Crossing the Line

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

Of course, I’d read all 120,000 words, just as quickly as I could after having got my hands on it. Then, I’d made my pitch to acquire the book in the weekly editorial meeting. I hadn’t had to make much of a pitch, given the industry buzz, even though no one who’d merely read about it could get their minds wrapped around quite what it was.

  In fact, Stan from Accounting had been the only dissenting voice.

  “So, we’ll spend—what?—more than we’ve ever spent to acquire any book before on this overrated four-way teddy-ripper that will probably never even earn out its advance, just so we can get pissing rights over every other publisher in London?”

  I had been about to defend the book, which really was just like what Stan was describing, when Dexter Schlager of all people jumped in. I say “of all people,” because he nearly never said anything and, whenever he did, we nearly never listened.

  “What business are you in?” Dexter demanded. “Of course that’s what we will do. What the hell do you think publishing is all about?”

  “I dunno,” Stan shrugged. “Making money?”

  “Pfft,” pffted Dexter. “Publishing isn’t about that at all. It’s about gaining power.”

  “Excuse me,” piped up Constance, who had on her serious brown contact lenses that day, since it was Tuesday and Tuesday always meant editorial meeting and she did so want to be taken seriously, the hoped-for effect of seriousness compromised completely by the square ring in her pierced brow that said Write Free or Die. “But isn’t publishing supposed to be about the romantic pursuit of wonderfully seminal material that will both entertain and educate?”

  “Christ!” Dexter looked at Dodo accusingly. “Whose idea was it to promote little Don Quixote here?”

  Before the meeting had the chance to degenerate into the usual round of name-calling our happy little family was prone to, I’d suggested we come up with a plan. If we wanted Simon Smock’s anonymous author’s untitled book, and we desperately did, we were going to need to offer him more than just money. After all, what if we were outbid by a competing firm? We needed to sweeten the pot so we’d be irresistible.

  Naturally, being the brilliant people that we were, we came up with a plan to offer Simon Smock.

  “Anything,” Dexter Schlager had said.

  “Anything?” Stan’s eyebrows went up so high they’d topped his glasses.

  “Anything,” Dexter reiterated. “If we want to make sure no one else gets it, we have to promise them whatever they want.” He nodded at me with his chin. “By the way, Taylor, is it any good?”

  I shrugged. “Honestly? It’s just okay.”

  Dexter nodded. “That’s what I figured.”

  And now, here I was on the phone, waiting for Simon to…

  “Hello, Jane. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  I pictured him on the other end with that Dali hair and Zorro mustache. For so long now, I’d been feeling so outblonded by the world, longing to have another dark-haired person on the scene. But honestly, this? Was this man, not to mention Stephen Triplecorn, the best the world could do for me?

  “Hello, Simon. I’m prepared to make an offer.”

  “What have you got for me?”

  I gave him the financials, heard him grunt at the other end over every deal point.

  “Huh,” he said. “I’ve heard better.”

  “For this book?”

  “Yes. Just five minutes ago, in fact.”

  C-rap!

  “So,” he said, “if that’s all you’ve got…”

  “Anything!” I shouted.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Anything! I’ve been authorized to offer you anything your client wants!” Can you tell this was my first time doing this?

  “More money?” he asked cagily.

  “Er, no, not that.” Dexter had been firm that our bottom line on this one, being higher than our bottom had ever been before, was as far as we would go financially. “But anything else. Really, a-ny-thing.”

  Simon made hemming and hawing noises, which I was sure he was doing merely for the fun of having me squirm. “My client did say she wanted certain artistic guarantees.”

  C-rap! Another writer who thought she was some kind of fucking artiste just because she could put together over 100,000 words and have it all come out making a fair amount of sense in the end.

  “Whatever she wants,” I said sweetly.

  “She wants you to let her design her own cover.”

  “Does she have any art training?”

  “Does it matter?” he countered. “It’s what she wants.”

  She’d probably draw something with stick figures.

  “Okay,” I agreed brightly. After watching Dodo for years, I’d at least mastered the art of saying things brightly.

  “She doesn’t want anyone giving her grief over the title of the book,” Simon said. “She says it’s called what it is and she doesn’t want the publisher changing it.”

  “What’s she worried about?” I laughed. “I’m pretty sure hers will be the only book titled Untitled out there. Or did she decide to change it to Ishtar?”

  But apparently Simon didn’t think that was funny.

  “Does it matter?” he asked again, his tone having taken on a rote quality. “It’s what she—”

  “Right,” I said. “Okay, fine. Well—” brightly again “—is that all?”

  “Not quite. There’s also the matter of her name.”

  “Her name?”

  “Yes. She’s been publishing under a pseudonym for years now, having been pressured to do so by her previous publisher. Now though, she says, now that she’s writing things that are more true to her heart, she wants the world to recognize her by her real name.”

  “Which is?”

  “To you? For now, it’s still Anonymous.”

  “You want me to put Anonymous down as the author on the contract?”

  “I’ll work it out with your legal department. Just make sure you have them put my client’s terms in writing.”

  I could feel myself experiencing a giddy sense of excitement that I was sure Dodo was familiar with, but that I’d never enjoyed before (well, except with Mona Shakespeare).

  “Does this mean that we have a deal?” I asked, not daring to believe.

  “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

  As I hung up the phone, I couldn’t believe my good luck. I’d paid a small fortune, beating out everyone else in London, for a mediocre untitled book by an anonymous author who was going to do her own artwork.

  C-rap!

  Just to prove how desperate I was to get to the bottom of the truth regarding my mother and her new lover, which had been gnawing on my back burner ever since I’d broken into her house, I actually phoned my mother.

  The last time I’d phoned my mother it had been to invite her to my place in order to announce my pregnancy over a year ago. And, of course, she hadn’t come, having her nails done being much more important. Even the times she’d come to my place since Emma’s arrival, I’d first phoned Sophie and then told Sophie to call Mum up and invite her.

  I knew all of this, because my mother was only too happy to remind me of it as soon as she realized that it was my voice saying “Hello.”

  Well, except the part about her nails.

  “Yes, I remember all that, Mother, thanks so much for reminding me.”

  How to delicately bring up the fact that I now knew she had a lover and I was curious about it…?

  It occurred to me that I should have taken the time to work these details out in advance. After all, I couldn’t just say, “While I was going through the desk in your bedroom, I discovered…”

  “Sophie says you’re sleeping with somebody!” I blurted, needing to say something and having failed to think of anything better.

  I was sure I was hearing surprise on the other end of the line. There was certainly a sharp intake of breath. Then, on the exhale:

  “Sophie’s right, of course.”

  “She i
s?”

  I couldn’t believe my mother wasn’t playing games with me about this, that she was simply answering straightforwardly.

  “Yes, although it’s more than sleeping. I’ve been seeing someone for some time now.”

  “I see.”

  But of course I didn’t. None of it made sense. Why, my mother and I were having an adult conversation!

  “What’s his name, this person you’ve been seeing?”

  “Vic. The person’s name is Vic.”

  I couldn’t believe it! She was telling me everything!

  “So,” I said, “when do I get to meet Vic?”

  “Oh, eventually, Jane. I just want to see where things are headed first. After all, you of all people should understand the importance of not rushing things. Didn’t you start, have and finish an entire relationship with Tolkien before anyone in the family even knew he existed?”

  I hated it when she was right.

  I’d asked Tolkien out on a date.

  Not wanting to go again to Meat! Meat!! MEAT!!!, even if it was good enough for Kevin Spacey, I’d selected a Japanese restaurant that had red lacquer walls and low lighting, the low lighting of the couples-in-love variety as opposed to the hide-the-food-while-saving-on-the-electric variety I was more accustomed to. I’d had the foresight to book us the private room with the table on floor level that had a well beneath it for our legs, figuring it was worth the extra money. At the very least, when the meal was over, he’d have to offer me his hand to help me up, being the gentleman that he was. And I’d really need help since I’d elected to wear a teal satin Mandarin minidress that was very snug in the hips and upper thigh, making it not all that easy to execute the kind of move necessary to remove one’s legs from a restaurant well. I did realize that by wearing my Mandarin dress to a Japanese restaurant I was mixing my Asia, but the snugness was sexy on me and there was that well he’d need to help me out of. So I knew there’d be that much physical contact, at any rate.

  Ever since that day Tolkien had taken Emma and me to the park, had kissed me on the head, I’d been waiting for him to ask me out again. That call not coming, I’d steeled my own bravery and invited him here.

  The way I figured it, once again, I’d been passive for far too long. It wasn’t like me to be so passive, me being the more bull-by-the-horns type. But I supposed I’d let the day-to-day busyness of new motherhood, coupled with a sincere desire to give him what space he needed, tripled by a fear of rejection…well, I’d let the combination of it all guide me. But now I was tired of waiting. I wanted him back. How? I had no idea. The only thing I knew for certain was that it was time for Action Jane.

  Thankfully, when Action Jane had timidly asked him out, he hadn’t told me to stuff it; he’d said yes.

  Of course, now that I had him here, I hadn’t a clue as to what to say. It was that awkward.

  Before the ginger salad dishes were even on the table, we’d dispensed with Emma’s latest accomplishments—her attempts to pull herself to a standing position from sitting—and what was going on at work, both mine and what he could talk about involving his.

  What to say…what to say…?

  “Your work!” I half shouted, my sudden excitement so high at having come up with something concerning his work that we could discuss, I knocked over my wineglass, the contents landing right in his lap.

  He gave a half jump backwards and bumped his knee on the table in the well as I reached to help him wipe what I’d done, but I felt him stiffen as I dabbed at the place on his pants where the wine had spilled.

  “Sorry,” I said, drawing back, no doubt blushing a red color as deep as the wine.

  “That’s okay,” he said, in an attempt to shrug it off. “Everyone thinks C.I.D. are all on the take or drunks anyway. Might as well give the taxpayers what they expect for their money.”

  He must have seen that I was still dreadfully embarrassed, since he chose to keep the subject matter aboveboard.

  “And my work is so exciting, why?”

  “Right! Your work!” I half shouted again.

  He lunged to keep his own wineglass safe from my sweeping reach.

  Ignoring his self-protective lunge, I rooted in my handbag for what I wanted to show him.

  “Here!” I said. I pushed the photo across the table.

  “Who’s this?” he asked, looking at the snap of the sad girl.

  “It’s Sarah Johnson, Mary Jr.’s niece. Remember I told you about the playgroup I’ve been bringing Emma to?”

  “Right, Mary Jr.—the woman you met when you were standing behind her in line at the market.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Her niece looks sad,” he said, moving to return the photo as our entrées came: shrimp teriyaki for me, steak tempura for him.

  “No, keep the photo,” I said.

  “Why? And why show me her photo in the first place?”

  So I explained to him what little I knew: that Sarah would be just sixteen years old now, that she was Luke Johnson’s daughter, that she’d been missing from her family for over a year, that no one knew why, that there had been no note.

  Then I explained to him that I’d asked Mary Jr. for a copy of Sarah’s school photo.

  Tolkien looked at me, clearly puzzled.

  “I want you to start looking for Sarah Johnson,” I said.

  “You want me to…?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I want you to find her.”

  He put his napkin down. “You make it sound so easy,” he said. “If it were that easy, don’t you think she’d have been found already?”

  “I’m sure the local cops devoted some time to looking for her…in the beginning. But she’s been gone for over a year now. Do you really think that, given where she comes from and how long she’s been gone, that they’re devoting a lot of manpower and hours to bringing her back home?”

  “No,” he conceded, “I expect not.”

  “If someone doesn’t get involved soon, someone who knows how to do certain things, how to properly look for a person who might not want to be found, but might also need to be found…”

  I let my voice trail off.

  Still, he said nothing.

  “I’d do it myself, but—”

  “No, you can’t do it yourself. You have Emma to take care of. Besides, you wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “But you would,” I said.

  He sighed. “Did Mary Jr. give you anything at all to start with? Did she know what Sarah was wearing on the day she disappeared? Did Sarah have any special mates? A boyfriend?”

  I smiled, as I leaned forward, prepared to tell him what I’d learned.

  Good thing Dodo had said to just leave Emma with her overnight just in case.

  When Tolkien and I got back to my place, we were so eager to get each other’s clothes off that I doubt we would have noticed had Emma needed anything.

  I hadn’t been with another man, not since that last time I’d been with Tolkien, oh so long ago. And if I had to lay money on it? I’d say that he hadn’t been with another woman either.

  Had he been with another woman?

  I realized that I didn’t want to know the answer to that question, didn’t ever want to know. If he hadn’t been with anyone else, I’d feel guilty, responsible for his loneliness. If he had been, despite the lack of rationality in my reasoning and my total lack of rights regarding him, it would kill me.

  All those nights Tolkien had stayed here right after Emma came home with me, sleeping in the same bed each night, we’d never once made love. Believe me, it hadn’t been from lack of desire, not on my part, but because I knew that Tolkien’s feelings for me were conflicted. It wouldn’t have been right, wouldn’t have been fair, for me to seduce him. As for him, he spent those days, when he wasn’t holding Emma, with his hands studiously clasped behind his back. I sensed that he was afraid to touch me, that if he did we would both burn.

  Apparently, though, something about tonight’s dinner had got
ten him past his reticence, for now we were crashing around my flat, bumping into furniture in our joint single-minded mission to remove cloth from skin.

  People have remarked, once or twice, that I’m a funny girl. How surprising is it, then, that even when I have sex, it tends to be funny?

  “It’s okay,” I whispered in his ear, alternating whispering in it with nibbling on it, “if you still want to change your mind.”

  I realized that I was treating him like some timid virgin sacrifice, but I couldn’t stop myself. As much as I wanted this, I didn’t want it if he didn’t really want it.

  He took hold of my face on both sides with his hands, looked me deep in the eyes. “Are you fucking nuts, Jane?” he asked. “I want to fuck your brains out!”

  Oh my! all the more timid Janes in me cried out—Jane Austen, Jane Eyre, Jane Fonda (during her Ted Turner phase). My man never talked to me like that before!

  But it was Jane Taylor who ultimately triumphed.

  “Good.” Between kissing him hard and fumbling with the buckle on his belt, I backed him into my bedroom. “Because I want you to.”

  It was no one’s idea of a smooth lovemaking session. Like two people with the same destination, but with different screwed-up maps, we kept missing each other’s rhythm.

  He started to snake his tongue down my body, and that felt so good, but then I realized I wanted to be doing that to him and in my efforts to turn him over, I managed to bang my head on his chin.

  For a while, we were all about tongues, and that was very good, but then I could see that he wanted something different and we became all elbowy awkwardness again. I know there was at least one big “ouch!” in there when, meaning to stroke his brow, I somehow managed to poke him in the eye.

  But then there was that imperfect perfection of us coming together and Tolkien was inside me again—he was inside me!—and all of a sudden, nothing that had gone before mattered any longer.

  Emma could now pull up to a standing position from sitting, get into a sitting position from her stomach, pick up a tiny object with any part of thumb and finger. (I do know that some people would have trouble believing that a baby of that age could do those things, but those people should look under the May Even Be Able To sections of What to Expect the First Year. Emma was definitely a May Even Be Able To kind of baby.)