by Leslie Wells
“So, you’ve signed up a little humor book,” Perry said. He went over to the window, parted my ficus and gazed out at the skyscraper canyon. “Ted said it’ll be ready by fall, but we have a lot of big titles on that list. Serious books.” He leveled his gaze at me. “I don’t want to clutter up the imprint with frivolous junk.”
My face burned. “I was just talking to the head writer. He’s already written half of it.”
“Hmph. And you’re dealing with Dermot Chase, I hear.” Perry took a sip of his coffee.
“Yes, I’m meeting him tonight. He’s delivering some chapters,” I said.
“Erica’s an old hand at mollycoddling important authors; I don’t know why he wanted to switch. Do you think you can get it out of him in time? We have a lot riding on this one.”
“He seems eager to get going. I’ll start on it right away.” I felt like adding, I can’t write it for him.
Perry dumped his coffee into my ficus. “See that you do.” On his way out, he put his empty cup on the corner of my desk.
I had thought I’d just meet with Dermot in the conference room, but he suggested grabbing dinner. Since Jack was away, I figured, Why not? There was reason to rush home. And after all, I was supposed to give my new author the white-glove treatment. I was surprised when Dermot suggested Elaine’s, the Upper East Side actor-and-writer haunt; I’d pictured someplace more low-key. But that was fine, because I could put the meal on my expense account. Hawtey had given me a nice fat allowance that I hadn’t even begun to make a dent in.
I got to the restaurant early out of nerves, checked my coat and waited for Dermot to show. His piercing blue eyes met mine as he came through the door, flashing a big smile. Beneath an elegant coat and jacket his shirt was undone a few buttons, revealing a tanned chest. I was glad I’d worn the stylish interview suit Vicky had helped me pick out.
“So good to see you,” he murmured, bussing my cheek. Not realizing he was going for the other one, European-style, we bumped noses. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
The spicy hint of his cologne lingered pleasantly in my nostrils. “Oh no, I just got here.”
Dermot handed his coat and briefcase to the coat-check girl and went to embrace the restaurant owner, who held her cigarette aside for his kiss. “Elaine, this is Julia, my talented new midwife. She’s going to extract this novel from me, come hell or high water.”
“Your usual spot’s ready,” Elaine said without giving me a glance. As she led us through the dark room, famous faces gazed at me from the book jackets plastered on the walls—and from a few tables, as well. I dropped my eyes to avoid breaking the cardinal rule in Manhattan: Never stare at a celebrity. Dermot stopped every few seconds to speak to people he knew as I stood awkwardly beside him. Finally we were seated, and he asked the waiter for a bottle of Burgundy. Is it okay to put alcohol on my expense account? I wondered.
“So, Julia. You’re a fresh face in the grizzled publishing world. What brought you to New York in the first place?” Dermot spread his hands on the table, ringless but for a large onyx set in gold.
I fiddled with the menu tassel. “Originally I came here for grad school, but then I decided I’d rather be an editor than go for a Ph.D.”
“Wise choice. I arrived fifteen years ago, determined to write the great American novel. Little did I know, I’d wind up writing three of them.” Again the sexy flash of those white teeth in his bronzed face. “Which one’s your favorite?”
“Um, Oblivious Journey?” I named the only book of his that I’d read. I took a sip of wine to collect my thoughts. I’ll have to do some catch-up skimming over the weekend, I realized. Seeing that he was waiting for something more, I added, “I really loved it. But all of your works are such important contributions.”
“I’m glad you feel that way. Yes, we’re ready,” he said to the waiter. Hoping to keep the tab down, I ordered one of the cheaper entrees, while Dermot went for the pricey steak tips. I guess I won’t get in trouble for expensing this fancy dinner, I thought as the waiter took our menus. Harvey used to complain if a bill hit forty bucks.
Dermot waved at someone across the room, and then focused on me. “This new novel has been tough to jump-start,” he said, twisting his onyx ring. “I’m having trouble with one of my female characters, Penelope. She’s about your age, so I’m hoping you can give me some insights.”
“Insights into…?” The last drops of wine slid down my throat like scarlet silk. It even tastes expensive, I thought as Dermot refilled my glass.
“The inner workings of the mind of a twenty-four-year-old woman. What makes her tick. What turns her on.” He raised an eyebrow as the waiter set our plates in front of us.
I was happy for the interruption. With the wine I’d drunk and Dermot’s forceful blue gaze, I was feeling discombobulated. Stalling, I took a bite of overcooked pasta.
“Do you think you can help me with that?” Dermot persisted. “I need details that will really flesh her out. Intimate details.”
“Oh, sure! I’ll try to put all that into the notes.” I took another sip of wine and tried to focus on the reason for this dinner. “You have some pages to give me?”
“You’ll soon have it in your hot little hands.” Dermot speared a steak tip and brought it to his lips. “Since this is the first time we’ve worked together, you should know that I get heavily involved in the design. I can be a bit obsessive about the typeface, the chapter ornaments. You should probably get your people going on it; I’ve been known to change my mind numerous times. Same thing for the cover.”
I gulped; at my previous house, we never ran the interior design by authors. They were lucky to get a good gander at the jacket before it went to press. “Okay, I’ll get the art department started.” I put down my fork as Dermot polished off his steak.
“You know, the Book Awards are coming up next month. I’m pretty confident my latest novel’s a shoe-in,” he said.
I knew that Dermot’s first book had won the prestigious award. “I imagine Ted has reserved a table. I’ll ask him about it.”
“You’ll have to come, too.” Dermot put his hand over mine and gazed at me. His eyes seemed to radiate a searing heat; they really were an amazing shade of blue. “It would be a good opportunity for you to mingle with the hoi polloi,” he added. “We’ll have to get you out and about more, Ms. Nash. I hadn’t even heard of you before you started at Hawtey House. You don’t want hide your light under a bushel.”
In spite of myself, I blushed. “I’ll try to go.” I envisioned myself at the fancy annual ceremony that everyone-who-was-anyone in publishing attended. Of course, I’d never been to one in the past; assistants weren’t invited unless they were helping check people in at the door.
The waiter brought the bill, and I reached for it. “It’s on Hawtey,” I said, and Dermot didn’t give me an argument. I tried not to gasp when I saw the amount: almost two hundred dollars.
Dermot smiled. “Elaine always gives me a break on the tab. She adores writers. That couple over there in Siberia—” he nodded toward a pair seated near the kitchen who were obviously out-of-towners—“will make up the difference.”
How unfair to them, I thought as I signed the bill. We got our wraps from the coat-check girl, and Dermot gave her a five as he took his briefcase. “This was great,” I said as we stepped onto the icy sidewalk. “Do you have the pages? I thought I’d start digging in tonight.”
Dermot pinned his gaze on me. “I’m still polishing, but you’ll have them by next week.”
I can’t believe it—this long, drawn-out dinner was for nothing? What will I put down for “Purpose” on my expense account—“Kissing Up to Author”?
“This was wonderful. We’ll have to do it again soon,” Dermot continued as he stuck out his arm to hail me a cab. Before I got in, he put his hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes.
“I know we’re going to be really good together,” he murmured. I caught a waft of his cologne as
he came closer. He just missed my lips, and for a split second I felt my knees go weak. Dermot helped me into the cab and shut the door. Through the window I watched him stroll down the street in the other direction; I knew from the rolodex card that he lived only a few blocks away.
The taxi flew downtown, easily catching a string of green lights since it was past ten. I gazed out the window, my thoughts flickering with the passing streetlamps. I pictured Dermot’s strong hands turning his onyx ring; his smile flashing in his tanned face. If I wasn’t seeing Jack, I’d almost—
The driver stomped the brakes for a cyclist, and I threw out my hands to avoid hitting the partition. I dug for the seatbelt, but it was buried too far down in the crack. Listen, stupid, I told myself as the cab zoomed forward. What are you thinking? Even if you weren’t with Jack, you can’t dip your pen in the company ink. You could jeopardize your new job—and look like a fool. Dermot’s flirting is probably just a knee-jerk reaction. He’s the type of guy that comes on to any female under seventy.
The taxi passed 23rd Street, and then 14th. Sober up; you need to figure out what to tell Ted about the manuscript, I thought. Maybe I should have pushed Dermot harder, but until the last minute I’d assumed he’d brought the pages with him. Hawtey was counting on this—and so was I. It was my first shot at editing a literary lion and a Book Award contender. Although I hadn’t worked on the novel that was nominated, for a moment I let myself imagine Dermot’s words of gratitude to his current editor in his acceptance speech; all eyes on me at the glittering ceremony. I’d have to do whatever it took to get him to hand it over.
The Floor’s first concert had been the previous night, but I hadn’t heard from Jack since he called to let me know he’d arrived. I knew the tour involved long, late hours, but I was still on-edge, particularly after what Suzanne had said about the seductresses who’d be circling.
Finally I got hold of him right before they left for the next city. With the bad connection, I could barely hear.
“How did it go in San Francisco?” I shouted into the phone.
“—whirlwind. So far, so good.”
“What did you guys do last night?” I asked.
“We hit a few parties after the show. Hey, lemme say hi to Muddy.”
I held out the phone and Jack called his name, eliciting frantic barks from our puppy. I put the receiver back to my ear. “He misses you too. How’s the—”
“All right, I’m coming,” he said to someone. “I’ve gotta go.”
“I love you!” I called out, but he had already hung up.
“You must be so psyched,” Vicky said as she took a bite of brown rice. The Life Café had opened a few months ago on Avenue B in the East Village. The tiny coffeehouse was already a happening place with its wildly collaged storefront, performance art, and poetry readings. Being into all things hip, Vicky had wanted to check it out.
“I can’t wait. Only ten more days until my flight to St. Louis,” I said.
Vicky contemplated her tofu. “You lucky dog. Maybe I should have hung in there with Sammy, after all.”
“He didn’t deserve you.” I tasted my chili. “This is delicious. I can’t believe it’s only fifty cents.”
“They’ll have to raise their prices if they want to stay in business. Although I imagine all the neighborhood junkies like the cheap eats.” She was alluding to the heroin addicts who occupied the decrepit buildings around Tompkins Square. “Did you ever hear from Jack?”
“No, and I’ve stopped leaving messages. They’re playing a different city every other day, so it’s been chaotic.” I supposed he had to be in his room sometime to shower and change clothes, but I hadn’t figured out when exactly that was. He wasn’t there at three in the afternoon, or six p.m., or even four in the morning. Or else he was there, but too preoccupied to pick up, a wicked inner voice suggested. “When I did get through to him last weekend, a bunch of other people were in the room talking at the same time. It’s really frustrating.”
“I guess that’s to be expected.” Vicky raised her finger to signal to the harried waitress. “You’re getting me into the Madison Square Garden show, right?”
“I told Jack to put you on the list. You’ll be right next to me in the front row.”
Vicky smiled her catlike smile. “Maybe Sammy and I should have a reunion fuck.”
“Vicky! Would you really?” But I already knew the answer to that.
“I kind of miss the whole rock star scene. None of the guys I’ve been seeing really do it for me.” She fluffed her blonde pixie cut.
“Are you still going out with that investment banker?” I asked.
“Once in a while. He’s got an endless supply of toot, but he has trouble getting it up. I’m not sure it’s worth the effort. And that guy from the Explorer’s Club took me out to dinner. He wanted to come home with me, but I couldn’t muster any interest.”
“Maybe you’re better off focusing on work for the time being. Until someone you really like comes along,” I suggested.
“I don’t know. This guy I deal with at a PR agency has been calling me. I may go out with him this weekend.” She sighed. “Or I may just stay home and work. I have to come up with four press releases by next week. And we’re getting ready to send Marcia Sitwell on a twelve-city tour for her new thriller. I really dread it; she’s such a bitch.”
“I took my big author out the other night.” I filled her in on my dinner with Dermot.
Vicky narrowed her gold-flecked green eyes. “Sounds like he has the hots for you.”
I finished the last dregs of my drink. “Oh, I’m sure he acts that way with all the girls. He made a big fuss over Elaine, and she has to be sixty if she’s a day.”
“I would string him along a little, at least until you get his manuscript.” She waved again, and the server finally noticed us. “Then you can drop your sweet demeanor and snip off all his dangling participles.”
“Having drunk my beer, the waitress brought the check,” I said, riffing on Vicky’s little grammar joke.
“Wearing a fabulous dress, the author admired his editor at the Book Awards,” Vicky added as she put down some cash.
“Needing to keep her job, the taxi took the editor home so she could do some work.” I left money for my half.
“Being a wet blanket, the publicist said goodnight to her spoilsport friend.”
Laughing, we stepped outside and walked over to First Avenue, where we caught cabs going in separate directions.
Chapter Fifteen
Start Me Up
The third week Jack was gone, I started getting more and more excited about flying out to meet him in St. Louis. I imagined our passionate kiss; his hands on my body; making love over and over in a big hotel bed. I wanted to run my tongue over every inch of him, and I wanted to hear him say once again that he loved me. When I managed to get through on the phone the night before I left, I told him how sad I’d been dropping off Muddy at the kennel. Jack commiserated with me, and while our conversation was short, it was also sweet—somewhat assuaging the worries that had been building up over the weeks with hardly any contact.
I was so worked up on the plane that I couldn’t even read my tattered copy of Anna Karenina. A driver held up a placard with my name in the baggage area, and I followed him to the car. The temperature in St. Louis was in the fifties; a nice break from the frigid weather back in New York. Jack couldn’t meet me at the airport because he and Patrick had to do an interview, so I sat alone in the backseat on the way to the hotel, fairly vibrating with anticipation. I gave my name at the front desk and tapped my foot in the elevator on the way up. These lodgings weren’t nearly as fancy as the Chateau Marmont, where we’d stayed for the concerts in L.A. last summer, but I couldn’t care less. I would have been happy at a Motel Six.
I knocked a shave-and-a-haircut on the door of room 1009. It swung open, and Jack stood there with a tired smile on his face, deep smudges under his eyes. His unruly mane stood up in tufts, s
till damp from a recent shower. A five o’clock shadow darkened his cheeks. He was dressed the way I liked: no shirt and a pair of low-slung faded jeans, his lightning bolt necklace glinting on his bare chest.
“Hello, baby.” He gestured me inside, and I dove into his arms. “Hey, I think you missed me,” he said as I smooched his face.
“I couldn’t wait to see you.” Jack’s embrace seemed to lack his usual energy, but even so, it sent flickers of desire zinging through me.
“C’mon in.” He drew me back through the suite. It looked like a bomb had gone off in his luggage: belts and boots and guitars and rolling papers everywhere. I stopped short at the entrance to the bedroom and stared.
“Oh my god.”
“What?” Jack said.
I pointed upward. A gigantic mirror covered the entire ceiling, reflecting the messy bed, his clothes thrown over a chair, me standing there looking up. “What is that?”
Jack shrugged. “Came with the room. Okay with you if we lie down? I was just trying to get a little shut-eye; I’ve been up five nights running. We have to leave for the arena in a couple of hours.”
This wasn’t the reception I’d been anticipating. Couldn’t he have gotten some rest before I came? I wondered.
I slipped under the covers and ran my fingers through the fine dark hair on his chest. Gazing down at his handsome face on the pillow, I saw how utterly wiped out he was; the lines at the sides of his mouth more deeply etched, traces of last night’s makeup on his eyelids. I laid my head on his chest, feeling his heart thumping, breathing in his nice clean soap smell.
“Wanna order some food?” he mumbled.
“I’m fine. Maybe I’ll just get some water.” I dug my toothbrush out of my bag and went into the bathroom. As I brushed, I noticed that everything looked pristine; towels stacked neatly, toilet paper folded in a sharp V. A package of deodorants of an unfamiliar brand was sitting on the shelf next to a few unopened hotel soaps. I didn’t see his toothbrush or razor. They’d been in St. Louis for over a day already, but there was no shampoo on the shelf. I touched the interior wall of the shower; it was dry as a bone. Has Jack been staying in someone else’s room? The thought spasmed my gut. But maybe he used Sammy’s, I told myself. I knew they sometimes passed out in the middle of partying.
