Goodnight Tweetheart

by Teresa Medeiros

  Abby_Donovan: The Swedish Chef could probably kick Yoda’s butt. Especially with those cleavers.

  MarkBaynard: Should I be supportive by asking you what you’re going to wear to your lunch?

  Abby_Donovan: Not unless you’re Adam Lambert. Do you really care what I’m going to wear?

  MarkBaynard: No.

  Abby_Donovan: Me neither. I’m the only woman I know who hates shopping for clothes. I wish elves would come to my apartment every morning & dress me.

  MarkBaynard: Yeah, but then you’d end up with those pointy shoes with the bells on them.

  Abby_Donovan: At least the birds could hear me coming.

  MarkBaynard: You should do what Einstein did. Have an identical suit for every day of the week. Conserved his brain power for more important activities.

  Abby_Donovan: Like coming up with the Theory of Relativity and exploring the mind of God? Or tweeting?

  MarkBaynard: I heard Einstein was more of a Facebook fan. I think he invented Mafia Wars, didn’t he?

  Abby_Donovan: I believe it was Farmville. Or maybe Relativityville.

  MarkBaynard: It’s all relative, isn’t it? What if WE had met on Facebook?

  Abby_Donovan: We’d probably be married by now.

  MarkBaynard: And have two kids.

  Abby_Donovan: And a hybrid SUV.

  MarkBaynard: And a second mortgage.

  Abby_Donovan: And a vacation home in the Hamptons.

  MarkBaynard: And … oh, the hell with it. If we had met on Facebook, we’d have been divorced by now.

  Abby_Donovan: Probably because you wouldn’t help me pick out the right shoes for this meeting with my editor.

  MarkBaynard: Forget the shoes. What you need is the right attitude.

  Abby_Donovan: Uh-oh. Now I’m REALLY in trouble.

  MarkBaynard: Try picturing yourself at this lunch looking productive and confident and successful beyond your wildest dreams.

  Abby_Donovan: Add “blissfully naive” and “Oprah Winfrey” to the lunch and you’ll be describing the person I was four years ago.

  MarkBaynard: I probably wouldn’t have liked her nearly as much as I like you. Bitter, jaded women are so much more fun.

  Abby_Donovan: Maybe I should picture myself as Bette Davis in ALL ABOUT EVE. I’ll go out and buy a cigarette holder this afternoon.

  MarkBaynard: Or better yet, Sharon Stone in BASIC INSTINCT. But with underwear. Or not.

  Abby_Donovan: My massage therapist (when I could still afford one) was a big believer in guided visualization …

  Abby_Donovan: “You’re walking through the shady woods when you see a chattering squirrel.”

  MarkBaynard: What if it’s rabid?

  Abby_Donovan: I’d rather be “lying on a sundrenched balcony when Russell Crowe wanders over wearing only his loincloth from GLADIATOR.”

  MarkBaynard: Funny, but I never think about Russell during a massage.

  Abby_Donovan: I had you pegged as more of a Clooney man.

  MarkBaynard: If you want to know the truth, I’ve never had a massage.

  Abby_Donovan: Oh, you poor deprived creature! I just love to pay strangers money to rub my body!

  MarkBaynard: Good thing that was a Direct Message or you would have gained another 342 Followers/Stalkers/Predators.

  Abby_Donovan: My massage therapist was a woman, which made it a little awkward when I blurted out “Will you marry me?” while she was rubbing my earlobes.

  MarkBaynard: Not if you’re getting a massage in the Meatpacking District.

  Abby_Donovan: Have you spent much time in New York or are you just one of those closeted straight male fans of SEX AND THE CITY?

  MarkBaynard: I taught high school English for 5 years while I was getting my master’s. I used to take my seniors to NYC every spring for a Broadway play.

  Abby_Donovan: I came for a long weekend to visit my agent four years ago, fell in love with the city & never left.

  MarkBaynard: Did your parents put your picture on a milk carton?

  Abby_Donovan: The hardest part about leaving North Carolina was leaving them, especially since my mom had just gone into the nursing home …

  Abby_Donovan: But Daddy wanted me to follow my dreams. He told me that’s what my mom would want too … if she hadn’t thought it was still 1992 and I was 10.

  MarkBaynard: I spent most of my time in New York making sure my students didn’t get mugged or pregnant.

  Abby_Donovan: I bet you were one of those uber-cool teachers like Mr. Chips, weren’t you?

  MarkBaynard: I was more like Mr. Kotter or that guy from GLEE who looks like the love child of Orlando Bloom & Justin Timberlake.

  Abby_Donovan: Your female students were probably writing “I love you” on their eyelids and listening to “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” on their Walkmans.

  MarkBaynard: Occupational hazard for any young male teacher w/an earnest appreciation for CATCHER IN THE RYE & hair he can’t afford to keep trimmed.

  Abby_Donovan: Did your wife mind all of that nubile female adoration?

  MarkBaynard: I don’t think she even noticed. Look, I’m going to be unplugged for a few days. But I promise to check in as soon as I get back.

  Abby_Donovan: Cheating on me with another Follower, eh? Does she give better tweetsex than I do?

  MarkBaynard: Baby, nobody does it better than you. Especially not when you wrap your hot, wet tongue around my throbbing …

  Abby_Donovan: Mark Baynard, don’t you dare!

  MarkBaynard: Oops … sorry … I digress … Break a leg at the lunch, dollface. Or at least an elbow.

  Abby_Donovan: Goodnight Mr. Schuester

  MarkBaynard: Goodnight Miss Pillsbury

  Abby_Donovan: Goodnight Puck

  MarkBaynard: Goodnight Rachel

  Abby_Donovan: Goodnight Kurt

  MarkBaynard: Goodnight Quinn

  Abby_Donovan: Goodnight Finn

  MarkBaynard: Goodnight Sue Sylvester, you heartless but oddly sexy beast

  Abby_Donovan: Goodnight Artie

  MarkBaynard: Goodnight Tweetheart …

  Chapter Eight

  Le Bernardin was located on West Fifty-first Street, in the very heart of the Theater District. Its ivory linen tablecloths and sleek teak accents created the perfect marriage between mellow old-world elegance and modern design. Dark oil paintings adorned the light walls. Graceful sprays of fresh cherry blossoms bloomed from tall glass vases perched on marble-topped dividers, giving many of the tables a carefully crafted illusion of privacy. The tasteful strains of Ravel’s Pavane drifting from the invisible loudspeakers wove a melodic counterpoint through the hushed murmur of conversation and the muffled clink of silverware against expensive china. The restaurant smelled of the genuine leather padding of its chairs, fresh fish swimming in a succulent sea of beurre blanc, and money, both old and new.

  It was a place where the stars of stage, screen, and Wall Street came to eat in four-star elegance. A place where careers were launched, fortunes were made, and hearts were won.

  Just stepping through the glass doors of the restaurant and breathing the rarified air made Abby feel a little light-headed. A smiling hostess with a sleek blond bob took her name and went to see if the rest of her party had arrived. Abby clutched the leather portfolio containing the first five chapters of her book, plus the new notes she had scribbled down after her last tweet session with Mark, and peered discreetly around the restaurant, trying to look as if she still belonged there. Her recent culinary experiences had been limited to ordering Chinese takeout from Hop Lo’s or soup from Hale and Hearty. It seemed as if a lifetime had passed since she’d been wined and dined on a nightly basis at trendy eateries like Craft, Masa, and Momofuku. She bit back a smile, wondering what Mark would have to say about that name.

  She’d taken his advice and armored herself in her favorite dress-to-kick-ass ensemble. She’d actually worn the form-fitting black pencil skirt and coral double-breasted Ralph Lauren jacket on Oprah’s
show at the peak of her success. Since she’d spent more hours in the consoling arms of Ben and Jerry than at the gym recently, it had taken an industrial-strength pair of Spanx to squeeze her into the skirt. She was afraid it might take the Jaws of Life to get her out of it.

  The hostess returned to escort her to the table. Her agent and editor were already deep in conversation. Her editor was a statuesque brunette with impeccable taste in both fashion and literature and the creamy Botoxed brow and cherry red lips of an aging Snow White. Her agent was a petite and unassuming-looking blonde who swore like a cast member of Jersey Shore and fought like a Valkyrie for her clients.

  Both women abruptly stopped talking and rose from their chairs as Abby made her way toward the table, their welcoming smiles a shade too bright.

  Abby felt her own smile begin to falter. By the time greetings were murmured and air kisses traded all around, she knew exactly how Jesus must have felt when Judas asked him to pass the bread basket at the Last Supper. She could almost smell the notes of guilt and regret beneath the delicate jasmine fragrance of the Jean Patou perfume her editor always wore.

  While the sommelier went to fetch their wine selection and Abby gazed blindly at the menu, they dispensed with the obligatory small talk. They asked about her mother. She asked them about their husbands and children. Nobody asked about the leather portfolio she had discreetly tucked beneath the table. Ravel faded, making way for the mournful notes of a Bach cello solo. Abby polished off an exquisite appetizer of sautéed calamari filled with sweet prawns and shiitake mushrooms without tasting a bite.

  Their entrées and the moment of reckoning arrived with a tasteful flourish of violins thoughtfully provided by Vivaldi. While her agent sat in mute misery, nursing a beautifully plated portion of pan-roasted monkfish, her editor set aside her fork and began to speak. Her words came to Abby’s ears in staccato sound bytes filtered through a nearly intolerable tone of kindness.

  “ … difficult economy … ”

  “ … decreased leisure spending … ”

  “ … altering book market … ”

  “ … corporate cuts … ”

  “ … in-house layoffs … ”

  “ … so sorry … ”

  “ … wish things were different … ”

  “ … still believe in you … ”

  “ … thoroughly confident an author with your talent will land on her feet … ”

  As her editor continued to dissect the publishing economy and crush the last of her dreams, Abby was forced to nod in sympathetic understanding while her warm lobster carpaccio turned to sawdust in her mouth. Before the waiter could return with the dessert menu, her editor’s BlackBerry and her agent’s iPhone chimed almost simultaneously.

  “Damn,” her editor said, making a valiant effort to overcome the Botox long enough to scowl at the text message drifting across the screen of her BlackBerry. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to duck out early. The art department is having a cover crisis over Lindsay Lohan’s new autobiography. They can’t decide if she should wear Versace or an orange jumpsuit.”

  “And that was my dentist’s office.” Her agent tucked her iPhone back into her Coach bag as she rose. “I completely forgot about the root canal I had scheduled for this afternoon!”

  After another awkward round of air kisses, during which Abby’s agent murmured in her ear, “I’ll call you tonight,” they departed like hostages fleeing the scene of a bank robbery, leaving Abby sitting all alone at the table.

  She slowly pushed her plate away, not sure whether she should be mourning the fact that her career was over or that she’d just wasted an exquisitely delicious hundred-dollar entrée. Since Le Bernardin was as well known for its flawless French service as it was for its culinary charms, the waiter came rushing over the instant her fingertips left the plate.

  If he pitied her for being abandoned so abruptly by her lunch companions, he hid it behind a veneer of impeccable courtesy. “The woman in black took care of the check,” he informed her, referring to her editor. Her former editor. “She said you should help yourself to anything else you liked. Would you care to see the dessert menu?”

  “No, thank you,” Abby murmured. Not even the restaurant’s legendary Chocolate-Chicory with the dark chocolate cremeux and the chicory ice cream could tempt her at the moment. Her stomach was still churning with disbelief.

  The waiter continued to hover over her, but when she showed no sign of rising and surrendering her table to the next patron, he smiled awkwardly. “Just let me know if I can get you anything else.”

  As he started to turn away, Abby felt herself being swallowed by a bubble of panic. This was the last time her publisher would ever pick up the tab for her. It wouldn’t be long before they found another golden girl to wine and dine, that is, if they hadn’t already done so.

  “Just a minute, please!” Abby didn’t realize she’d spoken so loudly until several of the diners at the surrounding tables interrupted their conversations and swiveled around to stare at her. “I believe I’d like some wine.”

  “Very good, ma’am.” The waiter smiled with genuine pleasure at the prospect of being needed again. “I’ll be right back with the wine list.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Abby said, stopping him in his tracks. She smiled up at him, having already chosen the perfect vintage to celebrate a not-so-special occasion. “I’ll have a bottle of Dom Pérignon. To go.”

  “I really thought I’d have another good year or two before I was reduced to swilling wine out of a paper sack in Central Park,” Abby said matter-of-factly, passing the sack—and the bottle—to Margo.

  “At least it’s not cheap wine,” Margo replied, tilting the bottle of vintage champagne to her lips for a long swig. She was courteous enough to wipe the bright scarlet lipstick stain off the bottle’s mouth before handing it back to Abby.

  “Cheers,” Abby muttered before taking another drink. She was forced to pinch back a sneeze as the crisp bubbles burned her nose.

  She and Margo were sitting on one of the long wooden benches that flanked the Poet’s Walk. The late-spring sunshine drifted through the branches of the towering oaks that lined the walk, dappling their faces. Her friend had answered her distress signal without delay, although Abby couldn’t have said whether it was the quaver in Abby’s voice or the promise of Dom Pérignon that had lured Margo away from her weekly pedicure.

  Margo wrested the bottle from Abby’s hand and hefted it in a toast, sloshing champagne down the front of her lavender silk cardigan. “Here’s to all the bastards who ever let us down! Screw ’em! Screw ’em all, I say! At least the ones we didn’t already screw.”

  Margo could toss back tequila shots like a grizzled California biker, but she had always been a lightweight when it came to wine. A few more swallows and she’d be singing Lady Gaga and demonstrating cheer routines from her high school pep squad for anyone she could get to stop and watch her.

  Abby gently plucked the bottle from her friend’s hand, setting it on the ground next to her feet before Margo could notice. “That’s the worst part of all this. I don’t even have the satisfaction of being angry at them for dumping me. They didn’t let me down. I let them down.”

  Draping an arm around Abby’s shoulder, Margo gave her a bone-crunching squeeze. “You’ve never let me down.”

  “You’ve never paid me a lot of money to write a book I didn’t finish.”

  “But you were going to finish it, weren’t you?” Margo nudged the leather portfolio resting against the leg of the park bench with the gleaming patent leather toe of her pump. “You’ve got the proof right there.”

  “Do I?” Abby asked. “Or was I just using that to con myself into thinking I could do it? To make myself believe lightning really could strike twice in the same place?”

  Margo sighed and rested her head on Abby’s shoulder, no easy feat since she towered over Abby by at least half a foot. “I don’t give a damn if you’re not a bestselling author. You
’ll still be my best friend.”

  Abby rested her cheek against Margo’s head. “And I don’t give a damn if you’re drunk on your ass. You’ll still be mine.”

  Margo sat up abruptly, her eyes widening as she smothered a burp behind her cupped hand. “I don’t feel so good all of a sudden.”

  “C’mon,” Abby said, rising and tugging her friend to her unsteady feet. “I’d better get you up to my apartment before you puke all over your Prada pumps.”

  “Do you have any tequila?” Margo asked hopefully as Abby left her swaying on the walk just long enough to retrieve her portfolio and sling it carelessly over one shoulder.

  “No. But I have something even better. Coffee and ice cream.”

  They’d barely taken three steps before a man in a long, dirty beard and a faded army jacket staggered out from behind a tree to claim what was left of the bottle of Dom Pérignon.

  Chapter Nine

  Monday, May 30—9:24 P.M.

  MarkBaynard: What are you wearing?

  Abby_Donovan: Coffee-stained sweatpants and Phoebe Cates’s red bikini top from FAST TIMES AT RIDGEMONT HIGH.

  MarkBaynard: If you’ll excuse me, I think I need a moment of privacy in the bathroom.

  Abby_Donovan: So what are you wearing?

  MarkBaynard: Burt Reynolds’s hat from SMOKEY AND THE BANDIT and John Cusack’s black coat and tie from GROSSE POINT BLANK.

  Abby_Donovan: Good. Maybe you could use a fork to kill me like he killed the president of Paraguay.

  MarkBaynard: Would this be a bad time to ask how your lunch went?

  Abby_Donovan: Let me put it this way—like you, I am now on sabbatical. Only in my business, we call it “fired.”

  MarkBaynard: Your publisher FIRED you? Can they do that?

  Abby_Donovan: They can if you’re late on your deadline and they threaten to declare you in breach of contract.

  MarkBaynard: So maybe you should start with the appetizers.

  Abby_Donovan: It all began with the murmur of discreet conversation followed by the sound of my heart breaking.