do!” I called, giving a huge wave, like I was sending someone out to sea.
I slipped around the curtain and saw that a line was forming at the table. The crowd thickened.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I shouted about the hustle and bustle of the expo. “If you’d like to purchase a book, step to the left. If you have a book to be signed and would like to meet Mr. Reichel, please step to the right.” Pleased with myself, I stepped up onto the dais and positioned myself behind and to the right of the author. I felt cool, like a royal guard or a secret service agent.
I heard her before I saw her. It’s hard to believe the click-clack of those Chanel pumps as worn by a 90-pound woman could be loud enough to carry, but it did. Hurtling toward the HPC area was the crazy lady from the lobby, flanked by the two uniformed NYPD officers. “Step right up, please,” I told the first woman in line. “If you could all have your books open to the title page, that would be a great help to Mr. Reichel,” I advised, stepping down off the dais to cut off the officers at the pass. I’d simply ask them not to disturb my author, and let them know I’d find them to make a statement after the signing. As I stepped down, the be-Chaneled gnome in the giant bug glasses tried to step up. The officers appeared at her side in a flash, lifting her like a dancer from a 1960s Broadway musical onto the level with the renowned media-dodger and hermit, Theodore Reichel.
“Ma’am!” I said sharply from the ground. “This is a private event. You cannot be up there.” She ignored me, walked over and took Reichel’s hand.
“Ma’am!” I said sternly.
“This is my wife,” the author said. The old lady whispered something in his ear.
“One moment, ladies and gentlemen,” I shouted to the crowd. “Please continue to open your books to the title page to assist Mr. Reichel. Officers,” I whispered, beckoning them near, “I can explain. You see, she attacked me.” I leaned in, “She’s very confused. I won’t press charges, I have a soft spot for the elderly.” I smiled humbly as they stared at me. Maybe I wasn’t exactly a hero, but I was impressed with my own maturity. They must be grateful for my making their job just that much easier. I flashed them a winning smile.
I stepped up and put my hand on Reichel’s shoulder just as Lizbeth was easing the old woman off the other side of the dais. Matty rushed forward to grab a wizened, silk-covered arm. “I am so sorry about that, Mr. Reichel.” I glanced sideways to see Lizbeth bent double, the Park Avenue Madame whispering into her ear.
Sick with dread, I made myself look at Lizbeth.
“You’re fired,” she mouthed.
There is nothing so bad that it couldn’t be worse.
Maggie opened the door to the apartment like she was entering a hospital room.
“Hello?” she said, softly knocking on the half-open door, even though she lives here.
“No point tap-dancing around it; I got fired.” I was sitting at the kitchen table in my pajamas and bathrobe, my hair pulled back into the scrunchie I used when I washed my face. I had the stolen cashmere pashmina from my agent’s office wrapped around my shoulders like a shawl. Spread out in front of me was an open bottle of sauvignon blanc, a glass, and Tom O’Grady’s bio materials.
“I know. I heard.”
“At least you didn’t have to see it.” I’d had to leave the Javits Center and report to HPC security in order to clear out my desk. It was just like the movies. Two armed guards gave me an empty cardboard box with a lid and escorted me to my desk, watching carefully to make sure I didn’t make off with any staplers or hand sanitizer. Like a prisoner leaving the penitentiary, I was led to the front door and launched out onto the world without a roadmap for the future. I wanted to take a cab, but I lugged my box to the bus stop instead. The unemployed didn’t take cabs.
“Want a glass?”
“Yes, please,” she said taking off her coat, and setting her computer bag aside. I grabbed a glass from the cabinet and poured in what was left of the bottle. It was a scant half inch. “Oops.”
She went to the fridge and pulled out another. “You’ve been drinking a lot lately, Shayla.”
“I just got fired!” I defended myself. She had a point, though. Historically speaking, I was not a big lush or partier.
“Right, and tonight’s understandable. But it’s not like you to go overboard so many nights in any given week.” She kicked off her shoes and poured herself a drink. “Is something wrong?”
“Everything’s wrong right now,” I said. I felt guilty. I didn’t want to put Maggie on the spot for being happy. She deserved her boyfriend and her book deal, and even her shitty job at HPC, where she’d be promoted in no time flat, if she didn’t quit to be a full-time writer. “Hey, don’t worry about me. I just need a night to process all of this. Tomorrow, I’ll see the bright side.” I wasn’t sure that was strictly true, but I didn’t want to be a complete downer.
“I know you’re putting on a brave face, but there is always a bright side. If you really feel like everything’s wrong, you have to make a radical change. When I was in college, I got dumped and I moped around the dorm with dirty hair, playing Duncan Sheik albums for a month. Finally, my hall monitor sat me down and said, “Look, you have to do something. It doesn’t matter what it is, but do something. You’re annoying.”
“Are you saying I’m annoying?”
“Not yet, but you will be soon enough if you don’t take action. Annoying and an alcoholic.”
“I’m not an alcoholic! I’m just drinking to take the edge off. Matty said everyone in New York is on anti-anxiety meds and tranquilizers.”
“If your nerves are strung that tight, then maybe you need to move to Arizona and join a sweat lodge, or a go to a Buddhist monastery or something. I mean it, Shay, sometimes a really radical change is called for. Look at Oprah. She wakes up one day and decides to stop doing Jerry Springer-like TV and be uplifting instead. Next thing you know, she’s queen of the world.” Maggie pulled a photo out of my pile of papers and spun it around to face her. “Hell-o! Who’s this hottie?”
“That’s right! I haven’t seen you all day. He’s the guy whose book I don’t get to write.”
She held up one of him in formal chef’s whites and a tall hat. “Nice,” she declared. She held up another of him posing stiffly in a tux, in mid-handshake with the president. “Handsome,” she declared. Pulling an action shot of him shearing a sheep while wearing a waffled thermal shirt pulled tight across his chest, and a pair of torn cords, she yelled, “Yes, please!”
“I know, right?”
She rifled through more photos and tear sheets. “He looks good dressed up, and all, but the sweet spot for me is that farm-boy thing. Sweaty and dirty with muscles rippling. Mm-mm-mm! Hey look, this restaurant is just a town or two over from Wicklow, where Gran’s sister and the rest of that side of the family live over in Ireland. Did Brenda give you this stuff? And by the way, is that a new pashmina?”
