Fifteen minutes. I had fifteen minutes to alter the course of my entire life. I closed the door behind me and took a few steps inside the gigantic office, which, no kidding, was bigger than my apartment. The sun streamed in from the floor-to-ceiling windows behind Remke’s desk and glinted off his thick silver hair and his silver-framed eyeglasses. He picked up a stack of memos from his in-box and sat his six-feet, three-inch frame on the caramel-colored leather sofa adjacent to his desk.
Was I supposed to sit next to him? Or in one of the guest chairs in front of his desk, which didn’t face him? I gnawed my lower lip, effectively eating off the lipstick I’d so painstakingly applied. Remke was thumbing through papers. My palms began to sweat. A bead of perspiration rolled down my cleavage. Deep breath, deep breath. I glanced out the window-wall. I could see the top of the Chrysler Building, the Empire State Building and—
“Let’s go, let’s go,” he muttered, eyes on the memos. He said that a lot. Let’s go, let’s go. He said it at least a hundred times a day. It intimidated people so much that by the time they finally spoke, Remke was halfway down the hall.
I cleared my throat. “Um, yes, well, I wanted to talk to you about my future at Posh.” I clasped my hands behind my back, not sure what to do with them. I wished I could belt out a confident statement the way Morgan Morgan could. I was six years older than she was, with six years of corporate experience, and I still said um and got sweaty palms. Morgan was very articulate. I doubted she even had sweat glands.
“Your future?” Remke repeated, thumbing away at the memos. “Why are you talking to me? Talk to Black. He’s your direct supervisor now that Gwen’s out on leave. In fact, you should wait till Gwen returns.”
Remke referred to everyone by last name except for Gwendolyn Welle, which annoyed me to no end. I figured it was a chivalrous-respect thing. Remke liked Gwen, respected her. I could hardly stand Ms. Phony Baloney, and was delighted that she had taken an extended maternity leave. Four months instead of three, which meant three more months without her oppressive presence. But it most certainly did not mean I had to suffer through three more months without a promotion.
Most of Gwen’s workload had fallen to me, except for two major authors she’d been courting (Jeremy had managed to sign both—women, of course—the moment he’d flown out to personally meet them, which had pissed off Gwen royally). I’d been working double time for six years, and triple time from the minute Gwen had waddled out the door with her baby-shower gifts. I deserved the promotion. I’d broached the topic with her before she left. She’d given me the just-keep-doing-what-you’re-doing speech and brushed me off by telling me I had her blessing to talk to Jeremy and Remke while she was out on leave. One of the things I hated most about Gwen was that she was semi-decent to me. But that was only because she didn’t see me as a threat. Talk about insulting. Why wasn’t I threatening? I was young, smart and hungry. Wasn’t I?
Remke was glaring at a memo. Lines were creasing his forehead.
I sat down in one of the guest chairs and twisted uncomfortably to face him. “Yes, well, um, I did speak with Gwen, and she suggested I talk to Jeremy or you, so, um, I discussed it with Jeremy, but he suggested I talk to you directly.” Did I sound like an idiot? I was never sure if I made any sense when I talked to certain people, like Remke and Jeremy or anyone who intimidated me.
Given my inability to look at Jeremy and speak to him at the same time, you can imagine how my conversation with him had gone. He’d barely let me finish my sentence. Maybe because I’d been staring at his shoes.
“Morgan!” Remke shouted toward the door. “Where’s the press release on the Natasha Nutley deal? Morgan!”
Doubly annoying was the inability to determine if Remke was calling Morgan by her first or last name. I liked to think he was using her last name.
A short knock was followed by the door opening. Morgan Morgan entered with a mug of coffee, which she handed to Remke. “It’s right on your desk, Williaaam,” she whinnied through her horsey mouth. She ever so efficiently trotted over to retrieve it for him.
Remke scanned the press release of Natasha Nutley’s memoir, scowling. “Who wrote this?”
My cheeks burned. I felt Morgan’s eyes on me, and I glanced at her. I could swear she smiled. She hid it, but I saw it. The bitch smiled!
I cleared my throat. “Um, I did?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?” Remke snapped, his ice-blue eyes narrowed at me over the rims of his glasses.
I’d spent four days (well, four sleepless nights at home, actually) writing and perfecting the 350 words on that piece of paper. Usually Gwen wrote publicity materials for the big projects, especially the initial press releases that announced a major sale. But thanks to her absence, I got to write up the impending publication of the Gnat’s still-untitled memoir.
What could I have screwed up? Jeremy had approved the press release, which had been copyedited and proofread. All the pertinent information was there, and I quite cleverly, if I do say so myself, told the story. That was another Posh phrase, which meant emphasizing the key elements. Had I gotten the print run wrong? Called it a trade paperback instead of mass-market? Not focused enough on the scandalous nature of Natasha’s doomed love affair with a famous actor? That was the heart—or lack thereof—of the Gnat’s memoir.
Oh, God. Had I referred to Natasha as the Gnat in the press release?
“I mean, I did,” I corrected. I could kiss the promotion goodbye. I was going to be an assistant editor for the rest of my life. Aunt Ina’s fears had been realized. From now on, I’d have to spend Sundays with Grammy, eating pastrami and butter cookies and keeping my sarcastic mouth shut so she wouldn’t disinherit me. I’d have to ask Ethan Miles to Dana’s wedding. I’d be forced to watch Morgan Morgan’s meteoric rise from editorial assistant to associate editor, skipping assistant editor because—
“This is damn good,” Remke said, tapping the press release with his Posh Publishing pen.
Morgan frowned. I smiled.
“You help Nutley shape her memoir as well as you wrote this release and we’ll see about that promotion to assistant editor, Gregg.”
Morgan smiled.
My stomach twisted. “Um, William? I, um…I’m already an assistant editor. I’m, um, hoping to be promoted to associate—”
“Morgan, get Black in here,” Remke interrupted. “Tell him we’ve got to talk about signing that Backstreet kid. Bring in our press kit, too. And more coffee.” He leaned against the sofa and thumbed through more papers. “Gregg, like I said.” He glanced up at me, then back down. “We’ll see how you do with Nutley’s manuscript. She brings a sophisticated level of celebrity cachet. And celebrities breed celebrities. We’ve got the budget to promote the hell out of the Nutley book, so there’s no reason not to hit the Times extended list, Gregg. And if Jeremy can sign that Backstreet Boy, we’re in the big leagues. And big leagues mean big budgets mean money for perks, like promotions. But don’t you worry about that, Gregg. You just keep doing what you’re doing.”
Morgan smiled.
Why did big cheeses like to say that? I heard the just-keep-doing-what-you’re-doing crap at every performance review. It only made you feel worse and more powerless than you already did. After all, what you were doing wasn’t getting you anywhere but brushed off. Maybe Gwen and Jeremy and Remke would like to try living in New York on twenty-six thousand a year, reading manuscripts on the subway to and from work. Maybe Remke would like to choose between buying cigarettes or dinner on the night before payday because he was totally and completely broke.
Okay, okay—I was done whining. And if I quit smoking, I’d be able to afford the super-sized chicken fajita burrito from Blockheads, the cheap Mexican restaurant Eloise and I always went to, right? I knew that, okay? But how could I quit smoking when I couldn’t even get through a conversation with Remke without uttering an um?
Remke tapped his pen on his Armani-covered thigh. “What are you both still doin
g here? Shoo. Go. We’re done. Where’s Black!”
Morgan lifted her nose as she walked past me out of Remke’s office.
“Thanks, William,” I said. “About the Nutley release. I was, um, really proud of that myself, and—”
“That’s fine, Gregg. Thanks. Close the door on your way, out, will you?”
Well, at least I’d gotten a compliment. And a maybe. Well, more a goal. My glum spirits perked up a bit. I’d gotten more than a just-keep-doing-what-you’re-doing, I realized. Remke had pretty much outlined a defined thing I had to do: get Natasha’s book on The New York Times extended bestseller list. That was the only way I’d get promoted. Unless Jeremy really did manage to sign the Backstreet Boy and up the budget for everyone. But unless the Boy was gay, I doubted Jeremy could work his magic quickly, if at all.
“Gregg, where are you taking Natasha Nutley to lunch today?”
Hand on the doorknob, I turned around. “Um, the Blue Water Grill?”
He stopped thumbing. “Are you asking me or telling me?”
What was wrong with me? Why was I a blubbering mess with this man? Why was I so insecure all the time? I could only be grateful Morgan Morgan wasn’t around to shoot me evil smiles.
“The Blue Water Grill,” I corrected with a firm nod.
“Fine. Keep it under a hundred. And keep her talking, too. This is the big time, Gregg. Natasha’s a big fish for Posh. I’ve entrusted her to you instead of Black because you’ve got the school connection. Women yak, especially when they go back that far. Get her to confide in you. The goal is to help her reveal every sordid detail of the affair and to sign her to a sequel, focusing on her months in rehab. Rehab’s sexy now. Do your best, Gregg.”
Maybe he’d forgotten that he’d already given me that speech five times since assigning her memoir to me last week. “I will,” I said, and slipped out of his office.
Rehab is sexy now. Remke was such a jerk. Sometimes I wanted to take my fist and punch him right in his facelifted face!
I had bigger problems at the moment, though. Like how I was supposed to take Natasha Nutley to lunch at the Blue Water Grill without going over a hundred bucks. I’d have to say no to an appetizer or a salad, order the pathetic filet of sole and a glass of tap water, and watch Natasha fork the best salmon in the universe into her perfectly outlined mouth. Correction: I’d have to watch her order it, then eat only three bites, so she could retain her supermodel figure.
I’d fill up on the Blue Water’s incredible bread. The bread was free.
“Morgan!” Remke screeched from behind me. “Coffee! Where’s Black?”
I headed for my tiny office, Remke’s monologue swirling in my mind. A sequel. Celebrity cachet. Please. Natasha was a small-time actress writing a small-time memoir about her small-time affair with an actor whose identity she wasn’t even allowed to reveal. Okay, so The Actor was rumored to be big time. So what? She’d milked his mystery identity and her supposed heartbreak for all it was worth. She’d sold her sob story to women’s magazines, and she’d even managed to get booked on some B-list talk shows.
The whole thing was almost unbelievable. Because she’d stupidly signed some legal document The Actor had had drawn up, the Gnat was—by penalty of law—prevented from ever discussing or writing about the guy or her affair with him in any medium, including print, radio or television. She’d cunningly gotten around it by referring to him as The Actor and creating a buzz around who he was. That was the story, the scandal behind the scandal.
Who really cared?
Potentially five hundred thousand people, according to Remke. Which was why I had to devote the next two months to guiding Natasha in fleshing out her outline and writing the first three chapters.
Morgan was returning from the kitchen with another mug of coffee for Remke. Jeremy Black was right behind her. He nodded at me and walked toward Remke’s office.
Suddenly everything moved in slow motion, and sound was barely audible.
The sun shining in from the windows across the left wall of the loft lit his thick dark brown, wavy hair and made his Caribbean-colored eyes even more…Caribbean-colored. Never in the history of the world had there been a better-looking man. He was honest-to-goodness handsome, movie-star handsome. James Bond handsome.
Thirty-seven years old, six-one, 175 pounds. Harvard—undergrad and M.B.A. He was smarter and more sarcastic than he was nice, but the VP and editorial director of a small, niche-publishing house was supposed to be a bit ruthless. He lived in a loft in Tribeca (mere blocks from where John F. Kennedy, Jr., and Carolyn Bessette had lived), worked out at the Reebok Sports Club next to people like Jerry Seinfeld and dated women who looked like models but were also vice presidents. The only thing I had in common with Jeremy Black was Posh Publishing. And that wasn’t saying much.
I slipped into my tiny windowless office and groaned at the fresh stack of manuscripts Jeremy must have deposited in my in-box on his way to Remke’s office. Great. Just in time for the weekend. Normally Jeremy would dump unsolicited manuscripts in Gwen’s in-box, and she’d screen them for herself, then dump the losers in my in-box. So at least there was a chance for a “maybe” to be lurking in there. If I could spot a potential bestseller in the slush pile, I’d be promoted to associate editor in a heartbeat. And then my life wouldn’t be contingent on Natasha Nutley’s success.
Fat chance of that, though. Real Life Books wasn’t just celebrity (and I use that term loosely) tell-alls. I’d had to suffer through poorly written, dull memoirs from nobodies about colon surgery (not sexy enough, per Remke), cocaine addiction (passé, per Jeremy), the I-hate-my-mother trend (whine, whine, whine, per me) and the I-grew-up-poor-and-ugly-until-I-became-a-supermodel phase (oh, please! per Eloise and her boss). Spare me. Spare us all.
The next New York Times extended list bestseller was doubtfully waiting for me to recognize its worth in the slush pile. I’d have to rely on making my name at Posh by getting the best work out of the Gnat, not that it would thrill me to see her succeed. The woman was milking her fifteen minutes off someone’s else’s ongoing fifteen minutes! Her celebrity was fake. So why shouldn’t I milk my promotion to full editor off her?
Was that so wrong? After all, I’d been ordered to do just that by the president and publisher of my own company. And hadn’t I learned that being Miss Nicey-Nice had gotten me to where I was today? A big fat nowhere.
The intercom on my telephone buzzed. “Jaaane,” came Morgan’s intolerable voice. “Your cousin Dana called while you were in Remke’s office. She said you have the number.”
“Thanks.” I rolled my eyes and stabbed the intercom button off. Great. Now I’d have to call back Dana before I went to lunch with Natasha. Talking to my cousin generally made me feel nauseated. Then again, maybe calling her back now wasn’t a bad idea. I couldn’t afford to eat anything at lunch, anyway.
The intercom crackled again. “Jaaane—I forgot to tell you. She said to call her on her cell. She’s at the Plaza till noon. Something about a pre-stroll down the aisle.”
The unexpected sting of tears hit the backs of my eyes. Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! I ordered myself. Do not lose it. You have a big meeting ahead of you. So what if Dana’s sipping tea at the Plaza and walking around with her stupid cell phone as she floats down the aisle in her own stupid mini-ballroom? You’re having lunch with a semi-big celebrity! A celebrity you even know! You’re doing just as well as Dana. Better, actually. Dana didn’t even work, unless you counted occasionally advising her neighbors about color schemes. Actually, that sounded pretty good.
I slumped over my desk, defeated.
My eyes landed on the tiny photo of my parents and me in a heart-shaped frame that Aunt Ina had given me. My dad, handsome and smiling, was lifting me up in his arms, and my mom was squeezing his biceps. According to Ina, who’d snapped the photo, I’d been three.
I wondered how my father would feel if knew that Dana was the one walking down the aisle of the Plaza Hotel in two month
s. Would he be disappointed? Shake his head and tell my mother I’d failed him?
Maybe I’d better explain. It had been Marvin Gregg who’d shown me the Plaza Hotel for the first time. “See that fancy hotel, Princess?” he’d said, pointing across the street as we strolled up Fifth Avenue. We were on our way to the Central Park Zoo for a Jane-and-Daddy-only-day. “That’s the Plaza. It costs a million dollars just to go inside. But that’s where you’re going to have your wedding. One day, I’m going to walk you down the aisle in the ballroom of the Plaza Hotel! Whaddaya think of that, Princess?”
“Daddy, I’m only nine!” I’d complained, hands on hips. I remember staring up at the hotel and thinking it looked like a castle. That hadn’t been the mere musings of a child. The Plaza Hotel did look like a castle.
“Yeah, but you’re gonna be all grown up one day, Princess,” he’d said, squeezing my hand. “And you deserve a million-dollar wedding. I tell you what. You find the guy, and I’ll see what I can do. How’s that sound, Princess?”
“Daddy, I wanna see the monkeys! Let’s go, already!” I recalled whining. And I remember him laughing. He’d twirled me down Fifth Avenue to the corner of 59th Street as though we were ballroom dancing.
Marvin Gregg died the next day of a freak stroke. He was thirty-six years old.
I’d never told anyone about that conversation. Not my mother, or Aunt Ina, or even any of my friends. It wasn’t the kind of thing you told anyone. It was the kind of thing you just kept close to your heart. Sometimes it comforted you, and sometimes it made you cry.
“Jaaane!”
Now what? I stabbed the intercom button. “Yeah?”
“Remke said you should come up with title suggestions for the Nutley memoir and write back cover copy for the sales catalog before you leave for lunch. He wants both on his desk by noon.” I heard the you’ll-never-get-it-done-in-time triumph in Morgan’s voice.
“No problem,” I said cheerily, stabbing the intercom button and sticking out my tongue. Titles and back cover copy by noon. Great. I had only a hundred other things to do, not to mention going over my notes for the lunch meeting with the Gnat.
See Jane Date Page 3
