“So Liberty said you’re from Michigan? Were you working in books there too?”
Laila briefly considered lying, but it seemed too likely that Liberty might have already told them what she did, or would at some point.
“Uh, no, I was a dental hygienist.”
“Oh,” Daphne said flatly, as though she had no idea how to respond to such information. Neither girl was especially glamorous in their H&M cardigans and Zara pencil skirts. At least Daphne wore ballet flats for her commute rather than the dreadful sneakers Kim could be seen in on her way in and out of the office each day. But despite their shabbiness, they were both Ivy League grads—Daphne from Harvard, Kim from Princeton. They had spent their lives on the ascent.
“Only while I was putting myself through school, though,” Laila said, layering the truth with a nicer-looking lie. “Once I’d graduated U of M, I came out here.”
She could see them both visibly shift; once again she belonged at the table. The lie was an easy one, as Ann Arbor was only an hour’s drive from Grosse Pointe, and she’d visited the campus many times with her parents when she was little: returning for football games and alumni events. Laila very well might have gone there herself, had things been different.
“Wow, good for you,” Kim said.
Fortunately, neither girl asked Laila any more questions about herself. They were both eager to share their knowledge of the city with her and to tell her all about their dreadfully dull lives. Laila listened raptly, for this was key to getting people on your side, and she did want them to be on her side. She couldn’t imagine what they thought she would do with their collective wisdom about the subway (never again!) and dealing with a half dozen roommates in their railroad flats.
It was only when Daphne mentioned the Hamptons that Laila perked up. The twins, she knew, decamped to the Hamptons each summer. Perhaps she’d underestimated Daphne.
“Where is your place out there?” Laila asked. The Greek fries she’d ordered with her sandwich were salty and delicious, and she found herself devouring them. No matter, she could always pull a Nora and have champagne and cucumber slices for dinner.
“We did a share in East.”
“How many people?” asked Kim.
Daphne rolled her eyes. “Eighteen. Next year I’m only doing one if everyone has a bed.”
“I don’t know why you bother with it,” Kim said.
“I don’t know how you stay in the city all summer!” Daphne said. “Just wait,” she said to Laila, “the city in the summer is so disgusting. It’s humid and smelly and totally dead. Everyone who can leave does.”
“Will you still be in New York then, do you think?” Kim asked Laila.
“Oh yeah,” Laila said. “I’m here to stay.”
It wasn’t until several weeks in that Laila’s work life took a turn for the interesting. “Laila, can you come here for a moment?” Liberty called to the auxiliary office where they had set her up, though she often worked in Lib’s office with her if she wasn’t taking calls. She would, in these moments, surreptitiously study her cousin, watching her elegant economy of movement. Laila enjoyed being in quiet, companionable proximity to her; more and more, she envied the twins their fortune of having her as a sister. She exuded grace: so tall and slender that she often appeared to be made chiefly of lovely angles, like a fashion sketch.
Laila popped her head into Liberty’s office. “Hey, Lib.”
“How’s your day, honey?”
“Oh fine, just, you know, breaking hearts, crushing dreams,” Laila said, referring to the never-ending task of combing through the “slush” pile. At first this name had struck Laila as odd, but after two weeks delving into the watery grubbiness of unsolicited submissions, the term seemed apt.
Liberty gave her a wan smile. “You get used to it. Writing rejections used to keep me up at night; I was afraid I was accidentally going to pass over the next John Kennedy Toole and send someone over the edge.”
Laila nodded, though she didn’t know who her cousin was talking about. She’d learned she could bluff with Liberty, who tended to give people the benefit of the doubt.
“I have a big favor to ask you. Tom Porter just called last-minute to say that he’s in the neighborhood and he’s dropping by the office.”
Tom Porter was a youngish (Laila learned that this included anyone under the age of forty in the publishing business) writer who had the rare distinction of being both a critical and commercial success. He was Liberty’s prize client. Laila had seen photos of him in the press files that Liberty had her organizing; he was reasonably good-looking in a bookish way, with big, expressive eyes, a full head of wavy hair, and a magnanimous smile.
“Doesn’t Tom live nearby?” Meaning he was always in the neighborhood.
“Yes,” Liberty said, rolling her eyes. “The problem is Gerard encourages all the authors to stop by anytime to chat.”
“Probably because he doesn’t actually do any of the work around here,” Laila said, laughing. Gerard Mills was a bloviating old boy, loud and crass, with seemingly little sense that his leering habit of complimenting his female employees’ looks was embarrassingly retro at best. He was a solid forty pounds overweight and wore a black toupee that strained the limits of credulity, even from a distance. No powerful woman would have gotten away with such a slovenly appearance, but it didn’t seem to hurt Gerard, who’d been responsible for the careers of dozens of bestselling authors. He was a kingmaker: no one cared about his hair.
Liberty gave her a quick smile, and Laila panicked that she’d spoken out of turn.
“Authors can be a bit like jealous boyfriends; you can never allude to the fact that there is more than one of them in your life. Normally I wouldn’t mind, but, and this cannot leave this office, Anton Bjornberg is considering switching agents; I have a lunch meeting with him.”
“Oh my gosh, how exciting! Where are you meeting him?” She hadn’t read Bjornberg’s books—for God’s sake, they were each a thousand pages at least—but he was sexy in an overserious Swedish way, and he was, confusingly, a very big deal in publishing.
Liberty scrunched her nose. “At his town house. It’s a little unusual, but he insisted, for discretion. So anyway, you don’t mind having a drink with Tom?”
“A drink?” Laila said, leaning over to peer at the antique banjo clock affixed to Liberty’s wall. “It’s barely one thirty!”
“It’s publishing. Anyway, he’s a sweetheart. You’ll like him, I promise.”
“Of course!” Afternoon cocktails with famous authors was much more what she’d had in mind for herself with this gig. There came a faint rapping on the door frame, and Laila turned around to see the author himself—taller than she’d imagined, wearing a tweed coat—standing in the doorway.
“Tom!” Liberty said, coming out from behind her desk to greet him. “It’s so good to see you. I want you to meet my darling cousin and new intern, Laila. She’s just moved from the Midwest.”
“It’s a pleasure,” he said, “I love it there.” Laila noticed with satisfaction that his eyes bounced off her nervously, as though he were trying not to stare at her.
“Good Lord, why?” she blurted.
To her immense relief, he laughed and shrugged. “Nice people. Good bookstores.”
“It’s so funny that you’re here,” Liberty interjected, “because I was just telling Laila about you this morning and saying that she should meet you, and here you are.” This benign untruth practically made Tom blush and stare at the floor. Laila was transfixed; how did such a shy, pliable creature exist in this hard city? “Would you mind spending some time with her this afternoon? I want her to learn everything she can about the business, and you’ve got such a good perspective.”
“Of course!” he said, so quickly it made Laila smile.
“I would join you, but I have a late lunch meeting, and I think it would be impossible to reschedule at this point.”
“It’s not a problem at all; I really jus
t stopped by to say hello. Laila, shall we?”
Laila beamed at him and went to fetch her coat: a brand-new Burberry trench with navy piping.
“It’s so lovely out,” he said once they were together on the street—indeed, it had warmed up since that morning; she hardly needed her coat. “Would you want to go and grab a glass of rosé on a terrace somewhere? I know a good spot close by. Unless you’d prefer coffee. Or tea.”
He was babbling. How charming. Tom had been short-listed for a Pulitzer Prize for his last novel, but that didn’t make him any less nervous around a pretty girl.
“Rosé sounds delightful.”
They took a table outside a quiet Gramercy café and, after a moment’s deliberation, ordered a bottle to share. It was a perfect October afternoon; there was no better time to be in New York, Tom said, no better time to be alive.
“I have a confession,” Laila said when the waiter had filled their glasses and nestled the wine bottle in the ice bucket nearby. “I knew of you even before the agency. I read all of your books back in Michigan. I’m only sorry I didn’t know I would be meeting you today; I would have brought my copy of Perjury to the office so I could have you sign it. Oh, listen to me! How embarrassing!” Laila felt herself flush with the sip of wine and realized that this would have the effect of making her appear to be blushing. She had a copy of Perjury—Tom’s most recent novel—that much was true. Liberty had given it to her, along with a stack of recent books by other clients of hers. It was sitting on Laila’s nightstand, unopened.
“I haven’t had such a good compliment in years,” Tom said. Laila knew from his eyes, shining and earnest, that he was being truthful. “And where in Michigan are you from? They have an excellent writing program at the university there, did you know? I’ve been there on several occasions to speak.”
Laila nodded enthusiastically and said she had once imagined she might go there herself—she wasn’t a writer, obviously, but she just loved books so much. She quickly mentioned Grosse Pointe, and then deftly turned the subject back to Tom before he might ask her more. For the remainder of the afternoon, Tom basked in Laila’s many questions about his life as a writer, where his ideas came from, what his process was, which writers inspired him. She just had so much to learn from him, she said, she hoped that he didn’t mind how interested she was. And what should she read? Other than his books. She was sorry, she was gushing.
And poor Tom was done for.
8
* * *
TELL ME you’re still coming to Soho House tomorrow,” Reece said. Liberty, who had just taken a delicate bite of her sashimi, smiled and nodded.
“Good, I know it’s not your favorite. But I figured we’d ease Cameron back in.”
Liberty shrugged. She didn’t like anywhere as scene-y and exclusive as Soho House was, but it wasn’t the worst of the worst. And she was always happy to be spending time with Reece. Once the two had practically lived at each other’s apartments, but their jobs had grown too demanding to spend that much time socializing. “How long was he in London for again? It seems like he’s been gone forever.”
“Two years. And the bastard didn’t even come home for a visit. If I hadn’t been able to convince work I needed to go on a scouting trip, I wouldn’t have seen him at all. Of course, my mom and dad flew out there, like, every two weeks; couldn’t stand not seeing their baby boy.”
Reece’s older brother, Cameron, had been living in the family’s town house in Notting Hill, working at the Michaels Steel Company’s London office for the past two years. Of course, Reece could have gone over any time, but between her busy job and the fashion line she was working on—an absolute secret to all but Liberty and Reece’s younger coworker and collaborator, Cece, she barely had time for anything else. Liberty had known Reece since they were kids. Their bond had cemented as teenagers at Spence, and as adults, their relationship—best friends in the truest sense—had become something rarer still. Reece was Liberty’s one real confidante and often the only one she felt knew her at all.
“Are you excited to have him back?” Liberty asked.
“The return of the prodigal son.” Reece rolled her eyes. “But yeah. I think London has been good for him.”
Cameron was five years older than Reece and Liberty and loomed large in the latter’s childhood memories. Their father had been an Olympic skier, and their mother was a Connecticut socialite and an avid tennis player. Both Reece and Cameron were gifted athletes; Reece played volleyball for Northwestern and Cameron had rowed crew all the way through prep school and then at Harvard. Both were regal and imposing—Reece stood at nearly six feet and her brother six foot five—towering over crowds like a pair of Norse gods.
“Speaking of long-lost family members, how are things going with Laila?”
It was Friday, and Liberty had stepped away from the office for her weekly lunch with Reece. She felt a little guilty for leaving Laila behind instead of inviting her, but she cherished this alone time with her friend. Besides, Liberty held on to the hope that Laila might discover something in the agency’s never-ending submission pile. After nearly ten years working with books, there was still no greater pleasure for Liberty than this. She, of course, got plenty of referrals from industry friends and school acquaintances; she’d even had an e-mail from a Spence parent that morning—Bradford is working on the most marvelous fantasy series, we really feel it could be the next Harry Potter!—but the projects Liberty treasured were the diamonds in the rough that she’d discovered herself, those that she’d read the opening pages of with hope and delight blooming in her chest: undiscovered talent.
“She’s doing well, full of enthusiasm. It’s sweet to see her so excited about being in New York.”
“So crazy, the way you two reconnected. And she was married to a doctor in Michigan before this, right?”
“A dentist.” Liberty took a sip of her Perrier.
“A dentist! How do you even meet someone who’s a dentist? Was she his patient?”
“Well, I’m pretty certain that dentists date and go to bars like everyone else,” Liberty said, “but actually, she worked for him.”
Reece looked at her blankly.
“She was a hygienist.”
“Shut. Up.” Reece slapped the side of her thigh and let out a laugh that caused some heads to turn in their direction. There was a bigness to Reece—her stature, her laugh, her personality—that she pulled off with a grace few women could achieve. Her brother had it too, but no one minded men taking up space. “A dental hygienist? Are you sure you guys are related?”
“Don’t be a snob, Reece.”
“I’m not!”
Liberty made a face at her.
“Okay, I definitely am. I’m sorry. But you have to admit, the idea of your cousin being, like, a dental hygienist slash suburban housewife is pretty wild. It’s like . . . Lawrence in a parallel universe.”
“But she isn’t those things anymore. Now she’s an intern at a literary agency in Manhattan. Come on, you know you hate it when people define you by your circumstances.”
“Right. God. She must have culture shock. Her side of the family must be really different.” Liberty had shared with Reece what she knew about Laila’s parents—the mysterious rift—but of course, there was not much to tell.
“They were, I gather.” Normally, Liberty loved Reece’s bluntness, found it refreshing. But she felt protective of her cousin. She could see Laila straining so hard for her approval, for her family’s acceptance. New York seemed to leave her dazzled but a little terrified.
“Does she talk about them?”
Liberty shook her head. “I’ve asked, but she doesn’t say much. Her father died when she was ten. She didn’t even know we existed before her mom died two years ago.”
“And you don’t know why?” Reece popped a delicate piece of California roll in her mouth. The Michaels family was tight-knit and cheerful. Low-drama.
“All I know is her dad had a falling-out with
my grandfather and my dad. I’ve never been able to pry out anything more.”
“Sad. Well, she’s lucky to have you. How do the twins feel about her being here?”
“Nora is delirious. It’s like she ordered up a ready-made best friend.”
“Oh, Nora.”
“I know.” Nora was so dear but so hopeless; no chance of survival outside her own cosseted and circumscribed world. Being neither especially beautiful nor academically inclined, nor gifted at sports, she hadn’t been popular at Spence where naturally no one was impressed by the fact of the family’s wealth. Mostly girls cozied up to her to get close to Leo, and when they were unsuccessful—or worse, when they succeeded and then were promptly abandoned—they lost interest in Nora swiftly and brutally. Laila’s appearance in their lives had given Nora the longed-for opportunity to have someone to dazzle, someone who wouldn’t abandon her on a whim. Liberty thought this was good for her sister.
“Well, the whole crew will be there tomorrow night, right?” Reece asked.
“Yes! It will be fun.”
“It’s such a thrill when I can get you to leave your apartment these days.”
Liberty rolled her eyes. “I enjoy keeping my own company; nothing wrong with that.” She found that most days, she’d had enough of other people by the time she got home to the solitude of her East Village apartment.
“I’m excited to get to know Laila,” Reece said, scooping the last bite of her seaweed salad between her chopsticks.
“Do not tease her about being a dental hygienist.”
“I would never.”
Liberty made an incredulous face.
“I won’t! I promise,” she said, holding her hand in the air as if to say, Scout’s honor. “By the way, Cameron asked about you.”
“He did?” Liberty felt a trip wire of excitement. This was not the adult Liberty reacting but the buried teenage Liberty—the Liberty before—for whom Cameron seemed both as desirable and unattainable as a movie star. The Cameron of her teenage imagination had been an amalgam of facts—his sports victories, the pretty girls he’d dated, the funny thing he’d said the other day, the daring pranks that had made him a legend at Collegiate—which could be collected and parsed from his similarly worshipful sister and Liberty’s own fleeting observations of him: that he drank red Gatorade after crew practice, he listened to N.W.A, and he had several volumes of Keats in his bedroom. She’d of course met him again in adulthood but had never spent enough time with him to replace or even interfere with the impressions of her teenage years, already burrowed so deeply in her psyche.
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