by Roxy Sloane
I flushed. “Yes, it has.”
“How personal?” He leaned back in his chair, scrutinizing me, and I had to look away. Then he sighed, and I knew he’d seen my heart on my sleeve. “Listen kid,” he said, “just make sure you take care of yourself. Physically, mentally. Emotionally. Understand?”
I reached across the table and took his hand. “I will. And Solly, thank you.”
That night when I got home, there was a note taped to my door. It was from my landlord—a notification that the chimney in our building was going to be repaired over the next few days. When I read it I smiled; I’d just assumed my fireplace would never be functional. I went inside and texted Jackson: “They’re finally fixing my fireplace! Just thinking about how I’d like to break it in.” I could have added some explicit details, but I kept it low-key and made no references to bearskin rugs. He didn’t text back. I wondered if he was busy working, or just purposely keeping his distance. Maybe both.
I went to bed with the help of a hot bath and a glass of wine, trying to ignore the nagging feeling that Jackson had already moved on.
But the next morning, as I was leaving for work, I received a delivery. A wrought iron log rack and an extra-large bundle of apple wood to put in it, along with a bottle of Macallan. I sent Jackson a quick thank you text on my walk to the subway, and then added: “I like the way you think.” I didn’t wait for him to reply, just tucked my phone into my pocket and made my way down the subway stairs with a grin.
17
I waited until mid-morning to try reaching him on the phone. He wasn’t picking up. Finally I texted: “Would love to talk with you this morning—sadly it’s business, not pleasure.” I knew I had to ask him about the outline; I just couldn’t put it off any longer.
I was wrapping up a meeting with a potential new author I’d reached out to directly when Carolyn buzzed: “Jackson Ford, line one.” The young writer’s face was priceless. “The Jackson Ford?”
“The one and only,” I smiled. “And please do let me know what you and your agent think about working with us in the future.” I shuffled my protégé out of the office and picked up the phone.
“Hi, Jackson. Thank you.” I sank into my chair with a little sigh, not looking forward to the conversation we were about to have.
“For what?” he said playfully. “I thought this was a business call.”
“Oh, it will be. But I really loved the gift. Except I’m still wondering. . . any chance you can get down here sometime soon?” I asked, unable to mask the need in my voice. “For a meeting? A. . . professional meeting. Strictly professional.”
“Why Ellie Parker, are you distracting me from my work?”
“Never.” I laughed. “How are the pages going?”
“Well,” he said, but something in his voice shifted, and he didn’t elaborate. I could sense him withdrawing again, and the last thing I needed was for him to get defensive and avoidant again.
“Hey, I saw Sol yesterday,” I said, hoping the change of subject would smooth over Jackson’s sudden reticence.
“Oh really.” I could hear a smile in his voice. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s great. We had dinner. He loves you.”
“And I’m his biggest fan,” he said.
I relaxed, leaning back in my chair and kicking off my heels. “Yeah, we ran into each other at the Mark Stella launch.”
“Oh, right,” he said. “That’s Jennifer Carpenter’s book?”
“Yes it is.” I sat up, a bit surprised. “How do you know Jennifer Carpenter?”
“She approached me about taking over for Solly, actually. She lobbied pretty hard,” he said with a loaded laugh.
“Really.” I was instantly perturbed. “What do you mean, ‘She lobbied pretty hard’?” Knowing Jennifer, I didn’t like the sound of what I was hearing.
“It was nothing, Ellie.” He dropped his voice to a soothing tone. “The right person got the job, and that’s all that matters.”
“You’re really not going to tell me?” I said. “It was that scandalous?”
“You’re adorable,” Jackson said. “You’re jealous.” He was enjoying it a little too much.
“Maybe, a little bit,” I huffed, spinning in my chair to look out the window, hoping the view would calm me. “You don’t have to sound so happy about it.”
“Ellie, I want you. All the time. Never doubt that.”
“Jackson.” I closed my eyes, pressing a cool hand to the instant flush he always seemed to put in my cheeks. “Why don’t you come down for the weekend?”
“I want to,” he said, “but I need to focus right now. You know the book has priority. You’re the one who insisted on that.”
He was right. And I wasn’t being professional, which was supposedly the entire point of this phone call. Time to switch gears. “Listen, about that,” I said, “I have something to ask you and I know you’re going to hate it, but I have to ask.” I took a breath. “Louise wants an outline.”
There was silence on the line. Then he said, “You’re fucking kidding me.”
“It’s not my idea. You know I’d never—”
“I don’t submit outlines,” he said, incredulous. “It’s not happening. What did you say to her?”
I stood up and paced my office, Jackson’s tense mood transferring to me right through the phone. “What do you think I said? There’s no talking to Louise.”
“That’s bullshit,” he replied.
“Jackson, she’s your publisher. She has a right to ask for an outline, to see where the book is going. Can’t you pull one together, just a few pages, so I have something to show her? We can go over it as a team, and maybe I can—”
“If you want to be an editor, why don’t you start acting like one?” he snapped.
The words stopped me cold. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re my editor. It’s your job to facilitate my process, to advocate for me every step of the way. You’re responsible for creating an environment that’s hospitable to my work,” he spat. “And if you’re going to let Louise run point on this project, you might as well be back in the mail room.”
My cheeks were heating again, but this time it was with anger. I held myself in check and strove for a reasonable tone, knowing more stress would only delay Jackson’s progress further.
“Look, Jackson, you’re already months overdue and I’ve seen exactly three pages. I want to fight for you, and I will, but right now I have no ammunition. This outline could hold her off a bit longer, and you wouldn’t even have to follow it to the letter. You could throw it away once it’s turned in, it’s not a—”
“No.” He cursed under his breath. “This isn’t even about the outline. You know what this is about? Louise doesn’t trust you. She doesn’t trust you to deliver this book.”
Last straw. “She doesn’t trust either of us to deliver this book!”
“Maybe she’s right to think that. And maybe if there was someone with a solid track record editing this book, she’d get off my fucking case. Because you’re a greenhorn, and now she’s treating me like one!”
I was so stung that I couldn’t form words. I bit my lip, telling myself I wouldn’t cry at work, wouldn’t cry on this phone call from hell.
“I don’t have to provide an outline,” Jackson went on, oblivious to my hurt silence. “I don’t have to turn in preview chapters. I don’t have to stick to some random schedule that someone in production who never met me worked up. I present Louise Hayden with a book, and she publishes it. I could retype the fucking phone book and she’d publish it.”
“You know what,” I said, seconds away from losing my cool. “I don’t want to be in the middle of you two.”
He said it quietly, but I could hear the roiling in his voice. “That’s your job. The job you want so much? That’s your job.”
“Oh yeah? You know what your job is?” I stalked over to my desk, ripped open the top drawer, and grabbed my stress ball, sque
ezing it in a death grip. It wasn’t enough. “To write, Jackson. That’s your job. And mine is to edit. But I can’t do my job if you don’t do yours, and right now I have no idea if you are. So, are you? Don’t fucking lie to me. Not when both our asses are on the line.”
There was a long pause, and I wondered if he’d hung up on me. “I will not be sending an outline.” His voice was quiet. He seemed to be trying to calm himself down. “And I’ve told you I’m writing. That’s all I’ve been doing. Do you believe me?”
“Yes,” I said. And I really did.
“Do you believe I will deliver this manuscript?”
“Yes.”
“Then you deal with Louise.” And then he hung up.
I placed the receiver gently on the cradle, ran my hands down my face, and fought back the urge to scream. Carolyn knocked gently on my door.
“You okay?” she said. “That was a little loud.”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks. Carolyn, ask JP if Louise is in her office. Don’t make an appointment, just ask if she’s there.”
“Okay. I’ll get you some more tea, too.”
“Thank you,” I sighed, handing over my empty cup. Carolyn is a saint.
She came back a couple minutes later, passed me my steaming mug, and said, “Yes, she’s there.”
I went to the bathroom first. Made sure no one else was in a stall. And I had a good cry. Then I fixed my face. And I marched directly to Louise’s office. I marched because I felt that if I didn’t I would melt into the floor. I was two doors away when the elevator opened and Luke stepped out. Perfect timing, as always.
“Oh, Ellie,” he said. “When can I come by for those books?”
I struggled to maintain composure. “Tomorrow night, after seven is fine, and I’ll give you exactly fifteen minutes to look around but I guarantee you, I have nothing of yours.”
“Great,” he said. “I’ll come tomorrow.”
It’s like he hadn’t listened to single word I’d just said. Typical Luke. “Fantastic,” I said drily and moved on.
I smiled warmly at JP as I walked past his desk and knocked on Louise’s open door. She looked up, a bit surprised, pen frozen mid-click. “Got a minute?” I asked.
“Sure,” she replied. I entered and closed the door.
“Jackson will not be giving us an outline,” I said evenly, ignoring the scowl spreading across her face. “I know he’s overdue by five months, but that has nothing to do with me. In the short time I’ve been on this project the work I’ve seen from him is light years better than what he’s produced in the past five years. He’s changed direction and I know the work is going to be amazing. So I need you to trust me that I will deliver this book and it will be a great book.”
My heart was pounding. Louise looked me in the eye. She set her pen down.
And then she said, “Okay.”
“Okay,” I said. And I turned to go. I had just reached the door when she spoke again.
“Are you fucking him?”
I looked back at her. “Louise, why did you assign me to Ford?”
She said it without judgement. “He likes smart pussy. I’ll give him smart pussy. He clearly needed motivation, and you delivered it.”
For the second time that day, I absorbed a crippling blow to my confidence. “So, it wasn’t an endorsement of my work. It was an endorsement of my tits?”
“Does that bother you?” she asked.
I held her gaze but I said nothing. I turned and left.
I went straight back to my office and I emailed Jackson.
Jackson,
You were right about the outline, about me advocating for you. I’ve taken care of Louise. Now you only have to deal with me, and finishing the manuscript. When you reach the halfway point, I want to see your work. If you feel comfortable sending me something sooner, please do.
I’m not perfect. I’m going to make mistakes. But you’re not perfect either. Sometimes your anger unsettles me. So if we’re going to fight, let’s fight fair. Let’s give each other the benefit of the doubt.
I’m sorry.
Yours, Ellie
And I hit send.
Then I had a completely unproductive afternoon.
18
On my way home that night, as I rode the escalator down to the A train, I was on autopilot. As usual the subway car was packed, but at Forty-second I noticed an open place beside a large man who sat with his legs spread wide, encroaching on the seat beside him. Still, I managed to squeeze in, and as I sat there in discomfort I became aware of the elderly woman across from me, the same one who had handed me the serenity prayer a few weeks before.
Again she was waving her folded paper in my direction. I accepted it, and she smiled and said to me, “‘When you’re going through hell, keep going.’ Do you know who said that?”
“No,” I replied.
“Sir Winston Churchill. Don’t worry, honey,” she advised. “It’ll be okay.”
I sat there, awkwardly holding the pamphlet until she exited at Fourteenth Street. When I arrived at my stop, I left it on my seat.
Once I got home, I paced my apartment like a tiger in a cage. I knew I couldn’t sit there obsessively checking my email every five minutes, so I put on my cold weather jogging clothes and stepped out into the chill. I warmed up quickly as I ran through the streets of the Village, passing professionals on their way home, groups of friends just heading out for the night, couples walking hand in hand, people walking their dogs. I smiled at all of them, and ran until I thought my lungs would burst.
Back at my apartment, I checked my phone but there was still no response from Jackson. After gazing dejectedly into my cupboards and feeling completely uninspired, I ordered Thai food for delivery, then ate it in front of the TV by myself. With nothing left to do, I took a long hot shower and dressed for bed. But when I slipped between the sheets, despite my exhaustion, I couldn’t rest.
Finally, I rifled through my books until I found Ulysses. It was like Ambien.
That night I had a dream. Jackson and I were in the guest bedroom in his home. We were kissing. It was heated. He pulled my shirt out of my jeans and went to tug it up over my head, but I stopped him.
“No, Jackson,” I said. “I want to see your bedroom. Please, let’s go to your bedroom.” He tried again to kiss me, but I kept pleading, “Show me your bedroom, please. I need to see it. I need it.”
He took my hand and led me down a long hallway that seemed to go on forever. Finally we stopped in front of a locked door, and he opened it. It was the master bedroom, a large room, and it was dark inside. All I could really make out was a king-size bed. He took my hand and walked me over to it.
“I’ve given you what you wanted,” he said. “Now give me what I want.”
He told me to take off my clothes and get on the bed, and I followed his commands.
“No,” he said, “face down.” I turned over.
He started taking off his clothes and though I couldn’t see him, I shuddered at the sound of his zipper going down, his belt buckle hitting the floor. Then he came over to me and fastened my hands to the headboard with neckties, splaying my legs and tying my ankles to the footboard. My body started to tremble and my breaths came heavier; his did too. Then he climbed on top of me and rubbed his steely cock along the back of my thighs, over my ass, across my back, along the back of my neck. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and turned my face to the side, tilting my head to meet his hard-on.
“Suck it,” he said. I obeyed.
My lips opened and he forced himself inside my mouth. He thrusted deep, too deep, and I started to gag. He relented, allowing me to lick and suck him at my own pace, watching my face as his cock plunged in and out of my hungry mouth. I could feel him stiffening, getting close, so ready to come, and as he moaned I moaned along with him.
And that’s how I awoke. Moaning. Slick with sweat. My hand buried between my legs, my pussy clenching with the last waves of an intense orgasm.
; I looked at the clock. It was 3:00 a.m. I got up and poured myself two fingers of the Macallan he’d sent. Drank it too quickly. I picked up Ulysses and began to read again. At 6:00 a.m., when my alarm went off, I was still reading.
Needless to say, the morning got off to a slow start. I moved as if drugged. It took a cool shower and a hot cup of coffee from the Cuban place on Hudson for me to finally feel alert.
When I arrived at my office, Carolyn presented me with a stack of messages.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“They’re all agents,” she replied.
I flipped quickly through the little pink slips.
“Why are four, no five, agents calling me? Before 10:00 a.m.?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It might have something to do with this,” she said with a cocky grin. Then she handed me a copy of The New Yorker. I opened the magazine to a page she had bookmarked in the section called “On the Town.” There was a picture of Jackson and me at the honorees table at the Sandling Awards. Looking at it, I felt transported. Lost in the moment, a smile appeared on my face.
“Wow,” I said to Carolyn. “The Jackson Ford Effect.”
“Maybe we’ll pick up some good writers,” she said.
I smiled. “Maybe we will.”
“You want some tea?”
“Yes, thank you,” I replied. It was going to be a busy morning.
I went into my office and started returning calls.
Around noon, I met with the art department about the cover for Phoebe’s second book. It’s one of my favorite parts of my job. One of the designers had manipulated a photograph of a woman’s face so that it appeared to be composed of raindrops, or tears. It took my breath away. I asked him if I could have a copy and he printed one out for me. I tucked it into a folder and brought it back to my office.
When I got there, Carolyn was already at lunch and there was a small heavy package wrapped in brown paper on my desk. I opened it.
Inside, I found a first edition copy of The Sun Also Rises, copyrighted 1926. The title page was signed by Hemingway. When I realized what it was, I felt a little unsteady. The book was priceless.
