I’d placed the chapters and outline on Jeremy’s desk at nine sharp this morning. I was proud of the partial, proud of Natasha for her hard work and excellent writing, proud of myself for spending the past two nights slaving over the manuscript with a pencil. I’d barely had to touch much of Chapter Two, and had only a bit of work to do midway through Chapter Three. The outline itself was in big, juicy, New York Times extended bestseller list shape. I’d done my job well, and I knew it. So why I had forgotten that since the clock struck twelve? You did good, I told myself. You did damned good. Jeremy had to like the partial.
Something suddenly occurred to me, something I hadn’t given a thought to before now. If Jeremy approved the partial, that meant Natasha would go home, back to Santa Barbara and her proposing boyfriend. She wouldn’t need weekly meetings or hand-holding to start the major work of writing the complete manuscript. Huh. No more Natasha to jangle her bracelets. No more tossing of the ringlets. No more phone calls at home or intense subway rides. No more her. I was just starting to get to know Natasha Nutley and, I had to admit, I was a bit curious to know her a little better. Not to sound like a self-help book, but in a way, the more I learned about Natasha, the more I learned about myself. Or at least that was how it seemed. I supposed I could even admit to slightly liking her. I knew she was staying in New York through a week or two of August; the boyfriend was flying in on the first, they’d go to Dana’s wedding on the second, and they’d probably spend the following week walking up and down Madison Avenue, shopping for baby Prada clothes and furniture and accessories for the nursery. Then they’d fly back to the houseboat, and I’d hear from Natasha once a month or so, as she progressed with The Stopped Starlet. I’d planned to talk to her about the sequel Remke wanted once I had Jeremy’s comments on Stopped. Overwhelming her with the idea of a second memoir before now would have been too much for her, and if Jeremy panned the partial, she might be less deflated if she knew he was behind her to the extent that Posh even wanted a sequel.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. Three-twenty.
The intercom buzzed, and I jumped. “Jaaane,” whined Morgan. “Jeremy would like to see you in the conference room.”
Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom. I stood up and took a deep breath. The partial manuscript was good. There was no way Jeremy could say otherwise. Head held high, I smoothed my hair, picked a piece of lint off my Ann Taylor jacket, wiped my sweaty palms on my skirt and marched down the hall. I stopped by Eloise’s office for a you go, girl, but she wasn’t there.
The moment I entered the conference room, I saw the platter of cookies and the champagne and little plastic cups. Who was getting married now? Paulette? Daisy? Remke himself? I spotted Gwen behind Paulette; she was lifting Olivia into her arms from the baby carriage. If Gwen had turned up for this announcement, it had to be something big. Eloise was standing in the back, looking at the final cover mechanical for the Skinny-Minny Wanna-Be memoir. We caught eyes and I sent her a questioning look. She shrugged. The entire editorial and art departments were dotted around the room, plus Ian, the grumpy profit-and-loss number cruncher who I was forced to deal with way too often, and Irma, the temperamental contracts manager.
“Thanks for coming, everyone,” Jeremy said, effectively stopping the chatter in the room. “Gwen has come in to make a special announcement.”
What could she possibly have to announce? She was getting a divorce from Phoney-Baloney? The baby’s poop was now green? Oh, God. Was she quitting?
“Hi everyone!” Gwen trilled as she handed Olivia to Morgan, who held the baby at an awkward distance from her body as though Olivia were contaminated. “I most certainly do have a special surprise announcement. I’d like everyone to get ready to clap their hands. Jane Gregg has been promoted to Editor!”
My mouth dropped open. Claps and cheers. Pats on the back. Editor? Had I heard right? Not Associate Editor? The champagne poured. I stared at Gwen, stared at Jeremy, stared at Remke, stared at Eloise. I finally clamped my mouth shut, but it fell open again. I’d gotten promoted!
“I’m so proud of you, Jane!” chirped Gwen. She took Olivia from Morgan and rocked her up and down in her arms, then came over to stand next to me. “Say hi-hi to Posh’s newest editor, Livie-loo.”
I played with Livie-loo’s wispy blond curls. “I thought maybe I misheard, Gwen. I’m promoted to full editor?”
“You deserve it, Jane,” Gwen said ostentatiously but welcomely gracious for once. “You were held at the editorial assistant level for a bit too long because you were so good and we didn’t really need another editorial hand. And then you got stuck as an assistant editor for too long because of budget problems. You’ve proved you’re editor level. Jeremy read Natasha’s partial this morning, faxed me a copy, and we had a conference call with William. And voila`.”
“Yes, congratulations, Jane,” Jeremy said, patting me on the back. “You’ve been very loyal to Posh, and we’ve all appreciated that and your hard work. The Nutley memoir really shows what you’re capable of. It’s dead-on.”
Dead-on. Little currents of happiness started tingling at my toes and worked their way up to my fingers. Dead-on. I knew it! I couldn’t wait to call Natasha and tell her.
“Good going, Gregg,” Remke added. “And now that Natasha’s working full speed ahead on the bulk of The Stopped Starlet, you’ll be taking on a couple of additional projects.”
“Your own projects,” Jeremy added. “You won’t be doing any more initial line-edits. You’ll be doing your own edits.”
I could feel myself beaming. I’d done it. I’d gotten my promotion. And not the perfectly fine promotion to associate editor. I’d leaped right over that to full editor! There were some accomplishments that no one could ever take away from you, and this was one of them.
“Okay, let’s go, let’s go, everyone,” Remke snapped. “Drink up and let’s get back to work.”
Eloise squeezed me into a huge hug. “We are going to celebrate big time tonight!”
“Jane,” Gwen said, settling Olivia in her baby carriage. “I’m so pleased about your promotion! When Jeremy called me to let me know he thought the memoir was proof of your readiness, I’d never been so proud! I mean, I taught you everything you know, so this really bodes well for my management skills. I’ve always said, I trained you well!”
I mentally rolled my eyes and smiled at her. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Gwen. You’ve been really good to me.” Good enough, actually.
She beamed and rocked the baby carriage back and forth. “You’ve blossomed, Jane. I’ve watched you grow from a twenty-two-year-old novice into a full editor. I’m just so proud. Ooh—guess who just made poopy face?” Gwen cooed to Olivia. “Jane, want to help me change her?”
“Um, I would, but I promised Eloise I’d go over the Skinny-Minny mechanicals with her, so…” A total lie. Changing a baby’s dirty diaper wasn’t exactly how I wanted to celebrate my promotion.
“Jaaane,” Morgan said, two plastic cups of champagne in her hand. “Congratulaaations on your promotion. That’s really greaaat. You definitely deserve it.” She handed me one of the cups, then tapped mine with hers before heading to the table to snatch two chocolate-chip cookies.
Well, well. Would wonders never cease.
“Am I too late?”
I turned around at the sound of Natasha’s voice and shocked myself by being glad to see her. We hadn’t gotten together in three weeks, since the day of Dana’s shower. She looked like herself again. She wore tight black leather pants, a tiny lavender microfiber tank top and high-heeled, lavender-black snakeskin slingbacks. Her perfect Nicole Kidman ringlets appeared sunlit, even indoors. She didn’t look the least bit pregnant, but then again, she was barely three months along.
“Natasha, I got promoted to Editor!”
“I know.” Her bracelets jangled as she tossed a few ringlets behind her shoulder. “Jeremy called and asked if I’d come over at three-thirty to celebrate. Congratulations! That must mean my chapters a
re coming along okay, huh?”
“He loved them!” I whispered. “So did Remke.”
She flashed those super-white teeth in a dazzling smile. “Jeremy told me. I was so thrilled. You and I make a great team.”
A team. Natasha and I. Huh. I hadn’t thought of it that way before, but that was certainly what the editor-author relationship was.
“Champagne?” I kicked myself the moment the word was out of my mouth. Was I a total idiot or what? Hadn’t I just read the fleshed-out outline of Natasha’s life? The woman was a recovered alcoholic. Not to mention pregnant.
“No, thanks,” Natasha said. “I don’t drink. And neither does the baby.” She patted her tummy.
Oh, God. I was an idiot. “I forgot for a second. I’m sorry.”
“I’m glad you forgot.” Natasha flipped a ringlet behind her back. “That must mean you’re starting to see me as me, and not the mess in the book.”
Huh. I most certainly was. Interesting. That was part of the realization I’d come to last week at the Flirt Night Roundtable. Unless you knew Natasha, really knew her, you wouldn’t, couldn’t, know her by reading her outline.
“So, it turns out I’m going to stay in New York for a while,” Natasha added. “Sam doesn’t think I should be flying around so early in the pregnancy. Isn’t that crazy? He’s such a silly worrier! So he’s going to fly out on the first of August and spend a few weeks with me here. Wow, can you believe it’s almost August? Dana’s wedding will be here before we know it.”
Yes, it would. In two measly weeks. And would Timothy be sitting next to me, making small talk with the Houseboat Dweller and twirling me around the mini-ballroom? I had no idea anymore. He hadn’t called “to check in” this past week. Not once. All week I’d vacillated between He Likes Me, He Likes Me Not. I’d even plucked a flower from someone’s first-floor window box and tried my luck; I’d ended on a He Likes Me Not. Why did this have to be so confusing? If he missed me, if he really liked me and wanted something to develop between us, wouldn’t he have called? A three-second call on his way back from the bathroom or to lunch or to sleep. Wouldn’t he want to talk to me? He’d found the time to call me last Saturday night, after all.
He was coming over tomorrow night. If he didn’t give me the Can We Just Be Friends speech, the It’s Not Me, It’s You, I’d remind him of the wedding and make sure he knew how important it was to me that he be there. Surely for a special occasion he could get off duty. Couldn’t he? Surely if it was really, really, really important to me. Right?
“Whoo-hoo!” Amanda yelled from our table in Evelyn’s, a super-swanky Upper West Side bar. The Flirt Night Roundtable had the celebration of my promotion as its agenda. “Jane pays for everything now that she’s a hotshot editor!”
I laughed. “Hey, my raise doesn’t go into effect until the next pay period, and these drinks are nine bucks each!”
Eloise exhaled a stream of smoke. “You know what, Jane, my dear? You’ve got me raring to go. I’m gonna ask Daisy about a promotion on Monday. I’m due, too.”
We all clinked our Cosmopolitans to that. “Okay, guys, I need to know what to do tomorrow night for Timothy’s arrival. Do I doll up the place with scented candles and Marvin Gaye? Or is that too much?” I had absolutely no idea what was going to happen when Timothy showed up. Would we order in Chinese, watch HBO, make love and make plans for a next date? Or would I get one of the speeches? “Who am I kidding. He’s coming to dump me.” I slumped down on my chair.
“No way,” Amanda insisted, “From what you described of his phone call, he’s coming for a nice, low-key night with his honey, who he misses so much.”
I brightened. “Do you really think so?”
“Guys don’t come over to break up with you,” Eloise threw in. “They do it in public places so that you can’t make a scene. You’re totally safe.”
I took a sip of my drink. “So what do you two think—candles and music and a little wine? Pizza and Coke? Nothing?”
Amanda and Eloise chewed their stirrers and mulled that one over. “I say doll up the place,” Amanda said. “If you don’t, that’s like you expect something bad is going to happen.”
“But what if something bad does happen?” I pointed out. “What if he is coming over to end it? Do I really want to be smelling vanilla and listening to Marvin Gaye when he dumps me? I’ll never be able to listen to Marvin Gaye again.”
“He is not going to dump you,” Eloise declared with all the assurance of a best friend.
“I’ll bet one hundred bucks he dumps me,” I wagered.
Eloise exhaled a stream of smoke and smiled. “Jane, even though you’re a hotshot editor at Posh, you still can’t afford to lose a hundred bucks.”
“Yeah,” Amanda agreed.
“In fact,” Eloise added, “I’ll put up a hundred that Timothy tells you he’s oh so sorry for his doctorly schedule, and he’s gonna make it up to you by taking you to dinner at Gotham or Daniel.”
“I’ll put a hundred on Timothy, too,” Amanda said. “I have faith.”
“In him or me?” I asked.
Eloise swatted me with her stirrer. “You, you fool.”
“And him,” Amanda added.
“Fine,” I said. “I wager my hundred that I get the ‘Can we just be friends?’ speech.”
“Easy money,” Eloise said, clinking glasses with Amanda.
This sucked. I was supposed to be celebrating my hard-won promotion with my buds tonight and my boyfriend tomorrow night, not chewing my cuticles to bits and taking bets on my love life. Let my friends be right, I prayed up in the direction of the crowded bar. Let them win my hundred! After all the me toos, after how compatible we seemed to be sexually, could Timothy just want to be friends? Things had been fine, so—
My heart stopped. Timothy Rommely was standing at the bar, waving a fifty at the bartender. I shifted my body so that I was blocked by Eloise, then peeked around her.
“What the hell are you doing?” she asked.
“Timothy! Straight ahead. He’s at the bar!”
“Really?” Amanda asked. “I’ve never seen him in the flesh. Which one is he?”
“He’s the one who looks like Greg from Dharma and Greg,” I reminded her. “He’s the one who—”
Had just slung his arm over the shoulder of a woman who wasn’t me.
Amanda sucked in a breath. “The one with the redhead?”
I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even nod. Tears stung the backs of my eyes.
“He does look like Greg,” Eloise said. “Too bad he’s a two-timing asshole jerk—”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Amanda insisted. “You don’t know that. Maybe that chick’s a co-worker and they just finished saving someone’s life, or maybe she’s his cousin or—”
We all watched as Timothy gave the redhead a flirtatious tug toward him and stuck his tongue in her mouth in a short but killer kiss. Now his back was to us. A bunch of people had come in and formed a second layer at the bar. At least they were blocking my view a bit.
“I’m so sorry, Jane,” Amanda said, squeezing my hand.
“Are you okay?” Eloise asked. “Do you wanna get out of here?”
I still couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. My heart had dropped to my feet. “I don’t want him to see me,” I managed. My mouth felt as though it were stuffed with cotton.
“Maybe you should go confront him,” Amanda suggested. “Embarrass the son of a bitch.”
Problem was, Timothy wouldn’t be the embarrassed one. I’d take that honor. I was the spurned one. I’d be the one making the scene. Timothy would be the star of the show and get to go home with the redhead, besides.
I lunged for the pack of Marlboro Lights on the table. “I need a cigarette,” I said, tapping one out.
“No!” Eloise whisper-yelled, grabbing the pack and stuffing them in her waistband. “You’re not wrecking all that hard work for some asshole, Jane. He’s not worth it.”
Tears pooled in m
y eyes. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I dared a peek. Timothy’s back was still to our table. He and the redhead were sitting on stools at the bar, about seventy feet from where we sat. His arm was around her.
It was too much. The tears came and I couldn’t stop them. My hands flew up to my eyes with a cocktail napkin. I felt Eloise rubbing my shoulder and Amanda squeezing my hand.
“We could sneak out without him seeing you,” Eloise whispered into my ear. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
I stole another peek. Timothy and the redhead were now facing each other. Again he kissed her, and then they clinked glasses. He was probably saying, “Me too.” I couldn’t take my eyes off him, off the guy who was supposed to be mine. And because I was now staring at him, he turned in my direction.
Timothy Rommely and I were staring at each other, him with something akin to horror in his eyes. The redhead had swung her green-eyed gaze in my direction, too. I darted my gaze to my lap. “What do I do?” I whispered to Eloise and Amanda.
“You get the hell out of here,” Eloise said. “C’mon, I’ve got your purse. Let’s go.”
And so we stood up and marched past Timothy and the redhead. I kept my eyes on the floor. I could feel him watch us leave. I ran up the steps leading to street level, tears falling down my cheeks.
“Jane, wait,” he called out.
I turned around; Timothy was standing in the doorway, a beseeching look on his face.
Amanda and Eloise were on the top step. “We’ll wait for you up here,” Eloise said, a mixture of anger and concern in her expression.
And so I turned around and faced him, wondering what he could possibly want to tell me. It wasn’t as though he could say, Let’s get a drink and talk about this; his date was five feet away. “What’s there to say, Timothy?”
“Jane, I know this looks bad.”
What a classic. I didn’t think anyone actually said that, even when it did look bad.
“It’s just that things are really crazy at the hospital right now,” Timothy said for the hundredth time since I’d met him, “and I guess it’s easy to get involved with someone who’s right there, going through what you’re going through.”
See Jane Date Page 24
