“One day . . .” he says.
And he seems to be about to say more, when my mom walks in and whispers, “Let me take the baby, Ben. I’ll put him down.”
Ben hands Noah to my mom, who’s giving me a knowing, approving look. Apparently I am not the only one who gets baby crazy by seeing Ben holding one.
We spend the rest of the weekend surfing and hanging out with my parents and my brother’s family. It’s the first time in years my parent’s house is so full. I catch Ben staring at my pictures in my room. He has been working on his laptop sending emails, saying he had to take care of something before the trip.
I sit on his lap and look at the screen, but he shuts off the page he was on before I can catch a glimpse of anything. I don’t understand the secrecy, but I try to shrug it off. He is looking at a picture of mine where I have my face covered in chocolate ice cream and a huge, silly grin. I must have been four or five. It’s a really silly picture.
“You looked adorable when you were a kid, you know that?” he says, kissing me below my ear.
“Thanks,” I say. “Remind me to ask your mom to show me some embarrassing pictures of when you were little!” He hugs me tight, tighter than he ever has, and leans his head on my back for a while.
“What’s going on? Are you nervous about your trip? You never told me exactly what you’re going to be there for.”
“Lots of stuff,” he says. “It’s really not even worth talking about.” We stay like that for a while and then he adds, “I’m going to miss you. I’ll be so glad when this week is over and I can come back to you.”
We get back to New York on Sunday. Ben is supposed to leave for London the day after. He takes me up to my apartment and gives me a longing kiss.
“I need to get a few things ready. I want to stay but . . .”
“I know,” I tell him, and then it dawns on me this will be the first week we spend away from each other since we officially got together.
“God, I’m going to miss you!” I say, kissing him again. I give him one last kiss in the living room. “Go before I eat your face off,” I tell him, finally letting go of him.
“You know what I’ll be thinking about all week?”
I shake my head no.
“The moment I’ll come back home to you. I love you, Prudence.”
“I love you too.”
Chapter 23
“THERE HAS to be something wrong with him. Are you sure he doesn’t have a secret girlfriend? A second identity? A wife?” Beatrix asks me over lunch after examining Ben’s picture on my phone.
“God, you are so bad! What is wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me? Every. Single. Guy. Every single guy I dated in L.A. had some secret, some really weird type of fetish, a girlfriend in another state, and a few of them were married. They would just take off their wedding ring and claim they were going through a divorce. So, be ready. I’m trying to warn you,” she said, almost accusingly.
I look at her in shock. “God bless! And I thought New York was bad. Is that what happens to every woman out there?”
“Well, have you seen the competition? It’s hard to compete with bimbos, man. I swear there is half the demand. It must be three women per man in L.A. It’s freaking nuts.”
Beatrix is the only person I could tolerate in high school, but she went to UCLA after graduation. She wanted to write comedy, and eight years later, with a bit of luck and a lot of talent, she worked on several TV shows.
Now a former colleague has called her up for a project based in New York. She has a week off from her schedule in L.A. and is now shooting the pilot.
After that, it will all be a waiting game to see if the series gets picked up. We kept in touch over the years, but it’s hard to see each other when you are on opposite coasts.
“So, in your opinion there has to be something wrong with the guy I’m seeing?”
“Look, Prudence. You’re a nice girl. You have a good head on your shoulders, but you write romance books and let’s be honest, you tend to always want to see the best in people. Or at least that’s how you used to be, but considering you’re still friends with a nut job like me, you’re probably still the same girl I knew then. All I’m saying is that he might be wonderful, but there might also be something substantially wrong with him you don’t know about yet. Is there anything, anything that is a major red flag? Because that, sister, is what you need to be looking for,” she says animatedly.
Her short curls bounce back and forth as she speaks, and her beautiful caramel skin is accentuated by the vibrant lipstick she did not use to wear in high school. She is wearing leggings with a tribal motif and a cute neon tank top. The strappy black sandals she has on make her look even more statuesque. She could very well pass for a slightly curvier model.
“I’m not sure. He's great, but I can tell there is a big part of him that I really don’t know yet. I don’t know if it has anything to do with the fact that he never met his father. He is usually pretty open, but then, there are other times when he is definitely guarded. And he has this sort of “special relationship” with my previous publisher that I really don’t understand . . .”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he has this really close friendship with the owner of the company, Mr. Hunter . . . I just don’t really understand the nature of the relationship . . .”
“Ew! Ew! Stop it right there sister! Is that not a major red flag?”
I instantly regret saying anything.
“I don’t think the nature of the relationship is sexual,” I say, trying to find comfort in my own words and at the same time I feel my skin crawl at the thought. “But they are really close, like he is some kind of mentor to him. He doesn’t even work with him, but they do charity work together, they go golfing . . . in a way it’s almost like Mr. Hunter is some type of father figure. At least that’s what I get when he talks about him, but he is very, very reserved about the whole thing.”
“I hope for your own sake there is nothing more. The whole thing sounds a little fishy to me,” she says as I take a sip of my drink and look elsewhere.
Beatrix always had these eyes that seem to look directly into your soul and I know she can tell I’m done talking about it. I like that she is opinionated and always says what she thinks, but I almost feel like I said too much. If there is even remotely a chance it could be the truth, I’m obviously not ready to hear it.
“So,” I say, trying to change the subject, “since men in L.A. suck, you must be looking forward to moving to New York, if the series gets picked up.”
She lets out a nervous laugh.
“Well, I’m kind of dating somebody . . .”
Chapter 24
WITH BEN gone, I do nothing else but work and exercise. Andrew is actually pleased with me, for once. The fact that I don’t have a publisher still looms in my brain, but it’s only two more weeks until the deadline I gave Ben. I wonder what’s really going to happen if I follow through with it. Will he get mad? Will it hurt his ego, or will he be completely fine with it? I text Ben a lot on Tuesday, but we don’t have time to Skype or anything like that. He says he has a series of meetings on Wednesday, so I wait to hear back from him, but I don’t.
I’m in the middle of rewriting a chapter on Wednesday when I get a call on my landline. Weird, no one ever calls me on that number. Last time I got a call, it was from Cora, and that was only because I had blocked her number on my cellphone. I don’t recognize the number as one I know, but the caller ID says BLEECKER IND. PRESS. I pick up.
“Hello?”
“May I speak with Prudence Clearwater, please?”
“This is she. With whom am I speaking?”
“My name is Scott Martin with Bleecker Independent Press. Prudence, I wanted to meet with you to discuss what you’re working on. You’re looking for a new publisher, right?”
“Yes, I am. I have to let you know though, Mr. Martin, I’m actually working with an agent, Benjamin Ha
llstrom. He is with Matthews Literary Agency. He is out of the country at the moment, so you might have a hard time reaching him.”
I let that slip out of my mouth before realizing I might have said too much. I always sucked at business relationships, that's for sure. Some things apparently never change.
“Prudence, please call me Scott. You see, I have tried to contact Mr. Hallstrom for the last two weeks. I called him a couple of weeks ago and I even talked to his assistant. Then I emailed him and told him I left a message, but I never got a response, which I found quite odd.”
That is definitely odd. Beatrix's words echo in my head. Red flag. Red flag.
“You contacted him two weeks ago?” I ask, stunned.
“Yes, two, maybe three? I actually had someone here at the office pointing me in your direction. They had read your blog and knew you were looking for a new publisher. But I tried getting in contact with your agent, and I never heard back. I was actually able to get your number from a mutual friend, Lauren Abbott,” he says.
Lauren was Cora’s assistant at Biblio, and I would say we were pretty friendly. I’m surprised Scott Martin had to go to such lengths to get my number, but I’m even more shocked he never got a reply from my agent/boyfriend. Especially after the blowout we had a few weeks ago about this very same issue. This is so weird.
“Do you know if he is not getting emails or messages for any reason?”
I pause and exhale before attempting to answer that.
“No, Scott, I really don’t understand why he wouldn’t have called you back. I heard he has been quite busy with a couple of releases for other clients, so maybe that’s why?” I say, confused, my heart beating out of control, my palms sweating.
Apparently, now I’m making excuses for Ben.
Two, three weeks ago? That was just around the time of our fight, so it couldn’t have been one of the two meetings he had, since Scott Martin was never even able to talk to him. I feel my head spinning. Scott is saying something on the other end of the phone, but I am so livid I am having a hard time keeping it together while listening to him. I definitely hope things are not what they are shaping up to be.
“Sorry, Scott. Can you say that again?”
“Yes, I was saying, putting aside Mr. Hallstrom’s involvement in the matter, are you still looking for a publisher? Would you be interested in meeting with us?”
I try to collect what’s left of my scattered brain. A publisher contacted Ben and he never acknowledged them. He didn't even call Scott back. Why? Why would he ever do something like that? I exhale and let out a long breath.
“Yes, Scott, I would be very much interested.”
“You sound strange. Is everything okay?” Ben asks me when he calls on the phone.
“I just miss you.” And I need some answers.
Truth is, I have been a mess ever since I talked to Scott Martin yesterday. Get yourself together, Prudence.
“Trust me, I can’t wait to come home. London hasn’t been the most welcoming,” he says with a hint of sadness in his voice, and I can’t understand why. I also can’t imagine things haven’t gone the way he wanted.
“London hasn’t been welcoming? I find that hard to believe! You must have gotten stuck with some really lousy people.”
“Something like that,” he says, exhaling.
“Whom were you supposed to meet there again?” I ask, trying to get it out of him. In reality, he was always very vague, so I'm trying to understand what could have possibly gone wrong to upset him like that.
“Hmm . . . just some . . . British . . . comedian. If I could have signed him it would have been a big deal for the agency.”
“And he declined the offer?”
“Yeah . . . he said he wasn’t interested,” he says, letting out a sigh.
Wait a minute . . . is he sighing? I never heard Ben sound so down. I'm sure he doesn’t always get to close the deal, but he sounds really bummed. This is so weird.
“Are you okay?” I ask him. “You sound strange too.”
“Just ready to come home, I guess.”
“When will you be here?”
“I’m leaving here Sunday evening. I’m arriving in Newark sometime in the morning. Can I come by when I get home? I need to see you,” he says, sounding slightly more cheerful.
I feel my heart hammer in my chest. I want to tell him every single thing, I don’t want to keep secrets. I want to yell at him and ask him what the hell he’s been doing. Was he really in London to talk to an author? How can I even trust what he says? Obviously, he hasn’t been honest with me. What else is he hiding? What other lies has he told me? The pain in my chest grows bigger and the fear that comes with it paralyzes me.
“Prudence? Can you hear me?”
“Umm, yes. What did you say?”
“Can I stop by Monday morning?”
I have an appointment with Scott Martin on Monday at nine in the morning. I probably won’t make it back before noon. I might not be here.
“I have . . . a doctor’s appointment on Monday. I probably won’t make it back before noon or one.”
“A doctor’s appointment? Are you all right?”
“Yep, I’m perfectly fine. Just a routine check-up with my . . . OB-GYN,” and as I say it I want to take back my own words. OB-GYN? Really? Could I not come up with something less conspicuous?
“Are you sure everything is okay? Is there anything you need to tell me?”
Yes, I need to tell you that you’re a liar. I need to tell you I know you have been playing games and I don’t understand why. I am probably just part of your scheme. It was all a lie. Do you even love me?
It hits me all at once. Every feeling I have for him, the good ones and the bad. They just fight against each other in my head. My heart wants to believe him, but my head says we are done. I still want to hear his story, but I don't think anything he is going to say will change the fact that he flat-out lied to me. It’s over. But I have to act like it isn’t until we can talk face-to-face. I can’t start this over the phone. It’s complicated enough as it is.
“Everything is okay, Ben.” Jesus Christ, I can’t even talk without my voice wavering.
“You don’t sound your usual self.”
“Well,” I say, almost chuckling, “you don’t either. I have never heard you more defeated than tonight. Are you sure there’s nothing you want to talk to me about?”
He sighs.
“It’s a long and complicated story. Not really one I can start on a long distance phone call. But I will tell you everything on Monday,” he says.
Including the reason why you played me?
“I guess we are a mess when we’re apart, aren’t we? Or at least I know I’d be feeling much better if I were with you right now. I need you,” he adds.
He sounds sincere. I want to believe him, I really do . . . but I don’t know if I can.
A day later, I ignore his request to Face Time. I can’t do that. I can barely pretend over the phone everything is okay. He is going to read my face and realize something is really bothering me. I text him I’m out running errands and after a quick chat with Beatrix, who tells me to grab him by the balls, I resort to one of my to go-to people.
“What am I going to do, Anya?” I don’t have to pretend anything with her, so Skype it is.
I try to ignore my image in the corner of the screen. I look pitiful. I have barely slept these last few days. I have done nothing but toss and turn all night. Every time I close my eyes, his face is in my thoughts, and I replay over and over in my head every single moment we spent together. I’m still trying to figure out how I could be so stupid. Was there anything at all that I have been oblivious to, any signs of his dishonesty?
“You’re just going to have to talk to him, sweetie. I know this doesn’t look right, but he's not a bad person. He’s lied to you and you have reason to be concerned, but I have never once seen him do anything that would be considered scheming. He is ambitious, and a little prou
d sometimes, but I have never, ever heard anyone say a bad thing about him, you know? There’s got to be an explanation for all of this. Just give him a chance to explain,” she says, trying to comfort me.
Chapter 25
I MEET with Scott Martin on Monday and I’m a ball of nerves. I am not nervous at all about the meeting, but I am nervous about meeting Ben afterwards. His plane is landing this morning, and after an entire weekend of carefully missing his Skype and phone calls (I told him I spent the weekend with Beatrix and Andrew, which is partly true), I tell him via text I would meet him at his apartment as soon as I could.
The meeting with Scott Martin is great . . . at first. He loves the sample of the novel I sent him. He is full of compliments and wants to know more about the story. But when I mention the music and the fact that I want to have Matt on the project and have his music attached to the release of the book, he isn’t enthusiastic anymore. He flat-out tells me that they are too small of a company to undertake such a big risk.
Bleecker would barely be able to support my release, and could not afford to spend money on Matt’s CD, or even a web-related release and advertising. I explain to him how passionate I am about Matt’s music and how I think it makes the story more authentic, but I can see on his face that money is the issue, and he cannot agree to what I have envisioned for the book. I thank him for his time and he promises he’ll keep an eye on me.
“Maybe in the future we’ll be able to work together,” I say, shaking his hand.
On my way back to Brooklyn, I feel like gasping for air. I swear it’s the hottest day of the entire summer. I regret wearing this gorgeous but all-too-formal dress. I wore it for the meeting, but also because I wanted to look good when I confronted Ben. The purse I took with me is smaller than my usual ones, and I could not take any water. I only grabbed my keys and my subway card, forgetting the coin purse on the kitchen table. So now here I am, riding back in the sticky and humid subway, my hair soaked wet with sweat, my throat completely parched, and my head dizzy.
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