Chapter 3
PROMPTLY AT TEN MINUTES AFTER EIGHT O’CLOCK THAT NIGHT, which Annabel took as fashionably late, she stood at Stella’s apartment door in a little black dress Cassie had deigned to lend her—strappy fit-and-flare mini-cocktail, trust me, it’ll be perfect—with a bouquet of flowers in hand.
The dress wasn’t her style; it was too big and didn’t hang quite right, but she didn’t care.
She’d imagined this for so long, her first real New York dinner party, with proper place settings, candlelight, cocktails, and literary conversation that popped and fizzed.
She and Stephen might trade knowing glances across the table.
She’d laugh at his charming wit; he’d draw her out and listen intently to her every word.
She was ready, Annabel had told herself all day; she could do this.
“Oh, thank God you’re here!” Stella had flung open the door in a silk kaftan and chunky necklace, giving Annabel a quick once-over. “What are you wearing?”
“Oh . . . It’s my sister’s.”
“Hm. Never mind. Come in, come in!”
Annabel stepped inside, catching a glimpse over Stella’s shoulder of a few guests mingling in the living room, including Stephen, who was talking to someone she couldn’t see. Annabel smiled her prettiest dinner-guest smile.
“Thank you for asking me.” She handed Stella the bouquet.
“Aren’t you lovely,” Stella said. “Be a dear and put them in water for me?” She held out the bouquet and pointed down the hall. “Kitchen’s that way. Vases are top cabinet on the left.”
Annabel looked at the flowers, confused.
Stella leaned in, whispering. “Caroline showed up after all. So, we’re even again!”
“Oh.”
“But by chance, the caterer showed up one person short.”
Annabel finally understood. She looked longingly into the living room. Stephen caught her eye, then quickly turned back to Caroline—Annabel could see her now—a beachy-wave blonde in a backless black dress that fit like a glove. They were deep in conversation.
Annabel took the flowers.
“Darling,” said Stella. “I knew you wouldn’t mind.”
***
It was near midnight when Annabel stood washing dishes with an apron over her dress.
What was left of the catering crew, two young men who snapped each other with kitchen towels to relieve their boredom, agreed there might still be time to make the club downtown “if the old people would finish their fucking flan.”
“You guys go,” said a defeated Annabel. “I can wait for the dessert dishes.”
“Cool, bro. Yeah, hey,” said one of them, pulling off his clip-on bow tie before she could change her mind.
Annabel was relieved to be alone. She reached for a towel to dry the dishes, when Stephen appeared in the door.
“Sorry about the whole Caroline thing.”
He had the last dirty plates in hand and a manuscript under his arm.
“You know Stella,” he said.
Seeing the sympathy in his eyes, Annabel set aside her shredded pride. Here was her chance to salvage something from the awful night.
“It got me out, anyway,” she said with a small shrug.
“It’s good to get out.” He set the plates on the counter and handed her the manuscript. She recognized it as her own.
“You read it already?”
“Had to see how it turned out.”
Flattered, Annabel held the manuscript to her chest.
“But it isn’t really the waltzing that changes her life, is it?” he said. “It’s the falling in love.”
“Yes! With Captain Fowle. Who no one thinks a good match. But she defies them all.”
“And I like that about her,” said Stephen. “I do.”
He stepped closer. Annabel met his gaze, barely breathing.
“It’s good to fall in love,” he said. “It does change things . . .”
All she could manage was a nod, but there were subtleties in a nod, and she hoped hers conveyed that she felt the same.
“. . . Like how you see the world . . . see yourself in it.” He leaned closer. “It awakens this incredible desire.”
Annabel dared to believe a kiss might be close at hand.
“Her desire for him,” she said.
Stephen pulled back. “No, Annabel. Your desire. To write.”
She tilted her head, trying to make out this turn.
“Look,” he said gingerly. “The writing’s pretty.
It’s literate, atmospheric. Maybe a little derivative, okay, maybe a lot, but clearly if this is the world you want to write about, you have the chops.
” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully.
“But you’re standing outside of it. Keeping it at a distance.
It doesn’t feel like it comes from here.
” He put a fist to his gut. “From who you really are.”
“But what if it is? Who I am.”
He shook his head. “Then you definitely need to get out more.”
Annabel wilted. What she’d taken as sympathy now seemed closer to pity.
“I mean, the whole time I’m reading it, I’m thinking it’s a love story, okay. But it just feels like it’s been written by . . . someone who’s never been in love.”
Annabel closed her eyes, crushed, when Caroline stuck her head in the door.
“Hey, you. I thought we were cabbing it together.”
Stephen looked between them, gave Annabel a painfully friendly pat on the back, and whispered, “But don’t give up. If it’s what you really want.”
She was glad he was gone by the time she turned back to the sink and her tears turned to waterworks.
“Oh god,” Stella said from the doorway. “Is this about the catering thing?”
Annabel turned to face her, no way to hide it. She gulped down tears, shaking her head.
“Okay, not the catering thing. Are you going to make me guess?”
“Stephen hated it.”
“Hated what?”
She pointed to her manuscript on the counter. “My novel.”
“Your novel?” Stella picked it up. “Ah, now I see. You’re his brilliant new writer.”
Annabel nodded, sheepish. “Only not brilliant at all, apparently. In fact, pretty much hopeless.” She wiped her tears with the apron hem. “So hopeless, I actually thought he was going to kiss me!”
“Stephen? Oh god. Don’t let Stephen kiss you. He kisses everyone. He’s like a pathological kisser.”
Annabel threw up her hands. “Well, it would be nice to be kissed sometime this century!”
Stella had to fight a smile. “So, is this about Stephen or the novel?”
“It’s about both! I mean, you said it, Stella. I don’t have a life, friends, certainly not a boyfriend!”
“Oof. I did say that, didn’t I.”
“But he said it too.” Annabel let it all out, rambling between snivels and sobs.
“Like, how could I have the audacity to think I can write about love? Which I have exactly zero experience of—he nailed that—and the audacity to think I could be a writer at all, which I’ve only wanted to be my entire life, which I should’ve told you, because I know you wouldn’t have hired me, you were so clear about that, so the only fair thing is for me to quit—”
“Quit? Wait, why would you quit?”
“Rule number one,” she sniffled. “No writers need apply.”
“Oh, darling. That’s more like rule number six or seven.
Rule number one is not giving a shit about one man’s opinion, and certainly not letting him talk you out of something you’ve wanted your whole life.
I mean, not everyone finishes writing a novel, good or bad.
Do you know how many crap novels of Stephen’s I had to read before I signed him? ”
Annabel shook her head, one last staccato sniff.
“I’m certainly not letting you quit.” Stella looked down at the manuscript. “Just write it better. A hundred times, if need be. That’s what writers do.” She held it out. “Have another go.”
Annabel looked at her book in Stella’s hand. All those pages, all that work, only to do it again? She took it and felt the weight of it. “Where would I start?”
“I recommend page one.”
“No, but I mean—”
“Okay, fine. But you did not hear this from me.” Stella huffed with a simultaneous roll of her eyes, as if it pained her to say it. “Write what you know.”
It was the oldest cliché in the business. Stella hated clichés, but there it was.
Annabel gripped the manuscript in her hands. “But this is the world I know best.”
“In any world. Find what’s true for you.”
Annabel looked at her book, wanting to believe. She was tempted to wallow a little longer, but it wasn’t in her nature. Hope was a stubborn thing.
She looked up with a cleansing sigh. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll try.”
“Just not on working hours!”
“Absolutely, of course—”
Stella held up a finger. “Unless . . .”
Annabel waited as traces of an idea began to form on Stella’s Botox-frozen forehead, straining to express itself.
“In fact, yes, this might just save my holiday in the Hamptons . . . with a bit of a holiday for you!”
“A holiday for me?”
“A writing holiday! Of sorts.” Stella was actually smiling. “Oh yes, I know just the place!”