Chapter 14
FRIDAY, JULY 16
Sawyer woke up and realized it was Friday.
While “spaghetti night” hadn’t quite ended the way either of them had anticipated, Charles seemed apologetic. He left the apartment that morning promising that he would try to get off work early and spend a summer Friday together.
We’ll do something fun—you and me!he vowed.
As Sawyer walked to the subway that morning, she noticed: the weather was surprisingly pleasant. A thunderstorm had passed through the city in the middle of the night, and now the new day was crisp; sunny, but without a trace of humidity. She tried to take it as a sign. In a sense, order had been restored; Sawyer would be spending her Friday with Charles, and Nick would be spending his with Kendra. She couldn’t have any complaints about any of that.
Could she?
At work, Johanna was in the office for the morning, with plans to leave for “Bridge” as soon as the afternoon rolled around. She seemed to be in an uncharacteristically upbeat, sociable mood, and demonstrated genuine delight when one of her oldest publishing friends spontaneously dropped in to see her.
Terry Stone was an important literary scout and a renowned master of publishing gossip. No matter the season or likelihood of precipitation, he was always dressed in fussy silk bow ties, a vintage Burberry umbrella hooked in the crook of his arm. And he always—always—knew everything about everyone in the publishing world.
To a certain extent, his talent for gossip suited his profession—which was, admittedly, a mystery to Sawyer at first. She knew what literary agents did, but she’d had to ask around to find out what a “literary scout” was. She’d learned that scouts advised foreign publishers and film studios when it came to which hot new book rights they ought to acquire. So, in essence, a scout’s job was to know about every manuscript floating around the publishing world—and to know about it first.
As a seasoned scout, Terry always knew which books had been sold to which editors long before any deals were announced, and for exactly how much. By dint of his connections and cunning charm, he got his hands on manuscripts that publishing houses insisted they weren’t officially sharing yet. But Terry’s depth and breadth of gossip went far beyond this. He knew who’d been drunk at the London Book Fair, and who’d been drunker. He knew about interoffice affairs. He knew scandalous stories about editors who drank on the job and agents who did drugs in their offices. And all too often, he even knew who was slated to be hired and fired before the individuals themselves did.
For all these reasons, agents and editors were often skittish around him. One call from Terry Stone sent publishing assistants scrambling to ask their bosses what they should say—were they in to take his call? Most contrived to avoid him, but very carefully, in a way that would not cause offense.
But Johanna never avoided him. Instead, her door was always open to him; he was something of a coconspirator. They were old hat, having come up in publishing together. And secretly, Johanna delighted in Terry’s endless supply of catty gossip. Or perhaps not so secretly, for Sawyer knew that Johanna made no apologies for her own cattiness. Sawyer had occasionally overheard her boss talking with Terry and knew that Johanna always came equipped with plenty of gossip of her own.
That Friday, Terry had breezed past the ground-floor security guys and the fifth-floor reception desk. He threw a perfunctory wave at Sawyer as he showed himself into Johanna’s office. Only Terry could get away with that.
“Happy Friday, Mr. Stone,” Sawyer greeted him as he passed her desk.
“Call me Terry,” he said.
His tone indicated that he wasn’t so much being friendly with her as he was saying don’t make me feel old.
“Would you bring in a strong pot of that lovely loose-leaf Mariage Frères I brought Johanna last time?” he called over his shoulder as he knocked and opened Johanna’s door without waiting for an answer. “Also, glasses and ice,” he added. He slipped inside, leaving the door a crack open.
Sawyer could hear Johanna’s muffled happy exclamation, Terry! Dear! How are you?
Sawyer got up to go make the tea Terry had requested, hoping to keep the two of them happy. Johanna’s inclusion of Sawyer in Preeti’s editorial call had boosted Sawyer’s confidence. She imagined herself having old publishing friends someday who just let themselves into her office and dished all the gossip.
When the tea was ready and Sawyer had stocked the tray with everything Terry had requested, she made her way back to Johanna’s office. She paused outside the cracked door, feeling the devilish impulse to listen in for a second or two.
So, that was little Eve Harrington, was it?Terry was saying. She does seem awfully eager.
Eager. And demanding; a prima donna, Johanna agreed. Instead of negotiating with her, I decided to indulge her and see what she does with it. I just hope I haven’t created a monster.
Well, as long as she’s willing to work hard—right?Terry replied.
Well, that’s just it, Johanna said plaintively. You saw how young she is, and would you believe? Already engaged!
Really? I didn’t think anybody got married right out of college these days. How archaic.
Exactly, Johanna agreed. She gave her little song and dance about wanting to learn how to do my job and be just like me, but the wedding’s this fall. What do you want to bet she’ll ask for extra time off? And I’m sure it will only be a matter of months after that until she has babies or decides it’s simply enough to stay home and be a lawyer’s wife.
She’s marrying a lawyer?Terry asked.
Corporate law—Wexler Gibbons, as a matter of fact.
Terry laughed. Two guesses whose career is “more important,” and who stays home with the baby! Oh, Jo. She’ll never stick. The things we have to put up with these days.
Johanna sighed. And in the meantime, I have to put up with her trying to claw her way up the ladder, of course.
Stunned, Sawyer stood frozen outside the door. It felt like the blood had drained out of her body. She was still holding the tea tray, although her hands had gone numb. She felt a little dizzy and realized she was holding her breath. She forced herself to breathe. Then, after a few seconds, she forced herself to wrangle the tray into one arm and tap on the open door. The voices immediately ceased.
“Come in!” Johanna called.
Sawyer entered the office and set the tea tray down. She felt Terry’s eyes on her. When she glanced at him, he was wearing a thoroughly entertained smirk.
“Anything else?” she asked Terry and Johanna, but to her own ears, her voice sounded like it had come from far away.
“No, thank you—if you’ve wrapped up everything else, you may leave for the day, in fact,” Johanna said. “And let Kaylee know she may do the same. Happy summer Friday.”
“Thanks. Happy Friday,” Sawyer echoed back, and slipped out with the empty tray.
She dropped the tray in the kitchen, and went to her desk to pack up her things. Her head was spinning.
Sawyer knew Eve Harrington was the title character from the old black-and-white classic, All About Eve.
She understood perfectly well: it wasn’t meant as a compliment.
Her eyes burned during the subway ride home—it reminded Sawyer of how it felt when she’d gotten hit in the face with a rubber kickball as a kid, the way her eyes had instantly stung and filled with water, even though she hadn’t started crying yet.
She wished she didn’t care whether her boss liked her or not.
She hadn’t consciously recognized it, but since the day she’d been hired, Sawyer had been dying to win Johanna’s approval. It was unnerving to realize how deeply this desire had built up in her. Somehow, Sawyer had been able to perceive all of Johanna’s flaws—how elitist she was, how moody and ruthless, how lacking in warmth and humor and generosity—and yet Sawyer had still measured herself according to Johanna’s opinion of her.
One thing had made itself clear: Sawyer wouldn’t win with Johanna—she couldn’t win. She understood now that no matter which path she took, Johanna would condemn her ambition or lack thereof, equally. To Johanna, there were really only two kinds of younger women in the world, and they were all versions of Eve Harrington—undeserving usurpers, or lazy nuisances.
Charles wasn’t home yet when Sawyer keyed into the apartment. He’d said he was going to take a “real” summer Friday, but she knew that leaving the offices of Wexler Gibbons likely could still take a while.
She poured herself a cold glass of lemonade, turned on the computer, and checked her email.
Empty.
She opened a blank email and stared at it. She wanted to tell Nick about what had happened to her at work. But then she remembered again: he’d told her he’d be busy. For a fleeting moment, she wistfully tried to picture Nick—where he was, and what he was up to. Was he hanging out with Kendra?
She reminded herself it was none of her business, then deleted the blank email draft and made herself comfy on the couch with a book instead. Every year, she reread an old beat-up paperback copy of The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter, by Carson McCullers, purely for pleasure. She didn’t want to think about Nick, and she also didn’t want to think about work.
Forty-five minutes or so later, she heard footsteps in the outer hall, and Charles’s key turning in the lock.
“Hey.” She smiled up at him, genuinely happy to see him.
“Hey,” he said, tossing his keys on the console table, loosening his tie, and slipping it over his head. “We don’t have any plans tonight—right?”
“I mean…we said we’d hang out, but nothing specific.”
“Good!” he said. “Because I have an idea.” He walked into the bedroom, calling loudly enough so they could still talk between rooms. She heard the sounds of him taking his watch off, his belt unbuckling, and the squeak of the bedsprings as he sat to slip off his suit pants. “I was thinking we’d go hear this band play.”
“Huh?” Sawyer called back, genuinely puzzled.
Charles came back into the living room, half-dressed. “You remember Kendra? From that dinner we went to a while back, downtown, at Cipriani?”
Sawyer froze, eyes wide. “Sure,” she said in a casual tone. “I remember her.”
“Well, she invited us to go hear her boyfriend’s band play tonight,” Charles replied, seeming happy.
Sawyer frowned.
“In the East Village,” he added. “Well, wayeast—Alphabet City, or whatever. It’s probably pretty dive-y, but could be fun. Something different—right?”
He smiled and waited for her to react, his eyes cheerful. Sawyer blinked, still catching up.
“Uh, yeah,” Sawyer said. “That would definitely be different.”
“Does that mean you’re up for it?” Charles pressed. “She actually invited us to join them for dinner first—sushi. You love sushi.”
He waited.
Sawyer willed herself to speak. The words seemed stuck in her throat, trapped there by some sort of muscle she’d never felt constrict before. She cleared her throat.
“So…you want to go to sushi, and then to a club to hear Kendra’s boyfriend’s band play?”
“Yeah. It’ll be fun. I swear.”
“And she invited both of us?”
“Of course. I’m gonna grab a shower and get changed. You’re game for a night out, right?”
Sawyer felt numb, mute; either answer—yes or no—seemed wrong.
“Don’t worry, we have plenty of time,” Charles said. “His band doesn’t go on until nine. We’re supposed to meet them at the sushi joint at seven.”
Charles disappeared into the bathroom. The bath taps gave a shrill squeal as he turned on the shower.
Sawyer remained frozen on the couch, staring after him, still blinking in disbelief.