Chapter 15 #2
I took in a breath, held it, and let it out slowly, still trying to wrap my head around the whole thing.
My beer was delivered and I took a long sip, my eyes raising to the window behind Fran.
It was dark outside, making the window more of a mirror, which was why I was able to perfectly see the hostess leading a couple past us to another table.
I recognized the man as the guitar player for one of the hottest bands in the world right now.
His date was Lior.
“Graham?” Fran said, putting her phone back down on the table. I blinked and set my glass down a little too hard, the liquid sloshing over the side.
“Shit,” I said, mopping it up with my napkin. “Sorry. Um…” I glanced in the window again and could see Lior and her date had been seated several tables away from us. “Uh…” I ran a hand through my hair, trying to remember what we were talking about. “How did this come about?”
“I don’t know. Does it matter? It’s Vogue. Think of the exposure!”
I was, and it wasn’t exactly that thrilling to be honest. Being married to Nadia had subjected me to the media in ways I’d never fathomed and hadn’t enjoyed.
Our divorce had lessened all that exponentially – after the initial circus – and I’d been happy to return to the normal-sized and oh-so-temporary attention I got when a new novel came out.
But this was Vogue. And exposure could mean a few things.
“I’m not going to actually be exposed, am I?” I asked, trying not to show any panic.
Fran laughed at the idea and I didn’t know whether to be offended or relieved.
“Look, I’m sure they won’t have you show anything you’re not comfortable with. Or will at least place a book in front of…it.”
I glared at her.
“Definitely trade sized, not mass market. Hard cover, if needed.”
“Fran!?”
“I’m kidding,” she said, laughing. “Maybe. Truly though. It’s an amazing opportunity.”
“It is but… I don’t know. I don’t want to be standing there posing all by myself. That seems weird and uncomfortable. I’m not a model.”
“Oh, you won’t be alone. The designer they’re featuring makes women’s clothing, so you’ll be paired with a female model. You’ll be the antagonist to her protagonist. And vice versa.”
“Huh,” I said, picking up my glass again, the wheels in my brain starting to spin. “Well that’s not so bad I guess. I like the idea of it, at least. Any idea who the female model is?”
“No idea,” she said, glancing at her phone again and beginning to type. “But it’s going to be a huge spread, from what I’ve been told, so probably someone famous. Ooh! Maybe it will be Lior Flynn! Can you imagine? Get me an autograph if it is.”
I nearly dropped my entire glass in my lap. Clearly Fran hadn’t noticed Lior was actually in the restaurant right now.
I glanced in the window, looking for her reflection in the glass. I wondered if she’d heard anything about this Vogue idea and, if so, if she knew they were asking me to be involved.
Fran and I ordered food and our conversation moved to other topics.
We chatted about my next book ideas, her upcoming vacation to Italy, and my trip to Colorado for my sister’s graduation, all while passing plates of sushi back and forth and me trying to get glimpses of Lior in the window again.
She and her date were seated four tables away from us and I managed twice to see her face in the reflection, noting with some sort of strange satisfaction that she didn’t look particularly enthralled by her date.
Satisfied because I didn’t want her to be happy? Or satisfied because I didn’t want her to be having a good time with him? I wasn’t sure, but when she discreetly yawned behind her napkin I nearly laughed with relief.
Fran paid the bill and we sat for a while more, finishing our drinks as she brought the conversation back around to the reason we were here in the first place.
“So what do you think?” she asked.
“I don’t know. It feels… weird? I’m used to sitting in front of a laptop in my underwear writing fictional characters who do way more interesting things than me. This photo shoot… it’s something I’d write about, not something I’d do. Truly, Fran, I’m an author, not a model.”
“So? Why can’t you be both for a day? There are people in the world that do more than one job.”
“You know what I mean. I have no aspirations to be featured in photos in a fancy magazine. That kind of attention feels weird. And after Nadia…”
Fran made a face. She’d never been a fan of my ex-wife and hadn’t disguised it well when we were together.
“I know you’re scarred from all that,” she said. “But Nadia was… something else. She was The National Enquirer. This is Vogue.”
I snorted laughter.
“Also… the opportunity for even more sales would thrill your publisher.”
“Obviously,” I said. “But… what will people say?”
“Out of jealousy, they’ll say you want attention. You’re banking on your looks. Selling out, using…”
I held up a hand. “Thanks. I think I’ve got the picture.”
“Look. Who cares what people say? It’s fucking Vogue, Graham.”
She wasn’t wrong. Vogue was huge. And they wanted me to write an article for them as well, something I’d never had the opportunity to do. It would be another notch in my wood-framed glasses.
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay?” Fran asked. “As in yes?”
“Fine. Yes.”
She gave a quiet little whoop and then ordered another round of drinks.
A half hour later, after a last look toward Lior’s table, I exited the restaurant with Fran. We said goodbye on the sidewalk and, as her cab drove away, I turned and headed a few blocks up to The Bar Room for another beer before going home.
It was just after nine and the place was relatively quiet. I took a seat at the far end of the dark wood bar and smiled at the bartender pouring a beer.
“Graham,” he said with a nod, setting the drink on a tray. Wiping his hands on a towel, he headed toward me. “How are things? You want your usual?”
“Heya Cole. Yes, please.”
“You got it.” He grabbed a glass from the shelf behind him and headed back to pour my drink. “I haven’t seen you in a while. You deep in another book?”
He strode back, tossed a coaster on the bar in front of me, and set the lager down.
“I am,” I said, taking a sip. “How have things been here?”
Whenever I was in-between books, I found myself frequenting Manhattan more often, wandering the parks and shops, cafes and bars.
Looking for inspiration in the sounds and sights and smells.
This was how I’d found The Bar Room and Cole one rainy Tuesday evening.
Only three other people had been here at the time.
I’d sat in the same place I was now, and we’d ended up talking about everything from beer to books to Bronte.
After a brief conversation about his trip to the Bahamas – and me updating him on B – he left me to take a drink order from a couple that had just come in.
I took my phone out of my pocket and saw I’d missed twelve messages, all from Marley, who was once again asking if I’d be coming to her graduation. Followed by threats if I didn’t. Followed by pleading eyes emojis. Followed by, “Peace out, bro.”
I chuckled and shook my head as someone walked past me, stopped, and then moved to stand beside me.
“Well,” a woman’s voice said. “Fancy meeting you here.”
I looked up and found myself staring into a pair of familiar golden-brown eyes.