“Uh—sure, great. When would be a good time to talk?”
“What’s wrong with now? Or did I get you in the middle of something?”
“Over the phone?” For some reason the prospect filled him with dread. Five minutes on the phone, dismissing him, and he’d be left with a dial tone? “Can’t I buy you a drink while you break it to me gently?”
She resisted, repeating her earlier edict against drinking. I could teach you a thing or two, honey, he thought grimly; he’d never known anyone who seriously felt as she claimed to about alcohol. “I’m sorry,” he said after a few moments of trying to persuade her, “this is wasting your time. I just wanted to thank you somehow; of course we should do it during business hours. I can come to the office next week, if you’d prefer.”
“Oh, I don’t mind meeting you after work; I stay late most nights, anyway.” She paused, weighing her options. “Oh, what the hell, let’s meet for a drink, why not. It’ll do me some good to act like a real editor and expense-account you.”
“I won’t hear of your treating me,” Clay said. “You’re doing me the favor—you’ve already done me a huge favor. When is good for you?”
They made an appointment to meet early the next week, struggling to come up with a place that suited their purposes. Sometimes Manhattan seemed as limited as a small town, Clay thought; it had endless options, but most of them were bad.
Clay hung up the phone with a time, meeting place, and feeling of slightly giddy anticipation. It was going to take some doing to get through the next few days, he realized. He paced the apartment, filled with extraneous energy, picking up the piece of paper on which he’d written the details of their meeting. As if he’d forget. He glanced at the circled location among the scribblings of places they’d both thought of.
One name struck him suddenly. He’d written down but hadn’t gotten around to suggesting a restaurant he’d gone to often when he’d first come to the city. He stared at the name, the amazement of his abrupt discovery momentarily stunning him. The barely legible letters loomed large: that was why she was so familiar, he’d seen her there. Years before, when he’d learned the truth about the beautiful girl, the girl he’d gone on to—he covered his eyes. It couldn’t be. Of all the people in New York—How could he not have recognized her? How could he not have remembered as soon as he’d laid eyes on her? True, she had short hair now, making her look different, younger—but even so he should have known her instantly.
What were the odds of something like this happening? There was a pressure in his ears, as if he’d been dropped from an extreme height Would she remember him, too, once she had sat across from him for an entire evening? And what would she do if she did? He hardly knew what to think.
The absurdity of the coincidence made him light-headed. Ah, the twists of contemporary fate, he thought: Louey Mercer. It seemed she had a story of her own. He wondered if he could get her to tell it to him.
By the time Louey arrived, Clay had finished two-thirds of his drink. Normally he didn’t mind being kept waiting; one of the things he hadn’t understood about New York was why people were always in such a hurry, so frantic to get wherever they were going. What was the rush? Now, however, he could barely sit still as the minutes ticked away. Surely he’d feel better once she gave him her verdict, good or bad.
She appeared at last, seating herself across from him with a faint blush. “Sorry.” She was out of breath. “Have you been waiting long?”
“I was early, actually.” He wiped uncharacteristically damp hands on his knees. “Never too soon to shatter your illusions, right?” He tried to grin. The waitress interrupted and Louey glanced at Clay, who had downed his drink as soon as she’d finished shaking his hand. “What would you like?”
“Club soda with lemon?”
“We’ll have to do something about this self-destructive bingeing of yours.” He shook his head. “A club soda, and I’ll have another Scotch,” he told the waitress. “Do you really not drink at all?”
“Not really. On rare occasions I feel so unlike myself I do all sorts of things—like drink, or cut off all my hair”—she ran a rueful hand across her head—“but on the whole I’m far too well behaved.”
“Don’t you ever need to lose control?”
“I guess I’m afraid of what I might do.” She shook a finger at him. “I can see where this is leading—you want me to make some sordid confession so you can tell my boss.”
Choking on his ice, Clay gulped, “Far from it,” swallowing painfully. “So tell me,” he managed, “do you like being an editor?”
“Can’t help myself,” she said. “What other profession lets you plumb the souls of total strangers? Only a small percent of whom turn out to be psychopaths.”
“Lucky you.”
“You”—she scowled—“are stalling. Listen, Clay, we’ve got to talk about this thing you’ve written sometime—and I bet you won’t be nearly as alarmed by what I have to say as you seem to fear.”
He placed his hands flat on the table. “I’m ready.”
“Well, to begin with, you write very well, and I enjoyed reading the book a great deal. No one breathing would deny that we behave the way you say, that this notion of love distorts our entire way of thinking and interacting with people. A lot of your theories are intriguing, and your examples from popular culture are fun, often very witty. I loved the songs you picked, and of course the movie quotes.”
“But?”
“Can’t even savor a little praise, can you? All of what I’ve just said is not minor, you know; you’ve done some terrific work.” He took a sip and waited for her to go on. “You’re quite a talented writer, lively, clear, original, entertaining.” He flushed, amazed to hear the words coming so glibly from her mouth. If only he could make her slow down, say them over, make her stop. “And love is a subject of universal interest—but in decided categories. Now, if you’d written a psychoanalytical book on how to find love—or avoid it—” She smiled briefly. “Or a lighthearted humor book, say the sort of flip treatment that would be ideal with illustrations, or a violently explosive shattering of modern myths to provoke people into changing their lives—Beyond Love, say, the ultimate program for giving up those destructive notions that prevent you from fulfilling your creative potential as a person—” She sighed. “You can see how silly it is, trying to tailor a book for an amorphous commercial audience. What you’ve done, though it does show an enormously popular aspect of human behavior in a new light, is not quite explosive enough, not quite light enough; it’s somewhere in between. My fear is that publishers will say ‘Who would buy this book?’ or “What would make a person buy it?’ Unless you have your own daytime television show—”
“Sorry.”
“Or are media-connected enough to raise excitement for the project—”
“I’m not speaking to Phil Donahue until he stops dropping by at all hours, acting goofy, bellowing in Italian …”
“This must sound insane to you, particularly since you’ve worked so hard, with such impressive results.”
He couldn’t tell her how it felt to hear her say she liked his writing, after all the vague reactions he’d gotten from other editors. “I was terrified the first time I showed the book to someone,” he confessed. “I guess I’ve been afraid to find out I have no talent whatsoever.”
“Clay. No writer can afford to count on receiving proof of his self-worth from other people. You have to have the confidence to fight for what you think is good.”
“I never planned to be a writer. This book is the first thing I’ve accomplished.”
“In your whole life?” she teased.
“Except for passing time.” He winced at his words: next he would say his family didn’t understand him.
“Curse of the rich?”
“Born laziness,” he said, “with a dash of self-contempt I think I got from my mother.”
“Your father sounds eager to see you get ahead, from what you told me
.”
He motioned to the waitress. “I think he felt if he engineered my introduction to publishing, I’d come around to the family firm once I’d officially failed.”
She shook her head.
His throat felt dry. “So you think I should give up any dreams of seeing my name in print?”
“Now, I didn’t say that. You have a couple of options; it depends on what you’d be willing to do. I can take the book before our board, which would probably mean a less than strong chance for acceptance here. You never know; each case is different. I could also recommend some editors at other houses who might like it.”
“More editors?” He clutched his throat.
She toyed with her napkin. “I do think you’d be in for discouragement—lovely rejections, people who like your writing but don’t know what to do with your book.”
“Any other options?”
“You could rewrite it as a kind of Cinderella Complex—give a harsher damnation of living through romantic myth, show how all the greatness we imagine doesn’t come from objects of our fantasies but from within. It still won’t guarantee you’ll get a contract, unfortunately, though your chances would be far better once you did the work. You could set up a program showing what we do that’s wrong, how to summon that feeling of transportment without someone else.”
“But nobody can do that,” Clay said. “At least I’ve never seen it done. Why else do we keep torturing ourselves with fantasies that make us miserable?”
Draining her drink almost fervently, she put down the glass, her face flushed. “No answers here.” Her voice was slightly tremulous; he felt as if he’d deliberately prodded a nerve. “I wasn’t serious, by the way.” She cleared her throat. “What made you write about this, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Later he would berate himself for the alcohol that had caused him to say it. “It was all your fault, actually.”
“My fault?” She frowned.
“Shit,” he said under his breath. He could still get out of it, he told himself, make some flip comment. Yet when he tried to think of an excuse, his mind was useless, racing blankly to absorb his blunder. The silence stretched on endlessly.
“What I mean is …” he tried, but nothing came out. He couldn’t believe he’d done this, trapped himself, as if he’d somehow wanted to destroy it, as surely as he’d ruined his chance with Mia two years earlier. Louey studied him, bewildered. Wouldn’t she remember that black day herself, eventually, after he began to work with her? Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, he thought; she had a sense of humor, right? Not quite believing it, he forged ahead. “I had just moved to New York, and I was out drinking, trying to stop feeling like a stranger in a strange land. This was about two years ago. You were—I was eavesdropping on this conversation between a beautiful woman who was breaking up with—I saw Mia, and then you—”
“You know Mia?” It came out hoarse.
“No, well, I tried to—after that day, I sort of went out and got her to—see, that first year, I just couldn’t seem to do anything that—I got it into my head that—”
“Clay.”
Her tone silenced him. He was looking at an anguished face—and once again he was responsible, as he’d been with Mia. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.
“That’s why you seemed so familiar.” She looked dazed. “It was—of course I never forgot anything about that day. I don’t know how I could have forgotten you.” She stared into her glass.
Clay ordered her some vodka; Louey barely noticed when the alcohol was placed in front of her.
“Are you okay?” he said at last.
“Well”—she shrugged. Misery and embarrassment mingled across her face. “I’m afraid this isn’t something I can be professional about.” She faced the drink and braved a swallow, placing the glass down defiantly. “So,” she said. “I guess this isn’t quite the publishing experience you had in mind.”
“I don’t give a shit about that,” he said. “The last thing I wanted to do was upset you.”
“Did you realize who I was when you asked for this—date?”
“I couldn’t figure out why you looked so familiar. It wasn’t until after our phone call that I remembered.”
“Jesus.” She put her face in her hands.
“Ironic that we should meet after all this time—considering the genesis of my book.”
“Just think.” She smiled bitterly. “You could have chosen so many other variations. A treatise on models turned stock-broken. Children of mixed parentage and their effect on the economy. And of course the most obvious topic, women who—”
“Louey.” He put a hand over hers tentatively and she turned red, picking up her drink without meeting his eye, then downing it. He ordered her another. “I could kick myself for dredging this up for you. Maybe it would be better if I took this project somewhere else.”
“My publisher would love to hear the reason that you changed your mind.” She drew her hand away. “But that’s not why you should see it through with me.” She looked at him almost defiantly. “See, I know just the thing to make it work.”
You might find her heartbreaking, if you cared to bother. You could be sitting across from her at Reggio’s wondering how she’d managed to trick you into (all right, no espresso, but how about some—) Earl Grey tea, even a cigarette, when what you should have been doing was being properly West Side, writing letters or practicing piano. You could be exhaling across the table at her as you considered this business of her face. She wears lipstick, you have to admit, an odd, vaguely crimson shade, and her lips are permanently pursed in a Cupid’s bow. These are not things you would say about any of your friends—and her hair is thick and wild around her head, coarse to run your fingers through, but always for some reason tempting you to do so. Her heels are spiked, and she wears very tight pants, but the oversized sweaters redeem her: cuddly punk, and it is a good thing you are not having wine (as she is) or you would certainly have to fall in love with her.
At Reggio’s she eyes the waiter and mentions that you are dear to her and she loves you. The waiter she calls “my man,” making elaborate plans to visit him. You murmur what you think of her into your tea, but she has gone on to discuss the cab driver she had in for coffee, or the rock star or bank teller. You call her a slut, laughing, and she tells you she is “reevaluating this sex thing,” as if chances for its survival are dim. She asks you if you have anything to say in its defense. You sit your chin in your hand and smile at her, and she says this will not help; she wants your advice, and you say as she is the mother of your children you cannot help but be partial and disqualify yourself from answering. This amuses her, but she says she is serious about needing your advice, so you mention that perhaps she has been having sex with people she does not desire, out of politeness. You put out your cigarette and discover the inside of your mouth to be very dry, and imagine kissing her. When she grins at you, you smile at the waiter.
You go to a play and find tears streaming down her face when the lights come up; this is painful. You crush her to you. She is still, and warm, and you would like to feel her moving against you, but she seems to be warning you not to think about tasting her lips and her skin. You wonder if you are imagining her resistance. You are certain she must know you love her, so you make your conversation banal and reassuring. You feel a little out of key. It is true that she loves to be told her legs are alarmingly beautiful (this, too, is painful) or that you are passionately devoted to her; also true that she will let you play with that shadowy hair forever even though she claims to dislike being touched this way. She has told you she loves you. She likes, she says, your touching her; it is endearing, she says. You know the reticence you sense cannot be your own, nor can it be imagined, but you have difficulty accepting this and often push solely to discover whether, this once, there will be no resistance. You put your arm around her, squeeze her shoulder, stroke her cheek. Sometimes you refuse to touch her to see if she will touch you. Expecting nothing,
you are always surprised—and somehow a little disappointed—when she does.
“Sometime I want to talk to you about this femininity business,” she says. “I have a theory that it’s almost entirely the voice.”
“The voice is a large part of it,” you admit. You have explained that several of your friends have an aversion to her because she is such a “girl” (without mentioning, of course, your surprise at feeling no similar aversion). Her voice is endearingly hoarse and girlish, alternating quotes from Sartre and Proust with vulgar, adolescent jokes, yet she likes girlish things: sachets, feathers, ruffles and perfumes (though so did all those Frenchmen).
She exclaims that, if anything, she has always considered herself to be butch. You introduce (gently) the incident when she sprinkled glitter on her stockings and rainbow-painted her face. (Out of pity, you avoid mentioning the accompanying shiny, strapless blue dress.) She protests. You realize she spends much of her time with you blushing and protesting. This must be why you love her. Soon you will start to imitate her, orally underlining words with great enthusiasm, making fascinating swoops of tone and color.
Some evenings she will come over and get you stoned, and you will lie on the floor smiling and accusing her of ruining your self-respect, as you listen to records or fall asleep to the drone of her stories. She will lie with her face next to yours, and the paleness of her skin, her mouth, the perfection of those soft, high breasts, will confuse you. Very slightly, the faint perfume will make you ache.
“This is not entirely terrible,” she said, putting the chapter down.
He pulled her plate to him, picking at her largely untouched dinner. “Have you always been so insatiable?” He twined a generous amount of her pasta around his fork.
“I’m known for it—and my mortifying table manners.” She watched as Clay dangled a strand of her spaghetti in the air and leaned his head back, dropping it into his mouth. “You can’t believe the number of times I’ve been asked to leave restaurants,” she added dryly.
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