“What?” She spat, biting off the end of the word. “Are you telling me that she didn’t pick up The New Adult’s Guide to Making it in the Big City? That’s ridiculous!” Did she see your two articles in the Observer? How to Be an Adult at Work and How to Be an Adult at Weddings? Pure genius! Did you tell her that they’re thinking of making How to Be an Adult a regular column?” Her eyes blazed.
“Never mind,” I said. “You win some, you lose some.” I didn’t want to ruin our night out together with a pity party. Changing the subject would do me good.
“Anyway, how was your day, Mags?”
“It was, you know…” she tapered off and her eyes got really big. She was looking over my shoulder, shaking her head “no” in small, twitchy movements. I turned around in my chair, and caught the back of a waiter carrying champagne in a silver bucket, heading in the opposite direction.
“What was that?”
She shrugged.
“So what about your blog, Shay? The writing is solid and witty, and your timing couldn’t be more on the money. It’s so current.”
“To be honest, my blog hasn’t gotten much traction.”
“It still might. You’ve proven yourself with the book contracts Brenda’s given you. And for almost no money! After all those Dumbass Guides you’ve ghostwritten for her? The Dumbass Guide to Picking a College, The Dumbass Guide to Getting Him to Propose…You could write The Dumbass Guide to Writing a Dumbass Guide! Did you offer her the alternate title? Adulting? That’s so fresh! I can see the short-haired girls starring in the HBO series now! Why would she think twice about putting your name on a cover as sole author?”
“Well, the phone call didn’t last long…
“And after you swooped in, cleaned up that mess of a green smoothie book that that idiot personal trainer slash diet guru, slash cable TV personality couldn’t write? OK, tell me this: Are you getting your name on the book as co-writer or not?” She took a greedy gulp of water. I shook my head. I hated giving Maggie the disappointing news.
“Wait, what? Brenda, your agent, told you no on the phone? She didn’t give you the courtesy of delivering the news face-to-face?”
“Well, you know how busy she is,” I said, my face heating up. “To be fair, it was a quick conversation. I shouldn’t have called on a Friday.”
“She’s your agent! Evan would never treat me like that. You’re allowed to call her.” Maggie shook her head. “I’ve been saying for a year that you need to let me talk to Evan about you. He’s a big fan of Hank’s. I think that’s why he signed me, because I dropped both your names. He’d snap you up in a heartbeat.”
I shifted in my chair. The waistband of my skirt was bunching up from the dampness. “You know, Brenda’s been pretty good to me. Like she said, tons of writers would kill to do this ghosting.”
“Bullshit. How many people out there write as well as you? This should have just been done and dusted. Your proposal is brilliant. I bet she didn’t even read it. Does she know who your father is?”
“Probably, but we’ve never talked about it. I want to get a deal on my own merit. You know it wouldn’t count in Hank’s eyes if I got it through him.”
“That’s on you, not your father. He never said that. Look, first thing Monday, you need to just show up there and insist that Brenda pay attention to you.”
I snorted. “I can’t just barge in.”
“Yes, you can. Even if I have to drag you in by the hair, you are going to see Brenda Sackler on Monday. And she’d better give you the kind of book deal you deserve!”
Maggie finished the rest of her water and her shoulders relaxed. Thank God. I just wanted to move on and stop talking about books. Le Relais wasn’t where I wanted to be tonight, but it was wonderful to spend time with Maggie. Ever since we met on Day One as slave-assistants for HPC Publishing, we’d clung to each other. I found her in the copy room, cursing out a notoriously volatile senior editor who cut the line in front of her. She had her fist raised to punch him. The words “you’re fired” sat on his lips when I intervened to usher him out to the hallway. I “explained” that she’d just had a scare with an ovarian biopsy. The mention of gynecology and cancer will cow any man. Maggie appreciated that I’d risked my job for hers. That kind of loyalty meant something, and from that day forward, she had my back. It was just a matter of time before she forced out her dippy, model-wannabe roommate, and moved me in to our tiny, illegal sublet Hell’s Kitchen.
A busser appeared and set a basket of assorted artisanal breads before me. He must have read my mind. I was starving. “Can I get another vodka and soda, and can she have a dirty martini, up, three onions?” He nodded and glided toward the bar. I sighed with pleasure. My blood had begun to warm. The first drink did me a world of good, and another was on the way. Being out on a Friday wasn’t so bad after all. In fact, I was starting to enjoy myself.
“You never answered me. How was your day?” I asked, dragging a slice of dark, grainy bread through the modernist ramekin of herbed oil the olives were lounging in.
“My day? Hey, did you notice the cute guy at the bar checking you out?”
“What guy?” I sat up poker-straight and a fish flipped in my chest cavity. It had been ages since I’d gone out with a guy, and longer still since I went out with a guy I actually lusted after. “Is he wearing dark-wash jeans and a blue shirt?”
“Uh-huh.” she whispered. “Don’t look!”
I was already looking. He was smiling toward our table. I smiled back. He quickly looked down at his drink. I shouldn’t have busted him. “Anyway, enough about me already. Are you ever going to tell me about your day?”
“Well,” Maggie said fiddling with her cutlery, “It was really, really good. There’s something I want to tell you, but for right now, I just want tonight to be about us. We never go out together anymore. I’m always sleeping over at Eric’s, and you’re always staying late at the office. And we’ve both been pounding away on our own books.”
Our waiter floated up to the table and set a pretty pink cocktail with a strawberry on the rim in front of me. “From the gentleman at the bar.”
“Well, well, well,” Maggie said, eyes twinkling. “Looks like your day’s about to get brighter.”
“Oh my God, what do I do?” I leaned toward her, whispering. “Do I accept it?” I locked eyes with Maggie, willing myself not to look over at the guy. “If I do, what does that mean? Do I have to go eat dinner with him, then?” I panicked. What if he turned out to be boring, or a creep? Plus, I was here with Maggie. It was a girls’ night. “Should I clink glasses with the air, but in his direction? Like they do in the movies?”
Just then, the waiter reappeared. “My apologies, ladies.” He picked up the glass, moved it to Maggie’s side of the table, and bowed, sliding backwards from our table, and down the aisle toward the kitchen. Maggie looked down into her lap and sighed.
“It’s OK, Mags. Seriously.” I tried to laugh. “Did you think I thought that was for me? Pfft! I was joking! This is good. I mean, this is great! Now I don’t have to eat dinner with him. Oh no, do you? Have to go eat with him? You can, if you want to…”
“Shh!” Maggie raised her eyebrows at glasses guy. She held up her left hand and pointed to her engagement ring. She toasted him with her glass and mouthed “thank you.” He turned his broad back to us and faced the bar.
“His butt’s flat. He’s not that cute,” she said, wrinkling her nose. I took a last look at his broad shoulders and shiny black hair. He kind of was that cute.
“You can do much better,” Maggie told me. I doubted it.