While there isn’t cheering in the halls, all of us are feeling somewhat relieved. Now, though, the question is: who will be the next editor? And how long will he last?
Tim immediately calls a meeting. He wants to make changes before we go to print this week.
“Can you take Weekly Events up to six columns for this edition? Do you have enough material? I know it will be a push to do it, but I’d like to get back to where we were. That should stop the complaints from advertisers and readers.”
“I can try, and I have two reviews—“
Tim cuts me off. “Don’t worry about any of the other stuff. Give me the manuscripts for the reviews. You focus on Weekly Events.”
“Sure, I can do it.”
It definitely is a mad scramble. As I add and re-edit listings to fit into the new larger space, I wonder if Tim is going to handle all the movie and art reviews. I enjoyed working with the freelance review writers; that was one good thing that happened when Eric was in charge. Now it looks like that is going to be taken away from me. Then my inner voice says: Come on, Julia, a month ago you were excited about being the new editor of Weekly Events. Now you’re reacting as if someone snatched a prize away. Be happy you have any kind of ‘editor’ title. Not many women do.
Mark calls. He’s heard about the change and asks me to keep him in mind for freelance assignments. I promise I will and suggest that he call Tim directly. He says he already has talked to Tim and then asks me to go out to lunch again. Hmmm...is he asking me out for a lunch date? I tell him nicely I don’t have the time right now. Maybe later when things settle down. ‘If’ things settle down, I think. Three editors in less than two months and a fourth one is on his way. TV Weekly was never this chaotic.
* * *
It is very late when I get back to our cottage. Even Ali has heard about Eric’s departure and opens a bottle of our favorite not-too-expensive champagne to celebrate. We don’t have champagne flutes yet, but at least we can drink the champagne from wine glasses tonight.
“So how is Ned?” She smiles as she carefully pours the champagne and doesn’t spill a drop.
“Ned? I guess he is okay. I didn’t see him this weekend. I was with Austen. He’s back.”
Her smile disappears, her eyes narrow. She has on her scolding face.
“Back from where? And why didn’t he call you?”
“He was in Texas for a funeral. His Uncle Will died and there were some estate things to handle afterwards. John was supposed to call and tell me, but the message from him got lost at the office. It’s been so chaotic there.”
She shakes her head.
“Julia, you should start thinking more long term about your life. Ned is a really nice guy. He would treat you well. His family has lived here forever. He went to school here. He is normal, Julia. A nice normal guy. Austen is only going to be here for the summer—you know that. Then he’s going off to that crazy rock ’n’ roll world again. I know it’s fun—“
“Thanks, Mom,” I snap at her. “Ali, I know you mean well, but let’s not talk about Austen anymore. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Ali’s negativity about Austen is really getting to me. I wish she would stop. Yes, Ned is nice. ‘Nice Ned’ seems so pale, so forgettable next to Austen. And I refuse to think about Austen only being here for the summer. I know it’s true, but he said he was not going to leave me. Deep inside me a little voice asks: ‘Was that sex talk? Or real?’ I hope it was real. I realize I care for him more than I ever thought I would. That jagged hole in my life I felt when I thought he was gone, is filled again now that he is back.
* * *
Closing on Thursday night is the craziest ever, but this issue of Voices looks and reads more like it used to. Most of the political rants have been replaced with cultural articles and reviews. And, of course, my six columns of Weekly Events.
At the regular editorial meeting on Friday I ask Tim about starting to include events in Marin.
“Cool idea. I like that. We need to get in there before that new paper in the East Bay does,” he says. “We’ll have to make arrangements for distribution. Maybe southern Marin: Sausalito, Mill Valley and up to San Rafael, so include all the events in those areas that you can. We can add northern Marin later. Not much happens up there anyway.”
“Dale’s going to like this,” Dan adds with a grin. “I can see the dollar signs flashing in his eyes already.”
“Do I get more space?” I ask. “I’m going to need it for Marin.”
“Your first real editorial meeting and already you want more space,” Dan smiles and winks at me. “All you editors are alike.”
After the meeting Dan sticks his head in my office. “Are you free after work? Want another excursion to Little Foxes?”
“I’d love to. It sounds like fun.”
Dan has become visibly calmer during the week; he is smoking less, smiling more. During Eric’s reign he was a human smokestack, holed up in his office with his new young male assistant, puffing away. I don’t think we exchanged more than 10 words the entire time Eric was editor; all of us were huddled in our offices avoiding any potential confrontation.
I call Austen to tell him about the Marin listings.
“That’s great, baby. Good job. I’ll pick you up at 5. You can tell me all about it.”
“Oh, Austen, I already told Dan I’d have a drink with him after work. I can drive over there tomorrow afternoon.”
“No, I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning.”
* * *
Little Foxes looks the same, smells the same, and, again, I am the only woman in the bar. The big, flashy juke box is still lighting up the back. It is playing a song I have never heard before. The lyrics start with “The first time ever I saw your face.” I’ll have to ask Austen about it. It is a beautiful song and the woman singing it has an incredibly expressive voice.
Dan does not bother to ask me what I want to drink this time; he orders Manhattans for us.
“Okay, Dan, guru of gossip and news. I know you know what happened to Eric and David. Tell me. I have been thinking about them as if they were both subjects of those Soviet purges—you know, where leaders simply disappear from photographs and are never mentioned again.”
He laughs.
“Neither of them has disappeared, except from Voices, Julia. What I understand is that Eric talked to Mr. Mogul that week he was Guest Editor and convinced him that Voices could be an important national voice against the war. Mr. Mogul is definitely against the war—from high up there in his super ultra-glamorous movie studio office. He likes having the title of Publisher of Voices because it puts him in touch with the counter-culture while keeping the nitty-gritty of it at a distance. Deep down, he’d rather have drinks at the Polo Lounge in Beverly Hills than at the Roxy on Sunset Strip. So David got shoved out the door. He went back to New York almost immediately. San Francisco, at least the way it is now, was never the right place for him. It’s too wild here these days.”
The bartender sets the drinks in front of us.
“To happy futures,” Dan toasts.
“To happy futures.” I respond and take a sip. Still strong. I had better not drink three of them this time. “Okay. What about Eric?”
“You’ll love this one. Dale, our favorite ad salesman, got frightened about losing his income—he’s up to his ears buying real estate in Marin these days. So he called Mr. Mogul and told him his investment was going to go down to zero if Eric and his political articles continued. He told him that our advertisers were all going to cancel. ‘All of them’, he said. It was an exaggeration, but I understand that one of them actually did and Dale cited that one as evidence. Money trumped politics. Eric got the boot, too.”
“So where’s Eric now?”
“Freelancing again. He is a brilliant writer about political topics.”
“Okay, since you know everything about everyone—how about Cathy? I tried to call her at home twice but there was no answer.”
“Ah, darling Julia, she’s your competition. She’s editing a section like Weekly Events in that new weekly paper in the East Bay.”
I wrinkle up my mouth. Not happy with that.
“So how is your rock ‘n roll bad boy these days?”
“He’s fine.”
“Back in town, I assume?”
“How did you know he was gone?”
Dan laughs. “For two weeks you were walking around like a zombie, Julia. Not even lunch with that other young man brought you back to life. Now—look at you. Our darling Julia is back.”
After one more Manhattan, Dan drives me back to the cottage. I am not as woozy, wobbly as I was last time.
Chapter Twenty-One
Austen sorts through the clothes in his closet and the ones from the cleaners he has draped over the overstuffed pink chair. I’m sitting cross-legged on his bed in blue jeans and Ali’s see-through blue tunic top with my lacey white camisole underneath.
“What do you think I should wear?” He asks.
This feels so familiar and at the same time, a bit strange. Time after time Ali and I have sat in our bedrooms trying to decide what clothes to wear to look fabulous on a date. Now I am doing the same thing with Austen and the potential audience is not just one person, but every young woman and man in America.
“Well, I like you naked, but for Rolling Stone I think you should wear clothes. How about those black leather pants and that black fringed jacket you wore to the Fillmore? Very sexy.”
“You’re a sassy little thing today, aren’t you?” He grins. “So you think I look sexy in that outfit?”
“Of course. And in that other black leather jacket, the one you wore on the boat in Seattle. Also very sexy.”
“You noticed that, huh?”
“Of course. I noticed everything about you that night.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
He looks at me appraisingly for a moment, as if waiting for me to say more. When I don’t, he asks me: “Then why didn’t you call?”
“Austen, I could never call a man first. I just couldn’t. I’m not that brave.”
He shakes his head, smiling, and pulls out another jacket from his closet.
“Well, ‘sexy’ was the idea when I bought them. I’ll take them and this brown suede jacket in case the photographer wants something casual. Maybe a couple of shirts and then the boots—the red boots and blue ones. Gotta wear the boots. Black jeans, too. That should be enough.”
“Do you ever wear a cowboy hat?”
“No. Not after Nashville told me goodbye. But I love Western boots and have since I was a kid.”
“Your boots are really beautiful. It’s funny—my mother calls clothes like these ‘costumes’. She told me she doesn’t understand why real people would walk around the street in ‘costumes’ instead of real clothes. Ali pointed out to me that all clothes are costumes, even the conservative navy blue dresses her mother and mine wear to church.”
“Ali’s right. I learned early on we’re all on stage, whether we know it or not. Life is performance, so you might as well dress for the part you want to play in it.”
“So you decided on the role of sexy rock ‘n’ roll lyricist?”
“You bet, baby.”
We both laugh.
“Speaking of those sexy leather pants…I almost forgot—that photo that was taken of us outside the Fillmore—do you remember that?”
“Yeah.”
“It appeared in a new street fashion magazine called Rags. We only made page 7, though. Not the cover.”
“That’s too bad. We all want to be on the cover of Rags…or Rolling Stone…or Time. Do you still have a copy of that magazine? I’d like to see it.”
“Sure.”
* * *
Life at Voices with Tim in charge returns to its former normal craziness. Freelancers stop by with manuscripts and new ideas. Press releases flood into my office in greater numbers since the notice about submitting all events in writing was published. Even Dale has a smile on his face. I guess he can make all those mortgage payments now.
Austen picks me up after work on Tuesday. We’re going to the opening of a new show of sculpture at an art gallery on Nob Hill. It’s an odd day for an opening and the show is equally odd. The artist only uses found objects and discarded material, including leftover house paint.
“I could do better than this,” Austen says after looking at a few pieces.
“I think I could, too,” I agree. I wonder what the reviewers are going to write about this show. Using unusual materials doesn’t necessarily mean the artist has any aesthetic sense. Not reviewing this show at all would be the kindest thing.
“Let’s go. There’s a new Indonesian restaurant out on Clement Street I want to try.”
Indonesian food, which I’ve never had before, turns out to be delicious, but I am not sure what creates the unusual flavors until we get to dessert of sautéed bananas: bananas, butter and brown sugar. I could have eaten two servings.
As we head toward Marin after dinner, I tell Austen that I am thinking about trying to write a restaurant review—maybe of this Indonesian restaurant—and see if Tim is willing to publish it.
“You should do that. It’s a great idea.”
“I’ve never written about food before, but I’d like to try.”
“You gotta start somewhere, Julia. A long time ago I picked up a guitar and couldn’t play a note. But I started and kept at it even when people told me it was a stupid thing to do, that I couldn’t play worth beans. Just don’t give up. Take it from me, never give up. You will get what you want in the end.”
* * *
Breakfast in Paris again on a Wednesday morning. We haven’t been to that bakery in a couple of weeks and I love the croissants. Today I am wearing the pink beret again; Austen likes the look of it.
“Did you remember to bring that magazine?” He asks as we carry the croissants and café au laits to the stand-up counter.
“Here it is,” I say, digging it out of the pink straw handbag I now use, occasionally, to carry work to and from the office.
“And here we are on page 7. If you will notice, your name is mentioned—spelled correctly—and mine isn’t. I’m just ‘the girlfriend’ wearing the clothes.” As I say that, it occurs on me that Mark must not have given them my name…or maybe I am so unimportant that the Rags’ editors decided not to include it. Either way, I am happy about it.
I take a sip of the café au lait. So good. The croissant is even better—easily a million calories of buttery deliciousness.
“Not a good photo of either of us. Doesn’t do you justice, ‘girlfriend.”
“The guy who took it is a freelance writer. I didn’t know he did photography, too.”
“You know him?”
“Yes and I was really upset when I first saw it. It seemed so invasive to me. I know you like having your picture in publications, but I don’t. I was even angrier when I found out Mark was the one who took it and sold it to Rags.”
“Mark? Is he the guy I saw you with at City Lights?”
Oh, he still remembers, but sounds more curious now than ticked off.
“Yes.”
“He really wanted you, Julia. The way he looked at you at that coffeehouse and then at City Lights…”
“Maybe at one time. He followed me up the street from Rolling Stone’s offices and told me he thought I was cute. That was when I first met him. If it hadn’t been for him, though, I might not be working at Voices. We’re just friends now.”
“You may think you’re ‘friends’, but I doubt he does. I bet he has dreams of you every night.”
“No,” I say flatly. “I think he took the picture and sold it because he has bills to pay. He’s a freelancer and we’re just friends. That’s all.”
Smiling, Austen runs his hand down my cheek and holds my chin.
“Baby, you are so blind to what goes on around you. I have seen man after man look
at you and I knew they were thinking ‘If only I could get her in my bed for a night’. You are so beautiful.”
I smile, feeling a little self-conscious. “Thank you.”
I’m glad he thinks I’m beautiful but I don’t want to argue about Mark. After the Rags photo I decided he is not really a friend—now he is more of a business acquaintance. Time to change the topic.
“Is the Rolling Stone photo shoot tomorrow?”
“Yep.”
We talk about the photo shoot and upcoming interviews with other music magazines on our way to the Voices office.
* * *
Friday morning and Austen and I have breakfast at a tiny place on Union Street that serves only breakfasts—that’s a new idea. They close at 2 o’clock every afternoon. The house specialty is French toast made with thick slices of cinnamon swirl bread and it is the best I have ever eaten. I will have to mention it to Tim at the weekly editorial meeting this morning; maybe we can review it. And maybe—just maybe—I can be the one to write the review and another one about the Indonesian restaurant. Austen’s words about “never giving up” have stuck in my mind. After all, food is culture, isn’t it? Maybe even art? That’s what we are supposed to be covering at Voices. I am sure Tim will like the idea.
“How did the photo shoot go?”
“It sucked. The photographer put pretty boy Tommy, that ass, out in front and the rest of us were basically wallpaper.” He shakes his head in disgusted resignation. “I had more or less expected that. A big part of the reason we brought Tommy into the band was because girls like the way he looks. He has an interesting voice, too. Joe told us that’s what we needed—a good-looking blond guy who could sing. But that’s all he does. He couldn’t write a song if his life depended on it.”
“His voice is not as beautiful as yours. Do you want to know what I used to call you? After Seattle when I didn’t know your last name?”
Playing for Julia Page 14
