Plus, Gwen was a major phony. She was okay as a boss, and she was really good at her job, but I couldn’t stand her personally. She sort of looked like Christine Lahti, minus the killer body, and she was married to an even bigger phony, a hotshot on Wall Street. They lived in Chappaqua, three streets away from the Clintons. During her pregnancy, Gwen had had the mistaken impression that I was interested in her sonograms, and now, when she called to check in with me privately, her endless nanny sagas. She’d been through two nannies already, and the baby was only four weeks old. Eloise and I had whittled away the time on many a stalled subway ride home from work coming up with baby names for Gwen’s kid. My personal favorite was Not. Not Welle. Eloise’s was Oh. Gwen had chosen Olivia, so Eloise had sort of gotten her wish.
Jeremy leaned forward in his chair. He was having a private discussion with Remke. Morgan and I twiddled our thumbs. Gwen was silent. The baby had probably pooped again.
I stared at Jeremy’s profile, since he was otherwise engaged. He had a strong, straight nose and a square chin chiseled out of—
“So, Gwen,” Jeremy said, snapping me out of my appraisal of his beauty, “I’d like all unsolicited manuscripts to go to Morgan from now on.” He glanced at the telephone. “With you out on leave, we’re short staffed. Nutley’s high priority, and I don’t want Jane distracted by busywork Morgan can take on. For the next couple of months, Jane’s going to be focusing on the Nutley book as Natasha writes the first three chapters and nails the outline. I’ll handle the projects she’s baby-sitting for you, Gwen, and I’ll freelance out as necessary. We can get Morgan started on doing some preliminary line-edits, too.”
Morgan flashed a mouthful of teeth. For once, we were both pleased at the same time.
Remke eyed the telephone. “Gwen? Sound good to you?”
“Just fine,” Gwen cheeped. “Although I’d like someone to look over Morgan’s rejection and revision letters. I know Jane’ll be busy, but perhaps she can take home Morgan’s drafts and return them the next day with comments.”
Excuse me? It was bad enough that I had to work with the Gnat. Now I had to deal with a backstabber who was after my job?
Remke nodded. “Good idea, Gwen. Morgan, you’re our screener now. Go to Jane with any questions or problems.”
Morgan shot me a dagger, then turned her suddenly thrilled expression to Remke. “Great, Williaaam! Thanks for the trust, everyone. I’m really thrilled to have this opportunity to flex my editorial muscles.”
What a suck-up. She was capitalizing on my success. Just like I was capitalizing on the Gnat’s.
Jeremy nodded his cleft chin, then turned those magnetic Caribbean eyes on me. I immediately shot my gaze down to the table as though the scratches on the fake cherry wood were more interesting than his amazing bone structure. “I’ll expect the first chapter of Nutley’s memoir, excerpted, by next Friday.”
Next Friday?
“That’s not a problem, is it, Jane?” Jeremy asked, tilting back in his chair again. “Marie Claire expects the excerpt in less than three weeks. Natasha gets two weeks to write the chapter, and you get a couple of days to excerpt it into twenty-five hundred irresistible words. I get one day to check it, and copyediting and proofreading get half a day. That gives us two days to spare for major problems.”
Drop-dead gorgeous and a math whiz. “Next Friday’s no problem,” I said, daring to look at him for one and a half seconds. “I’ve had Natasha working all weekend.”
“Good job,” Remke cut in. “Keep it up. We’re done here. Black, stay a moment. We need to talk about where we are on the Backstreet Boy.”
Next Friday. How was I supposed to do anything this week but serial date? I’d have to work with the Gnat, train Morgan, go on four blind dates (with incredibly high expectations and rattled nerves) and mysteriously present a polished excerpt of Chapter One of The Gnat Sucks to Jeremy next Friday. My shoulders slumped.
I felt eyes on me. They belonged to Morgan.
No way was I letting her win too.
Morgan trotted after me to my office. I picked up the stack of slush manuscripts from my in-box and dumped them into her outstretched tanned arms. She was beaming. Perhaps the first genuine smile I’d ever seen on her horsey face.
I felt a drop of empathy for Morgan. She knew, like I knew, that all you needed was the chance. Once you got it, you either took it or someone else did. Morgan was taking it. In a way, I had to hand it to her, which, I literally was.
“So, um, Morgan, if you have any questions or want to know how I’d handle something, just come ask me, and I’ll—”
“I learned how to read in first grade, Jaaane,” Morgan said. “I think I’ll manage just fine on my own.”
Asshole.
My phone rang, and Morgan disappeared.
“Jane Gregg.”
“Hi, Jane, it’s Karen! Dana’s maid of honor! How are you? I’m doing just great! I’m calling because I’m finalizing the plans for Dana’s bridal shower, and I’d like to set up a meeting with the bridal party to go over the little details.”
Like what? Who would clean up all the wrapping paper? Who would make Dana her stupid bow-encrusted shower hat? Who would take home all the disgusting, wilted deli meat and cookies? Dana’s shower was a bunch of women sitting in a circle in Karen’s gigantic Forest Hills apartment, watching Dana shriek “Omigod, I love it!” each time she opened another gift. The theme was French Kitchen, since France was where Dana and Larry were going on their honeymoon. How many dish towels with the Eiffel Tower on it did one couple need? And how often was I going to have be in the insufferable presence of Dana’s friends before I spontaneously combusted?
Karen was a replica of Dana, only with light brown hair and bigger boobs. They’d been best friends since the third grade at P.S. 101. Karen was the kind of person who slowly looked you up and down. Twice.
“A meeting to discuss final details?” I said, checking my e-mail. “Don’t you think that’s overkill?” The shower itself was the Saturday after next. The bridal party had already gotten together a month ago to plan the shower.
Silence.
I felt a little guilty. “It’s just that things are really crazy for me right now, so…” I clicked open an e-mail from Amanda. She wished me luck on Blind Date #2, which was scheduled for tomorrow night. Andrew Mackelroy. He was supposed to call me today to make a plan.
“We’re all busy, Jane,” Karen snapped. “And the shower’s on the fourteenth—that’s, like, in two weeks. The meeting will only be an hour or so. Look, if you don’t want to be involved, just say so.”
I don’t want to be involved.
I rolled my eyes instead. “Of course I want to be involved, Karen. Just tell me when and where, okay? My other line’s ringing.”
“Saturday, at eleven-thirty at my place. First we’ll meet, and the bridal party will head over to A Fancy Affair for our final dress fittings. Don’t forget to bring your shoes.”
How could I?
“Saturday at eleven-thirty,” I repeated. “Can you give me your address again?”
She mentioned an address near Station Square.
“Okay, well, see you there.”
I hung up and scowled at my wall calendar. I’d been hearing about Dana Dreer’s wedding plans for the past two years. Why such a long engagement? Because of the waiting time to book a ballroom at the Plaza, of course. Getting married at the Plaza was more important to Dana and Larry than getting married. But now that the “big day” was two months away, I’d be hearing about it every second.
What did I have to look forward to for the next two months, besides working with Gnatasha Nutley and Morgan Morgan? Let me flip open my date book and share:
Note to self: cross off peach peau de soie shoes with two-and-a-half-inch princess heel. Got ’em.
Saturday, June 6: Wedding Shower Finalization meeting and Bridesmaid Dress Fitting #2, which meant spending another entire afternoon with Dana’s insufferable bridal party. D
id I mention that the dress cost me two hundred and twenty-five bucks?
Saturday, June 13: Wedding Shower. Which meant spending yet another entire afternoon with Dana’s insufferable bridal party and Larry Fishkill’s female relatives. It also meant buying an expensive present at Bloomingdale’s or Williams-Sonoma, where she was registered.
Friday, July 31: The bachelorette party. At Hots, a male strip club. A repeat of the Wedding Shower Finalization group, but with dollar bills to stick in gyrating G-strings.
August 2: Wedding Day (crack of dawn): Zelda’s Hair and Beauty Spa on Madison Avenue. Larry Fishkill’s mother was springing for all the female relatives to have their hair and makeup done, plus manicures and pedicures.
August 2: (morning): Pre-ceremony pictures with the entire wedding party for Dana’s personal collection. How long could a person keep a smile frozen on her face before her face cracked?
August 2: (early afternoon-2pm): Helping Dana into her $8,000 wedding gown and her Tiffany diamond studs, an engagement present from Aunt Ina and Uncle Charlie.
August 2: (2:30pm) The long, boring ceremony itself.
August 2: (4pm–midnight): The long, boring wedding reception. Dana had told her bandleader she wanted a heavy Celine Dion rotation. Her wedding song was “The Wind Beneath My Wings” by Bette Midler.
August 2: (10pm-ish) The tossing of the bouquet. The horror movie all single women got to star in as they lined up like losers with hopeful smiles on their faces while stretching out their claws to catch the bouquet that promised they’d be next.
August 2 (all day): Listening to Aunt Ina and Grammy look at me with pity and telling me not to worry, that my day would come.
August 2 (all night): Sitting like a wallflower at the table with no one to dance with, just like at Forest Hills High.
The intercom buzzed. “Yeah?”
“Ms. Nutley is here to see you, Jaaane,” Morgan said. “Coffee and Danish and a fruit plate are set up in the conference room. The deli only had the kind of orange juice with the pulp in it. I hope that’s okaaay.”
“It’s fine. Thanks, Morgan. Can you tell Natasha I’ll be out in a minute?” More like five minutes. I was a busy executive, not some lowly assistant editor who was so grateful for this plum project that she ran out enthusiastically to greet her star author.
The intercom buzzed again. “I’ll be out in a moment,” I repeated.
“Hey, it’s me,” Eloise said. “Pick up. I hate talking on speakerphone.” I snatched the receiver. “Wanna come see the new Woody Allen movie with me and Serge tonight? We’re going to the seven-twenty at the Beekman.”
Serge was a huge Woody Allen fan. After he saw Annie Hall on video about ten times, he’d bought Eloise a tie and a vest. She’d had no problem alerting him to the fact that Annie Hall was almost thirty years old—and that the seventies fashion revival had thankfully come and gone.
“I wish I could, El, but I think I’d better work. I’ve got all those blind dates this week, so tonight’s my only totally free night to slave over the Gnat’s slutty life story. Which she’s delivering in person this morning—well, a draft of the first chapter, anyway. Jeremy wants the excerpt for Marie Claire by next Friday.”
“Ugh. You are busy. So are you okay, I mean about yesterday?
“Yeah, I think so. I’m just gonna try and forget about it, if I can.” Of course, Max’s angular face flashed before my eyes. “Max’s wedding announcement and that jerk, Kevin. Do you know that I actually called my machine a couple of times this morning just to see if he called? I didn’t even like him! Hey, go take a peek at the reception desk. Natasha Nutley’s waiting for me to come get her.”
“Ooh—bye!” Eloise hung up. I could just picture her pretending she was dropping off a memo for Remke with Morgan so she could get a glance at the Gnat.
I figured my five minutes were now up. I stuck my head out of my office door and peered around the corner, which gave me a view of the reception desk—Morgan’s open cubicle. The Gnat was deep in conversation with Morgan. I stared Natasha up and down, a` la Karen, Dana’s maid of honor. She was wearing a black camisole, black leather pants with a skinny cow-print belt and black high-heeled mules. I glanced down at my gray pantsuit, in which I’d felt perfectly professional three minutes ago. Suddenly I felt dowdy.
Deep breath, deep breath.
I grabbed my Gnat folder and headed down the hall with a smile plastered on my face. “Gnatasha!” I called out. “Right on time.”
She flashed the whiter-than-whites at me. “I was just telling Morgan that I used to baby-sit your cousin. We were marveling at what a small world it is.”
Too small.
“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Nicole Kidman?” Morgan gushed to Natasha.
“Um, so why don’t we head into the conference room?” I interrupted, sweeping my arm ahead of the Gnat.
Remke appeared out of his office behind Morgan’s cubicle. “Natasha! Lovely to see you.” Remke and the Gnat air-kissed both cheeks and made small talk about “the Coast.”
Jeremy came down the hall carrying a manuscript and cover mechanicals. “Natasha, you look wonderful, as always.”
More air-kissing. More small talk.
I wondered what it would be like to air-kiss Jeremy Black. To be that close to his cheek. That close to his mouth, to those lips. I suddenly imagined his tongue probing deep inside my mouth, inside my—
“Jaaane, if you need the coffee urn refilled, you just let me know,” Morgan said.
How sweet she was. “I sure will.”
I led the Gnat inside the conference room. I sat at the head of the table, where Remke had been just a half hour earlier. I’d never sat in this chair before.
Natasha sat to my right. She placed her leather tote, this one imprinted with tiny G’s, onto Gwen’s chair. She pulled out a red folder and opened it on the table.
I opened my own folder. My copy of her outline was peppered with notes in the margins. Why couldn’t she read over my comments and do her work from home? Or better yet, from three thousand miles away, on the stupid houseboat where she now lived? Why did she have to constantly call and come over? Why couldn’t she just fly back to “the Coast” and leave me alone?
“Coffee?” I asked, lifting the urn.
“Love some,” Natasha said, steadying one of the mugs. “Wanna split a Danish?”
“Okay.” I poured two cups of coffee. I was surprised she ate such things, let alone that she didn’t launch into a diatribe about dieting. I thought actresses ate only spinach leaves and guzzled Ex-Lax.
“So, I’ll leave you my first chapter to read later, but is it okay if I read you my opening sentence? I figure if it’s too in-your-face, I’ll know not to go that far with Chapter Two.”
I poured milk into my coffee. She took hers black, I noticed. How minimalist. “Well, Remke and Jeremy always say to hook your reader with the first sentence, so the more in-your-face, the better. Go ahead.”
The Gnat smiled, then lifted the page and cleared her throat. Her bangles jangled on her wrist. “I was fucking one of the most famous actors currently in show business when he handed me a legal document to sign.”
I almost spat out my mouthful of coffee.
She frowned. “I told you it was straightforward.”
She’d mistaken my surprise at her marketing savvy for shock. “No, it’s great,” I assured her as she took a tiny bite of her half of the Danish. “Perfect, actually. It’s exactly what Remke hoped for.”
“Really?” She was beaming. “I’m so happy! That means I’m on the right track.”
Natasha Nutley was going to make my job even easier than I thought. I was as relieved as I was bothered.
“Jane Gregg.”
“Oh, great—I got you and not voice mail,” said a male voice.
“It’s me,” I confirmed, cradling the phone against my shoulder as I pulled a cigarette and a book of matches from my tote bag. I’d started having a major nico
tine fit after thirty minutes in the Gnat’s presence, so I’d excused myself to do something very important. Like get the hell away from her and sneak downstairs for a cigarette. This phone call was cutting into my puffing time.
Whoever it was—either one of the drones in the production department or the annoying Ian who crunched our profit-and-loss figures…or tomorrow night’s blind date calling to confirm and set something up—had better make it snappy. I’d left the Gnat in the conference room to think over my editorial comments for the outline for Chapters Two and Three, which she’d focused too much on her childhood and not enough on life in L.A. and the struggle to break into show business. If Remke or Jeremy popped their heads in and found her alone, they’d wonder where I was. As nonsmokers, they wouldn’t understand the need for nicotine. And as men, they wouldn’t understand the need to escape Gnatasha.
“It’s Andrew Mackelroy, Jeff’s friend?” the voice said.
I sat up straighter in my chair and slipped the cigarettes and matches into my jacket pocket. “Hi.” I immediately liked that he phrased sentences in the form of questions too.
“So, how does dinner sound for tomorrow night?” Andrew Mackelroy asked.
“Sounds good. I’m hungry already.”
He offered a chuckle. “Great. You know, I sort of have this ‘thing’ I’m supposed to go to tomorrow night, and the best Italian food in New York will be served. Up for a surprise?”
I definitely liked Andrew. “Sure—I love Italian. Count me in.”
How full of potential was this! He had a thing tomorrow night, and I had a thing in two months. That gave us two things in common already!
“Is it okay if we meet there?” he asked. “Yeah? You sure? Great. So the address is 563 Delancey Street, seven o’clock. I’m really looking forward to meeting you, Jane.”
Delancey Street? Who had anything down there? And was there Italian food on the Lower East Side? Apparently so…I decided not to pre-judge.
See Jane Date Page 7
