Читать книгу Spanish Disco - Erica Orloff - Страница 10

M ichael took it rather badly.

“What do you mean you are jetting off somewhere for a month. A bloody month! We’re in the middle of my novel, Cassie.”

“Michael, as I’ve already explained, I have e-mail. Use it. I am taking my laptop. You can leave messages for me at the office, and I can call you whenever you need me. You have written seven books. Aces High sold out of three printings and is still doing well. You can handle this little, teensy-weensy inconvenience.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Michael, we’re already an ocean apart.”

“Precisely why I am so upset with you, Cassie Hayes.”

“I don’t quite see where we’re going with this. You live in London. I live in Florida. We’ve worked together for five years. What’s another three hundred miles’ difference?”

“Cassie, some author calls Lou in the middle of the night, and you’re running off to live in this man’s house for a month, when you’ve never even agreed to come to London.”

“Well, you’ve never come to Florida.”

“I have. You were in L. A., remember?”

“A poorly timed trip, Michael.”

“Why won’t you even tell me who this chap is?”

“I can’t. I really can’t. He’s very famous but very protective about his privacy. Lou would kill me. I just can’t.”

As we talked, I threw the entire contents of my closet on my bed and started picking through my clothes and placing them in pack/don’t pack but keep/Goodwill piles.

“You could bloody fall in love with this man. A month! A month in the tropics.”

“Michael…” I spoke soothingly, as one might speak to a man about to jump from London Bridge. “I live in the tropics all the time. The warm, balmy breezes are not going to make me take leave of my senses.”

“A month in his home, Cassie.”

“Trust me on this one. I am not going to fall in love with him. Michael, this is ludicrous. And if I did fall in love with him, which I won’t because he’s too old for me anyway—it’s not like I’d ever stop working or stop being your editor. I’m not exactly the stay-at-home wifey type. Believe me. So this entire conversation is predicated on a fear that will never happen.”

“I could care less if you stopped being my editor. I want you to come to London.”

“Why? So you can feel like you’re just as important to me as this author? You know you are.”

“No.”

A long silence followed.

“Michael? Are you still there? Or have you been drinking, because you are acting totally off the wall.”

“For such a brilliant girl, Cassie, you can be impossibly thick as a plank.”

More silence.

“Are you so bloody stubborn that you are going to make me say it?”

“Say what?”

“That I am hopelessly besotted with you.”

My breath left me. I sat down on the Goodwill pile, and a belt dug into my ass. I moved over to the keep-but-don’t-pack pile. More silence.

“So I want you to promise me you won’t go doing anything stupid like falling in love with this decrepit old author you’re racing off to see—if he really is as old as you say he is.”

“I promise,” I whispered.

“And I want you to come to London when you return. Even if it’s just for a few days. A weekend.”

“Michael, what time is it there?”

“Seven o’clock.”

“You have been drinking. You’re slurring your speech.”

“Not a drop.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Yes, you do.”

“But…but we have a perfectly good working relationship. I’ll grant you that we have phone sex that, well, quite frankly, is more of a relationship than I have with anyone else. But why would we ruin this all by meeting?”

“Because you can’t love someone over the phone and over your bloody e-mail. I want to meet you. This has been the longest pre-coital relationship in history.”

“I don’t know about that. I think one of the Brontë sisters corresponded with her future husband for seventeen years or something drawn out and Victorian like that.”

“You’re not a Brontë.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Promise me you’ll think about it.”

“I promise. But you think about it, too. We have the perfect relationship.”

“Long distance?”

“Yes. You know how grumpy I am. How I don’t rise before noon. How I need my coffee and have horrible eating habits. I have a two-bedroom condo and live alone, and I need a weekly housekeeper just to keep the place decent. I laugh too loudly. I drink too much. I play my music at decibels designed to rupture the human eardrum. I really am horrible at relationships. ‘We,’ whatever ‘we’ are, are perfect.”

“I’d rather have imperfection, Cassie. Think about it.”

“I will.”

“Call me.”

“I will.”

“Write me.”

“I will.”

“And no falling in love.”

“Okay.”

“Talk to you soon.”

“Sure.”

“I do adore you.”

“Michael…”

“Ciao.”

I held the phone, listening to dead transatlantic air until the operator informed me it was time to make a call. What had just happened? A perfectly good editor-author relationship had gone up in flames. How could he love me? We’d never met, as he so stubbornly kept pointing out.

In the past, I’d stared at his cover photos feeling mildly like a jellyfish and woozy inside. He was sexy. But he was there, and I was here. It was perfect. No morning chit-chat. No fighting over toilet seat lid etiquette. No one badgering me about my weird hours, my caffeine addiction, my overindulgence in tequila sunrises. No one yelling at me when my gut screamed out over my combined poor habits and I was writhing on the bathroom floor—no “I wish you’d see someone about that.” Michael was my ideal non-lover. And if he thought about it long enough, he’d realize it, too. I’d just let it all sink in to him. Maybe he was having a post-writer’s block orgasm from our most recent phone call.

I turned my attention to the serious pile of Goodwill clothes amassing on my bed. I hated to shop but realized I didn’t have a month’s worth of clothes to take. Time to hit the mall, then visit my father.

In a place where pink palaces reign, the malls are enough to make a practical woman don a burlap sack. Overpriced is a mantra, and over-the-top is a Boca staple. I pulled up to Bloomingdale’s and forced myself to go through the doors. I am seriously mall-phobic. I think it’s those faintly Night of the Living Dead-like makeup counter women. I’m fond of my slightly flawed face the way it is—crooked smile, full lips, and freckled nose included. I even like the tiny scar by my right eyebrow where Billy Monroe stabbed me with a pencil during a second-grade fight. Billy ended up with a black eye. I called it even.

My shopping technique is simple. I head to Ann Taylor and find a shirt I like. Then I buy it in seven colors. Next I find pants I like. I buy three of the exact same pair in the same size, eight. I do the same with shorts. I toss a scarf and a new purse on the pile. Buy two pairs of size-nine shoes that look comfortable. I don’t try anything on. I have them ring it all up. I am out the door in less than fifteen minutes. The Ann Taylor girls see me coming from three stores away and sound some sort of “Bitch alarm.” They steer clear of me ever since I told the manager, “Look, I am about to spend seven or eight hundred dollars. I don’t want any help. I don’t want anyone to talk to me. If you stay out of my way, then I will return several times a year to spend roughly the same amount of money. Deal?” She had nodded, and I’ve been shopping there for four years.

After damaging my credit card, I left the mall and drove to Stratford Oaks Assisted Living Facility.

“Mornin’, Charlie.” I smiled at the security guard in the fern-filled lobby.

“Mornin’, Ms. Hayes.”

I had hoped to be able to really talk to my father, but today wasn’t going to be one of those days.

“Sophie!” He smiled broadly at me and called me by my mother’s name. I hate that I look like her.

“Jack.” I smiled warmly, approaching him, this half-stranger who no longer knew me by my real name most of the time. He looked thinner by the day. They told me he resisted all foods but pie. Why pie? They used to go to some place down in Greenwich Village and order pieces of it after the theater.

“Come here, Sophie. I have to tell you the funniest story.”

I listened to his tales of authors and editors in New York’s 1940s literary circles. My father had worked for Simon & Schuster. I laughed where I was supposed to laugh and feigned shock where I was supposed to feign shock. I had heard all these stories many times before. “Sophie” patted his bony hand and smiled and went along with the whole charade. I waited patiently for a moment when lucidity would peek through like a ray of sunshine streaming down from behind a cumulus cloud. Sometimes I was rewarded, feeling like some people do when they see a magnificent beam filtering down—that perhaps there is a God in heaven after all. Other times, the clouds stubbornly shut out the sun, leaving both Dad and me in dreary grayness.

“Well, Jack, I really must be going.”

“So soon, Sophie? So soon? Our time together is always so brief. I wish your divorce was final.”

“It will be soon, Jack. Then we can be together always.”

The doctors tell me not to go along with his fantasies. “Bring him back to the present,” they say. But I refuse to deny him these afternoons of happiness. He always remembers the same years. My mother and he were dating. It was before I came along. Before she abandoned us both. Before all the heartache.

“I love you, Sophie.”

“I love you, too, Jack.”

The clouds parted.

“For heaven’s sake, Cassie, how long have you been standing there?”

“Only a minute or two, Daddy.”

“Come give your Dad a big old hug.”

I grabbed him tightly, smelling his Royal Copenhagen cologne, rubbing my face against the soft terry-cloth of his blue robe.

“How’s my genius daughter?”

“Just fine, Dad. Guess what?” I said, sitting down on the hassock by his slippered feet.

“What?”

“I’m going to work with Roland Riggs.”

He leaned back in his chintz chair and smiled.

“As if you hadn’t before…but, my God, Cassie, you’ve hit the big time.”

“I know. And I’m going away for a few weeks. To stay with him while we work on his new novel. He lives on Sanibel Island.”

“Bring me back a conch shell.”

I laughed. “I will. Can you believe it? Roland Riggs!”

We talked for about a half hour. I held on to every clear word. Then I could see him growing tired.

“I really need to get going, Dad.”

I leaned over and hugged him again.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too. And I’m very proud of you.”

“I know, Dad. I know.”

I fought to keep the tears from coming and stood.

“Tell me everything when you return.”

“I will.”

“Don’t forget a thing.”

“I won’t, Dad.” I smoothed the hand-knitted afghan over his legs and held onto his hand one last time.

Then I walked down the linoleum floors of the hallway. Royal Copenhagen was replaced by antiseptic hospitalish clean. “I won’t forget a thing, Daddy,” I whispered. I wished he wouldn’t either.