Authors: Leslie Wells
Meredith rolled her eyes at me. “If nothing else, he’s original,” she muttered.
“This week’s entry in the weight-loss category is yet another grapefruit diet,” Charlie said. “Half a fruit in the morning, the other half at lunch, and at dinner you get a celery appetizer with your broiled grapefruit entrée. After three days, they probably have to put you on intravenous.”
“I have good news,” Kate said. “We just upped the print run for
Cherishing Your Inner Child
.”
“Yes, and now your author’s demanding a twelve-city tour,” Harvey said. “If he doesn’t watch out, I’m gonna kick his inner child’s little butt. Edgar, what’s new?”
“I have in a very smart guide to cross-stitch embroidery,” Edgar said.
Harvey frowned. “Don’t pay more than two grand for it.”
Edgar’s titles turned a tidy profit, since the gardeners, crewelers, and crocheters of the world were always hungry for new books on their craft. But they were never glam enough to interest our boss.
“Julia? Anything?” Harvey said.
I glanced down at my papers. “I have an intriguing proposal on something called the internet. It’s about computers communicating with each other. The National Science Foundation just developed a network that connected three colleges.”
“But what’s the point?” Harvey asked. “Nerds yakking about what’s stewing in their petri dishes?”
“They think it will have practical uses eventually,” I said with a familiar sinking feeling. “A grad student has come up with electronic mail. You type in a message and send it by computer.”
“Why bother with that when you have phones?” Kate said. “I don’t get it.”
“I don’t either, but it’s kind of fascinating,” Charlie said. “I’ll take a look at the proposal.”
“Don’t waste your time. There’s no audience for weird science,” Harvey pronounced as he got up to leave.
Glumly I gathered my notes and filed out behind the others. A few minutes later, Harvey stuck his head in my door. “You may as well get going on that needlework contract,” he said. “Another one for the effing knit and purl shelf.”
“I will,” I said, keeping my eyes on my typewriter.
Feeling discouraged, I fed quarters into the vending machine and went back to my desk. Along with my promotion, I’d been given a tiny expense account to take literary agents out for occasional lunches. As a result I’d received some submissions, but it was still hard to actually acquire a book. Harvey was mainly interested in celebrity authors or knockoffs of bestselling diets. And since I was new at it, the agents tended to send me their B- or C-level proposals, things that had already been rejected by more senior editors at other houses. Naively I’d thought that once I got promoted, I’d be rolling in acquisitions.
As I was eating a cracker, the phone rang. “Julia Nash,” I mumbled through peanut butter.
“Hello, Julia. This is Ted Rathbone from Hawtey House. I saw in
Publishers Weekly
that you acquired Isabel Reed’s memoir. Smart move on your part,” he said. “I was also talking to Freeman Fyfe’s agent; she says you’re an ace with a red pencil.”
“Oh! Thank you.” I felt a flutter of hope in my chest; Rathbone was editor-in-chief of the prestigious midtown publisher.
“Someone just gave notice, so we have an opening. Would you like to meet with me?”
An opening! At Hawtey House!
“I’d love to,” I said, trying not to squeal. “When should I come?”
“I don’t have a lunch on Thursday. Do you want to stop by around one?”
I clutched the receiver. “That would be great.”
“See you then.”
I sat for a moment staring at the piles of paper on my desk; the overflowing inbox with Harvey’s scribbled letters waiting to be typed. I’d always heard that junior editors had to switch houses in order to be taken seriously.
Maybe I’ll finally get out of here!
I thought. Jack would be at the studio by now; there was no way to reach him. I couldn’t wait to tell him my news.
But back at the apartment that night, I wound up telling Dot first. Jack was putting in long hours rehearsing for the band’s upcoming eight-week tour. Harvey had given me permission to take all of my two weeks’ vacation in early March, in order to join them midway through. Jack had been miffed that I couldn’t come for longer. He didn’t seem to get the restrictions of being a working stiff with a boss, and limits to how much time off one could take. I’d finally made him understand that I couldn’t just up and leave for a month, and expect my job to be waiting when I got back.
Four to the Floor would start their 1982 tour in San Francisco and end up at Madison Square Garden, or “MSG” in band lingo—which made me think of Chinese takeout. The group was composed of Patrick, lead singer and bass player; Jack, guitarist and back-up vocals; Mark on drums; and Sammy, the only American in the group, on keyboard. The guys had formed the band in London over a decade ago, and then exploded in popularity after their first U.S. tour. I was excited that I’d get to see them perform once more when they arrived back in New York for their final concert; particularly since the Garden was the biggest show of all, and the culmination of the thirty-city extravaganza.
So far, the only time I’d ever seen The Floor onstage was late last summer when they gave a couple of concerts in L.A. Normally they hit the road immediately after a new album came out, but this tour had been delayed by several months because of a financial deal cooked up by Patrick and their manager, Mary Jo. One of the concert backers was promoting a new deodorant that was supposed to heighten men’s sex appeal, and the ads would be featured prominently on the show’s posters and tickets. Jack, Mark, and Sammy had been making bad jokes about it ever since the ink on the contract was dry.
When I got in from work around seven, I dumped my backpack on the front table, careful not to jostle the wire-mesh cage of praying mantises. Jack had been so excited a few days ago when the eggs gave birth to dozens of the little creatures. He’d jostled me awake at 2 a.m., his expression like an excited little boy: “C’mon, Julia, they’re hatching!” I’d stumbled out of bed and followed him to the kitchen. We had watched their tiny bodies emerge from the egg case and dangle by fragile threads. For a while we’d tried to count them, eventually giving up as they multiplied. I went back to bed, but Jack stayed up until the very last one made its appearance.
The phone rang as I was looking at the insects scrambling around in their cage. When I answered it, my mother’s voice came on the line.
“Where’s Jack?” was the first thing out of her mouth.
“I’m fine, how are you?” It was a little annoying how much Dot liked my boyfriend, but my sarcasm went right over her head.
“We’re still doing inventory. We should be done by tomorrow.”
“I hope it goes fast. What are you reading this week?” I asked.
“Paulette loaned me a new one of Joyce Sutter’s. An English maiden gets captured by these buccaneers and has to work in the ship’s galley. Her fiancé tries to rescue her, but by then she’s fallen in love with the head pirate.”
I zoned out as she rambled on about the plot. “…and then they feed her true love to the sharks. But it turns out, it was a guy who just
looked
like him—”
“Sounds like a good one,” I interrupted. “Have you lost your tan yet? Mine’s completely gone.”
“Mine’s faded too. That was so much fun; I loved spending time with Jack. We’ll all have to take another trip together soon.” Dot had been singing Jack’s praises ever since Mustique. “By the way, have you tried my Apple Brown Betty recipe?” She’d included it in her Christmas card.
“Not yet. I don’t get home from work until seven most nights.”
“You have plenty of time to cook on the weekends. You know, the way to a man’s heart—”
“I know, I know. It’s through his stomach.” I parroted one of her oft-repeated wisdoms. “Jack’s not really a big eater. Although he did go for seconds at his mother’s house.”
“I imagine he’d eat if you made him something good, instead of ordering takeout all the time. A man gets tired of that kind of thing.”
“All right, Mom, I’ll try to get it together to bake something,” I said dubiously. What was it with these mothers and cooking? I had no experience whatsoever in the kitchen. “Guess what: I have an interview.” I told her about the call from Hawtey House, and then she went off on a tangent about her co-worker’s daughter’s attempts to collect child support.
“Well, I hope Marie’s daughter can work it out with her ex,” I said. “I’m sure it’s hard, being a single mom. I know it was for you. Hang tight with the inventorying.”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” she said.
I got a beer out of Jack’s nearly-empty fridge and selected a vintage 45 by my favorite blues chanteuse. His amazing collection of albums took up one whole wall in the loft, facing the sofa and armchairs grouped around a glass-topped coffee table. Formerly this table had been coke-chopping central, but lately he’d been laying off it at home. I had a feeling he still did some at the studio, but I appreciated not having it right under my nose—so to speak.
I placed the record on the turntable and gently lowered the needle. Billie Holiday’s “The Very Thought of You” came on, a lilting melodic swoon that was only enhanced by the crackling of aged vinyl. I went into Jack’s bedroom—which I now sort of thought of as
our
bedroom—to change. As I went to brush my hair, my gaze fell upon the brightly colored lei draped over a corner of the mirror. I picked it up and put it over my head, inhaling its faint coconutty scent. If I could snap my fingers and go back in time, I’d still be lying on that sun-drenched beach, applying lotion to Jack’s shoulders.
Shake, Rattle, and Roll
“Are you free for lunch? I have some news,” I asked my best friend, Vicky. Even though I’d shut my office door, I kept my voice down.
“Harvey flashed an undercover cop in the park?” she deadpanned. Vicky was well acquainted with my boss’s habit of harassing young women. She used to work at my company before she’d moved on to a more impressive midtown publisher.
“Even better. I have a job interview!”
“Meet me at the Athens. I can’t wait to hear about it.”
I left my building and walked up Park Avenue to the Greek diner halfway between our offices. Despite the slippery patches of ice, I tried to keep moving in the urban weaving-between-people stride that I’d learned to imitate. I’d also cottoned to the trick of not looking directly at people, while at the same time checking out everyone within arm’s reach. The brusque tempo of New York was a far cry from the plodding pace of my small hometown, but I’d had to quickly acquire some street smarts after I’d moved here. The alternative was being eaten alive.
My face stiff from the chill wind, I pushed through the Athens’ door and slid into a cracked vinyl booth, snow melting in trails down my boots. A burst of cold air announced Vicky’s arrival. She came toward me, a furry babushka obscuring her eyes. She yanked it off and gave me a smooch on the cheek. “So what’s this about an interview? Tuna salad, hold the fries, please,” she told the waitress.
“Ted Rathbone from Hawtey House called! I’m meeting him at his office tomorrow. He’d heard that I acquired Isabel Reed, and Freeman Fyfe’s agent gave me a recommendation too. Wasn’t that nice of her?”
“Fantastic! What are you planning to wear?” She ran her hands through her blonde pixie cut.
“I thought my black suit with a white blouse.”
“Too conservative. Hawtey likes a little more flair in their editors. Why not meet me after work and we’ll go shopping for a suit? And I don’t mean a second-hand throwback from Unique Boutique. Why not get one of those new jackets with the big padded shoulders? Your boyfriend will pay for it.” The waitress approached with our food, and we moved our hats and gloves to make room.
“Okay, but I’ll buy it myself. He gave me all those new clothes at Christmas—and about sixteen garter belts. Plus that first edition of
To the Lighthouse
; he must have spent a fortune on it.”
“So what? You’re living with the guy. He’s rich, for Chrissakes. And you’ve got to do whatever it takes to get this job.” Vicky took a bite of tuna salad.
“Jack was happy for me when I told him about the interview. He’s probably sick of hearing me bitch about Harvey.”
“He knows your boss is a letch. Do you have your resume printed up?” she asked.
I dipped a fry in catsup. “Of course. I’m not that clueless.”
“Listen, you have to really talk yourself up to Ted Rathbone. Tell him how you went after Isabel’s book. Brag about editing Freeman and all of Harvey’s authors. Lay it on thick; this is your big chance.”
“I know, I know. I’m nervous enough already. So who are you going out with this weekend?” Vicky was never at a loss for male companionship. She had dated Sammy, Jack’s band mate, for a few months last summer, but broke it off when he groped a groupie at the Mudd Club. Ever since they’d stopped seeing each other, she’d been flitting from one guy to the next. She never seemed to get her heart broken, being blasé about relationships in a way I’d often wished I could imitate.
“I’m deciding between three guys,” Vicky said. “One’s a Wall Street banker who’s kind of a bore, but he takes me to nice restaurants. The other’s a starving artist who’s great in the sack. The third one’s a P.R. type that Emily wants to hook me up with, but I’m not sure I want my boss arranging my social calendar.”
“Emily’s
setting you up on dates now?” I asked.
“She’s sent me on a few. I think she views it as networking. Anyway, when is Jack’s nephew coming?” She signaled for the check.
I groaned. “Next weekend. Oliver’s staying for two solid weeks.”
“You said he’s a live wire,” Vicky commented as she studied the bill.
I got some cash out of my bag. “That doesn’t even begin to describe it. I’m kind of dreading it, but Jack’s thrilled.” I recalled what Maggie had said. “Before we left England, his Mum made this little speech about how she’s getting older and she wants to know her grandchildren. Specifically, Jack’s children.”