by Ella Carey
“A cappuccino,” he said, holding eye contact with Tess.
“Are you sure about that?” the waitress asked. So, she was going to join in on the banter.
Tess liked the woman even more than before.
“Yes.” Still staring straight at Tess.
The waitress pulled the top page off her notebook and stuck it on the table before walking away.
Tess placed her spoon back on her saucer. Sat back and waited.
“There’s something I want to say.” He glanced around the diner.
“Are you being followed, James?” Tess couldn’t resist it.
“Don’t be stupid.”
She raised her cup to her lips.
His coffee arrived. He gulped it in one swig before putting the cup back down, then tapped his finger on the red Formica tabletop. “I’m going to cut to the chase.”
“It’s what you do best, after all. Strike at the heart. Take what’s not yours.”
“No.”
She raised a brow.
“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that I had nothing to do with taking your author. He was handed to me. I also didn’t know that you would be so . . . upset.”
“How about we agree to cut the word ‘upset’ from our dialogue? It implies a sort of petulance that I don’t think equates to the seriousness of the problem we have at hand.”
James pushed his coffee cup away and leaned forward, talking in a quiet voice. “The fact is I didn’t steal him. End of story. I’m sorry for the effect it’s had on you. But the thing is, I came here to . . .” He shook his head.
Tess placed her hands in her lap. Her heart had started, annoyingly, to flutter in her chest.
“My father,” James said, his voice sounding low and deep and close, all of a sudden, “is intrigued by the sound of Edward Russell’s new book.”
“Oh, is he.” Tess blew out a breath. Well, that was excellent. It would be just the thing to have Sean Cooper, the most senior New York Times literary critic, pulling Edward’s book to shreds. Sean was famous for doing that. And it would be a complete coup for James. She’d known that he’d have his father favorably review Alec Burgess’s book. She just hadn’t gone so far as to think he’d mess around with Edward. Clearly, James was nastier than she’d thought. She sat back, folding her arms and frowning at the table.
“Leon told me that Edward Russell’s book is a love story,” James went on.
There was a silence. Why was Leon discussing her author with James? Tess frowned. Whatever. She would never let what had happened with Alec occur again.
James tented his hands on the table.
“The thing is, Tess, he was wondering, my father, that is, if you would like to come for a drink with him, with us, that is, after work tonight.” James glanced off to the side now and stared out the window at the gray street.
Tess’s flutters swelled into thumps. What did he think she’d do? Fall over and swoon, grateful for the crumbs he was handing out, gasping at his feet? She pressed her lips closed and waited a moment.
“Because he’s interested in Edward Russell?” Why would such a powerful figure in the literary world want to waste his time on some unknown Australian novelist who had gone nowhere for the last forty years? Had Sean Cooper really given James that book of poetry? What if James had found it in some old secondhand shop and handed it to Tess as a joke? Her thoughts may be irrational, but for good reason, she told herself.
“My father offered to have us over to my parents’ apartment for a chat . . .” James’s voice trailed off.
Ha! Even James was having trouble doing this—being so underhanded that he could not, or would not, simply admit the truth. He was going to make darned sure that she did not turn Edward into a success, because if that happened, then the wunderkind Alec Burgess might just want her back! And where would that leave James? Looking like a fool, looking exactly like Tess had a couple of weeks back? Tess glared at her utterly unappealing coffee.
“A chat?” She raised her hands in the air and reminded herself of Nico. “I find this a little disingenuous.”
James stared out the window. “You might think that. But you know what, Tess, it’s not. It’s an offer to meet my father. He, as it happens, is also genuine. He’s the real deal, Tess, I promise you that.”
Tess shot a look at him. Authentic? Someone associated with the man sitting opposite her was authentic? She fought to stifle a laugh.
“What’s more,” James went on, “he’s a fan of Edward’s. My father loves postwar art. And writing. He finds the era fascinating. And he’s not going to destroy Edward’s book or his reputation.” He turned back to face her. “Or your career.”
Tess rubbed the back of her neck.
James pulled out his wallet and slid a couple of dollars for the coffee across the table to her. “I don’t know exactly what your problem is, but you have one. And it’s stopping you from getting where you want to be.”
Tess reeled at his words. “How dare you.” She leaned forward. Silently, she slid his money right back. “How dare you make personal comments that are based on nothing. Haven’t you done enough already? And you know what? What you’ve done to me is never, ever going to happen again. You’ve crossed every professional boundary that anyone could ever cross. But I’ll tell you this. You will not cross personal barriers. We work in the same office, so cut the games. I know your type, and I don’t like it. You can’t come in here and ask me out for a drink after what you’ve done. I play things straight. I’ve worked hard. And you came along and took it all away in one swoop. I hope, James, that you’re proud of yourself. Frankly, I don’t know how you can live like you do. And now, I’m going. I came here for some peace, if you must know. Because I’m utterly sick of you carrying on about my lost author in every meeting we attend. It sickens me.”
“Tess.”
She grabbed her bag. What more damage could he possibly want to do?
He leaned forward and rested his hand on hers for one slight, tiny second. Then drew it away.
Tess started.
“Tess,” he said, “I promise you that my father thinks highly of Edward Russell. Dad’s not trying to rip you off, or hurt your career in any way. He just wants to meet you. He’s intrigued by the book. I know how much you want to make this book a bestseller. And I agree. It could well get there. But talking to a literary critic, building anticipation—what harm can come of that? Dad could well decide to mention it before he reviews the book. His reach is huge. Surely for Edward Russell’s sake, you can put aside this thing between us and talk to my father?”
Tess’s resolve hardened. She would not let him get to her any further. She gathered her things up with more dignity this time.
But she also realized that if she declined Sean Cooper’s offer, she’d be risking getting on the wrong side of one of the most influential people in the industry. So what was she supposed to do?
James waited, his eyes unwavering, staring straight at her.
“You know what,” she said, enunciating her words with perfect clarity. “The thing is, I can see that your father could have an . . . influence on Edward’s book. I know that if I turn down your ‘offer’ I risk losing Edward the publicity that could escalate his reputation and his sales in the most influential spheres in the country. But I swear, James, I want your word that you are telling the truth about your father’s motives. Presumably, you have some sense of moral dignity. If you have, you can at least attest to that.”
She glanced at him, but remained strong in the face of the naked hurt in his eyes. He’d effectively destroyed her career, whether intentionally or not. She would not give in to any charm whatsoever.
He lowered his voice. “All I can say is that I never wanted to hurt you. And I promise you that I’m telling you the truth. My father knows about Edward and his friends. He’s intrigued by their art, by their views, by the battles they had. Nothing puts my father off more than blatant commercialism.”
&
nbsp; Tess opened her mouth and then closed it. Sean Cooper had probably never had to worry about where the next cent was coming from in his life.
“Can I get you both anything else?” The waitress’s accent cut into the air.
“No, thanks,” James said. “Just the check.”
The waitress wrote out a bill on her notepad and placed it on the table. “You have a great day now,” she said.
Tess slid cash for her coffee onto the check, just as James did exactly the same thing.
“I know it would benefit Edward for you to talk with my dad.”
Tess slung her bag over her shoulder. She eased her way out of the banquette, her hands feeling clammy against the slick material as she moved. And stood up.
James stood up too.
She stopped a moment right next to him. “Against my better instincts, I’ll talk with your father. But I swear, James, if there is anything disingenuous about this . . .”
James’s gaze was fixed on her. “I’m not saying it again. I’ll see you at five at reception.” And he stood aside so that she could leave first.
Tess buried herself in nonsense for the rest of the day, focusing on administrative things that needed to be done. At five o’clock, she made her way to the bathroom, glaring at herself in the full-length mirror that hung at the marble entrance. She reminded herself that she’d be stupid to turn her nose up at Sean Cooper, but trusting James seemed about as smart as stepping into an alligator-infested swamp.
If she were honest, the thing that complicated matters was that she’d admired Sean Cooper from afar for a long time. She found him interesting and stimulating. Having the chance to meet the famous critic was awe-inspiring and nerve-racking at the same time. Tess pulled out her compact, did a quick emergency touch-up, squirted a little Chanel, and redid her lips. Her blue suit was professional, and at least she was wearing a pencil skirt that suited her frame. The killer heels would give a no-nonsense message to James if she had anything to do with it. She marched out to reception.
James turned when she swung quickly into the lobby. She found herself frowning again at that slight expression of hurt on his face.
“Hello,” she said, her voice brusque. She was all snappy efficiency, but what did he expect?
“We’ll go straight to meet him at home, if that’s okay,” James spoke softly.
“Fair enough,” Tess said.
James stood aside for Tess to make her way to the elevator. He hailed a cab outside the building, and they rode in relative quiet up past Central Park, although Tess’s nerves were on a shoestring. She felt ready to pounce should he say one word. When they stopped at a grand apartment building overlooking Central Park, Tess stared up at the tall, all-glass apartment block and then tried not to frown as they moved through the understated lobby. Tried not to think about Alec Burgess, fitting right into this refined, literary-elite world now that he was successful too. Was that why he’d moved across to James? To fit in with the literary Establishment? There was no doubt James had more cachet than Tess could ever muster when it came to the right connections. But when had the “right people” become more important to Alec than doing the right thing by others? Tess was reminded of Edward’s confusion about his own family. She glanced around the lobby. Edward’s book must be getting to her. She would have to stay focused, and wary.
An elevator operator pressed the button for James to allow them access to his parents’ apartment. As if James could not do that for himself. Tess forced herself not to roll her eyes.
James chatted easily with the elevator operator, calling him Ernie and introducing Tess as if they were old chums. As they stepped into his parents’ apartment, Tess found her eyes feasting on the delightful sight in front of her. Turkish rugs and worn leather sofas decorated a room that was lined with bookshelves. The tall windows that ran down one entire wall almost seemed to bring Central Park inside. Sean Cooper, who looked even more elegant and urbane in person than he did on television, came over to greet them, holding out a hand. He looked ten times friendlier than in the media.
“Tess. So great to meet you.” His dark eyes were the image of James’s. “James admires you, I know that. So that makes this doubly nice.”
James admired her? The only thing she had to say about that was that James clearly had inherited his charm from his father.
“Coffee?” James made his way across to the kitchen, which was vast and to the side of the inviting space.
“Yes, thanks,” Tess managed to utter. What had she expected? Of course Sean Cooper was going to be exactly like this around his one and only son.
“Come and sit down, Tess.”
The rattle of the coffee grinder enveloped the room, too loud to allow for any conversation. When James sat down on the sofa next to Tess, handing out mugs, he cut straight to the chase.
“Dad, Tess would love to know why you’re intrigued by Russell’s book.”
Sean leaned forward, cleared some space on the coffee table, and placed his cup on a round coaster made of soft wood. “I can assure you that I am genuinely interested, Tess. I would never invite you here for any other reason.”
Tess took a sip of her coffee. What had James told his father about her? But then she shook away that thought. She had to stop letting her annoyance at James get in the way of progress. Edward. She was here for Edward. End of story.
Sean’s voice was almost mesmerizing—deep, soft, and clear. “I hear the book is a love story.” He paused a moment and looked toward the window. When he spoke again, it was as if his voice were coming from some far-off place.
“Is the girl in it called Rebecca Swift?” he asked, his voice sifting into the quiet room.
Tess placed her coffee cup down.
“Why do you ask?”
Sean sat back in his seat, crossing his legs.
Tess had to associate the word elegant with this sophisticated, intelligent man.
“I’m asking you because I suspect that she’s exactly what Russell needs to write about. It had to happen sometime. And if he is writing about that period of his life, then it’s going to make a massive difference not only to his career, but also to yours,” Sean went on, in his honey-smooth voice.
The room seemed silent now. Tess was suddenly aware that not a pin-drop of noise came in from outside. Their little circle of three had become intense.
Tess waited. She either worked with Sean, or against him. And she reminded herself he was Sean Cooper. Were she honest about it, she had no choice.
She let out a breath. “The girl in the book is called Rebecca. And, well, I admit that I had the same sense as you. I looked her up. Rebecca Swift. The authorities reported that she fell off a rock on the Australian coast. It was tragic.”
Sean was quiet for a while. Tess was acutely aware of James moving right next to her, bringing one leg up to cross it over his knee. She stared at the coffee table.
When Sean spoke, he seemed to be choosing his words with care. “Does Edward know that you are aware he had a love affair with the young artist?”
Tess shook her head.
Sean raised a hand to his chin. “Before we talk about that, I’ve been thinking about Edward. You see this with writers, with artists. If they lose inspiration the effects can be dramatic. When Edward lost Rebecca, it was as if he lost his muse. His early poems, which he wrote during their relationship, showed such promise, such anger and passion and challenge—in terms of challenging existing structures, forms, and meaning—that had he continued down that path he would have ended up being an important writer of his generation. His ideas were radical. Once Rebecca died, he lapsed. Had a stable, to be honest, boring career. He took up a safer option. Other people’s lives. Biography. Edited literary magazines, lectured on English lit. He never made a living out of his writing.
“He hid behind a facade and never, ever wrote his own truth. Not after she died. The question is, did he also fail to live in a manner that was true to himself after he lost Rebecca? I susp
ect so. Which is what the modernists were all about—authenticity in both life and art. Edward lost both. Now we have a chance for a remarkable talent to rediscover his potential, at least in his work. It’s too late for him with Rebecca—but the idea of a searing love story between a young writer and an artist will resonate with people. You have a role in nurturing his writing. I look forward to the results of your collaboration with him, Tess.”
Sean leaned forward, resting his hands between his knees. “As for the circumstances surrounding Rebecca’s death, she was not the first to be drowned and lost on that stretch of coastline. And the sea there is notorious for shark attacks.”
Sean’s voice cut into Tess’s thoughts. She couldn’t stop herself from picturing Rebecca’s awful death. Tess’s stomach plunged. How Rebecca would have suffered, would have known she was going to die . . .
“Rebecca was only twenty-four. But it was at Edward’s family’s beach house. The guilt he must have felt from that alone could have stopped him from feeling he had any justification to write anymore.”
Tess turned to the tall windows. The idea of sharks and Rebecca seemed even more unbearable.
“There’s more.” Sean’s voice was soft.
Tess wrapped her arms around her body.
“The other thing that I think you should know is that when an exhibition of art was held posthumously by Sunday Reed and the Contemporary Art Society, Rebecca had several works displayed. She was hailed as a real talent. Rebecca was thought of by critics as someone who could have had a flourishing career in modern art. Sunday’s talent was for finding and nurturing artists. Sunday has been recognized, in the end, as one of the most significant figures in modern art in that country. However, all of Rebecca’s artworks are in Sunday’s collection. They are effectively hidden from the world, you see. Sunday didn’t sell them after Rebecca’s awful death. Rebecca’s work was ahead of her time. There is no doubt there would be considerable interest in her drawings were they to be released to the world along with the book.”
Tess nodded.
“The Heide circle were young moderns, trying to forge a new life out of the shatters of war. It was all-encompassing, you know, what they did, their rejection of the Establishment. From the way they lived, to the way they loved, freely, to the way they approached marriage, modernism went to the very core of themselves—especially in terms of the way they viewed art.”
