Miss Sheridan, if you’d bothered yourself to look at my contract, you’d have seen that it says I have final say over who the writer is. Full stop. I didn’t choose you. I’m doing dinner service at the moment. Tell Brenda she’ll hear from me soon enough.”
“Wait! Tom!”
“Mr. O’Grady,” he said.
“Mr. O’Grady, please,” I begged. “I’m perfect for the job.”
“Oh? Why’s that, then?”
Because I wanted it so badly? Because it was the only shot I had? My brain bounced off the walls of my skull, trying to think of an acceptable answer. “I can send you a bio right now. I can literally have it to you in one minute.”
I fiddled nervously with the pile of papers from the folder. I found more photos: a beauty shot of a crown roast, complete with paper panties, a photo of world leaders from the G8 conference standing around a table laid with fine china and silver, a trio of lemon desserts plated so artistically you’d be ashamed to stick a fork in it.
“Your details will convince me that you’re the one for me, so?”
I knew the answer was no. Nervous, I flipped through more photos and came face to face with a tight headshot from the cover of Sustainable Gardens magazine. Tom O’Grady’s expression seemed wiser in this photo; there was a hint of old soul in the set of his jaw behind his closely trimmed beard. I noticed how his eyes were slightly lidded. Bedroom eyes, my mother would have called them. But with a steely resolve. For whatever reason, the word “revolutionary” flashed through my brain.
“My bio probably won’t convince you, even though I am more than qualified. But maybe my idea will.” I was winging it big time, but I forged on. “What if…” I struggled, thinking on my feet, “What if your cookbook…in addition to showcasing your skills as a gourmet chef…included, say, things you cook for your mom?”
Without warning, a lump grew in my throat as I flashed back to carrying a steaming bowl of chicken soup on a tray to my own mother. It was her favorite food and one of the few things she ever taught me to cook start to finish.
“That’s…” he began. There was a pause. “That sounds interesting, Miss Sheridan. I like it better than anything I’ve heard before, to be honest with you. But I’m sorry, since the last time I spoke to Brenda, I’ve decided to put a stop to the deal.”
A woman with dark hair and a shape similar to Lizbeth’s, but who was not Lizbeth, walked out of her office. Maybe someone from legal? It didn’t matter, if Lizbeth wasn’t in her office, where was she? A whoosh of adrenaline shot through my limbs, leaving my fingertips numb.
“Oh no, Tom…Mr. O’Grady…you can’t do that. You see, I…” My mind was racing. Everyone must already be at the Javits Center. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. I had 15 missed calls and texts coming in every 30 seconds to the tune of “where the hell are you?”
“You see, I just know I’m the one to write your book.” I hadn’t known this when I picked up the phone, but in the course of five minutes, this book had become my book. I had inklings of pages in my head. I didn’t have it yet, but I imagined a large pot of chicken and vegetable soup. Home.
“Sorry to disappoint, Miss Sheridan, but my mind is made up.” He paused for a moment. I sat stock-still, straining to hear something in his breathing that would give me hope.
“Nah,” he finally said. “It just won’t work. Good luck to you.”
I couldn’t even speak.
“Goodbye then, I suppose,” he said and put down the phone.
I shoved 12 dollars I couldn’t afford to spend into the cab driver’s hand and flew across the wide sidewalk to the myriad glass doors of the Javits Center. People everywhere carried tote bags and wheeled little carts stacked with displays or swag collected from the booths at the Book Expo.
I had no idea where I was supposed to be, but I was running all the same. I detoured by the information desk, trying to grab a map off the stack as I went.
A Chanel-suited grand dame in giant black sunglasses slammed her cocktail-ring-encrusted claw down on top of mine.
“Ow!” My hand flew to my mouth and I sucked on my knuckle. I tasted blood. “What the hell, lady?”
“I was here first,” she said, snatching the top map off the stack.
“No you weren’t! And even if you were, would it kill you to say ‘excuse me?’ There are rules to living in society.”
“Don’t you lecture me, you…” she gave me the once-over, “you…riff raff!”
“Who says riff raff?” A crowd was gathering.
“Don’t you shout at me! According to the law, that’s assault!” A pair of NYPD cops ambled over from the opposite corner of the outer hallway.
“You assaulted me!” I hissed. “Look, I’m bleeding. Listen,” I said to the information guy, “don’t call the police, they’re right there. Here’s my card.”
I shot a look at the indignant Dowager of Manhattan. “If the police want to file a report, tell them to come back and talk to my bleeding finger.” I blew past the old lady, who was literally shaking her fist at me.
I ran past miles of booths, some offering snacks, some blasting music, and some with long lines of fans clutching books to be signed by their favorite authors. I spied Matty from a mile away. I could have seen him from space. He was wearing one of those Ralph Lauren Olympic cardigans, and handing out ski caps emblazoned with the title of an inspirational biography we’d published by a double-amputee downhill skier. Next to him, another assistant, one of the office hotties, was wearing a leather dress and handing out ping pong paddles printed with the title of a kinky sex book for housewives. I tried to blend in and swim through the bodies to the back while Lizbeth was busy yelling at an intern.
“There you are,” Matty hollered. “Lizbeth! Shayla’s here!” He hopped up and down, trying to catch my boss’s attention over the heads of the crowd. Lizbeth turned away from the pie-eyed intern midsentence and cut a straight line through all the bodies to get to me. “You’re late! Don’t apologize, I don’t care. Give me some packing tape, now,” she held out her open palm.
Frantically, I patted my purse. My supply bag! It was sitting under my desk. “I’ll run to the drugstore and get some. I can be back in 10 minutes.”
“Useless,” she muttered. “No! I’ll send an intern. Get dressed and get into your spot.”
“Yes, Lizbeth,” I said walking away, but in no particular direction. I’d missed last week’s staff meeting after cracking a filling on a stale bagel I’d found on a leftover platter from a client meet-and-greet. I did not know the plan. I had no choice but to ask Matty what was what. He was wearing a red carpet-worthy smile and schmoozing one of our authors and her handler when I approached. The second the author shook his hand and walked away. Matty’s smile disappeared. “What?” he snapped.
“Where am I supposed to be?”
“Somewhere in middle America, running the obituaries column for the local newspaper.”
