Chapter 16 SIOBHAN
Chapter 16
S IOBHAN
Alarm bells rang in her head when she realized she had spent the last twenty minutes deciding what to wear. Why did this feel like her prom night? She had only invited Marcel to dinner because Alex had let slip that it was his birthday, and a gift would have been far too personal. And there was another small detail: his friend was coming too. So choosing between a short dress with a very low back and ripped boyfriend jeans shouldn’t have been such a major decision because this was categorically not a date. She would never go on a date with an insensitive, ungrateful man who had criticized the restaurant she had chosen because it wasn’t up to his usual standards. The epitome of an insensitive and ungrateful man who had no idea of the lengths she had gone to, to get a table.
“Grimaldi’s. For my birthday. Seriously? Couldn’t you find anywhere less squalid?”
“‘Squalid’? How dare you call Frank Sinatra’s favorite pizzeria squalid? My god, your soul is twisted.”
“I’ve always preferred Tony Bennett to Sinatra. Anyway, I see no need to go to Brooklyn for something as overrated as pizza. You know what the air smells like in Brooklyn? Sweaty balls.”
Siobhan rubbed her temples. Just when her feelings toward him were starting to mellow, that idiot went and pissed her off all over again.
She counted her thoughts off on her fingers.
“Okay, so, number one: Didn’t your parents teach you that it’s good manners to say thank you? Number two: there isn’t a single pizzeria in Manhattan with a wood-fired oven, but Grimaldi’s has one. So, like it or not, tonight you’re going to get your ass over to Brooklyn. And number three: I’m sorry I don’t have the luxury of an Amex with no credit limit like you do, Mr. Bestseller of the Upper East Side. Next year, I’ll reserve a table at Eleven Madison Park.”
She wanted to impress him. But Marcel sounded anything but impressed when he replied:
“Pah. You can save yourself the two hundred and ninety-five dollars. I’ve had Chef Humm’s honey lavender duck several times and it’s no great shakes.”
Two hundred and ninety-five dollars? For that price, they should be coating the ducks in gold before sticking them in the oven.
The strange thing was that, despite being together every day and the fact that the odious Mr. Black had an exasperating knack for infuriating her, the prospect of seeing him somewhere other than his penthouse was rather exciting. Was she some kind of masochist?
Probably.
About an hour later, Siobhan arrived in Dumbo, at the foot of the majestic Brooklyn Bridge. How many starry-eyed couples had strolled across it hand in hand on torrid August nights like this? How many promises had been made on that feat of engineering built over the fast-flowing waters of the East River? A hopeless romantic like her couldn’t help but wonder about these kinds of things. The two men were waiting for her at the door, standing apart from the usual weekend line. Marcel was sporting a mid fade haircut and had shaped his stubble slightly; it was hard to imagine there could be a sexier man within a thousand-mile radius; he looked like he had just walked out of an Alicia Keys video. Noticing that he was looking at her and barely disguising the fact that those feline eyes were roving all over her body, she quashed any feelings of feminist guilt and was pleased she had opted for the short dress.
Alex welcomed her with a smile that lit up his whole face.
“The writer of the moment!” he exclaimed. They hadn’t seen each other since the contract signing in the Baxter Books office, but they had exchanged several messages during that time. What’s more, Alex Shapiro was the kind of person who made you feel like you had known them your whole life. “You look gorgeous. If you don’t mind me saying so,” he added. “Isn’t she gorgeous, Marcel?”
Marcel shrugged and frowned.
“I couldn’t say. She looks the same as ever to me.”
But what ... Was he serious?
“I would have thought you’d have learned to behave in company by now.”
A sneer took shape on Siobhan’s lips.
“I’m afraid your esteemed client has all the social skills of a bag of chips.”
“I have a good ass too. It’s interesting you didn’t mention that,” countered Marcel, directing a meaningful glance her way. The meaning being: I know how much you like to look at it in secret.
Five seconds. That was how long it took for Siobhan’s cheeks to flush a deep shade of crimson.
She stuck out her tongue in reply.
“What a pair. It’s incredible you’re both still alive,” said Alex, laughing. “Anyway, let’s head inside. I’m starving.”
Grimaldi’s had a particular New York vibe, somewhere between a Hopper painting and Once Upon a Time in America with a louder color scheme. They sat next to one of the vast windows that looked onto the street, at a table with the typical red-and-white checkered tablecloth. The air smelled of tomato sauce, oregano, and flour. Alex and Marcel sat on one side, Siobhan on the other. A waiter—one of those Italian Americans whose English is inflected with the accent of their great-grandparents’ country, despite never having set foot in Italy — took their order. They asked for a bottle of prosecco and three Margherita pizzas that turned out to be so big only Tony Soprano could have finished one. The place was packed. Italian classics like “Tu vuo fa’ l’americano,” by Renato Carosone, and “Il mondo,” by Jimmy Fontana were playing on the speakers so loudly that diners had to raise their voices to be heard. They toasted the birthday boy, who didn’t appear to be particularly enthused by the celebration. Initially, Alex and Siobhan talked while Marcel limited himself to downing his wine, with a blank expression, as though he was holding back some kind of trauma that must never be confessed. By the second bottle of prosecco, Marcel had stopped studying his cuticles and started to participate. Every so often, Siobhan’s gaze drifted to his hands. He had lovely hands. Strong but gentle, with long, slim, elegant fingers. When she found herself wondering what else he might be able to do with them apart from type, she rebuked herself and pleaded with her imagination for a silent truce.
“So, tell me. How’s the bestseller coming along?” asked Alex as he folded over a portion of pizza to slot it into his mouth.
“You know I don’t like talking about a book while I’m writing it. It diminishes the story,” replied Marcel with the weary condescension of a teacher who has heard the same question a hundred times.
“Nonsense,” Siobhan said, shaking her head. “Marcel’s had quite the steep learning curve. But even so, I think we’re making good headway. It’s a mix between Castle , Sherlock Holmes , and Kate & Leopold .”
“It’s more Sherlock Holmes than Kate & Leopold ,” qualified Marcel.
“Mm-hmm.” Alex finished chewing, swallowed, and wiped his mouth on his napkin. “Interesting. I mean, comparisons are horrible, but commercial success has a lot to do with the association of ideas. Your editor will love it.”
“Well, of course he’s gonna love it,” spluttered Marcel. “Bob Gunton is the greediest man in publishing. That moron is convinced he discovered me. Sometimes he even takes the liberty of mentioning ‘our books’ when talking about my work. I mean, honestly.” He pursed his lips and leaned back. “Who do you think paid for his beach house in the Hamptons? If Two Ways turns out to be a hit, he’ll claim the whole thing was his idea.”
Alex looked puzzled.
“ Two Ways to Solve a Murder in Manhattan . That’s the title of the book,” explained Siobhan.
“Wow!”
“You like it?”
“You betcha. It’s the kind of title that gives you a little jolt inside. Whose idea was it?”
“Hers,” said Marcel.
“Both of ours,” said Siobhan.
Marcel glanced at her but made no remark.
“Well, when the time comes, we’ll meet with the design team at Baxter Books. We have to make sure they nail the cover design. The font is crucial. I think a sans serif that conveys both strength and elegance would be perfect. Readers have to be able tell at first glance that this is both a crime and a romance novel.”
“Thank god!” Siobhan cried out, holding up her hands, palms outward. “Did you hear that, Marcel? Crime and romance. You don’t need to leave your personal scent on each page like you’re pissing around a tree trunk.”
Alex spluttered with laughter.
“Tell me your ego is too big without telling me your ego is too big. I love this girl.”
Marcel raised one of his thick, dark eyebrows. Those who knew him would have recognized that expression and run for cover immediately.
“If you didn’t write like a groupie who’s horny for Superman, I wouldn’t have to correct everything you do—right down to your shopping list.”
“Wow. Maybe it was too much to expect one of your dazzling metaphors, but you might have come up with something a little more poetic.”
“The poetics are your department, princess.”
“What’s so bad about writing from the heart?”
“ That is precisely your problem. A good author doesn’t write from the heart or any other organ except for the brain.”
“Why do you always have to be so rational? Sometimes I think you’re made of stone. It’s ...” Siobhan mulled over a dozen ways to end her sentence. “Demoralizing.”
“Then perhaps the most intelligent thing you could do would be to stop trying to understand me,” he said, unable to mask the defensive tone in his voice.
This truth struck her in the face like a blast of cold air.
Well, I’ll be damned if that wasn’t a complete revelation.
She nodded in silence. Marcel was right. Trying to understand that evasive and mysterious man was like sticking her neck into the lion’s den. Even so, the more time she spent with him, the more she wanted to get close to the beast. She wanted to both study him up close and never have to think about him again for the rest of her life.
It was genuinely crazy.
Just then, someone shouted her name and roused her from her trance.
“Shiv!”
It was Paige. Paige? Seriously? What were the chances of meeting someone she knew in all the thousands of restaurants in this city? Chance was a fickle thing. Naturally she was happy to see one of her best friends, but this was neither the time nor the place for socializing. And certainly not in this company. How should she introduce Marcel? What should she say?
They exchanged a fleeting glance that said, We’re screwed.
“Paige! What a coincidence,” she exclaimed. She got up from the table and hugged her friend at length, trying to gain time to build a reasonably solid story. “Let me look at you. You look ... different. Have you done something to your hair?”
“Uh, no.”
“Really? Because it looks more ...”
“Loose?”
“Yes!”
“Oh, that,” she said, and shook her precious red Jessica Rabbit mane seductively. “It must be my new hair mask. It’s organic. No sulphates or parabens, you know. So, what brings you here?”
“I’ve come for dinner.”
“Well, that’s obvious.”
“Yup.”
There was an uncomfortable pause during which she could almost hear her own heartbeat.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
“What? Yes, yes! Sorry, I don’t know what I’m thinking.” She cleared her throat. “This is Alex Shapiro, literary agent.”
“Paige D’Alessandro.” She extended her hand. “Please, don’t get up. Has anyone ever told you you look a lot like Aaron Eckhart?”
“The guy who played Harvey Dent in The Dark Knight ? I don’t think so. I would have remembered. But you’ve just given my self-esteem a nice boost.”
“Well, make sure you keep it up there.” She turned to Marcel. “And you are ...?”
Siobhan decided to take the initiative. This was the moment to test her worth as a professional storyteller.
“This is Ma ... Michael. His name is Michael. And he’s ...” She counted to three in her head and released the bomb. “He’s Alex’s boyfriend.”
Marcel clenched his jaw hard as Alex struggled to contain his laughter.
My god, this is going to get ugly, and we’ve only just started, I can feel it.
“Ah, I see. You make a lovely couple. And I don’t just mean because interracial is, you know”—she made air quotes with her fingers—“‘fashionable.’ I’m all for diversity. Our friend Lena is Jewish, and she’s dating a girl of Palestinian origin. I mean, technically, Noor isn’t Black, but her skin is dark enough to fall under the BIPOC banner. Wait, can you still use the term BIPOC , or is it too broad? I mean, aren’t we glossing over the particular characteristics of each group if we lump them all together under the same label? I mean, the history of African Americans in the United States is marked by slavery and segregation, which is very different from what Native Americans experienced. Correct me if I’m wrong, Michael.”
“No, you’re not wrong.”
Over the course of the next few minutes, Paige jumped on the train of social conscience and made it clear she wasn’t about to get off any time soon. She railed against Trump, the NRA, alt-right white supremacists, Friends of Abe, police violence, the tyranny of Wall Street, inequality, and poverty.
A vein was throbbing on Marcel’s forehead.
“The Great Awakening of progressive white America. Thanks for the TED talk,” he blurted out.
The slap echoed as far as Pensacola.
“Shit. That was quite the put-down. Are you always this friendly?”
“Not normally, no. This is your lucky day.”
Alex hastily tried to change the subject.
“Don’t listen to him. Michael’s a bit ... sensitive about certain topics. Hey, Paige, why don’t you sit down and have a glass of wine with us? Shiv’s friends are our friends. Right, babe?” he said, lovingly draping his arm around Marcel’s shoulder.
While Alex seemed to be enjoying this comedy sketch, Marcel’s vein threatened to burst at any moment and give the game away.
“I can’t, I’m meeting my Tinder date for dinner. He’s Italian. Well, technically he’s from Bensonhurst, but you know what I mean.” She checked her iPhone. “Where on earth is he? He should be here already. Has he never heard of the fifteen-minutes-early rule? I swear to god, if he’s late, I’ll send him straight to the friendzone. Anyway, how’s the new novel coming along?”
“Oh. Pretty well. I suppose.”
Paige looked at her curiously.
“Jesus, Shiv, you’re acting weird tonight. Is it because of that psychopath Marcel Black? Has he threatened you or something? Don’t tell me he’s still got a pole stuck up his ass.”
Siobhan swallowed. And Marcel had to swallow something else—his own anger, more than likely. All the while Alex was pressing his lips together so as not to erupt into laughter. Perhaps the moment had come to shout, Earthquake! and hide under the table.
“Well ... things have gotten a bit better in the last few weeks.”
“Just in case, always take pepper spray with you. And if he tries to kill you on the pretext of research, make sure you get his DNA under your fingernails. Never trust handsome men. Most of them are perverts who like sending dick pics.”
“How do you know Marcel Black is handsome?” asked Marcel, in a tone suggesting genuine interest. “Have you met him?”
“That slippery bastard? Hardly. Shiv told us. Her precise words were a hot piece of ass .”
It was official: she was going to have a heart attack.
An irritatingly victorious smile started to glimmer on Marcel’s lips. The dimple under his stubble was unreasonably cute. Siobhan started to scratch her neck compulsively as she looked the other way. Her face burned with shame.
“I don’t recall having used those exact words,” she murmured.
But the damage was done.
“Well, it’s great to see you,” said Paige, taking her friend by the hands. “I know you’re superbusy with the novel, but Lena and I miss you.”
Siobhan’s heart softened.
“Awww ... And I miss you guys. Let’s do something. We’ll have a night out.”
“Yes, let’s! I know a new place in the Meatpacking District. It’s gay friendly.” She turned to face the two men. “You game?”
“Just try and stop me,” enthused Alex, to Marcel’s great consternation.
The sound of Paige’s cell phone put an end to this drama. When she had left, Siobhan felt all the tension that had accumulated in her lower back rise to her shoulders and evaporate toward the ceiling. She fell back in her seat as though a tornado had just passed, and only then did she burst out laughing. Alex joined her.
“I don’t find it remotely funny,” protested Marcel. “And you, princess, couldn’t you have thought up something better? His boyfriend. Come on!”
“Hey, I’m not all that bad. You heard Paige: I look like Aaron Eckhart.”
“Yeah, and I look like Obama. Why the hell did you come out with that horseshit?”
Siobhan couldn’t believe it.
“So, my friend calls you a psychopath, and what worries you is that I suggest you’re gay. Really, Marcel? Sorry, I didn’t know your masculinity was so fragile.”
“Checkmate,” murmured Alex.
Marcel looked up at the ceiling and sighed.
“It’s not that, all right? It’s simply not credible. Period. I’m sure your friend realized you were making it up as you went along. If she’s quick-witted enough, she’ll have put two and two together right away.”
“Okay, and what did you want me to say? That you’re in the witness protection program, and I couldn’t reveal your identity?”
“You could have said we were together.”
For a moment, Siobhan felt a slight tickle in her stomach that rose to her chest. She wasn’t going to pretend she had never fantasized about the idea of walking hand in hand with Marcel along the colorful, leafy path of the High Line, the historic disused railroad that was now one of the most popular public parks in Manhattan.
But it was just that: a highly improbable fantasy.
“Together? You and me? Like on a date? Oh, please, don’t make me laugh! That really would have sounded far-fetched.”
“Why?” he asked with a note of disbelief.
“Because I wouldn’t date you if you were the only survivor of an alien attack. I’m about as attracted to you as I am to Danny DeVito in a Speedo.”
“Is Danny DeVito a hot piece of ass too? Wow, you have the strangest taste.”
Again, that suffocating heat in her cheeks. You and your big mouth, Paige, she thought.
“It’s possible that at some point I might have mentioned that your appearance isn’t ... Let’s say ... um ... entirely unpleasant. Nothing more,” she concluded. “So don’t get your hopes up.”
“Ha! That’s rich! Hopes? With you? Little Miss Happy Endings? The queen of sugar? I’d rather ask Alex here to marry me.”
“Don’t be offended, Michael, but I don’t want to be anyone’s second choice,” said Alex, who had been watching them as though he was at a tennis match. He started laughing and rubbed his face as he sighed. “My god, you two are so alike. Do you know, there are so many sparks flying between you that it’s like Fourth of July fireworks? They can see you in Jersey right now.”
Siobhan lowered her head and bit the inside of her cheek. She had noticed it too, or at least she thought she had. The night they had dinner together at his house and he massaged her hand to relieve the strain, she had definitely felt something. Heat. Static electricity. A shock. It frightened her to feel so attracted to a man like Marcel Dupont.
A man whose very existence could move her so strongly it might jolt her heart out of place.
“Just when I thought I’d heard everything ...,” muttered Marcel as he stood up.
“Where are you going?” asked Alex.
“To the bathroom. I’ve got Jordan hanging on the hoop about to score a basket. Do I need to be more specific, darling ?”
“Nah . Don’t bother.”
When Siobhan and Alex were alone, they exchanged a knowing look.
“He’s such a shit.”
“I know. Even so ...” She bit her lip. “I never thought I’d say this, and if you dare repeat it in front of Marcel, I’ll deny the words ever left my lips. The thing is I think I’ve started to get used to him. I like working with him. It’s very stimulating.”
“He likes you too, I’m sure of it.”
“If he heard you saying that, he’d cut your balls off, dice them up, and turn them into fish food.”
“You do know him well.”
“Well, Marcel is a closed book in some regards and wide open in others. Did I tell you I found a copy of my novel hidden under his sofa cushions?”
“Nooooo!”
“You’d better believe it. And when I asked, he said he had no idea how it had gotten there.”
“Typical of Marcel. But anyway, I think you’re both doing a fantastic job. You make a good team.” He smiled enigmatically and added: “Changing the subject, your friend ... Does she date a lot of guys on Tinder? I only ask because ... I’m on Tinder too and ... I’d like to know what kind of guys she’s into.”
“Put it this way: if you vote Democrat and read Jonathan Franzen, your chances will increase substantially.”
Alex opened his arms in a dramatic gesture.
“But you’ve just described me.”
“Well, then, I’ll tell her you’ve split up with Michael and you’re rethinking your sexuality. That sound okay?”
“That sounds awesome. And please, don’t forget to tell her I’m staunchly anti-dick-pic.”
Marcel returned ten minutes later. He hadn’t just taken care of his intestinal needs but had paid the check as well.
“That wasn’t what we agreed,” protested Siobhan. “It was supposed to be my treat for your birthday, but I guess you don’t understand that it’s a matter of female empowerment. Another reason I would never date you. You’re the classic guy who feels morally obliged to pay for dinner.”
“Heavens above.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can you turn off the protest switch for just five minutes and give me a break? I didn’t do it because I’m a guy , okay?” He uttered the word as though it were painful.
Alex intervened.
“It’s his way of apologizing for having been a jerk. What? Why are you looking at me like that, Marcel? Someone had to tell you.”
“Have you been conspiring against me while I was in the bathroom? Come on, let’s get out of here.”
On the street, Siobhan suggested they go for another drink in the neighborhood.
“But I’m paying,” she stressed.
“I can’t,” Alex said. “I have a pile of manuscripts this high waiting for me. You two go. I’m sure Marcel will want to keep celebrating his birthday with you. Isn’t that right, my friend?”