Summer in the City

by Irene Vartanoff

  “You understand? This is an office, not a soccer mom tea party.”

  Linda was being deliberately offensive, obviously itching for a fight, but Susan hadn’t raised a teenage daughter for nothing. She didn’t rise to the bait. She sat in outwardly compliant silence, nodded often, and let Linda wind down.

  Finally, Linda stopped her lecture abruptly. She threw down her pen and rose. “Come with me.” Linda led the way from her office, down the hall to an isolated desk stuck in a corner where another hall began. There were no other desks or people around, just blank walls. The desk held a computer and many stacks of manuscripts. A set of shelves next to the desk was filled with manuscripts. The floor behind the desk was piled with opened cartons with manuscripts inside.

  Linda acknowledged the mess with a regal air. “There’s a little backlog.”

  I’ll say.

  Linda plowed ahead, explaining the duties. “Traffic the manuscripts sent to freelance readers. Log them in and log them out,” Linda ordered.

  With exaggerated care, as if Susan was half-deaf, Linda told her to pack the manuscripts and send them, then unpack the boxes from the readers, log in the reports and manuscripts received, send the invoices to bookkeeping, and deliver the manuscripts to the editors.

  After the painstaking iteration of the obvious, Linda then did a hasty run-through of the minutiae of the computer programs they used, talking a mile a minute, as Susan feverishly took longhand notes in a tiny notebook she’d pulled out. Linda didn’t look as if she wanted to repeat any explanations.

  “All right, you might as well get started. Remember, no long lunches. You’re not here to be a diva.” With that final dig, Linda vanished before Susan could ask a single question.

  As she sifted through the piles, she thought Linda had done it on purpose, to put her off balance. Like her insults. Perhaps Linda wanted her to be unhappy and quit. Perhaps Linda didn’t need an intern. If not, then why was there this enormous backlog of manuscripts? Some of the cover letters had dates from months ago.

  She shrugged her shoulders. She was here to work. Better get to it. She plunged into the daunting task of identifying what was what.

  A few lonely hours later, she had eliminated most of the piles. She’d had no interruptions. She hadn’t spoken to Linda again. There had been no need. The manuscripts all had transmittal memos that explained to whom they were going or from whom they came. The office software was primitive and Susan easily mastered the trafficking process, while noting that it could use an update. Meanwhile, not one individual had walked down her hall. No one had phoned her, no one had dropped off any more stacks of manuscripts, no one had delivered any more cartons. She hadn’t even heard any office noises except an occasional low-toned phone buzz.

  Then she received a phone call from Elizabeth Winsor, the editor-in-chief of Coquette Books. “On your first day, it’s traditional to take you out to lunch. Meet me at the elevator in ten minutes?” That was more like it.

  Of course, she got lost finding the ladies room to freshen up, and lost again trying to find her desk. Each time, she asked directions from some young editor hidden behind a cubicle wall. They were polite, but she could see their surprise when she introduced herself and explained why she was there.

  “You’re taking over for Naomi? How did that happen?” one young woman asked bluntly. Her name was Cary Norris.

  “I’d love to explain, but I’m supposed to meet someone for lunch. Perhaps later?”

  Cary immediately regained her businesslike demeanor and with it her indifference. She pointed the direction to Susan’s desk and then went back to her own work.

  Susan walked down the hall. Would anyone say a simple welcome? Or was she hopelessly old-fashioned and provincial?

  ***

  Lunch with Elizabeth Winsor was a revelation. Elizabeth was friendly and full of funny stories. She soon had Susan in stitches with the tale of her first job in New York as an editorial assistant.

  “I ended up stuffing the envelope with every single form rejection letter we had, and signing Daffy Duck to them all!”

  They both laughed. Elizabeth could tell a good story. They sat in an elegant Italian restaurant where Elizabeth had managed to eat her entrée without spilling any red sauce on herself, quite a feat. Susan had ordered chicken Francesca to avoid that issue. Elizabeth was another thin brunette in black, near to Susan’s age, but different from Linda. Elizabeth’s shoulder-length dark hair was well-tended, with a soft look and reddish highlights obviously done by a top professional. Plus, Elizabeth wore color accents, a large antique brooch with yellow stones and a tiny multicolored scarf tied to her belt.

  “Enough war stories. Tell me about your hopes for this summer,” Elizabeth coaxed.

  Susan had laughed at appropriate moments and genuinely enjoyed herself, but volunteered nothing. It was Elizabeth who had agreed to the internship Susan’s friend had suggested. The least Susan owed was some of the truth.

  “I’m kind of derailed from my previous career. I’ve had some family obligations. You know how it goes,” she began. “I always dreamed of working in publishing.” Then she stopped. “You’ve probably heard that before.”

  “Usually from strangers on airplanes. They have a bestseller, but they haven’t written it yet.” Elizabeth shrugged. “Go on.”

  “I don’t have any such illusions. I’ve always thought publishing was fascinating. For years I have yearned to be on the inside for a while, to see how it feels.”

  “That’s it? No writing aspirations?” Elizabeth looked surprised.

  “No. I actually have a computer background, but I don’t have any recent employment on my résumé. I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone.”

  She explained the lackluster employment situation in Ohio for well-educated, experienced women of middle age.

  Elizabeth seemed intrigued. “You resorted to an out-of-town internship to get a current credit on your résumé?”

  “That’s about it,” she said, “I hope you’re not offended because I don’t have my manuscript of the great American romance novel in my tote bag.”

  “Relieved is more like it. You came a long way to obtain a credential. I wonder if this is a trend? We’re always looking for trends in this business. Our books are meant to appeal to today’s women and mirror their real lives.”

  “With some hot guys thrown in,” Susan dared to joke.

  Elizabeth grinned and made to fan her face from the heat. “The hotter, the better.”

  Lunch ended on a pleasant note. She thanked Elizabeth profusely for giving her the summer opportunity. Elizabeth cordially invited her to keep in contact during the internship.

  ***

  Susan checked in with Linda a few minutes later.

  “Don’t bother me,” Linda said.

  Back at her lonely desk, Susan found the rest of the afternoon stretching silently ahead.

  The hours passed. The highlight was her trip to the mailroom, after a few wrong turns, of course. She delivered a batch of manuscripts to go out. The thirtyish woman running it was efficient and courteous. She said she’d be happy to come to Susan’s desk with a cart for outgoing packages.

  That was her day. She made the rounds of the office several times to return manuscripts to editors. It took a long while since she didn’t know who was whom. She made herself a map for the future. By five o'clock, she was exhausted and her fingers were dry and chapped from all the papers she had handled. She was ready to go home. She poked her head into Linda’s office to say goodnight and got a grumbled reply.

  Three hours later, she had a grocery run under her belt and had survived another miserable shower in the inadequate bathroom. After changing into a sundress, she took a short cab ride uptown. Soon she was seated with Rona, having cocktails at a West Side bar. Rona had come straight from work and was wearing a casual but professional skirt and contrasting jacket, with a silk halter top in a dark red tone peeking out from under the gray jacket. It was a
subdued but striking look with her straight black hair.

  Susan stared down at her floral sundress and hated it. So obvious. So Ohio. Yet, it had been a thrill to buy. It was the smallest size she had worn in decades.

  “You’re sure you don’t want to go to dinner with Jack and me? Honey, I’m willing even though you do look like a reject from a PTA meeting.” Rona smirked.

  “Oh, rub it in,” she replied, not taking offense since it was the truth. She tossed her head, swinging her straight blonde hair, which instantly settled back to position. “I’ll have you know this dress is a size eight. A real eight, not a vanity eight. I haven’t been in single digits in forever.”

  “That’s a triumph, dear, but it’s not the right style. You aren’t a teenager anymore and little tiny spaghetti straps don’t give the girls much support.”

  Her eyes widened. She looked down again. She was well-endowed but not heading for the floor yet.

  “Give me a break. ‘The girls,’ as you call them, are fine.”

  “I was trying to lighten you up, honey, because you look a bit worn around the edges. Was your first day rough?”

  Susan took a sip of her water. “It was strange,” she finally said, glad to be off the topic of her wardrobe. She played with the rim of her water glass with one finger as she recounted the story of her first day at Coquette. How she had felt like the girl in Rumpelstiltskin who was left alone with a huge, baffling task. How it wasn’t the lively, fun place she had always imagined.

  “It was the silence that bothered me the most. I always thought a publishing company would be filled with creative people making bon mots and telling stories about crazy authors.

  “Lunch with the publisher was the only element of the day that lived up to my imaginings. Maybe tomorrow will be better,” she finished.

  “You’re expecting too much. Real life never is as good as your dreams,” Rona said with her usual cynicism.

  “Life can be beautiful if we look for the good.”

  “I’ve been looking forever, honey, and let me tell you, it isn’t out there,” Rona replied dryly. “Speaking of bad things…”

  “Which I wasn’t…”

  “Bev called me. She sounded horrible. Crying and carrying on.”

  “Really?” She heard the restraint in her voice, but still attempted to sound casual. She hadn’t talked to Bev since Nancy’s wedding, almost a year ago.

  “It’s that moron husband of hers, Dr. I’m-So-Important Todd Feinstein. What a pig.” Rona shook her head in disgust. “Why she chose him instead of the teaching career I was all set to help her with, I do not know. She was a smashing teaching assistant.”

  “I remember.”

  “Then she threw it all away to marry a doctor.”

  “The Jewish mother’s dream,” Susan said.

  “Todd is the worst kind, an arrogant surgeon convinced the world revolves around him.”

  “I agree. He’s a pill. I would never have invited them to Nancy’s wedding, except that Bev had invited us to her younger daughter’s Bat Mitzvah the year before.”

  “I skipped that. Not a big fan of organized religion.”

  Susan grimaced. “Repaying the social obligation was a mistake. He created a terrible scene at Nancy’s wedding. He made a crude play for one of the bridesmaids out in the country club garden. She screamed and fought him off. Didn’t you see it? I was afraid everyone had,” she shuddered.

  “I had no idea,” Rona said. “You never told me.”

  “I didn’t want to spoil your pleasure in the day. Or act like a tragedy queen and claim that the wedding was ruined because of one drunken lecher.”

  Rona herself had been quite drunk by then, something Susan didn’t want to say. She didn’t want to be judgmental about her dear friend. Rona was on her third martini already tonight.

  “Was it before Nancy left on her honeymoon? Because I don’t remember much after that.”

  “No. After, thank goodness.”

  “I was pretty lit at that point. Weddings aren’t usually my favorite activity,” Rona said in a dispassionate tone. There was a tightness around her mouth as she spoke. She seemed to be thinking unhappy thoughts.

  She shook herself out of her abstraction. “Bev has always looked the other way when it comes to Todd. According to her, they have the perfect life. A huge house in Boca, fancy cars, private schools for their two girls, household help, the works.”

  Susan nodded. She had seen Bev’s mansion during the Bat Mitzvah visit to Boca Raton.

  Rona said, “Todd has a major medical career and Bev is majoring in spending his money. Does that sound catty? I don’t mean to,” Rona purred. Her eyes said differently.

  “Why is Bev upset?”

  “Something about a baby at her advanced age.” Rona shrugged her shoulders delicately. “She was incoherent.”

  “She’s forty-five, right? Did you ever give any thought at her age to having a child?” Susan asked gently. “By then, you were established in your career. You had tenure. Times had changed.”

  “Not enough. Definitely not in academia fifteen years ago, when I was at the last gasp of my fertility. I wouldn’t have wanted to risk it. I worked too damn hard, had to put up with too much crap. It’s only now, with the option to choose when to end my career, that I feel entirely easy in it.” Rona added, “Although a lot of alcohol helps.”

  Susan shook her head in disapproval. “That’s not the way.”

  “Evening, ladies.”

  A man leaned down to kiss Rona’s cheek, then smiled at Susan and sat down at their tiny round table. This had to be Jack. Time-weathered and of average height, he seemed at ease with his bald head and somewhat soft middle. Although he wasn’t wearing a suit, he also had that ineffable casual chic of the New Yorker. Unlike her.

  After Rona made the introductions, Susan explained that she was only going to stay a few more minutes. “How did you two meet?” she asked.

  “It’s an ultimate New York kind of story,” Jack replied, as he signaled the waiter. “Single malt Scotch, please.” He turned back to her and continued. “We each showed up late to the Metropolitan Opera. Of course, they wouldn’t seat us during the act. We sat around in the television room where all the latecomers are sent and started talking.”

  Rona said, “We tried, anyway. Would you believe they shush you even in the television room?” She shook her head. “I got so annoyed, I persuaded Jack not to go up to his seat once the act ended. We skipped out to the saloon across the street instead.”

  Classic Rona. She’d always had an unconventional perspective on what was important in life. The serious feminist college professor, the one who had clawed her way to tenure in the early years of feminism, was at heart a rebel. There was a less flattering view of Rona, that she was too focused on male conquests, but Susan chose to find Rona’s adventures amusing.

  “Do you have children, Jack?” Susan asked.

  “A boy and a girl, grown up now of course. I have three grandchildren, too. They all live in California. How about you?”

  “Rona must have told you about our daughter Nancy’s wedding last year. It’s a little early for grandchildren, but I’m hoping there will be soon.” She smiled.

  “Really?” Rona asked, looking surprised.

  “Nancy and Matt bought a condo with,” Susan emphasized the next words, “three bedrooms plus an office. That’s significant, I think.”

  Rona’s eyes widened. “You’re right. Grandma.”

  “Right now this old lady needs to go home and rest.” She placed some bills on the table and rose. “Nice meeting you, Jack.” She waved away his offer to get her a cab. She left them together in the restaurant and started to walk home.

  Her feet hurt. The pavement was hard. Get a cab, Grandma. She laughed at herself and raised her arm to signal a passing taxi.

  Chapter 3

  Rona was busy the next couple of nights, either out with Jack or at some university function, but she invited Susan.
Each time, she begged off, still battling exhaustion as she adjusted to her new hours and the dreadful futon. It had been years since she’d worked a full day anywhere, even as a volunteer. Or had to sleep on such an uncomfortable bed.

  There was plenty of work at Coquette Books, although how it arrived on her desk was a mystery. No one ever delivered a manuscript while she was there, but each morning, her desk would be stacked with piles of manuscripts and directions on what to do with them. She kept her nose to the grindstone.

  She managed to scope out the editorial offices while returning manuscripts. She introduced herself to everyone, asked everyone what they did, and then went back to her desk and made detailed notes of all she was told. Not that she got much from some of the editorial staff. Take Cary. To her questions, Cary mostly answered monosyllables. Yes, she was an editorial assistant. Yes, Cary helped two editors. Yes, Cary had a degree in English. Two degrees, actually. Did Cary like the books that Coquette published? She preferred nonfiction. That was all. Maybe next week Cary could be lured into a discussion of the manuscripts’ merits. Susan made a note to come up with some questions that Cary couldn’t answer with a yes or a no.

  She also checked in with Linda punctually every morning. Once Linda arrived, that is. She herself arrived an hour earlier. It wasn’t only the bad sleep on the futon, although that would end on Saturday when Macy’s delivered her new mattress. No, she was alert at dawn from the sheer excitement of having an office to go to each morning. She was raring to go. That’s how she got into trouble with Linda.

  “Do the job you were hired to do!” Linda barked when she checked on Thursday morning if there were any additional tasks to do.

  She made herself smile accommodatingly, as usual. Sometimes, Linda would vary her refrain by saying, “Don’t stand there. Get to work.” What a sweetheart. Maybe she had a rotten home life. Or maybe Linda was pre-diabetic, and her sugar was out of whack in the morning. Although she was the same in the evening. Then, she barely vouchsafed a grunt to Susan’s punctilious, cheery “Good night.”