“That little number who writes for The Nooky or the The Spanky, or whatever-the-hell, is not a fan. Ho ho, not at all a fan.”
“Yeah, I know.” I said trying to end the conversation quickly. I didn’t want to bring up the concept of rejecting books in front of Brenda, lest she get any ideas.
“You screwed the pooch! Do your homework, kiddo. She’s going to work for the New York Times Review of Books starting next week. You know what they say, don’t shit where you eat.”
My stomach plummeted. “I don’t think that phrase applies here, Hank.”
“Wait a minute. Shayla, you are his daughter, right?”
“Yes,” I admitted, making space for the elephant that has always been in any room in which Brenda and I dwelled.
“What’s with the ‘Hank’ business?”
“It just…makes more sense that way.” I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to admit that she knew we were related, and I didn’t want to explain that I’d started calling Hank ‘Hank’ from a very early age, long before I wanted to be a writer.
“I’m not really the ‘Daddy’ type,” he chuckled. I nodded and laughed along, but hearing him say it was like a punch in the gut.
In my pocket, my phone rang again. Maggie. I reached in and silenced it. “Hey Brenda,” I forced myself to say, “Can you fit me in around lunchtime tomorrow?”
“I don’t have my planner with me,” she said, airily.
“It’ll be quick. I’ll just swing by for a few minutes.”
“Mondays are tight for me,” she said, glancing at Hank’s face. I pressed on, knowing she was uncomfortable. It was to my advantage, but I’d never been the barracuda type. As much as I didn’t like being pushy, career networking was better than discussing Hank’s fathering skills.
“So I’ll stop in around 1?”
“Hank and I just made a plan for a working lunch on Monday.”
“So you’ll do Tuesday,” I bossed. Extreme discomfort was making me reckless. I wanted to get in and get out. “Hank’s pretty flexible. Right, Hank? Good. I’ll see you Monday at 1, Brenda. You’re welcome for the lox, Hank.” I walked past the buffet table and dropped my half-empty glass. I’d hung my coat and bag on the rack by the door, the one at a child’s eye-level that no one but me ever used. I swooped them up, exited, and shut the door behind me. If I headed home now, I could still spend the better part of Sunday in my pajamas, reading the Times.
Button on the elevator pushed, I pulled out my phone and dialed Maggie. “Mission accomplished,” I said. The doors opened, and there stood Jordan Silver. Ignoring him, I left the party just as he was arriving.
I was at the HPC office and seated at my desk by 7:30 on Monday morning. On super-early mornings, I liked to buy myself a rare treat: breakfast to go from Sarah’s Bread around the corner from my apartment. If I had to be out of bed at six, headed in for a day of abuse at the hands of Lizbeth Black, the editor wears Prada, walking into the warm shop redolent with the smell of dark coffee and baking loaves was a balm for my tortured soul. They offer a special morning menu with lovely combinations. The Manhattan Breakfast consists of yeast bread twists, cream cheese, jam, and an American coffee. The Parisian Breakfast comes with two slices of baguette, butter, jam and a café au lait. This morning, I was having the Dublin Breakfast, featuring two wholemeal and raisin Irish Soda bread rolls, butter, jam and an Irish breakfast tea. It cost an arm and a leg, like anything decent in New York. I’d had coffee at home, tea would suit me better. I didn’t want to be a shaky wreck when I saw Brenda.
Nate, the cute guy from publicity who always wore belted cardigans (which I found irresistible) got off the elevator. I tried to swallow the bite of bread I was eating before he walked by. I’d made up my mind that the next chance I had, I was going to ask him to go down to the Truffaut retrospective at the Film Forum. He was walking fast.
“Hey, Nate,” I enunciated, spraying crumbs all over my desk blotter.
“Hey, Pal,” he said, flashing me a smile and punching me in the upper arm. I watched him head toward his office. Along the way, he fell into step with Padma, from the legal team. From the way he put his hand on the small of her back, I guessed he didn’t call her ‘Pal.’
If I was going to sneak out to Brenda’s at lunch, I had to cross my T’s and dot my I’s. By 8:15, I had checked off half the items on my to-do list and was blasting through a stack of Lizbeth’s snail mail that required answering. Between tasks, I was contentedly buttering bites of soda bread and taking sips of my strong, milky tea.
“Dear Lord, you eat like a farm hand,” Matty Dentino said, sneering and perching on the side of my desk. Matty, all five foot three of him, had started here a week before I did. He worked for a less prestigious editor, and it was no secret that he thought he was better suited to work for Lizbeth than I was. “Ever hear of Greek yogurt?” He smoothed down the front of his crisp, checked shirt, and re-centered his skinny knit tie. “If you eat all that, you won’t be able to fit into the suit.”
He wanted me to ask him what suit he meant, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Go away, I’m working.”
He snorted. “Barely. Well, you’d better get it all done by 1:30. We’re due at the Javits Center at 2 for set-up, so they’re sending a van.”
The Publishing Expo. I pounded on the keyboard to call up my iCal, hoping against hope Matty had gotten the dates wrong. Of course he hadn’t. Shit. Maggie said she’d cover my desk today, but she couldn’t help me with this. My hands trembled. I closed my eyes and tried to form a plan. OK, Brenda’s office was nine blocks away. If I left here at 12:30, I could maybe be there by quarter to one, or one at the latest. Maybe she’d see me early. If I talked fast and stuck to my agenda, I could be back on the sidewalk by 1:30 if not sooner. I could feel myself calming down.
“You should cut out the coffee,” Matty said, pulling a white handkerchief out to clean his glasses.
I grabbed a tote bag that advertised one of the books we’d published, Microwave Meals for Fast Family Suppers, and stuffed in all of the supplies I’d need for the Book Expo. “You should look into tissues, Brooklynite Poser. What man under the age of 75 uses handkerchiefs. Who are you, my grandfather?”
“Who are you, Woody Allen? You are so neurotic. And not in an entertaining way. You really should see someone about going on Paxil or Lexapro. Or at the very least some Xanax. Here, let me give you an Ativan.”
“No! I don’t need medication.” I threw duct tape into my bag for the Javits Center, along with a stapler, some breath mints, and some sticky notes.
“Agree to disagree,” he said, sweeping the last half of my breakfast into the trash can. “At the very least, you need to get laid.”
“What I need is for you to take your Ativan, your non-prescription vanity glasses, and your stupid Confederate soldier beard away from my desk.”
“Fine,
