Hundreds of people had come and gone last night as I sat working the door at the launch. From outside, I listened to all the fun happening inside the ballroom at the Puck Building. Ray Diablo’s brand was the flavor of the moment, and there was a parade of A-listers from the food world, and plenty of television people to boot. Hundreds of people came and went, carrying plates of fancy nibbles. A trash can sat next to my station. I watched as dainty talk-show hosts and botoxed second wives took only a demure bite of their spectacular canapés and trashed the remains. The smell of food dizzied me. I had half a mind to dive in after some of the less-sampled morsels.
I was told not to eat on duty, and by the end of the night the two white wine spritzers I’d sneaked had gone straight to my head. When Jaden (Bradyn? Devon?) laid his card down and said, “54 Below, Saturday, 9 p.m.,” it had felt more like a summons than an invitation. But maybe that was sexy, what did I know? “Really, really hot.”
“Come on, let’s order,” Maggie said, summoning a waiter, and we did. After the starters came and were eaten, I felt a lot better. By the end of the meal, I had forgotten my troubles and had moved on to enjoying myself. The restaurant was, after all, a feast for the eyes, and every bite I put to my lips was sublime. I can’t cook, but I adore fancy food. Besides, I was getting to spend hours gossiping and chattering with my best friend.
“Hey, it’s getting late and you never told me your big news! We talked a little bit about Eric’s new job, and then I talked the rest of the time about how Ray had that hissy fit, and fired his co-writer in the middle of the launch party.”
“Ray Diablo is a giant dick,” Maggie said. “I’m tired of seeing his smug face all over the Food Channel. I hope that poor writer got a ton of money for her trouble.”
“From what I hear, she did. And her name on the cover. She’s one of Brenda’s clients, but way up the totem pole from me.”
“Phht! You write better than she does.”
“Maybe, but she’s making country-house money writing for famous chefs and I’m not. More to the point, no one knows my name.” Over Maggie’s shoulder, I saw a crowd gathering at the hostess stand. The hostess pointed to our table. A gorgeous girl in a gold dress and matching silver wig and false eyelashes, and holding a bouquet of gold and silver balloons was being led down the aisle toward our table.
“Margaret Doyle?” the shiny girl asked in a loud voice. Maggie nodded.
“These are for you, from your father, Mr. Patrick Doyle: Congratulations on selling your novel!” She tied the balloons onto the back of Maggie’s chair, as the tables near us broke into light applause and a mixed chorus of “congratulations,” “well done,” and “awww!”
Just as the back-patting and well-wishing died down, Maggie’s phone rang. She dove sideways to fish in her bag.
“Your novel sold!” A quick stab of jealousy lit up my ribcage and it embarrassed me. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I felt dazed. “I mean, that’s amazing, Mags.”
She held up a finger, mouthing, “Sorry, one sec.”
“No, it’s fine. Take the call,” I said, forcing my face into what I could just tell was a twisted grin. It was just as well she wasn’t looking at me.
“Yes, Daddy, they just arrived, this very minute. Thank you!” Maggie gestured helplessly, pointing at the phone with a knitted brow. I waved her off. “It’s fine!” I whispered. I sipped my drink and pretended not to be there in order to give her the feeling of privacy. I looked away and caught sight of Mr. Gorgeous from the bar descending from his stool and walking out.
“Well, I’m hardly a little girl! Yes, I’ll always be your little girl…I’m happy you’re proud, but Eric was naughty for spilling the beans…”
“Hey, Shayla. I didn’t mean to make a huge thing out of my book deal. It’s just…I thought we’d be celebrating together, shoulder to shoulder.”
“No, it’s fine!” I insisted. “You didn’t know. I kind of set you up, I guess. I should never have said Brenda was excited about my book. I got carried away. ‘Don’t count your chickens till they’re hatched,’ Hank always tells me.” A lump rose in my throat. Maggie’s dad always told her things like, ‘You can do anything you want to do in this world,’ and ‘Go get ’em, Tiger!’
“This is your time,” I said. “I’m happy for you! Seriously. With the engagement, you know, and the book, and everything.” I reached across the table and squeezed her hand.
“Thanks for being so great.” She squeezed back. “You’re my best friend.” She was fizzing with nervousness and smiling like a maniac. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll get the check. Dinner’s on me.” We looked up to find a waiter, but one was already swooping in for a landing. In his hands was an exquisite, sculptural cake topped with sizzling sparklers. “Here you are, ladies. Enjoy!”
On the top of the cake, in swirling script, it said “Wonder Twins.”
I held my hand up to shush my friend. “Don’t.”
We ate the cake in silence.
Never love anybody who treats you like you’re ordinary.
Stretching my leg out as far as I could, given the narrow skirt Maggie had lent me, I launched my body across the slushy pool at the curb on the corner of 45th and 9th. Good thing she also outfitted me in her waterproof suede La Canadienne boots. I’d planned to wear wool pants and my Timberlands, but Mags put the kibosh on that, pronto. “Shayla, this isn’t Alaska, it’s the capital of the world. Men expect you to show up for a date dressed like a woman.”
“I do dress like a woman. A comfortable woman!”
The next thing I know, I was outfitted in a pair of thigh-slimming Spanx and this skirt so slim my knees touched.
The weather in the city this winter had been the worst since I’d been born. You’d think by mid-March Mother Nature would cut it out with the freezing temperatures and wintry mixes.
When I’d agreed to go out with Jordan (that’s his name – Jordan Silver, I checked his card), I hadn’t realized that this Saturday was St. Patrick’s Day. I make it a policy not to leave my apartment on it or New Year’s Eve. In Manhattan, those nights are strictly for amateurs. My oversight meant that now, on top of patches of black ice on the sidewalk, I had to dodge pools of green vomit and steer clear of gangs of college boys singing Danny Boy. I wrapped my scarf a little more tightly around my neck, headed uptown, pushing into the wind that was trying to blow me backwards.
My mind flashed back to the early morning, when I’d had every intention of canceling. Maggie caught me red-handed on the sofa with his card and my cell phone in hand. I was perfectly happy in my fuzzy robe and slippers, my overgrown hair up in a couple of chopsticks, a pile of manuscripts at the ready on the coffee table. I planned to laze around and drink coffee all morning, then get a jump on my day job by reading slush-pile submissions that I was behind on from working Ray’s book launch. There was no choice but to dig in and get on with it. “Editorial assistants who make excuses never become editors,” Hank had told me more than once. He’d either heard it from his own editor, or from some editor he dated, I couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter; I instinctively knew it was true. Come nightfall, I’d order Chinese from Foo King, and put the finishing touches on The Dumbass Guide to Motorcycle Repair so I could hand it in before Brenda’s deadline. That way, if I ever did bring up my book again, I’d be on her good side.
Before I could punch in the number, Maggie came stalking out of her room, wearing the hand-painted silk kimono Eric had brought her from a business trip