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“Oh, uh hi!” I said, focusing. “I’d like to speak to Tom O’Grady. This is Shayla Sheridan, calling from Brenda Sackler’s office.”
“Would you mind holding for a minute, then? Thanks very much.” A pleasant traditional Irish tune featuring a fiddle and a flute played while I waited.
Underneath the printed fact sheets lay some tear sheets from a magazine. There he was: Tom O’Grady. Twinkling aquamarine eyes squinting against the wind, thick and wavy dirty-blonde curls tousled and pushed back from his forehead. He had his arm draped around the neck of an enormous black and white cow, who posed solemnly for the photo. The green of the rolling field of grass and the blue of the sky blinded me. I examined the page more closely, trying to see if it was all a trick of retouching.
“Tom O’Grady here.” What? I never expected to get him on the phone.
“Hello, Mr. O’Grady,” I heard myself say. It sounded ridiculous and formal. The young man in the picture wearing a bone-colored Henley stretched tight across his shoulders and chest didn’t seem like a mister. He looked fresh and guileless. I’d just let him know how things were going to play out. Most “authors” who got books based on their brand appreciate that from their writers down in the trenches. This would all be wrapped up in a flash.
“Tom,” I amended, “I’m Shayla Sheridan, calling on behalf of Brenda Sackler in New York. I’ll be your new co-writer on the cookbook.”
“Will ya, now?”
“Um, yes, I will.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement in Lizbeth’s office. I needed to put this to bed and get back to my day job. “I’m available to start immediately. I think we should pencil in a Skype session to discuss chapter headings and recipe ideas immediately.”
“What did you say your name was?” I could hear the clinking of crockery and a drone of voices in the background.”
“Shayla Sheridan.”
“Well, Miss Sheridan, if you’d bothered yourself to look at my contract, you’d have seen that it says I have final say over who the writer is. Full stop. I didn’t choose you. I’m doing dinner service at the moment. Tell Brenda she’ll hear from me soon enough.”
“Wait! Tom!”
“Mr. O’Grady,” he said.
“Mr. O’Grady, please,” I begged. “I’m perfect for the job.”
“Oh? Why’s that, then?”
Because I wanted it so badly? Because it was the only shot I had? My brain bounced off the walls of my skull, trying to think of an acceptable answer. “I can send you a bio right now. I can literally have it to you in one minute.”
I fiddled nervously with the pile of papers from the folder. I found more photos: a beauty shot of a crown roast, complete with paper panties, a photo of world leaders from the G8 conference standing around a table laid with fine china and silver, a trio of lemon desserts plated so artistically you’d be ashamed to stick a fork in it.
“Your details will convince me that you’re the one for me, so?”
I knew the answer was no. Nervous, I flipped through more photos and came face to face with a tight headshot from the cover of Sustainable Gardens magazine. Tom O’Grady’s expression seemed wiser in this photo; there was a hint of old soul in the set of his jaw behind his closely trimmed beard. I noticed how his eyes were slightly lidded. Bedroom eyes, my mother would have called them. But with a steely resolve. For whatever reason, the word “revolutionary” flashed through my brain.
“My bio probably won’t convince you, even though I am more than qualified. But maybe my idea will.” I was winging it big time, but I forged on. “What if…” I struggled, thinking on my feet, “What if your cookbook…in addition to showcasing your skills as a gourmet chef…included, say, things you cook for your mom?”
Without warning, a lump grew in my throat as I flashed back to carrying a steaming bowl of chicken soup on a tray to my own mother. It was her favorite food and one of the few things she ever taught me to cook start to finish.
“That’s…” he began. There was a pause. “That sounds interesting, Miss Sheridan. I like it better than anything I’ve heard before, to be honest with you. But I’m sorry, since the last time I spoke to Brenda, I’ve decided to put a stop to the deal.”
A woman with dark hair and a shape similar to Lizbeth’s, but who was not Lizbeth, walked out of her office. Maybe someone from legal? It didn’t matter, if Lizbeth wasn’t in her office, where was she? A whoosh of adrenaline shot through my limbs, leaving my fingertips numb.
“Oh no, Tom…Mr. O’Grady…you can’t do that. You see, I…” My mind was racing. Everyone must already be at the Javits Center. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. I had 15 missed calls and texts coming in every 30 seconds to the tune of “where the hell are you?”
“You see, I just know I’m the one to write your book.” I hadn’t known this when I picked up the phone, but in the course of five minutes, this book had become my book. I had inklings of pages in my head. I didn’t have it yet, but I imagined a large pot of chicken and vegetable soup. Home.
“Sorry to disappoint, Miss Sheridan, but my mind is made up.” He paused for a moment. I sat stock-still, straining to hear something in his breathing that would give me hope.
“Nah,” he finally said. “It just won’t work. Good luck to you.”
I couldn’t even speak.
“Goodbye then, I suppose,” he said and put down the phone.
I shoved 12 dollars I couldn’t afford to spend into the cab driver’s hand and flew across the wide sidewalk to the myriad glass doors of the Javits Center. People everywhere carried tote bags and wheeled little carts stacked with displays or swag collected from the booths at the Book Expo.
I had no idea where I was supposed to be, but I was running all the same. I detoured by the information desk, trying to grab a map off the stack as I went.
A Chanel-suited grand dame in giant black sunglasses slammed her cocktail-ring-encrusted claw down on top of mine.
“Ow!” My hand flew to my mouth and I sucked on my knuckle. I tasted blood. “What the hell, lady?”
“I was here first,” she said, snatching the top map off the stack.
“No you weren’t! And even if you were, would it kill you to say ‘excuse me?’ There are rules to living in society.”
“Don’t you lecture me, you…” she gave me the once-over, “you…riff raff!”
“Who says riff raff?” A crowd was gathering.
“Don’t you shout at me! According to the law, that’s assault!” A pair of NYPD cops ambled over from the opposite corner of the outer hallway.
“You assaulted me!” I hissed. “Look, I’m bleeding. Listen,” I said to the information guy, “don’t call the police, they’re right there. Here’s my card.”
I shot a look at the indignant Dowager of Manhattan. “If the police want to file a report, tell them to come back and talk to my bleeding finger.” I blew past the old lady, who was literally shaking her fist at me.
I ran past miles of booths, some offering snacks, some blasting music, and some with long lines of fans clutching books to be signed by their favorite authors. I spied Matty from a mile away. I could have seen him from space. He was wearing one of those Ralph Lauren Olympic cardigans, and handing out ski caps emblazoned with the title of an inspirational biography we’d published by a double-amputee downhill skier. Next to him, another assistant, one of the office hotties, was wearing a leather dress and handing out ping pong paddles printed with the title of a kinky sex book for housewives. I tried to blend in and swim through the bodies to the back while Lizbeth was busy yelling at an intern.
“There you are,” Matty hollered. “Lizbeth! Shayla’s here!” He hopped up and down, trying to catch my boss’s attention over the heads of the crowd. Lizbeth turned away from the pie-eyed intern midsentence and cut a straight line through all the bodies to get to me. “You’re late! Don’t apologize, I don’t care. Give me some packing tape, now,” she held out her open palm.
Frantically, I patted my purse. My supply bag! It was sitting under my desk. “I’ll run to the drugstore and get some. I can be back in 10 minutes.”
“Useless,” she muttered. “No! I’ll send an intern. Get dressed and get into your spot.”
“Yes, Lizbeth,” I said walking away, but in no particular direction. I’d missed last week’s staff meeting after cracking a filling on a stale bagel I’d found on a leftover platter from a client meet-and-greet. I did not know the plan. I had no choice but to ask Matty what was what. He was wearing a red carpet-worthy smile and schmoozing one of our authors and her handler when I approached. The second the author shook his hand and walked away. Matty’s smile disappeared. “What?” he snapped.
“Where am I supposed to be?”
“Somewhere in middle America, running the obituaries column for the local newspaper.” He flashed a smile at a passerby and pressed a hat and a press kit into her hand.
“Come on, Matty,” I pleaded.
He exhaled an elaborate sigh. “Go between the booths and put on your outfit. Look at the chart back there and go stand at your post.”
I shoved through the crowd and wedged myself into the narrow space that we used as an office-slash-staging area. There was a mirror on the wall, a plot of our booths, some folders with papers in them, and enough space for three or four people to gather behind a makeshift curtain. I hung my garment bag on one of the hooks and unzipped it. Inside was a gingham pinafore, a bonnet, and a plush, stuffed shepherd’s crook. Oh, no, no, no.
I snatched an agenda out of a hanging folder and read:
Shayla, first shift: Handing out press kits and hand puppets for Little HPC’s 25th Anniversary Re-release ofCuddle the Lamb: A Bedtime Story, southeast corner of Booth Number 3, side aisle
Shayla, second shift: Straightening pamphlets and literature on the table/coffee run.
I scanned down the page to see what jobs other assistants and interns had been assigned during my missed meeting. Matty was, of course, on the main aisle in front of booth 1, wearing his designer sweater. His second shift was meeting the breakout novelist of the year at a swanky hotel and escorting him here for his book signing and acting as his handler onsite. Maggie had been crossed off the list and someone had penciled in “office coverage.” This was seriously the worst day ever. I wouldn’t even have her here for moral support. I scanned down the list:
Carly, first shift: Handing out HPC bookmarks / Greeting guests in front of booth 2, main aisle
Carly, second shift: Handler for Theodore Reichel / book signing Booth 1, 4 p.m.
No way. Carly was an intern who hadn’t been in the office more than a couple of months. I worked 50-plus hours a week, and had for over three years. I was in line for an associate editor position. Fucking broken filling. Fucking Matty.
I peeked out the curtain and saw Carly standing by a small table off to the side, filling a shoulder bag with bookmarks. I made a beeline straight for her.
“Carly, change of plans,” I said, snatching the bag and turning her by the shoulders toward the staging area. “You’re me and I’m you,” I declared. “Lizbeth said,” I lied. “Cuddle the Lamb by booth 3, then you’re doing coffee. I can already tell you I want the biggest latte you can get me. Full caf.” I gave her a little shove. “Go.”
I took my position on the main aisle, pasted on a smile, and greeted passersby.
“Hi, have you read the latest from Haversmith, Peebles, and Chin? Thanks, have a good day. Complementary bookmark? Come back at 4 to meet author Theodore Reichel, in a rare public book signing. Here you go, something to mark your page. Join us at 4 for a book signing from famously reclusive novelist Theodore Reichel,” I hawked, shoving bookmarks into people’s hands. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Matty down the aisle. He looked furious. I turned my back to him. “Book signing at 4! Care for a bookmark?”
Plunging my hand repeatedly into the sack of bookmarks, opened the cut on my hand from the old crazy lady’s ring. I knew I shouldn’t leave my post and draw attention to myself, but I got skeeved out at the thought of infection. That ring could have germs residing between its prongs dating back to the Titanic. I looked around for Lizbeth and didn’t see her. Making my move, I stayed off the main aisle and came around the back of the staging area.
“…but she was assigned the lamb puppets and the bonnet. And she was an hour late,” I heard Matty say behind the curtain.
“My hands are tied. What would you have me do, fire her?” Lizbeth answered.
“Why not? Louise is about to go on maternity leave, so she won’t miss me. Carly is excellent for an intern. She could cover Louise for the last few weeks, and I could just move to Shayla’s desk and work for you. Problem solved.”
“I wish, but I can’t do it. You know who her father is. Besides, things are shifting. In three months, I’m planning to put you into an associate editor spot.”
I sucked on my finger. She was skipping me to promote Matty, that sneaky little medicated bastard! I should pull back the curtain and quit right here and now. Wouldn’t Hank make a meal out of that? “Well, Shayla,” he’d say, “can’t say I didn’t see this coming. Not everyone is cut out for publishing. Takes a thick skin. You’ve always been sensitive, like your mother. Never should have moved her out of Rhinebeck. Dutchess County was more her speed than Manhattan.”
I hated that it was due to Hank’s reputation that I was even hanging on by a thread. It was so unfair! I hated riding on his coattails, but bailing on my job without something better on the horizon would just confirm what he already predicted: I wasn’t born to be a big dog.
I went back to my post, half-heartedly distributing the contents of my bag of bookmarks. At one point, Matty stomped up behind me, and spat, “You’re supposed to be on Cuddle the Lamb.” I stared straight ahead, pretending he wasn’t there. Game on, Matty, I thought to myself. You’re going to need all the Valium and Klonopin you can lay your hands on. I hated being petty, but I couldn’t just stand by and watch him take my promotion. I sensed I couldn’t fully trust him, but I always think the best of people. I hadn’t realized he was a true snake.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and checked the time. 3:55. I had no idea where I was supposed to pick up Theodore Reichel, and really, there was no one I could ask. I’d have to be shrewd. At the side of booth 1 there was a small, makeshift dais with a table, a stack of his books, and a handful of pens. OK, that’s where I’d take him once I found him. Check! Maybe he was being dropped out front by a car service.
Still dressed in her pinafore and bonnet, Carly whooshed up behind the chair and unrolled a screen-style floor display featuring Theodore Reichel’s face looking serious about the blown-up jacket of his book, and snapped it neatly into place. Shit, shit, shit! I was supposed to be doing that.
To my horror, I saw Lizbeth coming up the aisle, leading Mr. Reichel. That was supposed to be my job, and now my boss was doing it herself.
“Mr. Reichel,” I said, rushing up to them. “I’m Shayla, and I’ll be here to help you with anything you need.” I wedged myself between him and Lizbeth and took him by the arm. “If you’ll step this way, your chair is all set up for you.” Lizbeth looked irritated, but allowed me to guide the elderly gentleman to his seat. She could hardly make a scene. Okay, hurdle one jumped, I thought to myself. If I just keep doing one right thing after another, she’ll forget about my being late. “Can I bring you some water?” He nodded and grunted what I assumed to be assent.
“Back in just a sec,” I said, racing for the staging area. There was a plastic tub of bottled waters floating in what was probably once ice, but was now slightly unclean water. I took out a bottle and wiped it on my dress. “Psst, Carly!” I called. I needed to get her and her Little Bo Peep get-up out of sight. She was a walking reminder that I wasn’t doing the job I’d been assigned. “Lizbeth told me to send you on a coffee run,” I lied. “A cup of tea for Mr. Reichel, and don’t forget my latte. Bring Matty an Americano with an espresso shot.” She looked at me funny. I shrugged, “That’s what he asked for,” I told her with wide eyes. Matty only drank decaf.
I could not believe what was coming out of my mouth. I never lied. To me, it was always more trouble than it was worth. Besides, it felt slimy. Who was I? Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound, I thought. “No, Carly! Go the back way, it’s faster.”
“All right. Tell Lizbeth I’ll be right back,” she called over her shoulder.
“Will 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.
Chapter Five (#u96507adc-a14b-5ec3-a5ce-a486eecc76b1)
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.
