“No!” Deirdre said. “I guess you can do it.”
“Do it? Sure! What? I guess so.”
“I got a call from Theresa Flynn. She arranges programs at the Ninety-Second Street Y. There’s a panel. All writers. Mainly authors.”
“And you need someone to attend?”
“No. Theresa needs someone to fill in. Gap Eiffert, the Post columnist, is stuck in Mexico with the runs.”
I nodded my head to indicate compassion.
“It’s an opportunity for us to get in front of an intelligent audience. I think it’s a terrible mistake for them not to have me on the panel, and I did my best to explain that to Theresa, suggest she speak to my publicist, but they specifically want a writer.” Deirdre’s expression said just how appalled she was at this Theresa Flynn woman’s lack of judgment. “Emily covers authors, covers books, she makes sense, but if you’re available, I’ll tell them you. You’re a writer. So I guess that makes you an author. Sort of.” She said sort of like she was saying barely. “I don’t want to say no and have Theresa running off to ask someone at Gawker.”
Me? On a panel? At the 92nd Street Y? In New York that counted as the Oscars, Grammys, Emmys, and Nobel Prize of panels, all rolled into one. My inner me was screaming, Molly, Molly Hallberg, are you out of your gourd? Throw yourself to the wolves, why don’t you! Get up in front of an audience of New Yorkers in the arena of arenas for suffering no fools without any idea what the hell you’ll contribute? That was the Molly who turns overly protective when I attempt anything questionable. But the other Molly, Kegel-squeezing, bike-riding, unemployment-avoiding, column-seeking Molly, said, “Sure, Deirdre. When do they need me?”
She shoved a piece of paper at me with where to go, whom to call. “Tonight,” she said. “Seven p.m.” And dashed away.
Horror. Panic. Terror. Those are the sensations that went roiling through my entire being. Along with excitement. Nerves. And a touch of What the hell! Movie stars and heads of state appear at the 92Y. Scientists and CEOs, religious leaders and musical geniuses. Bill Gates. Yo-Yo Ma. Martha Graham. Publicists earn bonuses for booking clients there. People kill to get on panels at the 92Y. They just kill to get on them with at least three months’ notice. If I screwed up, said the wrong thing—good Lord, what was the topic?—or worse, said nothing at all, sat there like a lox, it wouldn’t be a little, sleep-it-off-no-big-deal failure, it would be a call-the-moving-van-leave-town failure. Adios, credibility. Adios, dignity. Adios, life. I asked myself, Tell me again—why would you want to do this? And then I knew.
“The damn ladies’ room is always out of toilet paper!” I heard Emily say.
* * *
“Sold-out,” Theresa Flynn told me when I called to confirm my availability. “Not a ticket available.”
“Not a one?” I said. “For moral support?”
She told me the panel members. I gulped. She told me the topic. I gulped. She told me she’d see what she could do about a spare ticket, perhaps there’d be a cancellation. Please arrive early and ask for her.
I spent the afternoon picking and picking apart my wardrobe with Angela, whose renewed interest in fashion coincided with dating Charlie, the high school swim coach she’d met at Speed-Love. She’d say things like “That’s workable,” “That’s questionable,” “No way.” We voted for a gray skirt, white shirt, and low flats. My image of an author. If I were a man, I’d have worn a houndstooth blazer with elbow patches and carried a pipe.
“They’re going to love you,” Angela said, shaking her head no to hoop earrings and yes to silver studs. “You’ll be asked on a million more panels after this.”
“Yes. Death panels.”
“My first on-air weather report I couldn’t stop shaking. I kept pointing to Hammond instead of Valparaiso.” Angela stepped back to appraise the finished product. “Your hair needs fixing.” I parted my hair on the left. Reparted it on the right. “Remember to take a deep breath.”
“Breathe. Breathing is good. I’ll remember that.”
“I’ll call again to see if any tickets got handed back in. Maybe Russell won’t pick up his.”
“He better. I had to beg for it.”
“I’ll tweet about you being a panelist.”
“To your grocery-store customers or your Greek-restaurant customers?”
“To everyone! Don’t forget anything quotable you say so I can quote you.” Angela gave me one last once-over. “Okay,” she said. “You are completely presentable.”
* * *
The 92Y is not an attractive building. Prestigious, yes. Attractive? Not so much. The main lobby is gray. I can’t think of anyway else to describe it. It’s gray. Maybe solid. I guess I could say it’s solid. But basically gray. You enter through either a scanner on the right or past a table with a security guard on the left. I have no way to test this theory, but I feel fairly certain that anyone trying to sneak something untoward into the 92Y would avoid the scanner.
You can judge the fame of a speaker or the popularity of a topic by which of its many rooms the Y uses. The famous-writers-plus-me panel was scheduled for the Kaufmann Concert Hall. The big hall. The important hall. The one that holds over nine hundred people and has a balcony. It’s wood-paneled with wood floors and green carpeting and green chairs. It looks like the concert-hall equivalent of a family rec room. In between the lobby and the concert hall, there’s a fancy marble lobby. None of the other rooms have fancy marble lobbies, so that’s another way to expect a good turnout. You get the marble lobby.
After passing through the scanner in the main lobby, I met Theresa Flynn, who greeted me, thanked me, and said I was the first panelist to arrive. She accompanied me through the marble lobby and through the Kaufmann. I wasn’t nervous until she kept telling me not to be nervous. The hall looked a lot bigger than I’d remembered.
“After I welcome the audience I’ll introduce Gordon Fenton, and he’ll introduce the panelists,” she said. “Forty or so minutes of discussion will be followed by twenty minutes of audience questions. That will leave plenty of time for book signings.” Then she added, “Well, for the other panelists to sign books.”
“Did Gap Eiffert have a book?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “A new collection of his Post columns.”
“Maybe I can sign those.”
Theresa did not laugh, which made me more nervous than anything.
I sat backstage by myself, waiting for the other panelists to arrive, peeking out like a little kid to watch the seats filling up. Gordon Fenton showed up first, not looking at all the way I’d pictured him from his voice on NPR. Radio announcers never look the way I imagine them. I was expecting John Legend. I got Santa Claus in a brown suit.
“So you’re the last-minute fill-in?” Gordon said, holding out his big hand.
“That’d be me.”
“Ever do this before?”
“That might not be me.”
“You talk? Have opinions?” I nodded yes. “Fine. Just don’t interrupt when I’m speaking.”
Joseph Gillen walked in next, probably the most famous person on the panel. You usually see him on Sunday-morning talk shows pissed off about serious subjects. He writes about political coups that take place in countries I’ve never heard of.
“I’m surprised Theresa didn’t go with one less person,” he said as we were introduced. “I can pick up the slack. What kind of writing do you do? News? Political?”
“Features and entertainment.”
He turned away.
Take a breath, Molly, I told myself. But I wasn’t sure if I should be breathing or bolting.
Theresa guided Julia Hollingsworth into the waiting area. Julia must be at least ninety years old but she doesn’t look a day over eighty. She’s birdlike, ultrafeminine, with an excellent face-lift. Her pink dress and ruffled scarf looked like lingerie. Julia writes romance novels under three or four different names, but her most famous name is Julia Hollingsworth. Theresa showed Julia to a fold
ing chair. I walked over and introduced myself. Julia eyed my white top and gray skirt: “Well, you look like a somber young woman,” she said.
Theresa kept glancing at a wall clock. “He’s always late,” she said, like she was talking about an adored son. Three minutes to seven, Cameron Duncan scooted in, all charm and apologies. He kissed Theresa on the cheek, kissed Julia on the cheek. Stopped. Looked at me. Kissed me on the cheek. He saluted Gordon. Chucked Joseph Gillen on the shoulder.
While the men man-talked and Julia examined her face in a tiny, gold pocket mirror, I peeked out. Theresa was at the podium telling the audience members how much the Y appreciated their support. Gordon broke away from his male huddle, waiting to make his entrance. “Let’s welcome the host of NPR’s Sorry You Asked!” Theresa said, to a round of applause, applauding Gordon herself as she exited the stage and he took command of the podium.
Cameron sidled up to me. “You come here often?”
“I’m the token last-minute journalist.”
“Nice to see you, token journalist. You’re much better looking than Gap. You’ll do great.”
“Really?” If ever I needed morale boosting, it was now.
“You can hold your own in a conversation. I’ve seen that side of you.”
“Thank you.” I paused. “That was a compliment, right?”
He smiled at me. “Yes.”
Breathe, Molly, breathe.
Gordon was saying how Cameron Duncan only writes bestsellers, didn’t know how to write anything else. The audience laughed. Gordon wished Hollywood luck portraying a character as beloved as Mike Bing, said they’d better not screw it up. The audience laughed, looked around at each other in agreement. Gordon said Julia’s novels were printed in thirty-seven languages, that she sold more books worldwide than Danielle Steel and Barbara Cartland. More applause. The audience was almost all women. It looked like an Aleve convention out there.
“Please step back,” Theresa whispered to me. Peeking wasn’t allowed.
“Sorry!” I said.
“Shh,” Joseph Gillen said.
Gordon was talking about Joseph. The coups he’s covered, the Pulitzer Prize he’d won. Applause for Joseph. Theresa lined us up. Cameron first, escorting Julia. Joseph Gillen. Then me. The caboose. Gordon Fenton would sit in the moderator’s chair, closest to Cameron.
“Gap Eiffert was detained on an important story in Mexico,” Gordon was telling the audience, “but we are more than delighted to have—” He looked down at his notes. “Molly Hallberg is stepping in. Molly writes for the online newsmagazine EyeSpy. Her most recent story was about bike riding.” I waited for the applause. A clap here or there. Probably Russell and a few people who’d clap for anything. We filed out to our seats and the applause started up again. Cameron waved. Julia waved. So I waved. Joseph Gillen nodded. We all sat down. A blue tablecloth covered the table. I was glad I didn’t have to worry about keeping my knees together. We each had our own mics. The houselights were off and the stage lights blinding, which was fine by me. It’s a lot easier to talk to a thousand people when you can’t see the thousand people.
“So let’s start with you, Julia,” Gordon said, getting right down to business. “We’re talking about research. We’re talking about inspiration. Do you research your novels?”
Julia dipped her head, smiled up at Gordon through her false lashes like a saucy ingenue. “Well, darling, I can’t possibly have had as many love affairs as my heroines do. But I try my best.” The female audience laughed, applauded. What was I going to say? I rented a bicycle? Julia sat up straighter. She was still the size of a hummingbird, but her posture was impressive. “I grew up reading the great romances. So in my own way, I was researching even before I knew I’d be a writer.”
“I just finished Daphne du Maurier,” I said, not stopping to think, Is it okay if I talk? “And before that, The Great Gatsby.” I sounded like I was giving a high school report.
“I learned so much,” Julia said. To the audience. Not to me. “I don’t believe character is destiny. I believe love is destiny.”
“I don’t research my books!” Joseph Gillen said, leaning forward, elbows out, hogging my space, cutting off Julia, and cutting off me. “I live them!” He talked about insurgencies and insurrections and hobnobbing with rebels, hiding with revolutionaries. It didn’t seem like a good time to cut in and ask, “Anyone want to hear about Kegel-exercise panties?”
After another coup or two, Gordon finally interrupted, “Cameron, who were your influences? What did you read as a budding future writer?”
The bright lights made Cameron’s high forehead shine and his eyes twinkle. His eyes were green. Why hadn’t I noticed they were green? He was saying, “My literary heroes then are my same heroes now. Franklin Dixon’s The Hardy Boys.” The audience awwwed. What could be sweeter? What could be more endearing? A bestselling crime writer who still loved the Hardy Boys. I bet he’d never read a Hardy Boys in his life. “I still own my father’s original collection,” he said. “The only two I’m missing are The Short-Wave Mystery and The Secret of Wildcat Swamp.”
Okay. So maybe he was familiar with them.
“Do you use the Hardy Boys to inspire plot ideas?” Gordon asked. The audience chuckled.
“Of course!” Cameron said. “But not for my current project. I don’t believe Frank or Joe ever signed on to Match.com.” Laughter.
Joseph Gillen dropped his big Pulitzer Prize–winning elbow in my space. I nudged back with my elbow. Like the two of us were on an airplane going at it over the armrest.
“Tell us about your new book, Cameron,” Gordon said in his NPR voice.
Cameron looked a little shy, a little sheepish. I’d seen that expression on him before. I pictured him practicing the look in his bathroom mirror. “The story’s about a murderer who kills women he meets online,” he said. “Revenge against the criminal’s mother for pushing him to get married.” The audience laughed. The plot sounded awful. But Cameron could do no wrong. “Mike Bing goes undercover dating women on Match.”
“Did you research the book?” I asked, angling from my end of the table to look directly at Cameron on his end of the table.
“I’m afraid so,” he said, looking out toward the black void of the audience, serving up his charming, crooked smile. “And my apologies to all the beautiful women I met online.” The audience giggled and cooed. These women should have been throwing cream pies at the man, not rewarding him with cooing.
“You fake-dated?” I asked. “Dated under false pretenses?”
“Who hasn’t?” Joseph Gillen said.
“Did any lucky woman rate a second date?” I asked.
“I was the lucky one,” Cameron said, so heartfelt, so grateful. “My only regret is that with my writing deadlines, I had no time for follow-up.” Awww. Another universal aw. “I agree with Julia,” he said. “Love is destiny. Someone holds your hand for the first time and you just know.” A collective sigh could be heard from all womankind.
“Beautiful,” Julia said.
“Know what?” I asked.
“You know your future,” Cameron said.
I said, “You must get exhausted in a reception line.”
Cameron sounded earnest, fervent, hopeful. “I’m looking for the one woman who understands me, my soul mate. I believe in soul mates.” He might as well have been holding up a cue card that said SIGH.
I asked, “Have you ever fallen in love?” The two of us were having a private conversation on the stage of an auditorium.
“A hundred times a day,” he said. The audience giggled. The audience laughed. He made those green eyes of his twinkle out in their direction.
“That’s not falling in love with a woman,” I said, “that’s falling in love with love.”
“Have you tried it?” Joseph Gillen asked me.
“Did you ever marry or live with someone?” I asked Cameron.
“Can we kindly return to our topic?” Gordon said.
“I’d like to recall my time in Niger during the first Tuareg rebellion,” Joseph said.
“Not that topic,” Gordon said.
“There’s a difference between not wanting to settle down and not wanting to settle,” Cameron said to me.
You can bet that stirred up applause. It would have been an excellent time for a divorce lawyer to hand out business cards.
Julia Hollingsworth cleared her throat. “Romance is transactional,” she said. “It must be reciprocal. A back-and-forth of appreciation.” She zoomed in on Joseph. “What’s your ideal, big boy?”
“Silent understanding,” Joseph Gillen said. “You say it with your eyes. You say it with your heart. You say it with your soul.” He laughed. “A woman who doesn’t talk.”
The audience booed.
“I disagree,” Cameron said. “I love a woman who’ll go one-on-one with me, who can banter, one-up me, keep me on my toes. That’s the heart of the greatest romantic duos. Nick and Nora. Harry and Sally.”
“Bogie and Bacall,” Julia said.
“Kermit and Miss Piggy,” I said. The audience laughed. Finally I’d said something quotable for Angela.
“Fay Wray and King Kong,” Joseph said. The audience booed.
“Perhaps it’s time we moved on to the Q and A,” Gordon said. “Houselights, please?”
Standing mics were set up in the front of each aisle. Anyone with a question could line up and wait his or her turn. I’ve attended enough writers’ panels to know that no matter what the subject, the same two questions are always asked: What’s your writing process? and How do you get an agent? I didn’t have a process or an agent so I was pretty much off duty. If anyone asked me—and I sincerely doubted anyone would—I’d just defer to Julia or Cameron. But not to Mr. Elbow Hog. Joseph Gillen scared me.
A woman with gray, frizzy hair, hovering at the first mic, said, “This question’s for Julia.” Julia nodded, gripped her mic with her long, skinny fingers. “What’s your writing process?”
Another woman asked Cameron how to get an agent. A third woman asked Cameron about his writing process. Cameron grinned. “I sit down at my desk, turn on my computer, and hope for the best. And when that doesn’t work, I read The Hardy Boys.”
What Nora Knew Page 11
