sellers.”
“You’ll be coming out in hardcover with an initial printing of three hundred thousand. I don’t need to tell you the advance is six figures,” Nona said.
“The best part, kid,” Anderson said, “is thanks to my connections, we got a six-book deal—two a year, renewable.”
“No, no,” I said, blown away beyond my wildest dreams. “This is more than enough. How can I ever thank you?”
“No need, no need. If your book can turn my ski-bum son into a real publisher, it is I who will be grateful to you. Why, you’ll be saving the whole future of the Gallant Publishing empire.”
I floated out of the office like I was on a magic carpet. Goodbye Fourteenth Street crumbling apartment, hello penthouse suite. Goodbye doors slamming in my face, hello red carpet treatment. Goodbye obscurity, hello fame.
To celebrate, Lucien and I planned a long romantic weekend in Italy. When I told Trish, she squealed with delight. “Oh, you know he’s going to propose now!” she said. “That’s it, I’m dyeing my pumps.” Count on Trish to know what I was really hoping for.
It had always been my dream to see Florence, and Lucien was my ideal guide. We flew first-class and held hands the whole way over, planning together how to take in as much as possible of this cultural mecca.
We had booked a charming little pensione in the heart of the old city. The room had a gorgeous view of the famous old Duomo. I settled back in the king-sized bed, sinking into its cozy depths. Lucien stared out the window, telling me about all the landmark buildings he could see, when they were built, and who their architects were. I gazed at my boyfriend and knew that our relationship was deepening. As soon as Gallant wrote the first check, I’d be leaving my apartment, and although we’d never discussed it, Lucien and I knew this vacation was a sort of rehearsal for moving in together.
“Honey, come here,” I cooed. “This bed is so comfortable, but it’s lonely without you.”
“Why, do you want to take a nap? Are you jetlagged? I brought some melatonin. It’s a well-known homeopathic remedy first discovered by a Mexican—”
“I’m not tired,” I said, wriggling in the sweet-smelling sheets. “I just want to feel you close to me.”
“You’re not tired?” he echoed. “Great! Let’s get started. I’ll hold you close on the way to the Uffizi.”
By Saturday night, I knew more about Florence than a PhD candidate in Italian renaissance history. It was a fascinating city; the only problem was that it was a little too damp for Lucien.
“My arthritis is acting up again,” he complained. I couldn’t see any swelling, but I took his word for it and searched the city for a remedy.
I wanted to have wild sex in our cozy love nest, but Lucien still wasn’t feeling well by our last full day in Italy, so I settled for a romantic moonlight boat ride on the Arno river.
“Look at this brochure,” I said, showing him a glossy photo of happy lovers cuddling in a lantern-lit boat passing under Ponte Vecchio. “Doesn’t it look dreamy?”
“Oh, that’s funny, Laurel,” he said, “but I’m not in the mood for stupid jokes.”
“Who’s joking?” I asked, feeling hurt. “It will be beautiful! We’ll glide under the old bridges at night bathed in moonlight, sip champagne, and hold each other.” When he remained silent, I appealed to his intellectual side. “It will be the perfect chance for you to tell me all about the crimes and passions of the Medici.”
“I’m not joining the hordes of polyester-clad Americans on their McTour of Europe,” he said with a look of disdain.
Hurt, I turned to the window. Soon Lucien had placed a hand on my shoulder. “I want to tell you all about the Medici, I really do,” he said gently, “but in an authentic setting. Why don’t we use our last day to visit their palace? It’s spectacular—so full of art and history, I could get lost there for a week.”
“What about your arthritis?” I asked.
“Oh, I’ll live,” he said with a wink.
It was during the plane ride back that Lucien surprised me with a gift. “Oh, you,” I said, savoring the task of untying the elegant silver ribbon on the large black box. He must have noticed me admiring the fine leather handbags in the windows of the city’s best shops, I thought.
But when I opened the package and looked inside, I was puzzled to see some sort of carved gargoyle. “What is it?” I asked.
“There’s two of them,” he said with a smile. “Antique bookends.” I removed the dusty wooden planks from their box and set them side by side.
“These are for our living room,” he explained, adding shyly, “You know, for when we move in together.” We were flying at thirty thousand feet, but that was nothing compared to the heights of happiness I reached.
The following week, my new career began in earnest when I signed the contract with Gallant Publishing. True to her word, Vanessa took me out to the Four Seasons that afternoon. In the elegant, moderne setting, Vanessa laid out her scariest assignment yet.
“Give up my rent-controlled apartment?” Whenever I thought about moving in with Lucien, it was always with the backup of subletting my apartment, just in case.
“As long as you have a Plan B,” Vanessa chided, “you’re undermining Plan A.”
What was I clinging to? Noise, dirt, and less reliable water than the average home in a desert. “Okay, I’ll do it!” I said with resolve.
When tea came, I took a delicious sip and marveled at my good fortune. Feeling completely satisfied, I turned my attention to my friend.
“So what’s going on with you?” I asked, realizing I’d never posed that question before because she always seemed so selfless.
“I’m just so happy to see that you’re so happy,” she said, confirming my theory. “There’s only one thing left for you to do to get ready for your new life.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, now that you’ve got a new job, you won’t be needing the old one anymore.”
“You mean cut back on the dog walking?”
“I mean cut it out completely.”
“But that’s where I do my best thinking.”
“Laurel . . . give up the starving artist bullshit. Just because you have money doesn’t mean you can’t be creative. When are you finally going to understand what I’ve been trying to teach you: With the right attitude, you can have it all.”
It was finally my turn for a pizza party at the Hell’s Kitchen writers group. Thanks to Danny Z
., there was even a special guest. “Portia’s coming,” he informed me with a conspiratorial smirk. “You had to sit through her party, and I wanted to be sure she sits through yours.”
When Portia finally walked in, I looked at her long black hair and naturally cool style without even a hint of the jealousy that used to consume me in her presence. Anyone could get a lucky break, and none of us were really better or worse than any other member of the group. José might yet publish Planet Cucumber and the Wriggly Green Virus. Margo was in the process of transforming a disaster into what could well turn out to be a work of solid fiction. And Sunny Hellerstein was right to affirm her publishability every chance she could; self-help books were huge sellers, and hers could be next. Gripped by affection for them all, I made my farewell speech.
“What an incredible six years, guys. I know we’ve been through some ups and downs, but all in all it’s been a hell of a ride. I want you to know that I’ll never forget any of you and that you can always come to me if you need advice.”
“Here! Here!” José said, raising a plastic cup of 7UP.
“Mazel tov!” proclaimed Danny Z. “Let’s eat!”
Seth opened the pizza box.
I didn’t want to embarrass Portia with the details of my spectacular contract, so I kept it vague when she asked, but Portia told me all about hers.
“You were so right, Laurel. My advance is really tiny, and I’m only coming out in paperback, but my agent said that for a long-term career it’s best not to peak too early.” She shrugged and added, “Well, maybe I’ll see you at the Frankfurt Book Fair.”
Portia gave me a quick hug and left. I wasn’t quite sure why, but I suddenly disliked her all over again.
- 12 -
Danny Z. leapt at the chance to take over my dog-walking route, and since he’d filled in for me before, my clients were pretty amenable. On my last day at Sergio’s, they gave me a free gift certificate for another haircut. “It will be an excuse to see Mini,” I said, stroking the beautiful Great Dane.
