by Anna Collins
But at least they put my name on the editorials.
When I closed the front door, Nick came out of the bedroom, arms up and hands spread as if to say, “What the hell just happened?”
“Guess he’s not so busy he can’t make house calls,” I stated with a shrug.
“What did you say in your review to make him want to visit you in person?” Nick asked, completely flummoxed.
I sighed and walked into the kitchen to make some Earl Grey. “I just… implied it could be improved.”
“‘Implied’?”
“I told him it lacked humanity. Like it was an encyclopedia of his awesomeness.” I put my blue kettle on the stove element and turned the heat to max.
“What’s wrong with that? Isn’t that what autobiographies are?”
“No, they’re…” I leaned against the counter, kneading my brow with two fingers. I felt a headache coming on. “It doesn’t matter. He wanted me to edit it.”
“Like, pay you to—?”
“Yeah.”
“And you said yes.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I said no.”
“Why did you do that?” He walked up next to me and wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “I thought you wanted high-profile jobs?” He spoke softly, not accusingly.
I shrugged out of his embrace and prepared the tea while my water heated. “I do when they put my name under the title.”
Nick frowned. “Well, you wouldn’t write it, would you?”
“It needs a rewrite,” I muttered, sifting through the cupboards to find some Tylenol. “But no. Just edit.”
“They put editor names under the titles?”
God, where the fuck did I put those pills? I was sure I had some.
“Babe?”
“No,” I hissed, “but writers always credit their editors. They don’t…” I found the pills behind some vitamins. “…make their editors sign NDAs and…” I fumbled with the cap of the bottle. “Fucking childproof piece of…”
The kettle began to boil, whistling like a falling bomb. Nick took the pill bottle from my hand and opened it. I didn’t even want the pills now, but I took two; I popped them in my mouth, and stuck my head under the sink for a gulp of water, just to not have to talk for a few seconds. The kettle kept screaming. I transferred it to a different hot plate.
Silence now. I carefully poured the water into my teacup, the teabag in. I could feel Nick watching me.
“I think you should take the job,” he said.
I looked up at him. “I’d have to follow him around like a lapdog. Interview his family and friends—assuming he has any friends. All to get a few bucks and an empty space on my resume.”
“Probably more than a ‘few bucks,’” Nick said, smiling. I couldn’t help but smile too. “You’d really have to follow him around?”
“Yeah,” I said, pinching the string of the teabag and bobbing it in the water. “I’d have to learn all the details of his life. Ask questions, try to find the human side. The conflict. The story.”
Nick hummed. He watched me blow the steam from my cup and take a sip. It wasn’t quite ready. The thought of me spending all my time with Apollo probably gave Nick pause. Or maybe not. He was never the jealous type, even when I irrationally wanted him to be jealous.
“You don’t want the job?” He asked.
“I want to be recognized for my work,” I said. I took another sip. Better.
“I’d recognize you.”
He smiled again. I touched his cold cheek. My hand was hot from holding the cup. I pulled him into a kiss.
Before I could tell him I was sure about my decision, my iPhone buzzed loudly on the kitchen counter.
“Maybe it’s your wannabe boss,” Nick said, grinning.
“I doubt he texts.” I picked up the phone.
“Billionaire businessman doesn’t text?”
“Read his autobio.” I thumbed in my unlock code, and it clicked on. It wasn’t a text I got, but an email from Thea—my actual boss from BayCray. Along with a couple of dozen Twitter notifications. Weird…
I checked the email first. It said:
‘Callie,
So, awkward news. That rooftop restaurant you wrote that glowing review for? Diamond in the Roof? Yeah, turns out they had some SERIOUS health code problems. Small furry friends kind of problems. Our commenters were saying you could see the little paw prints on the deck, especially the bird shit. Anyway—didn’t look good. We had to pull the article, like, stat.
Gonna have to be a couple of months before we can give you another assignment. Let the whole thing blow over and all that. Sorry, lovey. I’m sure it was a great place, and you probably just happened to go on a clean day or something.
I’ll get you more work as soon as I can. Promise.
Thea.’
“What the fuck?”
“What?”
I had to restrain myself from throwing my phone into the drywall.
“Careful,” Nick said as some of my tea dribbled over the rim of my cup, splashing on my sock.
Slowly, but still shaking a little with anger, I set the tea down and said, “I think I was just fired.”
Nick took my phone from me, frowning, and read the email.
“What the fuck?” He echoed.
The restaurant was perfectly charming while I was there. The pizza was amazing, the wait staff was friendly, everybody seemed to be enjoying themselves… And yeah, there was a dribbling of dried bird poop on the floor, but it was a rooftop. You had to expect that kind of thing—I even noted it in my review. But it didn’t sour the experience. To think health violations were that bad… Was I just blind?
It didn’t matter. It was done. My reputation was dragged through the mud. I hadn’t read those Twitter comments yet, but no doubt they were going to be a nightmare to deal with.
What was happening to my life?
“Maybe you should, um,” Nick said. He didn’t have to finish.
“No.”
“Babe, I’m sorry, but the rent in San Francisco doesn’t lend itself well to a one-income two-bedroom. I’ll do everything I can, but…”
I needed to do my part. I knew I did.
But I’d find a different way.
“I made my choice about the autobiography,” I said. “There’s ton of work out there.”
Nick looked unconvinced. “Thea said you should keep a low profile. I guess she had some angry readers choose the restaurant based on your review. Anyone who Googles you now will find—”
“Pissed off Twitter trolls. I know. But not every freelance client cares. Especially if you do…”
Ghost-editing. I didn’t say it out loud. God damn it.
Nick raised his ginger eyebrows. I ignored him and marched over to my office. I started hitting all my freelancer profiles.
Sure, there was work out there. For what amounted to a dollar an hour. I knew writing was cheap, but some clients were just exploitive. At least writing for BayCray paid a livable wage with consistent assignments.
I hit up all my contacts, even the old ones that paid me in little more than “exposure.” I needed some wins. I needed something. After a couple of hours of sending emails, texts, tweets, and any other kind of instant message, I was spent. None had gotten back to me yet, but such things took time. Hopefully not too much time…
During dinner, I finally got a hit. An old friend knew someone with a startup that needed some copywriting done. Turned out his “startup” was a paper company. Yeah. I had to write about how paper was the future.
Paper.
I sat down to my laptop to get started, well aware of the irony. I figured marketing to hipsters was the smart move. I jotted down notes about how paper was tactile, that you could put anything you wanted on it without being limited by technology. You didn’t have to plug it in. Uh. You could make airplanes out of it? And… it couldn’t be hacked, except by scissors.
Ugh.
“You com
ing to bed, hon?” Nick asked, leaning into the office doorway.
The clock on my laptop said 11:53 p.m. Did it really take me four hours to write about paper? On a job that would pay me fifty bucks, tops? Apparently so.
“Yeah,” I said, defeated. I turned off my laptop and rubbed my eyes, wondering what I was doing with my life.
Chapter Seven
Callie
My alarm was set for 7:30, but I woke up about 45 minutes early. Nick was snoring beside me—it was Saturday, so he would probably sleep till nine or later. I checked my phone. More tweets from pissed-off gourmands. I hated this whole keeping my head down thing. When you couldn’t do social media, you felt weirdly isolated.
I rolled out of bed, stuffed my feet into my Garfield slippers, and left the bedroom. Belle flung herself at me as soon as I opened the door, lithely squirming between my shins and meowing hungrily. When I made it to the kitchen, I fed her first, and then popped a K-cup into my Keurig. Apollo’s business card sat on the kitchen counter, almost blending into the granite countertop thanks to the card’s all-black design. But the text stood out, the raised lettering seemingly shining like the moon. ‘APOLLO IRONS.’ And a phone number.
Mornings were so silent. The tick-tock of the wall clock, the crumbly sound of Belle pushing her food around her metal bowl, occasionally crunching on it, the Keurig pissing coffee into a cup. My own breathing.
It was five minutes to 7:00.
My phone was in my hand. The business card sat on the counter. Apollo’s phone number seemed to brighten, to sear itself into my memory. I picked it up and dropped it in the garbage. It was useless to me. I had made my decision.
On the pillar in the kitchen, there was a purple sticky note with my New Year’s resolutions on it, right next to the wall clock. I read my list again.
Yoga every morning? Already failed. No more fast food? Failed hard. An article every day? As of yesterday—failed. Writing my book? I didn’t have the stability for that. Nor the subject. But it could still happen…
Just like spicing up my sex life, which I didn’t write down on the note. Still time.
Time. It was 7:00.
“Seven a.m.,” Apollo had said. “Not a minute earlier. Not a minute later.”
The second hand on the clock ticked away. It was ticking just past the 12th on the clock.
I could still turn him down. I hadn’t signed anything. It couldn’t hurt to listen…
Looking down, I saw I had already typed Apollo’s number. I could hear the ringtone. One ring. Two rings. I looked up at the clock. Five seconds until 7:01. Why did that bother me so much? He must have been joking about… Oh, hell, pick up already! Two seconds. One second.
“You’ve reached the office of Apollo Irons,” came a woman’s voice over the phone. “My name is Daphne, how may I assist you?”
For some reason, I expected Apollo to answer. Obviously, he had an assistant. Unless she was secretly a ghost editor…
“Uh, yeah,” I stumbled. “This is Callie. Er, Calista Cohen. I was told—”
“Hi Callie,” said the woman, Daphne. “Unfortunately you called a little too late. Mr. Irons has rescinded his offer.”
Rescinded? “I was not late,” I said.
“Roughly a minute late,” Daphne corrected.
My nails dug into my palm on my free hand. “I waited for five rings. I called on time. And not everyone’s clocks are exactly the same! Apollo can’t possibly—”
Daphne laughed. I stopped. Was this a joke?
“Relax, Callie,” Daphne said. “I’m supposed to jerk you around like a fish on a line. Part of my job. This is where you convince me to talk to my boss and change his mind, but the truth is, we all know how this goes. Better to save us all time.”
Um. Yeah. Obviously…
“Of course,” I said slowly. “The old song and dance routine.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Daphne said, laughing again. She had a high, fruity voice. I had a feeling she was a singer. “Mr. Irons has you penciled in for lunch at Saison at noon. Sharp, this time. Please bring your preferred note-taking device. Do you need a driver?”
Saison? I’d never been, but I knew about it from BayCray. The most expensive restaurant in the city.
“I can drive,” I said, immediately regretting it. I almost never got driven anywhere. Oh well. “Is Saison open for lunch?”
“It is for Mr. Irons.”
“La dee da.”
“Quite. Twelve noon—sharp.”
“Yes, boss.”
“You’re feisty,” Daphne laughed. “I like you. Hope you can keep up. Goodbye, Callie.”
“Keep up with wha—”
She’d already hung up.
I put the phone down on the countertop. God, I was weak. I bet Apollo knew I’d call, even after all I’d said. He was never refused what he wanted. And now he hadn’t even given me the respect of talking to me in person to set up a meeting. Was I really this desperate for work?
A meal at Saison was probably worth finding out.
With that in mind, I made a small breakfast, mostly for Nick, who got up at 7:30 when my bedside alarm went off. Whoops. His normally well-coiffed hair was askew, and he stepped into the kitchen dressed in nothing but Adventure Time pajama pants. He yawned and pulled his shoulders back in a stretch before I handed him his coffee with a kiss on the cheek.
“You’re in a good mood this morning,” he said after a big sip.
“Am I?” I asked, trying to hide my smile.
“Better than last night.” He sat down on the barstool in front of the kitchen island, his plate of bacon, eggs, and toast all laid out before him.
I sat down next to him, my own breakfast limited to a bowl of yogurt and some granola. “I’ve reconsidered the ghost-editing job.”
Nick looked at me, his eyes vibrant green inside the sleepy redness. “The Apollo Irons one?” He seemed confused.
“Is that a problem?”
“No, it’s just…” He took a deep bite of bacon. “I thought you didn’t want to do it? Lack of credit and all that.”
“I still might not. But there isn’t a lot of work flying my way right now. Apollo is the only client I know who doesn’t use social media, so he’s my best bet for a job.”
“That’s why you’re reconsidering? Because he might not know about your Twitter followers sending you hate tweets?”
“What’s the problem?” I asked, growing irritated. “I thought you wanted me to take the job.”
Nick regarded me silently for a moment. “I want you to do what makes you happy,” he said. “Do you know what your hours will be? How long you’ll spend away from home?”
“No, but…”
“How and when you’ll be paid? What kind of people you’ll have to interview? Whether they’ll even talk to you? You think his family is going to appreciate an outsider poking into their business?”
I got off my stool, ignoring my barely-touched breakfast. “I’ll find that out when I meet Apollo for lunch,” I said.
Why the hell was Nick suddenly so concerned? God, nothing was easy. And who was he to worry about how long I was out of the house? I spent days cooped up at home, writing article after article to be able to afford my half of the rent. Did he just prefer I stayed at home, waiting for him like a good little housewife? We weren’t married. And despite being together for four years, we weren’t even engaged. I did not rely on him, and I did not need to ask his permission to do a job.
“You’re meeting him for lunch?” Nick asked as I marched to the bathroom.
Yeah. I was meeting billionaire Apollo Irons for lunch.
Getting ready was going to take a while…
Chapter Eight
Apollo
“Well, I have got to hand it to you, sir. I seriously thought she wasn’t going to contact you,” Daphne said as she walked into my office, carrying the files I had asked her to get. I smirked at her, shaking my head. Did she really doubt my ability?
“You should know me by now. I’ve never failed at convincing anyone to see things my way,” I said confidently, and she raised her eyebrow.
“Yeah, except for one time,” she trailed off, and the mirth on my face immediately dropped, and I turned my head, unable to look at her.
“This is not the time nor the place to bring that up,” I said through clenched teeth, and I caught her opening her mouth to say something before closing it again and bowing her head.
“Apollo,” she said, calling me by my name for the first time in a long while. “I’m so-,” she started, but I cut her off abruptly.
“May I have those files, please? I’ll need to review them before I sign them. I’ll call you as soon as you can hand them over to the finance department.” I raised my hand toward her, gesturing for the files in her arms.
She placed them on my desk instead, ignoring my hand, before turning on her heels and walking away, closing the door softly behind her. I let out a sigh.
I thought I had gotten over it, but even merely bringing it up still causes quite a stir within me. It seemed that I hadn’t quite gotten over us yet.
It was careless of Daphne to bring it up again, even if it was in jest. Our history together was never something to laugh about, and it was still a sour spot for me, even if I was a little ashamed to admit it. Besides, she didn’t have the right to joke about it when she was the one who destroyed what we had first.
Other than being my assistant, Daphne and I grew up together and studied in the same school all the way through college. She was my childhood friend, and the only woman I cared about, loved, and back then, I was willing to give up everything to be with her forever. But like she said earlier, I didn’t have a perfect streak when it came to convincing somebody. She was the only one who had said, ‘No.' Her rejection had torn me apart. It was part of the reason why I was the way I am today.
My eyes caught sight of a little Post-It note with Calista’s details on it, as well as the time and place where we would meet. It’s a shame I hadn’t scheduled it now because I could use the distraction. Talking with Calista would be a good way to take my mind off of my memories, even if part of the reason why I was thinking about stemmed from my meeting with her.
