Chapter 5
MONDAY, JUNE 14
“Sawyer? Would you mind stepping into my office, please?”
Sawyer looked up from the TIP sheet she was preparing for Thursday’s internal launch of new titles, surprised. Johanna rarely called anyone into her office. In fact, most days Johanna even kept the door shut—which lent the office an air of off-limits mystery. But upon being summoned, Sawyer immediately grabbed a pen and yellow legal pad from her desk drawer and scurried through the door, curious to know what this might be about.
Once inside, Sawyer stole little glances around the room. In some ways, Johanna’s office was similar to other editors’ offices, in that the bookshelves were stacked with copious copies of novels Johanna had edited, and her walls were adorned with blown-up covers of some of her favorites. But Johanna’s office was unique in its aura of Old World elegance. She came from old money, and had swapped out the modern, brightly colored furniture that was standard-issue at the publishing house for tasteful antiques. Even the gray indoor/outdoor office carpeting was covered by a lush Persian rug. Framed photographs of Johanna in formal attire, posing with her authors at the PEN Gala and the National Book Awards, lined the credenza, the same spot in other editors’ offices where they tended to display photos of their spouses and kids and dogs. Johanna had worked in publishing a long time, and—you had to hand it to her—in her younger days, she had carved a path for herself during a time when women weren’t really welcome in the field. Johanna had stuck to her guns, nurtured her list over time; her authors won Pulitzers.
Most editors’ offices possessed a slight air of clutter (as soon as they managed to clear out an avalanche of superfluous copies of manuscripts, galleys, and finished copies, twice as many came flooding in), but Johanna’s clutter was mixed with a treasure trove of antique knickknacks—first editions, tortoiseshell paperweights, ivory-handled magnifying glasses. There was a lot to look at, and without meaning to, Sawyer let her eyes wander, staring in a daze.
“Sawyer?” Johanna said, impatient.
Sawyer snapped to attention and tried to look composed.
“Yes.”
Sawyer gripped the yellow legal pad and pen, poised to take notes.
“Do you know why I called you in here today?”
Sawyer blinked and shook her head.
“Do you recognize this?” Johanna slid a manuscript across her desk.
Sawyer picked up the title page. It was familiar.
“Oh, yes!” she said. “That was in the slush pile—I think I pulled that, maybe, three months ago? Usually you know by skimming over the first ten pages that it’s a no-go. But that manuscript…I couldn’t put it down. In fact, I read the whole thing in two sittings! Her query letter said she based it on her family’s own immigration story, coming from India to Queens. The family felt so real. Oh, and the writing voice! It was so fresh, so lush and vivid…”
Sawyer halted. She realized she was gushing, and Johanna’s expression was steely, inscrutable. Sawyer had passed the manuscript along to Johanna, with a recommendation to consider it.
“Gosh, I hope I didn’t waste your time. I really felt it was a standout, the best thing I’ve ever seen in the slush.” She hesitated. “But…maybe I had…‘slush goggles’? You know…like, beer goggles?”
Johanna’s expression was still stoic, but she arched an eyebrow at the reference.
Sawyer willed herself to shut up.
Johanna waited a moment, as if to make certain Sawyer was quite finished babbling.
“Well, I called you in here to give you some good news. I signed the author.”
Sawyer blinked.
“Oh. You liked it.”
“Yes. I finally got a chance to read the manuscript last week, and I reached out to the author. She was unrepresented, so I put her in touch with Celine, and between the three of us we were able to put together a deal for the book that I believe is good for all parties involved.”
Celine was Johanna’s favorite literary agent to work with.
“Wow. That’s amazing. And really nice of you to set her up with Celine. I guess I’ve never really seen how an unsolicited submission works, deal-wise.”
“Yes, well, it happens so rarely, there’s no real set way. But I think best form is to recommend an agent and go from there. It’s a bit backward, in terms of a manuscript’s usual sequence, but a good writer will want a good agent in her life, anyway. And the idea of talking directly to a writer about money is just abhorrent.”
Sawyer listened to all this, thinking what a strange system publishing was. She’d been to some work meetings wherein they talked about nothing but authors, sales, and money…so the fact that it was taboo to ever talk about money to an author struck her as somewhat ironic.
“Anyway,” Johanna continued. “We’re going to announce the deal next week, so I wanted you to be in the know.”
“Oh, thank you,” was all Sawyer could muster. She waited, hoping there was more. But Johanna simply raked the manuscript back across the desk, then lifted it and tapped the edges into neat alignment.
“I’ll let you get back to organizing the TIP data for Thursday’s launch.”
“OK, thanks,” Sawyer repeated.
She got to her feet and saw herself back out.
Once at her desk, she sat down and stared at her computer screen, not really seeing anything on it, still in a daze. She realized she’d kind of been hoping that Johanna might say, Good eye, keep up the good work. Or something to that effect. And she was a little surprised that Johanna hadn’t mentioned anything sooner…that she hadn’t told Sawyer she was reading the manuscript Sawyer had recommended, hadn’t told her when she decided she liked it, hadn’t told her anything was afoot last week when Johanna must have reached out to the author and started putting the deal together.
But on the whole, Sawyer was elated that the book was going to be published—she felt it truly deserved it. And even if Johanna hadn’t given her a pat on the back, Sawyer felt a tickle of pride to think she’d had some small role in its discovery. The fact that the book was good in Johanna’s eyes was proof that Sawyer’s taste was pointing her in the right direction…and that Sawyer might make a good editor herself someday.
Sawyer was still pleased about her slush-pile victory when she got off work. As she came up the stairs from the hot, steamy subway, she made up her mind to stop at the wine shop—the nice one that obviously targeted people on their way to dinner parties and also sold cheese and flowers. She felt like a celebration, however small. She picked out an ice-cold sauvignon blanc, a tiny triangular wedge of goat’s milk Gouda, and a small bouquet of pale pink peonies.
Once home, Sawyer went to the record player and put on her favorite—a Van Morrison album that had once belonged to her father, until she’d discovered it as a teenager and borrowed it so many times the record had haphazardly become hers. She stood listening to the first strains of music with a smile, then cut the stems of the flowers and put them in a vase that was actually a pencil cup. She put the wedge of Gouda on a plate along with some crackers, and poured herself a glass of the cold, crisp sauvignon blanc.
Then she sat down and tried to think of what else to do. Eventually, she moved her celebratory bounty two feet from the kitchen table to the computer desk, even moving the flowers into her eyeline so she might still smile at them. She powered up the computer, clicked on the AOL icon.
This time, when she logged on, the tinny male voice only said, “WELCOME!”
No mail.
At first, she couldn’t quite put a finger on why the inbox felt so empty to her. She hadn’t been expecting to hear back about any of her other poetry or short-story submissions. But she had sort of, if only in the back of her mind, been expecting to hear from…
She thought for a moment, then popped open a new email window.
From: [email protected]
How’s the chimp? Seems like the tuxedo is a pretty big part of his identity. I worry that it factors heavily into his self-worth; does he sleep in it?—S
Sawyer was pretty sure she’d lost her mind, but after gazing at the screen for a minute, she shrugged, rolled her eyes at herself, and clicked send.
She sat back and took a sip of her wine, then nibbled at a bit of cheese, ignoring the crackers she’d taken great pains to rummage through the cabinet and produce as a concession to decorum (were people allowed to just make themselves a plate of nothing but cheese?).
She refreshed her inbox.
Nothing.
Then the computer sounded with a trill and the Instant Messenger box popped open on the screen, making Sawyer jump and catching her off guard every bit as much as the previous time.
Nikolai70:You’re just like all the other girls.
Sawyer read the message, furrowed her brow, and read it again.
Adventures_of_Tom:What do you mean?
Nikolai70:You act like you want to be my friend. But really you just want to get the skinny on whether the chimp already has a girlfriend or not.
Sawyer’s lips involuntarily twisted into a smile.
Adventures_of_Tom:You saw right through me. In my defense, you said yourself that no one can resist a chimp in a tuxedo.
Nikolai70:I know, and it’s true. I can’t blame you.
Nikolai70:I had a friend just like him in high school. Human. Not chimp. Although, now that I think about it, there WAS something simian about the guy. Big ears.
Adventures_of_Tom:But not so big they repelled the ladies.
Nikolai70:The ladies only had eyes for the earring. They thought it made him look like Johnny Depp. Or Christian Slater. Or something.
Adventures_of_Tom:I see. The rebel-without-an-intact-earlobe type.
Nikolai70:Girls would always buddy up to me…and then drop in a question about whether he’d already asked a girl to prom.
Sawyer mulled this for a moment. It didn’t quite sit right. Nick was far too good-looking, far too full of exactly the kind of egotistical swagger that high school girls adored. She had trouble picturing him as the dowdy sidekick. She wanted to call bullshit on him, but…if she did, she’d be complimenting him in a roundabout way.
The computer pinged again.
Nikolai70:Anyway, it’s always been him or the chimp, everybody’s favorite.
Adventures_of_Tom:“Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.” Or, in your case—“Always a homosapien, never homoerectus.”
Nikolai70:Nice joke. I wouldn’t have pegged you for blue humor.
Adventures_of_Tom:Well—“when in Rome.” I hear you guys in the ad business are experts in innuendo.
Nikolai70:It IS an art form.
Adventures_of_Tom:So, you DO like your work, after all.
Nikolai70:I didn’t say that.
Adventures_of_Tom:I’m sure you’ve done SOMETHING in the course of your job that you found cool.
Nikolai70:Is that a question?
Adventures_of_Tom:Yes.
Nikolai70:Clearly you want to tell me about the cool thing you did at work today.
Adventures_of_Tom:What do you mean?
Nikolai70:I just find that people tend to ask the questions that they really want other people to ask them.
Adventures_of_Tom:I was actually interested and sincere.
Nikolai70:I’ve got nothing interesting to tell.
Nikolai70:So tell me about the cool thing you did at work today.
Adventures_of_Tom:Well
Adventures_of_Tom:I found an unsolicited manuscript in the slush pile, and now it’s going to be published.
Nikolai70:That is cool.
Adventures_of_Tom:Yeah. I mean, I think this author’s work is so good she would have gotten discovered sooner or later, but…I don’t know. It feels good to have maybe played some small part in getting her book to its well-deserved destination.
Nikolai70:It doesn’t sound like a “small part.” What you did is huge.
Adventures_of_Tom:Well…I don’t know about “huge.”
Nikolai70:Don’t edit me. I stand by my word choice. Her life is about to change. And tell me you DON’T think some other editorial assistant dickhead would have probably passed right over this manuscript.
Adventures_of_Tom:Hey! My coworkers are awesome.
Nikolai70:Tell me that manuscript wouldn’t have gotten passed right over by someone else.
Adventures_of_Tom:Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know.
Nikolai70:It would have. And here’s why: It takes a special kind of person to find the gems in the slush pile. You have to be a real dyed-in-the-wool optimist, but you also have to be really smart. And most people tend to be only one or the other.
Adventures_of_Tom:I guess…“thank you”?
Nikolai70:No problem. And you can remove those scare quotes. I complimented you. I meant it. And it’s OK to say thanks.
Adventures_of_Tom:Thank you.
Nikolai70:Even if I was a jackass and made fun of your name.
Adventures_of_Tom:Oh, that reminds me—what’s up with “Nikolai”?
Nikolai70:You can remove the scare quotes there, too. It’s not irony; it’s my name.
Adventures_of_Tom:Nick is short for Nikolai?
Nikolai70:In my case, yes.
Adventures_of_Tom:Is that Eastern European? (Forgive me if that’s an ignorant question)
Nikolai70:Russian. My mom was a chemist who defected from the USSR when she found out she was having me.
Adventures_of_Tom:Wow.
Adventures_of_Tom:She sounds impressive.
Nikolai70:She’s had to deal with a lot in her life.
Adventures_of_Tom:There’s a novel there.
Nikolai70:No thanks.
Sawyer paused and lifted her fingers off the keyboard for a moment. The subject felt sensitive, and she wondered if she might be trespassing. Could you tell that through a computer?
But she also didn’t want to end the conversation, especially if she had overstepped. She tried to think of a polite direction to steer the conversation.
Adventures_of_Tom:Do you prefer for people to call you Nick or Nikolai?
Nikolai70:No one calls me Nikolai. Not even my mom—real Russians prefer nicknames anyway. Half my friends don’t even know Nick is short for Nikolai.
Adventures_of_Tom:Oh.
Adventures_of_Tom:So then…if I may ask…why do you use it as your email address? That doesn’t confuse your friends?
Nikolai70:We don’t email each other. If I want to talk to them I see them. Or I call them. I don’t go online much.
Adventures_of_Tom:You’re online now.
Nikolai70:I am.
The apartment was still hot from the long summer day, but Sawyer thought she felt a little extra warmth creep into her cheeks. He said he didn’t go online much…but both times she’d emailed him, he’d gotten back to her so quickly, even popping up on AOL Instant Messenger. So, was he lying? Or was he letting her know his chats with her were an exception?
But then her computer pinged with a new message, and the mystery was dispelled.
Nikolai70:Look. I’ll cut to the chase here about something that’s been on my mind. It’s pretty clear your fiancé and my girlfriend are having an affair, no?
A minute passed as Sawyer sat staring at the screen. It was as if she believed that, as long as she kept her suspicions from attaching themselves to actual words—as long as she kept them from becoming language—then she could keep them from being real. It was almost like a witch using words to cast a spell, but in reverse.
But now Nick had gone and dropped it all into one little tidy sentence. And it was still there—that grenade of a sentence—glowing on the screen. As she reread it over again, a new message nudged her from her trance.
Nikolai70:Sawyer? Are you there?
She knew she should answer him. Did she think Charles and Kendra were having an affair?
Adventures_of_Tom:I don’t know.
Nikolai70:I was thinking we could meet up and talk about it.
Adventures_of_Tom:Meet up?
Nikolai70:Yeah. Call me old fashioned. Feels like the kind of thing I don’t want to talk about over a computer.
Adventures_of_Tom:Sure. I guess that makes sense.
Nikolai70:Well, we know they work late. And we both have summer Fridays—right?
Adventures_of_Tom:Yes
Nikolai70:So, let’s meet then. This Friday, the Yale Club, around 2pm, since we both work in Midtown?
Adventures_of_Tom:You belong to the Yale Club?
Nikolai70:Yeah, why?
Adventures_of_Tom:I don’t know. I guess I didn’t picture that.
Nikolai70:I’ll try to pretend like you didn’t just say you didn’t picture me going to an Ivy League School.
Adventures_of_Tom:That’s not what I meant
Nikolai70:Actually, I gotta log off and take care of something, but we’re good to meet on Friday, yeah?
Adventures_of_Tom:Yes
Nikolai70:Cool. See you then.
Nikolai70:Gotta go, bye for now.
Adventures_of_Tom:Bye
Sawyer had barely finished typing “Bye” and hit enter when in the next second, Nick had logged off.
She sat there, still staring at the computer, in a daze.
They didn’t have to go outside to smoke, Nick had said at the dinner. She’d let his comment slip to the back of her brain, like the receipt. She’d been having fun chatting online.
But now she knew: she wasn’t the only one who thought Charles was having an affair.
And she had agreed to meet Nick in person. On Friday.