Читать книгу Summer at Castle Stone - Lynn Hulsman Marie - Страница 6

Never love anybody who treats you like you’re ordinary.

Stretching my leg out as far as I could, given the narrow skirt Maggie had lent me, I launched my body across the slushy pool at the curb on the corner of 45th and 9th. Good thing she also outfitted me in her waterproof suede La Canadienne boots. I’d planned to wear wool pants and my Timberlands, but Mags put the kibosh on that, pronto. “Shayla, this isn’t Alaska, it’s the capital of the world. Men expect you to show up for a date dressed like a woman.”

“I do dress like a woman. A comfortable woman!”

The next thing I know, I was outfitted in a pair of thigh-slimming Spanx and this skirt so slim my knees touched.

The weather in the city this winter had been the worst since I’d been born. You’d think by mid-March Mother Nature would cut it out with the freezing temperatures and wintry mixes.

When I’d agreed to go out with Jordan (that’s his name – Jordan Silver, I checked his card), I hadn’t realized that this Saturday was St. Patrick’s Day. I make it a policy not to leave my apartment on it or New Year’s Eve. In Manhattan, those nights are strictly for amateurs. My oversight meant that now, on top of patches of black ice on the sidewalk, I had to dodge pools of green vomit and steer clear of gangs of college boys singing Danny Boy. I wrapped my scarf a little more tightly around my neck, headed uptown, pushing into the wind that was trying to blow me backwards.

My mind flashed back to the early morning, when I’d had every intention of canceling. Maggie caught me red-handed on the sofa with his card and my cell phone in hand. I was perfectly happy in my fuzzy robe and slippers, my overgrown hair up in a couple of chopsticks, a pile of manuscripts at the ready on the coffee table. I planned to laze around and drink coffee all morning, then get a jump on my day job by reading slush-pile submissions that I was behind on from working Ray’s book launch. There was no choice but to dig in and get on with it. “Editorial assistants who make excuses never become editors,” Hank had told me more than once. He’d either heard it from his own editor, or from some editor he dated, I couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter; I instinctively knew it was true. Come nightfall, I’d order Chinese from Foo King, and put the finishing touches on The Dumbass Guide to Motorcycle Repair so I could hand it in before Brenda’s deadline. That way, if I ever did bring up my book again, I’d be on her good side.

Before I could punch in the number, Maggie came stalking out of her room, wearing the hand-painted silk kimono Eric had brought her from a business trip to Japan, and snatched the card from my hand.

“No.”

“C’mon, Mags. I’m not up to it. I’ve got brunch tomorrow at Hank’s and I went out with you last night. Isn’t that enough for one weekend?”

“Not when you live in the city that never sleeps.”

“Well, I sleep. That’s where the city and I differ.”

“Yeah, well, you sleep alone. Why don’t you change that tonight?”

“Like I’m going to have sex with this guy whose name I can’t remember. I’m not sure I can pick him out of a crowd.”

“You don’t need to know much to strip off and slide under the covers.”

I shot her a look. Maggie knows I’m not impulsive like that.

“Have it your way. What do you know about him?”

“Nuh-thing! I have no idea why he asked me out. We weren’t even talking.”

“How about because he liked what he saw? C’mon Shay, give yourself some credit. Any guy would want you. But a lack of confidence is a turn-off. Time to prepare! You have to plan about what you’re going to say, and planning how you’ll shift the conversation if it gets boring.”

“I’m not going to do homework for a date! This is dumb. I’m canceling.” I picked up the phone and started to punch in numbers.

“You can’t cancel the day of. He’ll think you’re a bitch.”

“So?” She snatched the phone from my hand. “So? So he’s in publishing, right? New York is a small town for being a big city. For all you know, he could be your stepping stone to getting a new agent. Or he could be the assistant to an editor who’ll hire you and give you a promotion. You have to play the game.”

“I don’t want to play the game.”

“Too bad. How do you think your father got to be where he is today? He played the game.”

“He’s a man.”

“Then act like a man! That’s what I do. You don’t see me crying in a corner when an editor throws a coffee cup at my head. You don’t see me being seen and not heard when I’m around VIPs at The Frankfurt Book Fair or at famous people’s book launch parties. I do what I have to do to get ahead. That’s why I’m not a housewife in a one-horse town in Jersey. That’s why I have a novel coming out!”

“Well, I guess you’re better than I am, then,” I mumbled.

“Hey, I didn’t mean it like that.”

I looked away.

“Shayla! I’m on your side. Don’t curl up into a ball. Fight! I’m not tooting my own horn, I’m just underlining the fact that you can have everything I have, and more if you want it. There’s a reason you’re my best friend. My time is limited; I don’t waste it on losers. You’re funny, bright, talented, and you’ve always been an amazing problem-solver. You’re just in a slump. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps. You have it in you. And the best part is, you don’t have to do it alone. I’m here for you, Shay.”

I tried to shake off the sting of hearing the truth. “I know.”

“You’re just tired.”

“I’m always tired. Maybe being a Jersey housewife wouldn’t be so bad.”

“Sorry to have to kick your ass, but now’s not the time to rest, now’s the time to push.”

I knew she was right, deep down. “I don’t like pushing. Everything shouldn’t be this hard.”

She sighed. “Well, it is. I don’t know what to tell you. This is the way it works, Shay.” She walked over to the fridge, swung open the door and got the milk. Then she grabbed the coffee pot off of the burner. Topping up my cup, she said, “you’re going to drink that, then we’re going to my room to pick out an outfit for your date tonight. Something sleek and sexy. Then we’re going to pick out an out an outfit for when you go see Brenda on Monday. Something professional and powerful.”

“I don’t really want to go on the date, and I don’t really want to confront Brenda.”

“Fine.” She set her jaw. “Your choice. It’s that or lie down and give up. Might as well pack your bags and move to Kansas, Dorothy.” She planted her hands on her hips and stared at me.

I couldn’t help laughing. If someone as dynamic as Maggie believed in me, who was I to argue?

“If I’m Dorothy, who are you? The Wizard of Oz?”

“I’m about to be the bad witch if you don’t do what I say,” she said, shaking her finger at me. “And believe me, those flying monkeys fall into line or suffer for it.”

I took a slug of my coffee, then stood up. “OK, you win.”

“I always do,” she said. “So it’s pointless to sass me when I tell you to sit still while I blow-dry your hair and pluck your eyebrows. And you’re going to shave your legs if I have to stand outside the shower and watch you. My way or the highway!”

I gave her a quick squeeze. “Hey, Mags… you’re better than a sister. Just, thanks.”

“Come on, Sappy,” she said, shaking it off and bounding toward her bedroom. “Let’s get you into costume.”

Heading out of the wind and down the icy steps to the supper club, I was grateful that Maggie had let me off the hook and allowed me to wear her wedge-heeled boots instead of the ones with the skinny heels. The place was all leather and wood, and scarlet tapestry. I was glad the club was warm and not one of those sterile chrome-and-glass affairs.

I pulled off my hat and tried to fluff my crushed, damp hair. Scanning the bar for Jordan, I panicked, realizing I didn’t know what he looked like. There was a blonde guy walking out of the restroom. I raised my eyebrows and smiled. He put his arm around a thin brunette in a leather jacket and gave me a stern look. This was a stupid idea. I pulled my hat back on, ready to leave.

I felt a pair of hands on my shoulders, and I spun around, ready to snap. I recognized the green-eyed man as Jordan. Wow. He was actually a man. I didn’t remember him as being so filled out.

“Hi, Shayla? Are you all right? You look, uh, upset.”

“No! Not at all. Hey…you!” Brimming with nervous energy, I went in to kiss his cheek, to seem like a smooth player. When I lunged in, I caught my toe on his heavy boot. I fell forward, and he grabbed me hard by both elbows. Whipping his head around to keep his balance, he cracked me in the bridge of the nose with his jawbone.

“Motherfuh … uh…uh…oh, man,” I stopped myself from swearing even though I saw stars. The pain was so sharp, I didn’t even worry that blood was dripping onto my (Maggie’s) silk turtleneck. At least it was black.

“Hang on,” I heard Jordan say. I couldn’t see him with my eyes squenched shut. In a flash he was back, shoving a handful of bar naps into my hand. I pressed them to my bleeding nose and managed to open my eyes. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and on his lips sat the threat of a smile. “Why don’t we sit down?”

“OK,” I said through my napkins, “but not at the bar.”

Taking my arm, Jordan led me to a cozy leather banquette. “Two Maker’s Mark Manhattans,” he said to a passing waitress. I wanted a vodka and soda with lemon, but I let it go. “Why not at the bar?”

“I swore off perching on bar stools on my 21st birthday. Friends took me out to celebrate and I woke up so sore the next day I felt like I needed traction. I like to be comfortable.”

“Are you comfortable now?” He asked, smiling. “Because I am. It’s nice to relax with a gorgeous woman.”

My hand flew to my nose to make sure it was clean. “Ha ha, yes, this place is great. Small warm rooms feel kind of like a hug.”

He cocked his head and smiled. “I just have a thing about… I don’t know… not being cold. I positively will not go into a cold Lucite and metal bar. At least not in winter. It’s one of my rules.”

“You have a lot of rules.”

“No I don’t,” I said automatically. “They’re not rules, per se. Just ways that make sense to live.

“Umm hmm. You were saying you haven’t sat at the bar since age 21. How many years ago was that?”

I hesitated. He was asking my age.

“Five. Why?” I examined his face. What was he getting at? “How old are you?” I countered. I didn’t like being on my guard.

“Twenty-three, but a very mature twenty-three. Graduated Yale at twenty-one, because I skipped a year of high school. I interned at a couple of small newspapers while I was there — did some beat reporting — and got hired by Cooper-Prentiss when I graduated. As an associate editor. I skipped doing the whole assistant thang.”

“I’m doing the assistant ‘thang’ now.” I watched in horror as my hands made air quotes. “But not for long, you know.” I took a big slug out of my drink. The whiskey burned the back of my throat but my mouth was full. I coughed through my nose, sending tiny droplets of blood onto his pant leg. Struggling to stifle my sputtering, I barked out “I…am…so sorry.”

“Not a problem.” He picked out some of the cleaner napkins from the table, and dabbed at his knee. Embarrassed, I swept the rest of the bloodied pile into my bag.

“Sorry,” I said.

“You apologize a lot.”

That shut my mouth. He was right. I didn’t feel sorry about anything. But I had gotten sucked in by his image, and I was playing a game falling all over myself trying to impress him. Sure, he was some kind of publishing wunderkind. Sure, he had a real tan, earned on an adventure trip to someplace like Costa Rica or maybe Australia. But like Maggie pointed out, I wasn’t so bad myself. Relax, Shayla, I coached myself. Just be yourself. It’s good enough. Attractive as Jordan was, I wasn’t dying to touch him or kiss him, though. That was kind of weird. But it was also good. Realizing that gave me back some of my power.

“Shayla?”

“Anyway,” I snapped back to the conversation, “I was telling you that I’m a writer.” I said this with confidence. “So, I won’t be doing the assistant, uh, I won’t be an assistant for long.”

He looked at me with interest. “Really? I feel like I should know that, Shayla Sheridan.”

The way he said my name uncurled something inside me. His voice was strong and clear, hinting more at a man’s than a boy’s. As a little test, I smiled. He smiled too, and draped his arm over the back of the banquette, looking like he had all the time in the world. Hmm, perhaps there’s more to him than I thought. I did like it when a man pulled off being smooth. Maybe I could have a one-night stand. I hadn’t done that in ages, since well before Noah, and before Noah, I’d gone out with Josh for a long time. It’s not fair to compare Josh, though. With Josh, we’d been more like best friends than the last of the red-hot lovers.

“Tell, me, Shayla, what have you written?”

I hated this question. It’s the American way to define people by their jobs and to make them prove that they’re contenders. The next questions were invariably A) What have you written that I’ve heard of? And B) So you’re following in your father’s footsteps?

After suffering scrutiny at countless weddings and cocktail parties, I’d gone back to calling myself an administrative assistant. That always cut the conversation off at the knees. Maggie didn’t like that tactic. She told me to stick with saying writer. ‘Dress for the job you want, Shay, not the job you have,’ she always says. Tonight, I could see her point. Jordan was making me feel competitive. Rather than concede, I parried.

I took another substantial slug of my drink. “At this point, I’ve collaborated on some non-fiction, and have solely written some works for which I didn’t negotiate cover credit.” What was I doing? God, I sounded like an ass. Jordan is an associate editor. He could tell when someone in the business was putting lipstick on a pig.

“Nice,” he said.

“The Observer is picking up my column, How to Be an Adult.” Oh my God. Stop talking, I told myself. “Anyway, I’m pitching my real book to my agent on Monday,” I ploughed on. “Brenda Sackler?” I name-dropped without shame.

He shrugged.

“Global-Lion Literary?” I tried. Nothing. I drained my glass.

“The work is sort of a manifesto for post-teens meets new adult non-fiction-y girl’s guide to the city mash-up. You know. That kind of thing.” Dear God, did I just call my book, ‘The Work?’

“Cool.” Jordan’s eyes browsed the room. A leggy cocktail waitress with a severe blonde bun and sheer blouse buttoned to the neck smiled. “Hi…I didn’t get your name.”

Her smile broadened. “Sabina.”

“Sabina,” he pronounced. “I’m a private club member.” He handed her a card, which she read and handed back. “I think we’ll have two more of these and then move into the lounge.”

“Excellent, Mr. Silver.” She did a yoga squat to table level, hovered knee-to-knee with Jordan and loaded our glasses onto a tray. Through sheer force of abs, she pulled herself to standing and purred, “If I can do anything to make your evening more enjoyable, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Can I get a vodka and soda with lemon instead? I’m not so much a brown liquor kinda girl. You know what Thomas Jefferson always said, ‘Whiskey claims to itself alone the exclusive office of sot-making.’” I laughed but they didn’t join in. “Big fan of the former president.”

Jordan and Chiara looked at me, waiting maybe, I gleaned, for further explanation. “So, no whiskey for me thanks. Just, you know,” I explained, “trying not to be a sot.”

“Thank you, Sabina,” Jordan released the waitress, and she drifted away.

“So, are you into heading for the lounge? All the Broadway people swing in here before and after shows to do a set or sing a tune.”

“Yeah, no. “

“No?”

“I don’t like listening to cabaret singers. When I’m up close, I feel like I have to gaze into their eyes and be all like, ‘Yes, that’s great! Keep going!’ It’s exhausting.” I could feel the whiskey warming my toes and loosening my jaw. “Like I’m responsible for making them feel good about themselves, you know? No one’s sitting around going, ‘Yay, Shayla, that paragraph was awesome! Keep writing!’ I wish I had some cheerleaders.”

Jordan was looking at me with knitted brows.

“Never mind. Forget I said that. Cabaret singers are great. It’s not their fault. I was just thinking, like, how it would be great to have some applause. Just for me. ‘Go, Shayla.’” I waved imaginary pom-poms. My face was growing hotter. “Not from you, of course.” I could feel Jordan waiting patiently. In a Barry White voice, I said, “You must think Shayla wants some immediate grat-i-fi-ca-shuuun.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing,” I mumbled. “Never mind.”

“I just…couldn’t really understand what you said. Your voice got strange.”

“Ffft…forget it. Just the flu.”

He looked alarmed. “Not the flu. I’m not contagious. Just a cold,” I said, waving it off.

Sabina had appeared and was setting two Manhattans in front of us. Not a vodka and soda in sight. “Your table is ready in the lounge when you are, Mr. Silver.”

“Thanks Sabina, let me just settle this.” As he was signing the check, Sabina looked straight at me and shook her head slowly back and forth, slitting her eyes. When Jordan handed back her pen, her eyes widened and she smiled. “Hope to see you again soon, Mr. Silver.” She gathered the check. “The bar area closes at three tonight. That’s when I get off.” She smiled one more time before walking very slowly away.

“Listen,” I said, pulling on my hat. “Thanks for the drink. But like I said,” I coughed a few times, “I have a cold.” I pretended to sniffle and tasted blood. I forced myself to swallow and took a drink of the whiskey to wash it down. I stood up. “I’d better just get going.”

“Wait!” he cried. “You can’t go yet.” He took my arm down to a sitting position. “We haven’t finished talking. Ten more minutes.” He looked into my eyes, his face softening.

“Please.” He flashed me a smile, this time with lots of teeth. They were, of course, very white. I relaxed onto the leather seat. Why did I say I had a cold? No one wants to have sex with someone who has a cold. “OK, just a little while longer.”

I imagined his chest underneath the tight-fitting black western shirt with the surprisingly masculine turquoise embroidery. It snapped up the front instead of buttoning. It would be so easy to undo. I reached for my drink.

“Great. I was having such a nice time. I didn’t want it to end”, he said. Sabina passed by, walking closer to our table than I felt was strictly necessary. Jordan’s eyes were on her as he said, “So tell me, what makes Shayla de Winter tick?”

“Excuse me?”

His focus landed back on me. I could see him back-pedaling, trying to figure out why I was snapping at him. “Uh…”

“Did you just call me Shayla de Winter?”

For a brief moment, he appeared rattled. I watched him pull himself together, face relaxing, opening his legs a little wider to take up more space on the bench. “Yeah, I did,” he owned it. “I mean, you are after all.”

“Why did you ask me out?”

Without missing a beat, he said, “Because you looked so cute sitting there in front of the name badges. I had my eye on you all night. Didn’t you feel it?”

I wavered. If he thought I was cute, maybe I’d get to feel his smooth skin under the palms of my hands. On the other hand, if he was using me to get to my father, I had an appointment with the shower head. Hat still on my head, I challenged him.

“I’ll give you two more minutes. What question do you want to ask me more than anything?”

His face contorted in frustration. He was struggling to come up with the right answer. I stood up. “Wait!” he said. “Hang on.”

“Clock’s ticking,” I said, faking confidence.

“All right, all right! I guess… can you get me a meeting with your father?”

Son of a bitch! I grabbed my coat. It bumped across the table, upsetting my full drink. Now the hem was doused in whiskey, and it dripped down the back of my tights as I pushed my arms into it, heading for the door.

“Shayla, wait!” he called.

The question couldn’t have been, ‘What do you love about your book?’ or ‘If you could live anywhere other than New York, where would it be?’ or even, ‘Do you drink coffee or tea in the morning?’ could it?

“Shayla!”

I blew past Sabina and she deftly protected her tray of full drinks. “Loser,” I thought I heard her whisper, but it was hard to hear with my hat on.

I took the stairs two at a time, pushed open the heavy, upholstered door, and hurled myself out onto the slippery New York street. Veering in toward the wall of the building to avoid a crowd of St. Patrick’s Day revelers, walking three abreast, and caterwauling Irish drinking songs. I bumped into a pale young man decked out in green from head to toe, wearing a leprechaun hat. “Sorry,” I said.

He whipped around and looked me bleary-eyed in the face. “No, lady. I’m sorry,” he slurred.

“Why?” I asked. I looked down. He was peeing on my boot.