Keep Dancing

by Leslie Wells

  Two hours later, I surveyed the living room. We had captured a lot of the insects, but I had a feeling many more were still loose. The cage didn’t look nearly as full as it had before. There was no way we’d round up all the bugs by two a.m., if ever. I hadn’t had any time to prepare for my interview, and now I was going to be exhausted for the big day.

  “I’m going to turn in. I’m wiped out.” I put down my cup and went toward the bedroom.

  “Let’s all hit the sack. I’ll buy a butterfly net tomorrow,” Jack muttered as one whizzed past his ear.

  Stifling a yawn, I answered the phone yet again. I took a message for Harvey and went to the office kitchen to fix myself another mug of instant coffee. I really need to perk up, I told myself. My interview with Perry Stroud and Ted Rathbone was in an hour.

  As soon as Harvey left for his lunch date, I bundled into my coat and took the subway up to midtown. I’d borrowed Jack’s eye drops to get some of the red out, but I still felt haggard. We had chased the bugs until midnight, and then Oliver was so wound up that it was hard to get him to sleep. I hadn’t been getting much shut-eye anyway with Jack in the middle of the bed, flinging his octopus arms as he tossed and turned.

  I got off at the 50th Street stop and walked the couple of blocks to Hawtey House. The building was an impressive skyscraper with several security guards in the lobby; much fancier than my current office. The elevator zoomed up to the fourteenth floor, where I took a seat in the overheated reception area. The room was so warm and I was so exhausted, I almost nodded off in the twenty minutes I was kept waiting. Finally a harried-looking young woman came to escort me to the corner office. It was huge, with one window fronting the avenue and another facing uptown. A silver-haired man in a crisp dress shirt and navy blue suspenders rose from behind his desk.

  “Perry Stroud,” he said, shaking my hand briskly. “So you’re the one who signed Isabel Reed for her memoir. How’d it turn out?”

  “It needed a fairly heavy edit, but I think it’s in good shape now.” I perched on a chair across from his desk as he took his seat. “She’s been great to work with.”

  “I was never a fan of her show, but I guess it was aimed at a juvenile audience. We don’t do many of those B-list celebrity memoirs here.” Perry crossed his arms, his pale eyes surveying me coolly.

  “Well, um, it’s the only one I’ve signed up so far,” I stammered. “Ted mentioned that you want to add some more commercial books to your list.”

  Perry scowled. “Ted and I don’t always see eye to eye on the direction of the company. We’ve done quite well with literary titles for the fifteen years I’ve been at the helm. We’ve had eight Pulitzers and four National Book Awards; although lately not as many bestsellers as we’d like. But I think there’s a way to accomplish that without catering to the lowest common denominator.” Perry paused and straightened a cufflink. “Speaking of which, Ted tells me Freeman Fyfe is a fan of yours.”

  I tried to ignore the insult. Focus, I told myself. This is your one chance to get out from under Harvey. “Yes, I worked with Freeman on his two most recent novels. The first one got up to number three, and stayed high on the list for several months. It’s going to net over a hundred thousand in hardcover.” To my satisfaction, this elicited a raised eyebrow. “His new book’s coming out in August, and we think it will hit number one. I worked really hard with him on the pacing, and I came up with the title. Which he loved.” I drew my resume and list of books out of a folder and handed them over to Perry, who dropped them on the desk without a glance.

  “That’s funny, I’d heard Fyfe’s numbers were down,” Perry observed. “Your publicity department must be a bit slow on the uptake. It doesn’t do to get sleepy.”

  At the word sleepy, my mouth started to stretch wide in a yawn. Stop that, you idiot! With superhuman effort, I was able to stifle it.

  “Julia! So glad you could come.” Ted Rathbone entered the room, pushing his glasses up on his nose and extending his hand. “I was just telling Perry about your initiative with Isabel Reed’s book. Julia read in Page Six that Isabel was doing a memoir about her sitcom years, and set up a meeting with her. After that, she signed up the book,” he said to Perry. “We could use more of that can-do attitude around here.”

  Perry still looked distinctly underwhelmed. Frantically I tried to think of something I’d worked on that might impress him, or at least wipe that superior expression off his face. I sat forward in my seat. “I’ve done some serious nonfiction too. Harvey had me edit a book about the Korean War; it had fascinating research on the Battle of Inchon.” I swiped at a bead of sweat on my upper lip.

  “You do much military history?” Perry smirked.

  “That was the first one I’d ever worked on. But it turned out well; it just got a starred Kirkus review.”

  “Julia’s very versatile. She’s done everything from—” Ted picked up my resume and perused it. “Toilet training to diet books to astrology guides. And I see a nice range of fiction, including Roxanna Stokes.” Ted’s eyebrows shot up above his glasses.

  “Any literary fiction?” Perry said, glancing out the window. Why did he have me come, if he’s so bored by my list? I wondered.

  Clearing my throat, I made one last attempt. “I’ve worked on some smaller literary novels. We don’t have any big names, other than Freeman.”

  Perry snorted. “I wouldn’t call Freeman Fyfe a big name. I thought his last book was a yawn.”

  Oh, no! I felt my mouth irresistibly stretching open. Cursing myself, I put up my hand and faked a cough.

  “I hope we aren’t boring you.” Perry frowned.

  “Not at all!” I said.

  “Well. Anything you’d like to ask us?” He looked at his watch.

  I knew I should say something, but I couldn’t pull my thoughts together. “Not at the moment,” I mumbled.

  “Thank you for coming.” They both stood up, Ted looking rather abashed.

  “I’ll be in touch,” Ted added.

  I blurted “Thanks,” and rushed out. “That went well,” I said to myself on the ride down.

  “How’d it go?” Jack asked when I walked in the door. The power still wasn’t back on in the studio, so he’d been home all day with Oliver. The apartment was a train wreck; dirty dishes on the counter, newspapers and cereal boxes spread around the living room, Ollie’s socks and tee-shirts on the floor.

  “Not too great.” I shucked off my coat.

  “Why not? The first guy liked you so much.” Jack gave me a concerned look.

  “Ted said they’d call me, but I’m not going to hold my breath. The publisher wasn’t too impressed with my books. He implied that they aren’t literary enough. Not to mention that I was so wiped out from last night, I practically yawned in his face. And I didn’t have a single intelligent thing to ask about Hawtey House.”

  Jack hooked his thumb in his belt loop. “They’re insane if they don’t hire you. You work your arse off,” he said, conveniently ignoring how last night’s fiasco had affected my performance. But I was too tired to get into it.

  “I guess they’re looking for someone with more high-minded tastes.” I went back to our room to change. Oliver was on the bed watching cartoons, an empty bowl next to him. I took a tee-shirt and jeans into the bathroom.

  When I came out, Jack put his arm around my shoulder. “We have just the thing to cheer you up. Tell her, Ollie.”

  Ollie jumped up and down on the bed, making the spoon in the bowl clatter. “We’re going to play hide and seek!”

  “I promised him if he’d let me have some time with the guitar, we could play.” Jack took a good look at me. “On second thought, Julia might be too tired, Ollie. We can wait ’til another night.”

  “No, I’ll play with you. It’ll take my mind off today,” I said.

  “Blow me!” Ollie cried, springing higher on the bed.

  “Best not to say that. It means something different over here,” Jack said. “Okay Julia, your
turn to hide first. We’ll go out front and count to ten.”

  After they left, I stepped into the tornado of Jack’s walk-in closet without turning on the light. When I first moved in, I’d made a stab at organizing his stuff once I’d hung my meager wardrobe in a corner. But Jack simply threw everything he’d worn onto the floor, half the time missing the laundry baskets. His housekeeper was doing the wash more often, so at least at some point it all got clean.

  In the dark, I squatted down under several pairs of his pants that were actually on hangers. I heard them shout “Ten!” and tucked my knees up to my chin.

  “Let’s find her, Oliver!” I heard their footsteps, and then rustling as they moved around the room. “Is she under the bed?” Jack asked.

  “Nooo,” Ollie answered.

  “How about in here?” The closet door swung open.

  “I don’t see her.” Ollie’s little feet in socks were next to Jack’s big bare ones.

  “Tell you what. You go check out front, and I’ll look around here for a bit.”

  Ollie scurried out of the room, and Jack came in and shut the closet door. “Hmm.” He crouched and put his hands through the pants legs. “What have we here?” he said, palming my breasts. “I think I’ve found a beautiful girl in my closet.” He stuck his head through the dangling pants. “Maybe he’ll stay out there for a while.” Jack sat on the floor and pulled me onto his lap. “Just sit on this for a minute.” I melted into him as his lips met mine, my stomach doing flips. God, I’ve missed this…

  Bam! The door crashed open. “You found her!” Ollie exclaimed as we jerked apart. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  Jack slid me off his lap and stood up. “I was going to. Julia and I had to talk about something.”

  “That wasn’t talking! That was kissing!”

  Because of who Jack was, we were allowed to see Oliver onto the plane. He was in the front row of first class, looking very small sitting alone in the middle of three empty seats. Jack tipped the flight attendants to ensure that he’d be watched over, and then autographed a stack of luggage tags for them.

  “We’ve got to leave now. Have a good flight, and mind the nice attendants.” Jack checked Ollie’s seatbelt and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  Ollie threw his arms around Jack’s shoulders, clinging tightly. “You’re aces, Uncle Jack! You too, Julia.”

  When Jack stood up, I saw tears in his eyes. I leaned down and gave Oliver a hug. “I’m glad you could come. I’ll miss you.”

  “Call me as soon as you get home,” Jack said. “Love ya’.”

  The plane’s engines revved. We went down the icy metal steps and into the waiting car.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Jack said later that night. “Playing with Ollie put me in mind of it. Let’s play hide and strip. Whenever I find you, you have to take off a piece of clothing.” He grinned. “Draw it out a little.”

  “That sounds interesting.” I was amazed he was still in the mood; we’d spent all afternoon in bed. But if he was up for it, I was game.

  Jack went around the apartment turning off all the lights. He got a flashlight from a kitchen drawer. “I’m gonna count to ten out here,” he called, lying back on the couch and using his hand to strobe the light on the ceiling.

  In the dark, I hurried into the bedroom. The closet wasn’t very original, but I couldn’t think of anywhere else last-minute. Spying the empty hanging wardrobe he used for his concert gear, I stepped inside and zipped it up. He’ll never find me here, I thought, standing perfectly still. I could feel my heart pounding in the pitch-black interior, a faint lingering scent of pot perfuming the lining.

  “Aah!” I screamed, doubling over as I was suddenly grabbed at the waist. Jack lifted me up and slung me over his shoulder. Laughing, I tried to kick his butt from inside the bulky garment bag. He dumped me on the bed and slowly unzipped the zipper. “Not too imaginative,” he said as my face appeared. “In fact, as a penalty, you’ll have to take it all off at once.”

  Chapter Eight

  I Can’t Stand Up for Falling Down

  The next morning, a Sunday, Jack was unusually quiet. We ate a late breakfast in bed listening to Albert King belting out “Born Under a Bad Sign,” followed by Blind Lemon Jefferson’s “Matchbox Blues” and “Tight Like That” by Tampa Red. When Jack got in the shower, I stretched my legs across the mattress, luxuriating in the peace and quiet.

  The water stopped, and I heard the screech of the medicine cabinet. Jack stood in the doorway, toweling his hair.

  “Listen, maybe you could go off these at some point. See what happens.” He held up my birth control pills.

  I felt hot and cold all at once. I can’t believe it—he wants to get married! And I’d been thinking I should just enjoy it while it lasts. He really wants to stay together forever!

  A tidal wave of emotion brought tears to my eyes. My mind skipped ahead to a vision of Jack in an elegant black tux, his long hair in sensual contrast to the formal attire, waiting for me at the end of the aisle. I’ll be Mrs. Jack Kipling—no, wait—I won’t change my name. We’ll be Julia Nash and Jack Kipling, together for eternity…

  Jack was staring at me, waiting for me to say something. “Jack, I’d love to!” A big grin spread across his face, and I realized I’d better clarify. “I mean, eventually. But we’d need to do some planning, right? I mean, to figure out all the details.”

  He sat next to me on the bed. “What details? We could start tonight.” He put his hand on my thigh.

  Suddenly it hit me: He isn’t talking about marriage—he just means getting me pregnant. For all I know, he only wants to prove that he can. Since he’d told me none of his previous girlfriends had ever had a baby, maybe this was merely a test run. My mind leaped ahead, seeing myself as a twenty-something single mother, living on child support in my narrow loft on Broome Street. An infant in a dirty diaper crawling around on the floor. Mary Jo sighing as she wrote out the monthly check. A memory of Dot intruded, sitting at the kitchen table after my father left, trying to juggle the bills.

  “Actually, I’m very flattered that you’d ask, but we should probably hold off for a while. I mean, we haven’t even been together for a year yet. And I’m trying out for this new job.”

  Jack frowned. “I’m thirty-three. Time’s going by. I want to know if I can make a baby.”

  Typical, I thought. He only sees it from his point of view. “But I’m just twenty-four. And anyway, once you’d ‘made a baby,’ what then? Who’d stay home with it?”

  Jack’s deep brown eyes pooled into mine. “I’ve got plenty of dough. You wouldn’t have to work.”

  I stared at him. What planet has he been living on? He thinks I’d give up my career? “Jack, I want to work. I love what I do; you know that. I feel like I was born to do it.”

  “Wouldn’t it be great to have a little Ollie running around underfoot?” he asked.

  I gulped. If we ever did have a kid, chances were, he’d be a wild child. “Right now I’m enjoying just being with you. Anyway, wouldn’t that be getting the cart before the horse?”

  He seemed to have no idea what I was talking about. It’s exactly as I thought; marriage hasn’t even occurred to him. I guess it’s too middle-class a concept for a rock star. “Never mind. Let’s talk about it some other time, okay?

  Jack got up and started putting on his jeans.

  “I’ve never even taken care of a dog, much less a child. Neither have you,” I added quickly. “You said your mother fed all your pets, growing up.”

  He looked down at his chest, buttoning his shirt. Then he sat and jammed on a pair of boots.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “Out.” He stomped to the front of the loft. I heard him pick up the phone and call Sammy.

  “Fine,” I said after the door slammed. I guess Mr. Kipling’s used to getting exactly what he wants.

  After tossing and turning for hours, I fell asleep around three. But every noise from the street
made me jerk awake, thinking it was Jack coming in. Finally I realized that he wasn’t going to. Is this the way he’s going to react every time I don’t agree with him? That doesn’t bode too well for our future, I fretted as I threw off the covers and got out of bed. It was five a.m.; the corner diner would be open. I could have breakfast there and head in to the office early. I didn’t want to be here when he came back.

  I passed a bleary day at work. Every time the phone rang I jumped at it, spoiling for a fight—but his call never came. I guess his true stripes are showing; the first time he doesn’t get his way about something, he bails out. We hadn’t yet discussed his habit of staying out late at bars with the guys—or, for that matter, monogamy. I had assumed it was part of the package of living together, but maybe that was just another of my middle-class ideas—like the concept that one might get married before one got knocked up.

  Several times I picked up the phone, then slammed it back down. Why should I call him? He’s the one who started it! Suddenly my indignation turned to despair. Jack is the first man I’ve ever been so intensely in love with. I’ll never feel this way again. Am I insane to throw away what any other girl would give her eye-teeth for?

  Then I caught myself. My entire identity is wrapped up in being an editor. Who would I be, if I gave up my career? Sure, the more established editors were able to leave the office at 5:30 and go home to their kids, but I was just starting out and had to prove myself. It took a while to acquire a strong list of books, and that involved late nights and long weekends spent editing. How could I do all that and deal with a baby too? And as much as Jack seemed to think he wanted one right now, would that turn into one of his spur-of-the-moment ideas that he’d later wish he could back out of? If so, where would that leave me?

  Exhausted from second-guessing, I forced myself to stay late at the office. I didn’t want to seem anxious to see him, and also I dreaded the showdown. At eight I trudged home from the subway in yet another heavy snowfall. Nervously I pushed open the door.