by Melissa Ford
WHEN AMY, my editor, writes to tell me that the manuscript pages are ready for first pass, I tell her that I’d like to swing by the office to pick them up rather than having them mailed. Getting face time with the publisher should be one of the perks of living in Manhattan, though this will be my first time by the office. Amy sounds a little taken aback in her response email, telling me that I don’t have to bother with the subway ride, but acquiesces to a meeting when I tell her that I have impossibly exciting news.
I take the subway to Midtown and orient myself, looking upward at the glassy towers. It is mind-blowing to think about my book being inside, that numerous people at the publisher are all bent over my manuscript, copy-editing it, designing covers, choosing the font. Of course, in my daydream, they are treating my manuscript with utmost care, cradling it like a baby. They would never use mine as a coaster for someone’s cup of coffee.
The walls of the vast front lobby are covered with enormous poster board book covers, some of which I recognize from the bestseller table at the bookstore. A workman is taking down one of the posters and replacing it with a cookbook cover that is easily double his size. I proceed to the security desk where a bored-looking woman takes my name and types it into a computer.
“Amy Appelstein is expecting me,” I add, wanting to make it clear that I’m not a random writer from off the street, here to beg a publisher to take me on, my crumpled manuscript in hand.
“Floor 22,” the woman barks at me, handing over a visitor’s swipe card attached to a lanyard. I take it over to the security turnstiles and use it to walk through, throwing it around my neck once I’m at the elevator bay.
It all feels impossibly glamorous, taking the same elevator ride that I imagine all my favorite authors take at some point in their career. I try to ignore the discarded Styrofoam cup rolling around on the floor behind me as well as the fact that the button for floor 18 is visibly damp. I am a writer, I repeat silently to myself.
When the doors open, a petite blond woman smiles at me politely, as if she has been training for this moment when the elevator doors open, and she will greet whoever is on the other side of the metal barrier. “Rachel Goldman?” she asks. “I’m Amy Appelstein. Doris at the front desk let me know you were on your way. This place is such a maze that I thought it best to meet you at the elevator.”
She is carrying a half-empty water bottle and pen, as if she were lifted out of her desk mid-task and deposited by the elevator bank. I follow her past a row of cubicles and closed door offices. Most people don’t even look up as I pass, and I try not to stare at the mounds of books on their desks. At some point, my book will be in their pile, I think with pride. Which is immediately followed by a sense of dread: at some point, my book will be in their pile, just another book to deal with in a long line of books being churned out.
Maybe this is why the publisher tried to discourage me from showing up.
Amy Appelstein has an office with a door, and she leaves it open as I sit down in the chair across from her desk, which is reminiscent of a trip to the principal’s office, if the principal was an extremely well-read woman. The built-in shelves that line three walls nearly to the ceiling are stuffed with books. The ones that are too large to stand upright—cookbooks and coffee table photo books—are lying on their sides atop beds of paperbacks. Along the floor are several more knee-high stacks of books along with hundreds of paper manuscripts held together with binder clips. The only surface not covered by books or manuscripts is the enormous desk calendar, which is heavily covered in blue ballpoint pen appointments. I get the distinct feeling that I should speak quickly to not waste time she could spend reading books or meeting with more important people.
“It is so great to meet you, Rachel. I love meeting our authors.” Her eyes trail off to the stack of manuscripts right near her left wrist. “Actually, since you’re here, I can show you the PDF of the book cover that design sent me this morning. Normally I would just email it to you.”
With a few clicks to her keyboard, she brings up an image on the screen and swivels the monitor so I can see it. The cover is the silhouette of a 1950’s housewife standing at the sink, her back to the reader. She is holding a diamond ring in a skillet, and the skillet is caught in mid-tip over the sink, the ring about to tumble into the garbage disposal. (Were there garbage disposals in the 1950s?) Flowery red writing along the left side proclaims: The Divorced Girl’s Guide to Starting Your Life from Scratch.
I’m not sure how I imagined the cover nor do I know exactly how to feel about the image. Amy stares at the image too, avoiding looking at my face, perhaps regretting not just emailing me the PDF minutes after I leave her office. I try to smile as I get accustomed to the cover. “It’s great!” I say, a bit too excited.
“I think they did a really good job with it,” Amy agrees. “It’s eye-catching.”
Amy swivels the screen back around, and my cover disappears. She takes out a manuscript and a small Xeroxed guide of instructions. “This is your chance to look over the manuscript,” she tells me, pushing the materials across the desk to me. “Make sure our copyeditors didn’t miss anything. Look at the layout. At this point, there can only be minor changes. It’s all outlined there in the guide.”
I nod my head, feeling decidedly overwhelmed. Holding a series of pages that look like a Xeroxed copy of my book, staring at a book cover, it all feels too real and too enormous. I can’t say that I’ve been waiting for this moment for a lifetime, but certainly, since I set my mind to writing a book, it has been a huge desire. And now that the moment is here, it’s almost like facing a vacation you both want to experience and you don’t want to start, because then it will be that much closer to being over.
“So what’s the big news you wanted to share with me?” Amy prompts, glancing down at the list of appointments noted on her desk calendar.
“It’s actually very cool. I’m getting remarried. Actually, I’m getting remarried to my ex-husband,” I tell her.
“Wow,” she says slowly. “Congratulations.”
“That actually isn’t the cool part. I mean, well, that part is cool for me,” I correct, realizing how it makes me sound right after the words leave my mouth, “but the part I thought you’d be excited about is that the New York Times wants to feature us as the couple for the Sunday Styles wedding section. My mother-in-law has a connection at the Times, and when she told him our story, he agreed that we’d make a great feature. So, it’s perfect—huge publicity because of course I’ll mention the book.”
“Rachel,” Amy begins carefully. “This is obviously wonderful news. A wedding is just . . . and the fact that it’s your ex-husband again . . . wow. But the timing for this in regards to the book couldn’t be worse. This is a divorce guide. The women buying it will be in the throes of heartbreak. The last thing they want to see is the person doling out divorce advice wearing a big white dress. Think back to when you first left your husband—I mean, for the first time—would you have wanted to take your advice from someone happily ensconced in a relationship or someone who is just a bit farther down the line than you are, but still in the trenches?”
“I guess someone in the trenches?” I ask more as a question than a definitive answer. Back then, I was so desperate for any idea that could dampen the pain that I would have probably accepted advice from random joggers in Central Park. I didn’t even want to know the person’s backstory—I just wanted to know how to get over Adam. But my palms feel clammy as I see how much Amy’s point mirrors my own initial thoughts about announcing my news on my blog. I just didn’t think it would trump the New York Times.
Amy continues that it could look condescending to be standing there at the podium, flashing a diamond ring (I unconsciously cover my gold Me&Ro rings with my other hand) and talking about divorce when I am so clearly remarried. She pauses short of pointing out that I wasn’t even divorced all that long in
the grand scheme of things. A bead of sweat starts making its way from my underarm into my bra despite the building’s liberal use of air-conditioning.
“What did your readers say when you announced it on the blog?” Amy broaches.
“I haven’t yet,” I admit.
“Interesting,” Amy says.
Amy’s pointed gaze confirms what has been one of my biggest fears in the back of my mind: there’s a chance that I could lose my readership if I admit that I’m about to walk down the aisle again. I would love to think that people would be thrilled for us, but what if they weren’t? What if people started seeing me as a divorce poser, someone who for all intents and purposes simply took a break a step too far? It’s one thing for me to think this, but it’s another to have my publisher echo what has been in the back of my head all along.
“Rachel, I would never ask you to lie,” Amy says carefully, “but maybe it would be a good idea to keep the marriage a little more discreet. Not flaunt it or draw attention to it. I mean, a ring can mean . . . anything. While I usually think any publicity is good publicity, I don’t think the article in the New York Times is going to translate to book sales in this case. It could really hurt your position as a divorce expert.”
A divorce expert. An expert on divorce. What the hell do I know about divorce, I think as I find my own way back to the elevator bay after I insist that I remember the route. I don’t, but taking a bunch of wrong turns is preferable to walking with Amy. The reality is that I know bloody little about divorce when I compare myself to some of my readers. I never had to work out a custody arrangement or parent a child while setting aside a seething hatred toward my former spouse. I didn’t even go on that many post-divorce dates before I ended back in the exact same place I began.
And here I was thinking that the only things I didn’t know anything about were marriage or weddings.
I return my security badge at the front desk and step outside into the stifling New York City summer heat, remorseful that I swung by the office in the first place. There’s a point to why email exists, and in the future, I’ll remember to use it.
Chapter Six
I POUR A generous cup of Pinot Noir over the rabbit ragu that Jared and I are making together and watch the liquid quietly simmer amongst the carrots and onions. It is strange to be preparing rabbit, a meat I never thought would end up one day in my mouth, especially a recipe that is flavored with pancetta. I am not a bacon person. It is stranger still to have a cooking partner other than Adam. With Adam out of town to help Lisbeth and Emily close up life in Chicago, and Jared without his boyfriend, Mike, it made sense to consolidate and dirty one kitchen instead of two once Alex, the chef, asked us if we’d like to work together. And I’m grateful to be working with a partner who is willing to chop up the raw rabbit.
Until I had to work with someone else, I never realized what a great rhythm I have with Adam in the kitchen. It’s always clear which person will do which task. It’s different with Jared. I keep bumping into him, reaching for the same tool or ingredients at the same time. We work back to back for several minutes and don’t realize that we are both making the exact same salad dressing until we turn around and see the identical carafes filled with the same amber-colored liquid.
“Here, Oona,” Jared tells her, passing one of our carafes over the low wall dividing the two kitchens. “We made two.”
Oona trades us a shot glass of her ever-present root beer schnapps, and I clink glasses with Jared and down it in one gulp. Prior to this class, root beer schnapps was something I never thought would land on my palate. I will have to remain in contact with Oona once this class ends if for no other reason than the fact that she will make all future dinner parties more interesting.
“Sorry about that,” I tell Jared, checking on the ragu.
“Oh no, it’s totally my fault,” Jared says gallantly.
We return to our awkward kitchen dance, side-stepping around each other to grab serving pieces and ladling in the plum tomatoes to finish off the main dish. Neither the UN woman nor the poet transcriber is there in the class, and Alex tells us that both couples dropped out this afternoon within minutes of each other. He says it in a hushed voice, as if they might overhear. He sounds bewildered, as if wondering how anyone could put their social issues before the construction of a rabbit ragu.
Which means that with all the absences and drop outs, we have a small group headed to the dining table. Oona and Xavier set down their ragu next to our tureen, and Alex slides into his usual spot at the head of the table. All of us glance down the row at the six unoccupied chairs—more gone than here—and Oona shrugs, picking up the salad tongs to serve the food.
“It is their loss,” Oona announces, even though I don’t really picture her craving rabbit and pancetta. Or maybe once you live long enough, you stop being grossed out by certain foods and are just grateful that food exists. “And it’s just silly to let a small thing like a school come in the way of a great friendship.”
“Is it a great friendship if a school can come in between it?” Jared asks. “You know what I mean? Maybe it wasn’t such a great friendship to begin with if something that small can drive you apart.”
“Only those two couples know if they had a good friendship,” Xavier agrees.
“I mean, anyone can have a great relationship if they never have to encounter a major issue. But it’s those moments, when you’re dealing with disappointment or conflicting needs, that tell you the strength of the friendship.”
I nod wanly, staring at the ragu on my plate, unable to take a bite. I’m not thinking about cute rabbits with their little, twitching noses or even the Easter bunny. My mind is filled with voluptuous women in raggedy ears trolling around the Playboy mansion. I’m thinking about Jessica Rabbit and her enormous rack. I aim my fork at the side salad and start picking at the romaine lettuce.
“Fine, so be silly and lose the friendship,” Oona concedes, “but don’t let it keep you from your class. From learning something.”
“Maybe they didn’t really care about cooking,” Jared offers. “Maybe they just signed up for the class because they wanted an activity they could do together. And when they realized they weren’t going to speak to each other in class, it became pointless. I mean, the last few weeks have been awfully uncomfortable, right?”
Alex raises his eyebrows skeptically, and I notice that he’s the only one of us who has dug into his ragu. Jared pushes his portion around his plate, tucking it absentmindedly under lettuce leaves. I am self-consciously pretending it doesn’t exist in my field of vision, but Oona and Xavier are brazenly just drinking their wine, their rabbit unattended on their plate.
“No one likes this dish?” Oona points out bluntly, more a statement than a question. Alex looks hurt, as if the four students leaving as well as our disgust at small game is all his fault.
“You should give rabbit a chance,” Alex tells us. “It’s making a comeback on the New York restaurant scene.”
And it might, but I still can’t bring myself to taste Thumper.
As I’m collecting my bag, I feel someone touch my upper arm. “Wait for me,” Jared says, turning back to the kitchen to grab his own briefcase-like messenger bag. “I’ll walk you home.”
“It’s okay,” I assure him. “I’m not that far away from here. I’ll be fine.”
“I was actually going to suggest if you didn’t have to hurry home that we could grab a bite somewhere,” Jared tells me, falling into step with me on the sidewalk outside. “I didn’t eat the rabbit. You didn’t eat the rabbit.” He gives a smile that if he weren’t gay would definitely be described as flirting. “I hate to dine alone.”
“Oh, so I’m just a warm body to fill the other seat?” I ask dryly.
“Oh yes, totally a cover so I look popular. I care a lot about what the waiters think. Come on, there’s this Tha
i place I love around the corner.”
I follow after Jared feeling vaguely uncomfortable. An image of Arianna and faceless Noah flashes through my brain, but I shake it away. This is not the same thing at all. Jared isn’t even interested in women; nothing could ever come of this. And isn’t that what made Arianna’s coffee date so inappropriate? Because there was always the chance that the two of them could be attracted to one another and cheat? I wouldn’t have been weirded out if Arianna had coffee with a random woman.
Jared pushes the door open and asks for a table for two. It seems so cozy, so wrong to be entering this tiny restaurant with candles burning on every table and soft music playing in the background. It’s one thing if we had grabbed a slice of pizza together. But this is the sort of place you bring a date.
We sit down and smile nervously at one another, still as awkward as we were in the kitchen, especially as I realize how little I know about him. I know he’s dating someone named Mike, I know he works in Manhattan and lives in Brooklyn, that he has a dog. I know that he also doesn’t have a fondness for rabbit meat. Other than that, I’m sitting across from a stranger.“Where was your boyfriend tonight?” Jared asks as I finger the edge of the menu.
“Out in Chicago. He’s helping his sister Lisbeth and her partner move here.”
“There’s no chance that his sister is Lisbeth Goldman, right?” Jared asks, his brow furrowing.
“That is his sister,” I say slowly. “How do you know Lisbeth?”
“That’s so odd. Mike and I are friends with Lis and Emily. In fact, they just stayed with us a few weeks ago.”
Which is sort of crazy. Seven billion people in the world, and he ends up knowing Adam’s sister. “How do you know them?”
“Art scene. Lis was good friends with my ex-boyfriend Judd, and we’re sharing her in the breakup. We’ve been friends for years. That is just so strange that I’ve been cooking next to her brother for weeks and had no idea.”
