took another substantial slug of my drink. “At this point, I’ve collaborated on some non-fiction, and have solely written some works for which I didn’t negotiate cover credit.” What was I doing? God, I sounded like an ass. Jordan is an associate editor. He could tell when someone in the business was putting lipstick on a pig.
“Nice,” he said.
“The Observer is picking up my column, How to Be an Adult.” Oh my God. Stop talking, I told myself. “Anyway, I’m pitching my real book to my agent on Monday,” I ploughed on. “Brenda Sackler?” I name-dropped without shame.
He shrugged.
“Global-Lion Literary?” I tried. Nothing. I drained my glass.
“The work is sort of a manifesto for post-teens meets new adult non-fiction-y girl’s guide to the city mash-up. You know. That kind of thing.” Dear God, did I just call my book, ‘The Work?’
“Cool.” Jordan’s eyes browsed the room. A leggy cocktail waitress with a severe blonde bun and sheer blouse buttoned to the neck smiled. “Hi…I didn’t get your name.”
Her smile broadened. “Sabina.”
“Sabina,” he pronounced. “I’m a private club member.” He handed her a card, which she read and handed back. “I think we’ll have two more of these and then move into the lounge.”
“Excellent, Mr. Silver.” She did a yoga squat to table level, hovered knee-to-knee with Jordan and loaded our glasses onto a tray. Through sheer force of abs, she pulled herself to standing and purred, “If I can do anything to make your evening more enjoyable, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Can I get a vodka and soda with lemon instead? I’m not so much a brown liquor kinda girl. You know what Thomas Jefferson always said, ‘Whiskey claims to itself alone the exclusive office of sot-making.’” I laughed but they didn’t join in. “Big fan of the former president.”
Jordan and Chiara looked at me, waiting maybe, I gleaned, for further explanation. “So, no whiskey for me thanks. Just, you know,” I explained, “trying not to be a sot.”
“Thank you, Sabina,” Jordan released the waitress, and she drifted away.
“So, are you into heading for the lounge? All the Broadway people swing in here before and after shows to do a set or sing a tune.”
“Yeah, no. “
“No?”
“I don’t like listening to cabaret singers. When I’m up close, I feel like I have to gaze into their eyes and be all like, ‘Yes, that’s great! Keep going!’ It’s exhausting.” I could feel the whiskey warming my toes and loosening my jaw. “Like I’m responsible for making them feel good about themselves, you know? No one’s sitting around going, ‘Yay, Shayla, that paragraph was awesome! Keep writing!’ I wish I had some cheerleaders.”
Jordan was looking at me with knitted brows.
“Never mind. Forget I said that. Cabaret singers are great. It’s not their fault. I was just thinking, like, how it would be great to have some applause. Just for me. ‘Go, Shayla.’” I waved imaginary pom-poms. My face was growing hotter. “Not from you, of course.” I could feel Jordan waiting patiently. In a Barry White voice, I said, “You must think Shayla wants some immediate grat-i-fi-ca-shuuun.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing,” I mumbled. “Never mind.”
“I just…couldn’t really understand what you said. Your voice got strange.”
“Ffft…forget it. Just the flu.”
He looked alarmed. “Not the flu. I’m not contagious. Just a cold,” I said, waving it off.
Sabina had appeared and was setting two Manhattans in front of us. Not a vodka and soda in sight. “Your table is ready in the lounge when you are, Mr. Silver.”
“Thanks Sabina, let me just settle this.” As he was signing the check, Sabina looked straight at me and shook her head slowly back and forth, slitting her eyes. When Jordan handed back her pen, her eyes widened and she smiled. “Hope to see you again soon, Mr. Silver.” She gathered the check. “The bar area closes at three tonight. That’s when I get off.” She smiled one more time before walking very slowly away.
“Listen,” I said, pulling on my hat. “Thanks for the drink. But like I said,” I coughed a few times, “I have a cold.” I pretended to sniffle and tasted blood. I forced myself to swallow and took a drink of the whiskey to wash it down. I stood up. “I’d better just get going.”
“Wait!” he cried. “You can’t go yet.” He took my arm down to a sitting position. “We haven’t finished talking. Ten more minutes.” He looked into my eyes, his face softening.
“Please.” He flashed me a smile, this time with lots of teeth. They were, of course, very white. I relaxed onto the leather seat. Why did I say I had a cold? No one wants to have sex with someone who has a cold. “OK, just a little while longer.”
I imagined his chest underneath the tight-fitting black western shirt with the surprisingly masculine turquoise embroidery. It snapped up the front instead of buttoning. It would be so easy to undo. I reached for my drink.
“Great. I was having such a nice time. I didn’t want it to end”, he said. Sabina passed by, walking closer to our table than I felt was strictly necessary. Jordan’s eyes were on her as he said, “So tell me, what makes Shayla de Winter tick?”
“Excuse me?”
His focus landed back on me. I could see him back-pedaling, trying to figure out why I was snapping at him. “Uh…”
“Did you just call me Shayla de Winter?”
For a brief moment, he appeared rattled. I watched him pull himself together, face relaxing, opening his legs a little wider to take up more space on the bench. “Yeah, I did,” he owned it. “I mean, you are after all.”
“Why did you ask me out?”
Without missing a beat, he said, “Because you looked so cute sitting there in front of the name badges. I had my eye on you all night. Didn’t you feel it?”
I wavered. If he thought I was cute, maybe I’d get to feel his smooth skin under the palms of my hands. On the other hand, if he was using me to get to my father, I had an appointment with the shower head. Hat still on my head, I challenged him.
“I’ll give you two more minutes. What question do you want to ask me more than anything?”
His face contorted in frustration. He was struggling to come up with the right answer. I stood up. “Wait!” he said. “Hang on.”
“Clock’s ticking,” I said, faking confidence.
“All right, all right! I guess… can you get me a meeting with your father?”
Son of a bitch! I grabbed my coat. It bumped across the table, upsetting my full drink. Now the hem
