took another calming breath and glanced at the clock. Her appointment was in fifteen minutes and the salon was a ten-minute walk away. ‘I’ll be right there,’ she said with enough cheer to fell a sequoia.
She speed-walked through the cubicles and winding hallways that separated her office from Henry’s. He obviously wanted her to meet a potential author or someone new they’d just signed, since he was a big believer in demonstrating how Brook Harris was run like a family and insisted on personally introducing all the editors to all the new authors. It was one of the qualities that had most impressed her when she’d first started out – and one of the main reasons so many authors signed with Brook Harris and stayed for their entire careers – but today it was really fucking annoying. Anyone less than Tom Wolfe and she wasn’t interested. She ran calculations as she rounded the corner and passed the elevator bank. Her congrats-on-joining-the-family-we’re-so-happy-to-have-you or some similar we’d-be-thrilled-and-honored-to-have-you-join-the-family speech would take only a couple of minutes. Another minute or two to feign interest in the new/potential author’s current work, plus one more to congratulate him on the success of his previous publication, and there was a chance she’d be out in under five. At least she’d better be.
She’d been up so late the night before trying to finish her notes on the last chapter of her newest memoir acquistion that she had slept straight through her alarm and had to race, unshowered, to make the sales meeting on time. It wasn’t until Leigh found a toweringly tall pale purple orchid on her desk with a note that read, ‘I love you and can’t wait to see you tonight. Happy First Year!’ that she even remembered that Russell had made reservations at Daniel to celebrate their one-year anniversary. Typical. It was the single day in her entire career – possibly her entire life – that she’d overslept and left the house looking like a homeless person, and it was the only time it mattered. Thankfully Gilles had agreed to fit her in for a last-minute blowout (‘You can have Adriana’s appointment at one if she doesn’t mind,’ he’d offered. ‘She doesn’t mind!’ Leigh had screamed into the phone. ‘I take full responsibility!’) and she planned to swing by Barneys and pick up a bottle of cologne or a tie or a dopp kit – really, whatever was closest to the register and came prewrapped – on her way back to the office. There was absolutely no time for dawdling.
‘You can go right on in,’ Henry’s perky new assistant drawled. Her spiky, pink-streaked hair didn’t fit with the Southern accent – or the conservative corporate culture – but she seemed able to spell and didn’t appear overtly hostile, so it was overlooked.
Leigh nodded her thanks and barreled through the open door. ‘Hello!’ she sang to Henry. She guessed the man sitting opposite him, facing away from her, was in his early forties. Despite the early summer weather, he wore a light blue shirt and an olive corduroy blazer with patches over the elbows. His dirty-blond hair – light brown, really, now that she looked more carefully – was the perfect amount of shaggy, just grazing the top of his collar and falling slightly over the tops of his ears. Before he even turned to look at her, she knew, intuited, that he would be attractive. Perhaps even gorgeous. Which was partly why she was so taken aback when their eyes finally met.
The surprise was twofold. Her first thought was that he wasn’t nearly as good-looking as she had predicted. His eyes were not the piercing shade of blue or green she’d expected, but an unremarkable grayish hazel, and his nose managed to appear flattened and protuberant at the same time. But he did have flawless teeth, straight, white, gorgeous teeth, teeth that could star in their very own Crest commercial, and it was these teeth that captured her attention. It wasn’t until the man smiled, revealing deeply engraved but somehow still very appealing laugh lines, that she realized she recognized him. Sitting here, gazing at her with an easy smile and a welcoming expression, was Jesse Chapman, a man whose talents had been compared to Updike, Roth, and Bellow; McInerney, Ford, and Franzen. Disenchantment, the first novel he’d published, at age twenty-three, had been one of those impossibly rare books that was both a commercial and literary success, and Jesse’s reputation as a bad-boy genius had only increased with every additional party attended, model dated, and book written. He had disappeared six or seven years ago, after a rumored stint in rehab and spate of brutal reviews, but no one expected him to stay hidden forever. The fact that he was here, in their offices, could mean only one thing.
‘Leigh, may I introduce you to Jesse Chapman? You’re familiar with his work, of course. And Jesse, this is Leigh Eisner, my most promising editor, and my favorite, were I forced to choose.’
Jesse stood to face Leigh, and although his eyes remained fixed on hers, she could feel him appraising her. She wondered if he liked girls with stringy ponytails and no makeup. She prayed he did.
‘He says that about everyone,’ Leigh said graciously, extending her hand to meet Jesse’s.
‘Of course he does,’ Jesse said smoothly, standing to envelop her right hand between both of his. ‘And that’s why we all adore him. Please, will you join us?’ He waved his hand toward the empty space beside him on the love seat and looked at her.
‘Oh, well, actually, I was just—’
‘She’d love to,’ Henry said.
Leigh resisted the urge to glare at him while she settled into the ancient couch. Bye-bye, blowout, she thought. Bye-bye, Barneys. It would be a miracle if Russell ever spoke to her again after the disaster that tonight would surely be.
Henry cleared his throat. ‘Jesse and I were just discussing his last novel. I was saying how we all – really, the entire publishing industry – thought the Times’ attack was inexcusable. Embarrassing for them, really, with its obvious agenda. Absolutely no one took it seriously. It was complete and—’
Smiling again, this time with the slightest expression of amusement, Jesse turned to Leigh. ‘And what did you think, dear? Did you think the review was warranted?’
Leigh was shocked by his assuredness that she had not only read but remembered both the book and this particular review. Which, irritatingly, she did. It had been the cover of the Sunday Book Review six years earlier, and the viciousness of it still resonated. She actually remembered wondering what it must be like for the author to read something like that about his work, had wondered where Jesse Chapman was when he first laid eyes on those brutal ten paragraphs. She would have read the book regardless – she’d studied Jesse’s earlier novels in countless college lit classes – but the sheer meanness of the review had propelled her to buy it in hardcover and devour it that same week.
Leigh spoke, as she often did, without thinking. It was a habit at direct odds with her methodical personality, but she just couldn’t help herself. She could meticulously organize an apartment or schedule a day or create a work plan, but she couldn’t seem to master the concept that not all thoughts need to be spoken. The girls and Russell claimed they found it charming, but it could be downright mortifying sometimes. Like in a meeting with your boss, for instance. Something about Jesse’s gaze – interested yet still aloof – made her forget that she was in Henry’s office, talking to one of the greatest writing talents of the twenty-first century, and she barreled ahead. ‘The review was petty, to be sure. It was vindictive and unprofessional, a hit job if I’ve ever seen one. That said, I think Rancor was your weakest effort. It didn’t deserve a review like that, but it wasn’t nearly on par with The Moon’s Defeat or, of course, Disenchantment.’
Henry inhaled and instinctively placed his hand over his mouth.
Leigh felt faint; her heart began to race at top speed and she could feel the sweat starting to dampen her palms and feet.
Jesse grinned. ‘Telling it straight. No bullshit. That’s rare these days, wouldn’t you say?’
