Chapter 55
Frida Rodriguez ... En Route
November 14, 1993
Paris, France
Dear Kate,
I can’t believe you mentioned The New Yorker . Can you say coincidence? But first – more frank talk. I thought the issue with Sven was only with your family, but it’s your whole life isn’t it? I’m expanding on what I wrote in my last letter. Take Serious Sven to play pool with Stella. Talk to him about romance novels with Fiction Section Polly. And get him down to the nursing home so you can show him how doing macrame is REAL happiness. If you can’t share your whole life with him, you’re going to be fragmented forever and that’s going to make you miserable and who wants to be miserable so you might as well break up with him. Not that I’m saying break up with him. What I’m saying is break up with your Bad Habit! Ha – sometimes I exhaust myself with my cleverness.
But what’s all this about The New Yorker , Frida? Patience, Fair Kate. Follow the bouncing ball. I came back to my room a few days ago and found a note slipped under my door. It said, “I read your pages. Meet me at Lisette’s at eight.” A bass drum thudded in my stupid tender heart. First of all, Kirby had had the pages for weeks and nary a word. I felt like there was an elephant in the room every time we hung out together. Second of all, the only reason he would want to talk in public is so I wouldn’t cry when he told me how awful my writing is. I arrived to find him at our favorite table with a carafe of Chablis at the ready and moules marinières on the way. If that doesn’t scream last meal, what does? But when Kirby set my pages on the table between us, he raised his glass of wine and said, “It’s honest. It’s humanizing. It’s strong and vulnerable all at the same time. Like you, Frida.”
I felt like I’d been holding my breath ever since I gave him those essays. I opened my mouth to say thank you, and I couldn’t believe it. I burst into tears. He just put his hand over mine and let me cry. Am I an idiot, Kate? How have I been so blind? He’s smart. He’s attractive. He’s a really, really good man. He was looking at me, and I couldn’t tell how he felt. Am I just a friend? Did I ruin any chance of something more back when we had our big fight? I was sure he could hear my heart pounding, but before I could say something irreparably awkward and stupid, he handed me an envelope and said, “I’m not done.”
I opened it to find a letter to him from someone named Lauren. Let me paraphrase. Dear Kirby – salutations, niceties, etc. – sorry it took me so long – busy this, busy that – your friend Frida sounds like she has a valuable story to tell – the Ramona Club – intrigued – please put us in touch. Paul sends his love.
So who is this Lauren Dunne you ask. Kirby’s college roommate’s wife who is on the editorial staff at – finally – The New Yorker ! My heart pounded for all sorts of new reasons now. Kirby thought my writing was good enough to tell Lauren about. Lauren thought it sounded good enough to follow up. I felt dizzy. Kirby said he had some thoughts and asked me if I’d like to hear them. Of course! He had interesting suggestions for making The Ramona Club essay stand on its own without clogging it with too much exposition. We talked about it for so long Lisette finally gave us a key to lock up and went home.
And because I know it’s on your mind – no, we didn’t kiss. You can bet I thought about it, but what if his head wasn’t in the same space as mine? I can’t ruin our friendship. I just can’t.
The next morning I sent a letter to Lauren Dunne. I have a good feeling about this. Did I just jinx myself? I hope not.
Anticipatingly yours!
Frida
P.S. I’m jealous of your everyday friends! I wish you were in Paris too. Come visit me!
P.S. Deux. Los Angeles is lucky. Dutton’s, Pickwick’s, Small World, Book Soup, Vroman’s, Chevalier’s, Dawson’s, Hollywood Book City – we have too many great local bookstores for a greedy superstore to do any harm.
P.S. Trois. I think you could really thrive in New York, and don’t worry – if you end up going, I know you’ll find a version of the city that’s just right for you.