Doris rolled down the window and shouted, “Come out in about fifteen minutes once you’ve scouted the land and let us know our plan of attack.”
She then roared off in a cloud of dust as she headed toward the parking lot. Plan of attack. Oh no. She was in war mode again.
Once Stacy and I got inside, the atmosphere seemed almost festive, as they were just breaking from the morning session. At the entrance, we were issued nametags for the conference. Stacy found her peers, and I was chopped liver. So off I went to scout the building for Operation Rejected Writers’ Book Club.
There seemed to be only one entrance, and there were a lot of volunteers buzzing about. It was going to be hard. I felt like a teenager trying to sneak my friends into the movie theater. I made my way to the bathroom, and when I got there, I found the answer I was looking for. The bathroom windows opened out to the parking lot, and the windows were a fair size. I surmised Ethel and Annie would possibly fit through them. However, Doris was another matter. Giggling to myself, I shook my head. This was so ridiculous.
Chapter Eighteen
GATE-CRASHING THE LADIES’ BATHROOM
Hurrying to the front entrance again, I stepped outside. The girls were already waiting there, as if they were a bunch of groupies.
“Well?” asked Doris.
Informing them about the bathroom window, I tried, as tactfully as possible, to tell Doris about the size.
“We’ll make it work,” she said. “Synchronize your watches, and we’ll meet you around the back in five minutes.”
Rushing back in, I was halfway through the foyer when a hand grabbed my arm. It was Stacy. She looked gray.
“I’m going to be sick,” she managed to say as she gulped for air.
“This way.” I took her arm.
We made it into the bathroom with seconds to spare, and even though there was a line, it cleared pretty fast for the heaving pregnant woman.
Waiting for Stacy, I studied the windows in detail. They were at the far end of the room, but I noted they could be seen easily as you entered the bathroom. It was going to be tricky getting the girls in undetected. As I stood there listening to my heaving daughter, three faces appeared at the window.
The glass was beveled for privacy, so their faces were distorted, but still it was obvious to me who they were.
A woman entered the bathroom, and I did my best to distract her by making light banter about pregnancy while I steered her gaze away from the windows and toward the décor of the ladies’ room. As soon as a cubicle became free, she made a pretty sharp exit into the toilet, obviously feeling the need to get away from the crazy lady talking about all the different types of soap dispensers she had encountered in her life.
As soon as she was safely in her stall, I made a beeline for the windows. They were high, so I climbed onto a vanity chair to reach them. Cracking the window, I hissed at the girls to get out of sight.
“I’ll let you know when the way is clear.”
I just managed to get those words out before one of the stalls opened. Stacy emerged, bedraggled and worn.
“What are you doing?”
“Oh, I was just admiring these . . . uh . . . lovely windows,” I lied, getting down from the chair and placing it back in front of a mirrored dressing table.
She gave me an odd look and then made her way over to me. In front of the windows was a plush pink velour couch that she collapsed into, saying, “I think I need to rest for a minute.”
“Okay,” I said tightly, wondering how long Curly, Larry, and Moe could loiter outside a women’s bathroom window without being arrested.
Stacy started rambling on about her job, how it was all going to change now that she was pregnant and just how unhappy she was. I only half-listened, as I was suddenly aware of the window opening above her. Doris was obviously becoming impatient, and I could feel her eyes boring down on me from above. Stacy seemed oblivious to anything as she complained about her life. I flicked at my hair, trying to conceal the fact I was signaling to Doris to get out of sight. Even without looking at her directly, I sensed she wasn’t happy.
Finally, Stacy got up, saying she was ready to join the others.
“We have to sit with my client for lunch,” she informed me. “You’ll stay close by, won’t you, Mom?”
The last comment was said in her little-girl voice, and suddenly she was ten years old again and vulnerable.
“Of course.”
She started for the door before she realized I wasn’t following.
“Are you coming?” she asked, reverting to impatient Stacy.
“Umm . . .” I stalled. “In a minute. I just need to powder my nose.”
She knitted her brow and moved toward the door. “Okay. But don’t be long. I’ll save you a place at our table.”
She left, and luckily the bathroom appeared to be empty for a moment. Quickly I opened the window as far as I could. “Come on,” I hissed through the gap.
What followed was nothing short of a comedy skit. Annie and Doris hoisted up Ethel and practically threw her headfirst through the open window. Fortunately, I was there to catch her as she landed on the sofa, bouncing like a teddy bear. I couldn’t believe it had been so easy. I started to laugh as Annie’s head appeared. Not quite as petite as Ethel, she was going to be a little more difficult. Doris hoisted her up as best she could, and she started to squeeze herself, huffing and puffing, through the window.
Suddenly, one of the toilets flushed. We all gave each other one of those looks as the stall door opened. We just had enough time to shove Annie back out through the window and for Ethel and I to look nonchalant as the occupant gave us a quick look and made her way to the sinks. I’d obviously missed the fact that she hadn’t exited. There was a muffled noise coming from outside the window, which I was pretty sure was Doris swearing.
Once the woman had left the room, we started again. This time, with much pulling and pushing, the baby was born right onto that pink velour couch. We all laughed with relief.
Doris stuck her head in through the window.
“There’s no way I’m going to get in this little bitty thing since I have a full, womanly figure. I’ll just have to find another way. You need to locate that publisher guy, so when I get in I can start talking to him. Now go on, and remember, the fate of our Rejected Writers’ Book Club lies in all your hands.”
Like the anthill mob, we all bundled out of the bathroom on our mission. We had to find . . . we had to find . . . I had a senior moment. I couldn’t remember his name or his publishing company. Lot of good I was. From the blank look I got back from the girls when I asked them, it was obvious they didn’t remember either.
As we reached the main entrance, we saw that the conference volunteers had just finished setting up for lunch. We decided to split up and see if any of the names on the name badges around people’s necks rang a bell. I started loitering around the room, staring at people’s chests. Stacy found me.
“Where have you been?” she demanded.
“I got hung up in the bathroom.”
She shot me a scowl. “Remember, I need you to sit with me. You can make excuses for me if I suddenly have to leave. I have to listen to our client talk about his book.”
She turned from me then and waved to a bespectacled, awkward-looking man in an expensive suit, who joined her. By his side was a tall blond who looked as if he’d been cut out of cheese, just too good-looking, not a hair out of place. There was something oddly familiar about him. They made an unusual pair.
Stacy introduced them both to me, the tall blond was Brian Smith. His name didn’t ring a bell, but I was sure I knew him. Suddenly, I remembered. He was in the picture on the desk back at the publisher’s, but the name wasn’t familiar. This must be Mr. Gilbert’s partner. All at once, I remembered the publisher’s name.
“Mark Gilbert!” I blurted out, excitedly.
Brian and Stacy stopped talking.
“Do you know my partner?” he inqu
ired, appearing a little bemused by my sudden Tourette-style outburst.
“Sort of, yes,” I said smiling sweetly as I delicately retrieved an hors d’oeuvre from a passing waiter with a silver tray.
“He’s here somewhere,” he noted, looking around. “He’s always so popular. I suppose I’d better go and find him and a place to sit. We have friends here somewhere. We were hoping to catch up with them.”
“Won’t you and Mark sit with us?” I blurted out, totally inappropriately.
Stacy gave me one of those “Mother!” looks.
Mark Gilbert appeared at his partner’s side. He looked a little harried. Thrusting out my hand, I introduced myself. Mark looked a little bemused as I added, “As you know, I’m such a great admirer of your work.”
He peered at me as if he were trying to remember me.
“We would love it if you and Brian could join us at our table. You could tell me all about the books you’re publishing right now.”
Brian looked bewildered and attempted to work them out of the noose I was stringing up for them.
“Aren’t we sitting with Chad?” inquired Brian.
“Yes, I thought so,” responded Mark, obviously still trying to place me. “But I can’t find him.”
His interest was piqued, I could tell, and he even appeared to be close to sitting down with us just to find out who I was. I didn’t waste a second.
“I haven’t been over to your office since you had it renovated.”
Stacy looked at me as if I had gone mad.
“How did the black leather chaise work out?”
Now I had his attention. It was obvious by the way his face lit up that decorating was his passion. He started to go into a whole stream of details about how hard it had been to find just the right choice of furniture and where to place it in his office. He took a drink from a tray and sat down next to me at the table. Doris would be proud. I listened intently as he rambled on and pretended to be interested in all the intricate details of his redecoration. Ethel and Annie saw me sit and wandered over to the table. While he was reaching over to encourage his partner to sit down, I gestured to them that he was the one.
Brian attempted to join us, but before he could get close, the girls sat down next to Mark, forcing him to sit on the other side of Annie. Brian looked bewildered at this sudden onslaught of old ladies but settled himself down with a glass of white wine. My daughter seemed mortified to see Ethel and Annie as she and her client prepared to sit with us at the same table.
“How did they get in?” she hissed into my ear as Mark Gilbert was taking a swig of water in between telling me about the dangers of decorating with camel fur and the side effects of using lead-based paints.
“This is the guy we need to speak to,” I whispered, not moving my lips.
Ethel, for some odd reason, sat smiling up at him. It was extremely disconcerting. I’d never seen her smile before. She looked like an odd little ventriloquist dummy. Annie, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to her mission and was enjoying helping herself to a bread roll. It occurred to me that without Doris we were adrift, a ship without an anchor of hope.
I was wondering if I should try to find her when the most bizarre thing happened. A waitress appeared at our table to add water to our glasses. I turned to thank her, and it was Doris herself. She winked at me, asking Stacy if she would like some water. Stacy looked up, and when she saw Doris in her little white apron, she practically choked on the bread she was nibbling to curb her nausea.
“We’re overrun by them,” she spat at me.
I blinked innocently. “Overrun by what, dear?”
“Your little old lady friends!” she snapped back.
I noticed Doris was filling Mark Gilbert’s glass and gesturing with her head for me to follow her. Waiting a second or two, I then excused myself from the table. As I got up, I overheard Annie talking to Brian about the different knitting patterns she liked best and the challenge of knitting sweaters for dogs. By the look of bemusement on Brian’s face, I could see this wasn’t going to be a luncheon he would forget in a hurry.
I followed Doris toward the back of the room to a little serving station when she beckoned me closer as she picked up another full water jug.
“How did you get in?” I asked.
“As I walked around the building, I noticed a group of ladies filing into the kitchen being checked in by a supervisor. Listening, I overheard one of the women saying that Antonia wouldn’t be here, as she was sick. The supervisor seemed agitated and commented that they wouldn’t have time to contact the agency to get a replacement. That’s when I stepped forward and said Antonia had sent me to cover her shift.
“The supervisor didn’t seem particularly convinced, saying about the proper regulations and so forth, but I could see she was desperate for another body. She then asked me about my experience, so I told her I’d worked at the Little Red Wagon. Remember? The place we stopped off in Oregon, for lunch? She told me to go and put on a uniform and that she would check my references. As soon as she was gone, I found a phone and called Betty. She was more than happy to help and gave me a glowing reference, saying I’d worked for them for years.
“Now,” she said, moving away with her water jug, “this is the plan. Make sure he has a really good time and drinks plenty of wine during the meal. Once you’ve got him all liquored up, I’ll come in for the kill and get my manuscript back and a rejection letter out of him.”
Walking back to the table, all I wanted to do was walk straight out of the front door, get in my car, drive all the way home, and crawl into my bed. But instead, I found my feet walking me to the table, and I sat down, ready to play my part.
As the salads were served, I plunged in.
“Tell me about the publishing business,” I asked as I heaped a forkful of salad into my mouth.
Mark Gilbert launched into a spiel he obviously rehearsed for gatherings such as this. I tried to listen attentively, all about statistics and pie charts. Doris arrived at our table and started taking away the salad plates so slowly that I was amazed it wasn’t obvious to everyone else at the table.
“So,” I asked, trying to be tactful, “it must be very difficult to decide on the books you’re going to publish?”
Doris was at his shoulder like a soldier with a tower of salad plates. He didn’t seem to notice her, but I was starting to sweat. He launched into another long speech about the number of manuscripts he has to read. He finished with, “There are only a select few that we can put our energy behind, and we work hard for those authors.”
With those words, Doris sprung to life and grabbed at his plate before he’d even finished his salad and left him sitting there, holding his fork.
“Poor devils,” she spat out without lowering her tone, and marched off.
He knitted his brow, trying to figure out Doris’s comment. She was back again soon, filling up his glass of wine almost to the top and giving me a wink.
I tried my best to continue. “It must be difficult sorting through them all and having to write to them to let them know if you’ve accepted them or not.”
With that comment, Doris slammed a plate of lemon chicken in front of him. He looked at her, a little surprised, but continued talking as Doris very slowly made her way around the rest of the table, serving food.
“Oh yes, I have an assistant to do that. But between you and me, she is utterly hopeless.”
“She sends out your letters?”
“Yes. I just couldn’t possibly do them all myself.”
One of the other occupants of the table turned to Doris and asked if he could get a refill of his water glass. She brushed him off coldly. “In a minute,” she grunted as she continued to eavesdrop on our conversation.
It was as dessert was being served that the final straw came for Doris.
“Sometimes we have to send out thirty or forty rejection letters a week. I do have to read the most appalling stuff.”
That was it. Doris sn
apped as she slammed down the crème brûlée in front of him.
“Why couldn’t you just send one to us? We’re at 475, for goodness’ sake! We were a few months away from our rejection celebration, and the money was going to forgotten children. You could have easily put one in an envelope.”
The whole table became silent at Doris’s outburst.
“My dear,” said Mark Gilbert, obviously used to dealing with stroppy authors, “have I done something to offend you?”
“Yes, you have.” She pulled me out of my chair and took the seat next to him. “You’ve accepted my manuscript and want to make a book out of it!”
He looked confused.
“How terrible of me. Let me offer my sincere regret at wanting to give you some money and get your life’s work out to the masses.”
“Exactly. As if anyone in their right mind wants that.”
He started to laugh. “So why, exactly, did you send it to me if you didn’t want it published?”
“All I wanted was number 476,” she snapped back.
“Sorry? You’ve lost me.”
“All I wanted was a rejection letter for my group, the Rejected Writers’ Book Club of Island County!”
He raised his eyebrows and seemed to be enjoying this lively banter. “The who?”
“My rejection group. We collect rejection letters from publishers and keep them in a scrapbook. We’re at nearly five hundred,” added Doris proudly.
“Well, forgive me for liking it,” he said, pouting and taking a sip of his wine. “What is the name of your masterpiece?”
“Love in the Forest.”
“Love in the Forest?” He screwed up his eyes as if he were trying to remember. “I don’t think I know of that book.”
“Yes, you do!” said Doris as she pulled out the acceptance letter and slammed it down on the table.
He pulled out a pair of Armani reading glasses and started to look over it. “Oh dear,” he muttered as he finished it.
“Exactly. Isn’t that the most depressing letter you’ve ever read?”
The Rejected Writers' Book Club (Southlea Bay) Page 20
