Asking For A Friend

by Blakely, Lauren

  “I want to go to that mansion,” I say, then wiggle my fingers as if beckoning. “But tell me more about the job opening.”

  “They’re talking to outsiders, but word on the street is it’ll go to an insider.”

  I squeal. “More, more. Tell me more.”

  “And the VPs are going to consider everyone in house who’s qualified.”

  My shoulders sag. “Including Antonia.”

  “She’s only an assistant editor. You’re higher up, even as a junior editor,” Lola points out.

  “But she’s Rainey’s right hand, left hand, back hand, extra hand, and winning hand.” I pause dramatically before I state the obvious. “Also, let’s not forget one itty-bitty thing she has going for her.”

  “And what is that?”

  I make a megaphone of my hands. “Everyone loves her.” My voice returns to a normal level. “Literally everyone. She’s like the sweet librarian in the children’s section who happily reads to kids all day long. And who also happens to have great taste in books.”

  Lola furrows her brow. “And everyone hates you and your awful taste?”

  “Well, one simply does not go through life without acquiring some haters,” I say haughtily, then immediately drop the act. “Anyway, you know what I mean. She’s the golden child. I’m the middle child. No one notices me.”

  “Look, all the veeps decide, and you have a great track record. Even if you’re not the loudest voice in the room, you do have a solid foundation with your acquisitions and the books you’ve edited. We just need to pitch you and pitch you hard.”

  Lola is a goddess. Not only because her cover designs are the stuff of legend, but because as a designer, she floats between departments. That means she knows everything. Who’s banging who. Who’s acquiring what. And how to get stuff done. I am one lucky lady to have her in my corner.

  “I love that we’re a we,” I say.

  She presses a finger to her lips. “Shhh. I can’t let anyone know you’re my fave.”

  “Also, have I mentioned I love it when you say pitch me hard?” I say, making over-the-top sexy eyes at her.

  She gives them right back to me. “If I liked girls as well as boys, I’d so be all over your Zooey Deschanel charm.”

  I flip the ends of my hair coyly. “Why, thank you. You sure do know how to make a modern girl blush. Also, speaking of girls, you’d have double the trouble if you liked girls as well as boys.”

  “Speaking of problems, did I tell you that Alejandro serenaded me with his acoustic guitar last night?”

  Most women would want Lola’s problems with men. As in, they all flock to her like tomcats in an alley when a lovely lady cat saunters by. Sometimes I like to live vicariously through her.

  “He serenaded you? Like, outside the window of your Chelsea third-floor walk-up?”

  “Yup. Like a cheeseball from the movies.”

  “Call me crazy, but it seems he hasn’t fully grasped the meaning of ‘breakup.’”

  “He hasn’t, and I was entertaining another gentleman. Fabian wasn’t terribly bothered, but my landlord wasn’t happy about the impromptu unplugged concert. He said, and I quote, ‘The next time one of your ex-boyfriends thinks it’s the John Cusack hour, we’re going to have a serious talk.’”

  “Clearly, the only solution is for you to become boring. But please don’t do that.” I park my chin in my hands and bat my lashes. “Speaking of your latest fling, can we go to a bar tonight and dish about your hot-as-a-forest-fire sex life?”

  She wags her finger, tsking me. “Don’t get distracted by shiny objects like sex.”

  “But sex is the ultimate shiny object.” I stop and hold up a pause right there finger. “Sex and Other Shiny Objects—that would be a great name for a book.”

  “Yes,” she says, staring at me down the bridge of her nose. “But we’re not working on your list of awesome future book concepts. We’re focusing on you. We can go to a bar tonight and dish about how to get you in line for the promotion, and then, as an editor, you can go commission some hotshot writer to pen Sex and Other Shiny Objects.” She snaps her fingers. “Now, hop to it. Line up the crew, little squirrel.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Grabbing my phone, I text my best friend.

  Technically, Inspector Poirot would fill that role, but I refuse to give him the official BFF designation because he likes to lick his butt, and butt-lickers are disqualified from things like best friend titles and giving kisses. Hence, Peyton wins.

  Amy: Your presence is requested at seven p.m. Nonnegotiable.

  Peyton: As if I’d try to negotiate my way out of one of your demands.

  Next, I fire off a text to my brother, Josh. Not that he’s part of the crew, on account of being a man and a sib. But he does dish the best work advice, and he’s mega busy all the time so I need to shoehorn my way into his calendar.

  Amy: Free this weekend? There’s a job opening I want to apply for, and I need to use my patented brain suckers to acquire all your strategic business acumen.

  Josh: Be sure to bring the biggest brain suckers in your stash. And yes. I can meet you at three on Saturday at An Open Book.

  Just like that, I’m invigorated. Fresh as a daisy when Antonia pages me that it’s time for my meeting. Even though she’s an entry-level editor, she’s also still Rainey’s gatekeeper.

  “Hi, Amy! Rainey will see you in four minutes to discuss your manuscripts,” Antonia says. “Psst. Don’t be late. You know how she gets.”

  “I sure do. And I’ll be there.”

  “Excellent. See you soon.”

  I grab my laptop and scurry down the hall, spotting Baldwin, the hottest guy in the office, aka the guy we most wish were straight. And that’s not because his caramel skin and square jaw vault him to a solid ten, but because he’s witty and thoughtful. He’s walking toward me, leading Superman down the hall.

  I mean, Henry Cavill.

  Wait. Is that Henry Cavill in our office?

  Did we just sign Henry Cavill for a memoir?

  No. I would know that. I mean, Lola would know that. And Lola would have told me.

  As I get a closer look, I see the guy next to Baldwin isn’t Henry Cavill.

  He’s even better.

  Because he wears glasses.

  Foxy Clark Kent glasses that pair perfectly with his navy-blue slacks and crisp white shirt. He has to be an author. A motivational speaker. Some sort of celebrity, I bet. He’s more than a ten on my babe-o-meter. I narrow my eyes, and privately declare him a fourteen.

  Maybe I can glean some intel as I whip past my colleague. There’s a break in their conversation, so I say, “Hi, Baldwin. Did you know DoorDash just added Sunshine Bakery? Our prayers have been answered.”

  “Don’t even tell me that, Ames. Do you know how long I’ve worked on these abs?”

  “Couple days?”

  He glares at me, and I wink, then turn on my bionic hearing so I can pick up the rest of his conversation with the superhero. Slowing my pace to stay in earshot helps too, and I have another minute left in my don’t-be-late window. And windows should stay open a crack for fourteens.

  “And here’s the break room. Literally the most important room in the house,” Baldwin informs the eye candy.

  “This is where you keep the leftover birthday cake waiting to be devoured?” Clark Kent asks.

  Gah, he likes cake. Cake is my church. Cake is my religion. If I ever start a dating profile again, I’d use a picture of Betty Boop proffering a slice of pink cake on a plate, and the caption would say: The secret to happiness lies in cake and books.

  “Yes, but speed is of the essence if you want to snag a slice before the savages destroy them. I once saw a cake in there that looked like it had been picked over by a family of honey badgers.”

  “Not a problem. I’ve been clocked at five seconds faster than a honey badger.” His voice fades as they head in the other direction.

  Baldwin’s voice grows quieter too
. “You’ll do just fine here, then.”

  Name. What is Clark Kent’s name?

  Just in case I want to stalk the new employee.

  I mean, look him up and do a little friendly neighborhood research as to who this hot tamale is.

  Wait. I don’t have time for hot tamales.

  I have a promotion to win.

  With that, I shove the hot tamale into the freezer section of my brain to cool off before I burn myself.

  2

  Amy

  Rainey regards me with icy eyes. My stomach roller-coasters through the silence as the Meryl Streep look-alike weighs my last question: Would you consider me for the editor opening?

  At least, I think she’s weighing it. I can’t read her expressions, and I wish I could figure out if Botox treatments are the culprit or she just doesn’t like anyone. But she’s had an implacable face since she hired me out of grad school four years ago.

  Hence the stomach dips.

  My liver might be getting in on the action too. It’s executing loop the loops as Rainey taps a gunmetal-gray fingernail against her oak desk.

  “Will I consider you for the opening?” she echoes my question. Perhaps she’s practicing the Socratic method.

  Perhaps she’s a former law school professor.

  Perhaps she could elicit confessions from career criminals.

  Stay strong. Chin up. Voice clear.

  “Yes. Will you?” I ask, managing to voice those three words without squeaking.

  She stabs a button on her phone, coolly issuing a request to her assistant that has nothing to do with our conversation. “Antonia, will you please bring me the cover mock-up for Fashion Roadkill?”

  “Of course. You’re going to die. It’s so eye-catching and clever. She went with our concept, and it’s such a fresh take on covers,” she says, and now I’m dying to see this cover that she and the boss lady concocted.

  “Let’s hope I don’t die waiting,” Rainey says, then returns her focus to me. “The position will be posted early next week. We will consider everyone qualified. Including you.” She nods at my laptop. “Happy reading.”

  I’m dismissed from her office, but not from the running, so I pump a virtual fist and give a professional “thank you” as I exit.

  I scoot past Antonia, who’s cradling a printout of an illustrated cover featuring a dress flattened on a road.

  And it’s stunning. A fresh take on covers indeed.

  “That’s amazing,” I tell her. An amazing reminder I need to be at the top of my game, I add to myself. I need to be plotting brilliant cover concepts with Rainey.

  “Isn’t it? Thanks so much,” says the blonde, then shuts the door once she’s inside the ice queen’s inner sanctum.

  * * *

  Two hours later, I escape from the office with Lola, making our way to Gin Joint. Tonight will be my fun night, since I’ll have to don the chains of work for most of the weekend.

  “I kid you not, I have sixty-eight new manuscripts—give or take—on my laptop to keep me busy, since, big surprise, the Skittle purveyor is a no-go.”

  “Sixty-eight?”

  “Feels like sixty-eight. It might be eight. It’s still a metric ton of pages. And I don’t know how I’m even going to make it to Hula-Hoop class with all these books to read.”

  “You always do. You’re the teacher after all. You’ll wake up early like you do every day, and you’ll read some more, then you’ll hula it up. Plus, isn’t that morning bird routine how you won the Hula-Hoop championship at just six years of age?”

  “Ha! I was fourteen when I won the state Hula-Hoop championship. And you’re right—it was by putting in the hours. And I continue to put in the hours and shimmy my hips to this day, since it makes my cake addiction possible.” I shift gears. “By the way, the Fashion Roadkill cover is going to win you an award.”

  “Thanks. It wasn’t even my concept. I just executed on it.”

  “And your execution is killer,” I say.

  Lola mimes making a checkmark. “First point of the night goes to the brunette for perfect wordplay.”

  I curtsy.

  When we reach the bar, I slide off my flats and drop them into my purse, then slip into chunky red heels and head inside. Peyton has already claimed the most valuable real estate—the cranberry velvet chaise lounge in the middle of the twenties-style speakeasy.

  As soon as she spots us, she rises, grins, and parks a hand on a hip like she’s about to issue a smackdown on a reality TV show.

  “Did you just find La Perla on sale for ninety percent off?” I ask, because I know what gets this girl lit up like a sparkler.

  “Better.” She holds up her purse, pats the side, and declares, “I’ve got ten thousand dollars burning a hole in my pocket. Drinks are on me.”

  I thrust my hand in the air. “I volunteer as tribute.”

  3

  Linc

  Things that are different in New York City versus Los Angeles:

  1. I saw a rat pole dancing on the subway this morning. That never happened on the West Coast. Rats in Los Angeles generally preferred to sunbathe.

  2. You can get a slice of pizza for a dollar. Anywhere. Everywhere. In Los Angeles, if you want carbs, you have to know a guy. When you need a fix, you meet him in a back alley somewhere after sunset. Check for surveillance because if your friends—or your trainer—find out, it’s all over but the shunning.

  3. And when you meet your carb dealer, some other dude will join him. He’s the guy who’ll give you the secret driving directions to get to West Hollywood in record time. That is, if you slip him a Franklin.

  4. In New York, literally anyone, from the garbage man to the Duane Reade clerk, will tell you the combination of subway lines that’ll zip you around the city like a local. The trick is to write fast enough to get it down because they speak at supersonic speeds and the instructions are slightly less complex than polyhedral geometry.

  5. There are fewer smoothies in Manhattan. Less chia seeds. A lot less kale. And the tacos just aren’t as tasty.

  Something that is the same? AirPods. Everywhere.

  I could say something foreboding about the state of humanity and how we prefer to exist in our solitary sound bubbles rather than interact with other sentient beings. But I do that and the next thing I know I’ll be the guy writing emo poems about pole-dancing rodents.

  And I didn’t move across the country to pen poetry.

  After Baldwin finishes my first-day-at-the-new-gig tour, I focus on the mission-critical issues.

  “Any upper management pet peeves I need to know about? Verboten topics? Life-or-death food allergies to keep in mind so I don’t inadvertently kill someone if I bring, say, brownies into the office?”

  “You bake brownies?” he asks as we return to the senior editor offices. His is next to mine.

  I shake my head. “No. But I excel at reading Yelp reviews and finding the best ones in the city.”

  He grins. “Sassy. I like that.” He counts off on one hand. “Here are the hot deets. Raphael McNaughton is tough as nails, and his personal mission is to rid the world of plastic, which means he doesn’t care for straws or anyone who uses straws, so don’t come in sucking on a Frappuccino. Or if you must, hide it from him, or he’ll be a hard-ass toward you forever. Tiffany Chilton loves her treats, and she also loves to work out, but she’s allergic to shellfish, so you’re good with bringing brownies as long as they’re not made with shrimp. And Rainey McGuire doesn’t eat. She only drinks the blood of her enemies. Her former assistant is a good one to know. Antonia’s a new editor, but since she trained as an assistant, she’ll help you with literally anything. Like, if a printer chews up your twenty-page proof and spits it out in a macerated mess, she can fix it for you.”

  “‘Good with printers’ is a valuable skill in a publishing house. But I read everything on my iPad, so I probably won’t need her.”

  “Well, aren’t you digitally fancy.”

  I smile.
“Fancy, or I hate paper.”

  “Speaking of hating things, here’s one more tip. You can discuss literally any hot-button topic in the office, from gun control to health care—everyone loves to debate stuff. But the surefire way to get you kicked out of this skyscraper is to ask why we passed on You Go, Girl,” he says.

  I flinch. “Seriously?” I don’t add, You passed on the self-help book that’s sold like a gazillion copies in the first year?

  Baldwin inhales deeply, like he’s drawing in a calming breath in a yoga class. “My only solace is that it never crossed my desk. Rainey McGuire was responsible for letting that one go, and she’s been on a hunt to find the next big anything since.”

  “Note to self: don’t ever bring up the blockbuster best seller that everyone is trying to imitate.”

  “Words to live by,” he says. “What else can I tell you about Bailey & Brooks? About the local watering holes? About Manhattan?”

  I seize the chance to solve my biggest quandary of the last seven days in this city. “Here’s what I want to know—I moved here a week ago and found an apartment easily and even a Ping-Pong league, but I have yet to find a decent hole-in-the-wall taqueria. Does this city not have any?”

  He looks aghast. “We have plenty of good Mexican food places.”

  I arch a brow. “Where? Tell me where. Because I’ve tried some places, but the tacos are limp and the cheese is industrial.”

  He shudders. “I despise limp things.”

  “You would hate the tacos I’ve tried, then. So where are the good Mexican joints?”

  He waves a hand airily. “Around.”

  I laugh. “I’m right, then? Good tacos are not a New York thing?”

  “You want to know the truth? Our Mexican food is fine. ‘Fine’ as in decent, passable, it’ll do if you’re hungry. It’s not ‘fine’ as in oh, he’s soooo fine.” He pauses to admire imaginary scenery for a self-indulgent moment before returning to a serious stare. “But look, we New Yorkers don’t go to Los Angeles and get on your case for not having good hot dogs. When you Angelenos relocate to New York, you can just enjoy our hot dogs and have a big glass of shut-the-fuck-up about our inadequate enchiladas.”