by Bridie Clark
I could hear Vivian’s throaty laugh as I dropped the phone into the receiver.
I raised my fists to my temples and pressed hard, harder—before dropping them lifelessly on the desk. What the hell was I doing? I could quit right now and be out in the free world by this afternoon.
But then my eyes landed on Luke’s manuscript, resting on the corner of my desk.
Five more months until it was safely at the printer. Five more pages on the calendar. My loyalty to him was the only thing keeping me at Grant Books. If I quit now, someone else would take over—and who knew what changes Vivian might make in retribution for my leaving. I needed to remain in the ring, for Luke’s sake, should there be any punches pulled before publication.
My intercom blared to life with the dreaded four digits. Not again. I’d developed a Pavlovian response to seeing Vivian’s extension: My stomach clenched, and my heart began to pound like the bass from a convertible in South Central.
“Claire?!” she barked.
“I’m here, Vivian,” I said, pressing back on the button.
“Lulu tells me that YOU think we should pass on the teenage pimp manuscript.”
“Yes, that’s right,” I said slowly. “I can’t imagine paying a dime for it.” It was the story of a sixteen-year-old who managed to convince a few of the girls in his high school class—some as young as thirteen—to sell their bodies for money, and it was absolutely horrible. If the book had been intended to warn parents or teens about how such an extreme situation could develop, that would have been one thing. Clearly, though, the author had no remorse for what he’d done, and his purpose was to titillate, not educate. It was smut, without any sliver of redeeming quality.
“How fascinating. Tell me this, Claire: Are you retarded, or just very, very dumb?” I could hear a muffled giggle in the background. Lulu’s.
“Neither,” I said simply, willing myself not to rise to her bait. “I just think it’s pure trash.”
“Well, one woman’s trash is another woman’s best seller. Lulu has decided that she’d like to take the project on. She and I both see enormous commercial potential, maybe a TV spin-off. That’s the kind of editorial insight I’m looking for.”
I knew exactly why this conversation was taking place over the intercom: Vivian wanted to maximize the number of people who could overhear it. I was surprised that she’d never thought to install a scaffold in the office to puritanically shame her employees. HR would probably let it slide—since Grant Books currently held the number one, two, and three spots on The New York Times Best Sellers list.
“I understand, Vivian,” I said, but the intercom had gone dead.
I looked at the tiny clock in the corner of my computer screen. Not even 1:00 p.m. The hours of peace I’d felt at home in Iowa were now a distant memory.
Turning to my e-mail, I found that forty-two messages had come through in the past hour. I ordered a pizza from the deli downstairs and settled in for a long afternoon.
Before I looked up, it was nearly midnight. Without the bells and whistles of the workday every five seconds, I’d been able to catch up on the day of labor I’d missed over the weekend. I’d still have to take home a manuscript with me to edit into the wee hours, but that was fine. What else did I have to do besides sleep? Randall was still finalizing his deal, and he’d be stuck at the office all night. Curling up with my laptop on the couch was at least more civilized than sticking around at the office all night.
I threw out my empty pizza box from lunch and turned off my computer. Then my eye caught a flash of strawberry blond hair in the hallway.
The figure stopped—and I realized it was Vivian. My body tensed. Oh no. I couldn’t imagine anything I needed less at the moment than a Vivian attack.
“Still here, Claire?” she asked, hovering in my doorway.
“Uh-huh. Just wrapping up some odds and ends. You’re here late, too,” I said, hoping the conversation could end quickly.
“Yeah, well, Simon is with inseminator two tonight,” she said in a bored voice. “So I wasn’t in a big rush to head home to an empty penthouse.” I was surprised to hear Vivian allude to feeling lonely—or to any degree of human emotion, for that matter. I looked at her. She looked especially small in her power suit, now wrinkled after a long day.
How does a human being turn into Vivian Grant? I wondered. Surely she couldn’t have always been a fierce, nasty, angry tyrant. She did have two sons, after all. Sons whose anatomical endowment she liked to brag about to anyone she could force to listen—but sons nonetheless. For a moment, I saw Vivian as lonely, twisted, deeply unhappy. She almost seemed pitiable.
I thought of how I’d snapped at Mom the day before when she’d been trying to help me pack my bag. How short I’d been with Luke and Bea after they’d made the effort to come home with me. How impatient I’d been this morning when the coffee took a few minutes to perk. How completely out of touch I was with Mara. I hadn’t been to the gym in months, and most of my meals cost three quarters in the vending machine. I’d spent a total of three waking hours with my boyfriend since we’d been living together.
“I’ve got to get back to work,” Vivian said, waving a tired hand in my direction before heading off down the hall. “Somebody has to get things done around here.”
I caught my reflection in my computer screen: slumped in my swivel chair, hair in a messy bun, illuminated by the blue computer screen.
And then I saw something else in the glass: All of Manhattan—bright, alive, vibrating with energy and excitement—lay outside my office window.
Five months, I promised myself, just five more months, and then I’m getting back to life.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A TALE OF TWO CITIES
I’ll be down in one minute,” I panted, not bothering to say good-bye to Randall before hurling my cell phone into my purse. I burrowed through my weekend bag … sunblock and bikinis, check. Hideously fluorescent Lily Pulitzer dress (a gift from Lucille), check. Tennis racket and whites, check. A pair of shorts, a few clean tees … okay. I was ready. Oh—except for reading material. I grabbed Luke’s manuscript and headed for the door. Lately it was the only thing I could focus on.
When Randall had called earlier that afternoon to see if I could get away for the weekend, I’d been absolutely elated. Some real time together—and not just the tail end of a draining day—was exactly what we needed. Lately we’d both been so preoccupied with our jobs, we’d fallen into a pretty lackluster routine of talking for a few minutes before passing out on our pillows. So I was thrilled when he’d suggested an impromptu weekend getaway—even if it meant skipping out on some work, it’d be well worth it for some romantic one-on-one time.
Then he’d told me he wanted to visit his parents in Palm Beach.
“Hey, babe.” Randall pecked me on the cheek as I climbed in beside him. “Ready for a little sun? This weather is horrible.” Rain pelted the windows of his town car. The night was dreary and sludgy, ending a day that had been gray and wet.
“You bet,” I said. The thought of spending more time with Lucille had significantly dampened my enthusiasm for the weekend. I’d gotten to spend a decent amount of time with her on her occasional visits to the city, but our relationship still felt strained. For starters, there was her constant monitoring of every morsel I put into my mouth—despite the fact that, thanks to daily stress, I was thinner than I’d ever been in my life. I couldn’t understand why anyone would pay forty bucks for the mini-burgers at Swifty’s, take off the buns, and barely take a nibble.
And then there was the shopping. I always thought I liked shopping. In fact, when we first moved to New York, Bea and I would hit Bloomingdale’s every time a paycheck hit our bank accounts. But with Lucille, shopping felt like work—a job she took very, very seriously. Her big mission, on these jaunts to New York, was to troll Madison Avenue for clothes she “desperately needed”—suits from Chanel, gowns from Valentino, cashmere from Loro Piana, and more Manolos than t
he two of us could possibly carry. Lucille had charge accounts with every major designer. One Saturday afternoon back in December, she’d spent nearly the amount of money I made in a year. “Holiday parties,” she’d explained breezily.
Most stressful, however, were Lucille’s not-so-subtle references to my future with her son. Marriage was clearly something she had her heart set on—which should’ve been flattering but just felt like a ton of pressure. “Which one do you like best, darling?” she’d once asked me with wide-eyed innocence as we stood in front of a Harry Winston window full of diamond rings.
“Oh, they’re all beautiful,” I’d deferred, feeling very uncomfortable.
“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter, seeing how Randall inherited his grandmother’s four-carat diamond ring … very beautiful, and not another one like it in the world.”
“Uh-huh,” I’d answered, unsure of what else to say. Randall and I had never discussed the long-term future, so I certainly wasn’t ready to discuss it with his mother.
“My parents have a full weekend planned for us,” Randall said, patting my knee. “Lunch at the Bath and Tennis, an afternoon sail, then Mom was hoping you’d run some errands with her on Worth Avenue.”
“Sounds great!” I chirped, trying hard to sound enthusiastic. Randall’s family treated WASPiness like an extreme sport.
“I’m so glad that you’ve grown to love my parents,” Randall said.
“Well, they’re very devoted,” I answered, trying to think of things I could say about them that were both true and complimentary. “Your mom has such boundless energy. She could run circles around me! And your dad is such a smart man.”
Never mind my suspicion that Lucille’s boundless energy had something to do with the little green pills she swallowed nearly every hour, or that the last time I’d seen Randall’s father, he’d spent most of dinner staring at my legs. In their way, they were devoted to Randall. Their way was just very different from the way I’d grown up with.
“Claire, I love you,” Randall said, kissing my cheek.
I looked at Randall, so handsome in his cashmere overcoat, and my heart overflowed with affection for him. He was a sweetheart—and such a model son. Sometimes it still seemed unreal, the fact that I was his girlfriend—I could still picture him in his rugby shirt, handing me that Pabst Blue Ribbon. “I love you, too,” I said.
“Driver, would you mind putting on 1010 WINS?” he asked, leaning forward. “I want to hear how the market closed. By the way, Claire, we’re flying Dad’s new Citation 10. He’s pretty stoked about it. Took him six months on the waiting list, but now he’s one of the first to have it.”
“Wow, his jet. Cool.” I knew I should sound more excited, more impressed. But shiny new toys of that magnitude seemed to come into the Cox household as frequently as the Sunday New York Times.
Less than an hour later, we were aboard said jet—cashmere blankets on our laps, warm salted almonds in porcelain bowls next to us.
“It feels like a victory lap, circling over New York City in this plane,” Randall mused, holding my hand as we took off from Teterboro and moved smoothly above the luminous skyline. “Oh, I nearly forgot. I have a little something for you, babe.” He unzipped the leather bag he’d rested on the seat next to us and pulled out a huge white box with a black bow.
“You’re spoiling me, Randall. Remember, we said no more gifts?”
Last week, on one of our rare evening walks to dinner together, he’d tried to pull me into Mikimoto to buy a set of cultured pearls—for absolutely no reason. I’d had to battle him to keep walking.
Maybe I should’ve just accepted Randall’s extravagant gifts graciously. I could tell he got genuine pleasure out of being generous, but I hated not being able to reciprocate. At first I’d tried to, but the gifts on my budget were so much more meager in scale—an exercise book, the detoxifying tea he liked, a scarf—and I could tell Randall’s excitement over them was a bit of an act. After all, how exciting can a scarf be to a man who’s circling New York City in a new plane?
“Open it, darling,” he prompted, placing the box in my lap and looking so excited that you’d think he were the one getting a gift.
“Oh, Randall. It’s incredible!” I pulled a Chanel dress from the box—a stunning black cocktail dress with a full skirt and the most delicate lace I’d ever seen.
“Wait, there’s more,” he said, digging back into the bag to pull out a smaller box—which turned out to hold a gorgeous pair of Christian Louboutin stilettos.
“Randall! Wow, I don’t know what to say!” The dress and the shoes deserved their own hermetically sealed closet, apart from my worn-in shoes and Banana Republic suits. I’d never seen such an exquisite outfit in my entire life.
“You like it?” Randall asked hopefully. His eyebrows lifted, and for a moment he looked like a little boy, wanting desperately to make me happy.
“I love it,” I answered. “Thank you so much.”
Lavish gifts from my handsome, wonderful boyfriend … I knew it was something that many women would dream of, but I still wished Randall could express his affection without breaking out his black Amex.
“Is there some formal event happening this weekend that I wasn’t aware of?” I asked.
“Oh, we’ve got a little dinner planned for tomorrow night. Some of my parents’ friends. I thought you might like to have something special, so I dispatched Deirdre at lunch today.”
“Well, that was so thoughtful of you—and her,” I said, moaning inwardly. Lucille’s Palm Beach friends were harder to take than the last Twinkie at an Overeaters Anonymous meeting.
I’d met a handful of them during her last visit to New York. During cocktail hour (which lasted three), I’d struggled valiantly to make conversation. But really, what was there to talk about? Her friends were adamant about the purity of their leisure, outsourcing everything from the decoration of their homes to the drawing of their baths. One woman had even hired a full-time nanny to be “prepared” when her newborn grandson came to visit … with his full-time nanny. “He’s a dear thing, but really, I can’t be expected to drop everything to hold a baby for a few hours!” she’d clucked.
If these ladies were part of the weekend lineup, I’d really have to pace myself. Hopefully, I’d be able to carve out some time this weekend to sneak off and work on Luke’s manuscript in peace. “I brought some work with me,” I mentioned to Randall, hoping to lay the groundwork in advance. “Do you think there’ll be time for me to get some editing done?”
“I hope so, babe.” Randall kissed my forehead. “My little worker bee.” He reached into his bag, pulled out The Wall Street Journal, and began to read.
“Why don’t we talk a little, sweetie?” I asked gently, peeking over the corner of the newspaper. “I haven’t seen you much this week.”
Randall paused, then folded up his paper. “Of course, my love. What would you like to talk about? Is there something on your mind?”
“Oh, no. It’s just that we never really get a chance to just relax and talk. You know? We give each other these rapid-fire updates before we go to bed—but sometimes I feel like … well, I don’t know, I’d love to hear more about your life up until the point that we met. ”
“Sure, Claire. What can I tell you? I think you know it all, babe. Grew up in New York, summered in Southampton, wintered in Palm Beach …”
Down the road, I’d have to break Randall of using seasons as verbs. “I know that much, yes—”
“And you know that I went to Groton, rowed crew, and got elected student body president. Then I went to Princeton, where I continued to row and started an investment club for undergraduates. And met you, of course.” He smiled, tapping his finger on the end of my nose. “Then Goldman as an analyst, then Harvard for my graduate degree, and then Goldman ever since. What else are you looking for, Claire?”
I didn’t exactly know what I was looking for … just more. “Um, well … what were these experiences like for you
? Did you like high school? Did you go to camp as a kid? What’s the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen?” My questions were weak, but I hoped one would spark a conversation.
Randall took a deep breath and took off his glasses. “I did enjoy high school, very much. I went to Windridge at Craftsbury Common as a child and enjoyed that very much, too. The most beautiful places I’ve ever been to are hmm, probably Quisisana in Capri and Eden Rock in Cap d’Antibes. I’ll have to take you, sweetie, both are magnificent. Anything else?”
I wondered if Randall ever let down his guard. I didn’t want to interview him, but I wanted to feel closer—I wanted to feel that I knew him inside and out. “Have you ever been madly in love, Randall?” I asked, slipping my hand into his.
Suddenly he looked very uncomfortable. “Well, I’m in love with you, of course.”
I smiled. “I mean, before me. Alex Dixon, in college? Or maybe the ex your mom mentioned, Coral …”
“You know, Claire, I really don’t see any purpose to this conversation. I’m not interrogating you about every man in your past—”
“I’m sorry, Randall, I didn’t mean to—”
“I love you, Claire, and that’s really all you need to know.”
I curled up next to him. That had taken a wrong turn. It wasn’t the soul-revealing, heart-baring conversation I’d hoped for, but I did appreciate Randall’s old-fashioned stance about not rehashing old flames. There was something undeniably romantic about it—as if he wanted to pretend our love lives had begun the moment we got together.
“Sweetie,” he whispered, kissing my cheek, “may I resume my reading? There’s a fascinating piece about emerging markets in China.”
I nodded, reaching into my bag to pull out Luke’s manuscript. Getting Randall to open up would take some time.
Luke’s manuscript was close to perfect now, but I wanted to be sure it was all the way there. Just as I’d once read my father’s early poems over and over again, I took a strange comfort in my familiarity with each line Luke had written.
