Faking Life Page 2

  The first thing she noticed was that the apartment was new—incredibly new. The tiled floor looked freshly waxed and the pine bookshelves had their original dark brown luster. Each of the dozens of books on the shelves looked like they'd been shipped straight from the warehouse. Pottery Barn bags were stuffed in the trash. She could see her reflection in the dust jackets of the hardcovers and, upon closer inspection, couldn't find a single crease or crack on the spines of the paperbacks.

  “Impressive, isn't it?” he'd asked.

  “Quite,” she'd said with a complete lack of sincerity that went unnoticed. They'd nursed a glass of wine for half an hour, Esther quietly spitting each sip back. She resisted his pathetic come-ons while counting the seconds until she could honestly claim to need to go home and sleep. She finally excused herself when she felt his hand bunching up her pantyhose. Her justification was a plant that needed watering. A hibiscus. She'd didn't even know what a hibiscus looked like.

  Frank continued to make underhanded passes nearly every day at work, but once she learned to deal with them he seemed mostly harmless. She took his juvenile innuendos with a grain of salt, but it was incredibly unsatisfying that most of her backhanded compliments went over his head.

  “Hey Frank,” she said, burying her face in a piece of paper.

  “Watchoo reading?” He leaned over and plucked the page from her hand. Unable to find title or author name, he rummaged around until he found the cover letter. He took this too, spilling paper all over the periwinkle carpet.

  “Damnit Frank, be careful,” she said, collecting the pages and shuffling them together.

  “John Gillis,” he said, pronouncing it “guileless”. That ticked her off. He could drop all the pages he wanted, but when he mispronounced John's name she really bristled.

  She grabbed the pages from his hand. “He's going to be a new client. You should read it when you get a chance.” Frank sniffed like he smelled rotten fish.

  “Yeah,” he said with the same amount of sincerity as Esther when she said she liked his ties. “I'll get right on it.”

  Esther resumed reading, Frank hovering like an unfriendly shadow. “Can I help you?” she asked, her patience wearing thin.

  “Nope, just watching you read.” He leaned in and sniffed her head. Esther recoiled. “You smell nice, what's that perfume you're wearing? Wait, let me guess…Chanel?”

  “No, it's a new one. Eau d'Annoyance. They're giving out free samples today at Bloomingdales. Better get over there before they run out.” Frank absently scratched the side of his nostril.

  “Yeah, I'll get right on that,” he said, turning around and walking back to his desk. Esther composed herself and continued reading.

  Not many prospects, other than Gillis, in today's batch. She pocketed a note scrawled on what looked like bathroom tissue that read, “I have written a really good book that will sell over a billion copies. If you represent me I promise to give you an autographed copy free of charge and one marzipan duck.” In good crazy writer tradition, there was no envelope or return address. She usually trashed letters that arrived without return envelopes, but at home she kept a private stash of her favorite whack jobs; people who wrote queries on cardboard with glitter paint and stapled five-dollar bills to their cover letters. People who wrote books about their love affair with lint. People who dreamed they'd been switched at birth with Prince Charles. They were the easy part of the job. The hard part was reading a manuscript she knew the author had pumped sweat and blood into, had been nurtured from infancy, yet would still find itself shipped back with a rejection slip as personal as a tube of lipstick. Sometimes she wished she could call up every one and tell them to keep trying and that some day, maybe not now or even soon, someone would love their work as much as they did.

  Esther could hear pages slowly turning in Nico's office. That boded well. Generally if he didn't find anything salable about a project, Nico would nix it within minutes. There simply wasn't enough time in the day to spend on something that couldn't work. But lately there was just so much he didn't think would work…

  It was hard for Esther to watch this formerly great man travel the downward spiral of a tremendous career. The money coming in, once a torrent, then a stream, was now just a few drops from a trickle. And while it couldn't all be attributed to Nico, she knew many of the agency's clients were beginning to think a change of scenery would be for the best. Every now and then, Esther would see the spark, the desire, the want that made Nico such a great representative. It was in those fleeting moments that Esther was proud to work for him.

  “Esther, could you come in here?” The pages had stopped turning. Esther's heart leapt. She stood up and smoothed her skirt out, making sure she was eminently presentable to make her final pitch. Please let him like it. I know this can work.

  Nico was on the phone when she entered. He pressed his index finger to his lips and motioned for her to sit down. She pulled up a chair and gazed over his clutter-free desk while Nico waited for whomever he had called to answer. Esther smiled as she looked at the framed pictures of Nico's son, Pietro, encased in sterling silver frames and polished to a gleam. The only other item on the desk was a stained coffee mug with “Guatemala” printed in blue on the side. There were no pictures of his wife. You'd have thought Pietro was conceived out of thin air.

  Nico's most prized possession, the one Esther read whenever she had a chance, hung on the far wall behind the desk. The faded piece of paper, yellowed with age with two faint signatures at the bottom, was framed in classy bronze with the date 8-4-78 engraved at the bottom. The frame was always shiny and positioned opposite the doorway, as if giving the visitors a chance to see their reflection via a mirror to Nico's past.

  Inside the frame was a contract, signed in splotchy ink, by Nico Vanetti and Clarence Watters, the very first client to sign with Vanetti Literari. To this day, Nico spoke of Watters as though the Pope himself would relish the honor of kneeling before him. He was Nico's most prized client, and though his last few books had seen disappointing sales compared to his stunning debut, Watters was still the literary equivalent of an Al Pacino or Jack Nicholson. Someone who didn't necessarily guarantee high revenue, yet whose name embodied prestige that was worth its weight in gold.

  Years ago, Nico had read a short story by Watters in The Paris Review and promptly sent off a letter asking if he had representation. Nico received a letter eight days later. No, Watters did not have an agent, and by the way, he'd been sitting on a novel set in pre-Civil War Alabama for some time and hadn't had any luck selling it. Nico asked to see the first fifty pages, which he read with the enthusiasm of a boy inhaling his first comic book. When the sample ended with the hero meeting Harriet Beecher Stowe on a train, he'd immediately offered his services.

  Seven months and four drafts later, Nico sold Watters's first book, Alabama Song, along with two future works, for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The film was released three years later and garnered four Oscar nominations. But now Nico's career, like Watters', was a faded memory of former glory.

  Suddenly Nico's eyes perked up. He gestured for Esther to listen.

  “Mr. Gillis?” Nico said, sitting up straight. Esther froze. Nico combed his fingers through his hair, as though the man were sitting in front of him. “Nico Vanetti, how are you? Good. Listen, John, my agency received your letter and I had a few questions in addendum to the information you provided.” Nico smiled and winked at Esther.

  “It's regarding your memoir. Not about the proposal itself, but about you. Is it true you've never written previously? Uh-huh,” Nico said, scribbling loudly on a piece of paper. He was writing nothing more than curly-Q's, but it was loud enough that Gillis could surely hear it over the phone. “Mr. Gillis, I don't mean to sound pessimistic, but we receive literally thousands of letters each year, many from professionals, and even then we seldom offer representation. Sometimes we decline people who have published entire books. I want you to understand that although I'm im
pressed by your work, we'll need more to go on if we choose to move forward.” Nico was smiling as he said this, and Esther couldn't help but feel somewhat guilty as she did the same.

  Pause. Nico drew more pigtails. “I see. So how many completed pages do you have? All right then. Well Mr. Gillis, your proposal intrigues me, both as an agent and a businessman. It has a certain je ne sais quois, but understand I'll be taking quite a risk if I take you on as a client. Along with more samples, I'd like you to send over another sample and a recent photo of yourself.” Esther could tell from Nico's expression that Gillis understood every word.

  “Now John, I can't promise anything. Most perspective authors expect too much in terms of compensation for their work, and I'll be the first to tell you that those instances are few and far between. I am willing to look at more of your material, albeit on an exclusive basis. What this means is you cannot contact any other agents for the duration of the submission, and if I decide that working together will be mutually beneficial, I'll offer secure representation. Don't get discouraged, I'm only telling you how it is. If the pairing is meant to work, it will. I'll call you as soon as I've received the material. Take care John, it's been a pleasure speaking with you.” Nico hung up the phone and turned to Esther with a wry smile.

  “Let's see what he has to offer.” Esther nodded, no longer able to contain her emotions. She was thrilled, both for the project and that she'd broken through Nico's defenses. She wished she could have heard John's voice, tried to conjure what it sounded like. Was it high pitched or baritone? Suave or cracking like an acne-scarred teenager?

  She walked back to her desk, feet light as air. Gazing around the silent office, for the first time in months Esther felt a beautiful spark of anxiety. Who was John Gillis? She closed her eyes and daydreamed, picturing herself walking into his bar late at night, his eyes following her as she moved, tracing every gyration of her hips, her legs. He was waiting for her, and as she slowly approached the bar, almost tasting the smile on his lips, he asked what had taken her so long.

  Then she heard Nico on the telephone, his deep voice resonating throughout the office. She sensed a liveliness that hadn't been there earlier. She couldn't help but wonder…

  Why Nico was as taken with John Gillis as she was? She'd been waiting for this feeling, waiting for inspiration, but did Nico sense something she didn't? John Gillis's story wasn't finished, yet Nico was intrigued by the possibility of where it might go. What if, Esther shuddered to think, the rest of his life was uneventful? Boring? Nico would cut him loose in a heartbeat.

  Esther scolded herself, ignoring the thought, and decided to be thankful Nico had seen things her way. Clearly he saw potential there. Nico, who used to have an innate ability to cultivate dreams into reality, had a chance to do just that. Now all Esther had to do was wait, and dream as well.

  Chapter Two

  Three days later, a package arrived at Vanetti Literati with the return address of one John Gillis. Esther ripped it open to find a hundred and fifty pages of typed, double-spaced manuscript, a signed letter accepting the agency's terms of exclusivity, and a photo of John standing in front of a bar. The date on the photo was stamped four days ago. He was smiling in the picture, but the emotion seemed forced, unwilling. The neon in the saloon's window cast a harsh light on his face.

  This is what I've done to date. Well, most of it. Should I send you more as I go along? Esther nodded as she read the note. She couldn't wait to soak up more of John's life, to his face in a candid setting, not harnessed by a camera's unfair expectations.

  He was beautiful; the picture was beautiful. Strong, boyish features. Brown hair, green eyes.A tad uncertain, but confidence behind his eyes. Before doing anything, Esther ran to the copy machine and made a carbon for herself, shoving it under her desk blotter. When it was safely out of sight, she eagerly plopped the manuscript on her desk and began reading. An hour and a half later, she'd finished it.

  Pushing back from her desk with a deep breath, Esther kicked her feet up and smiled. She carefully replaced the mussed pages, trailing her finger along the edge as though looking for a vein's pulse. She checked the envelope to make sure she hadn't missed anything. She reread the first page, trying to fit the words to the face whose features she'd already memorized.

  The beauty of John Gillis's story wasn't how it related to Esther, but how it related to the emotions felt by literally thousands of people. She was sure of this. It painted a naively brilliant portrait of longing by a man unafraid of the moral weight of his emotions. She desperately wanted to meet John, if only to see if what she felt was real. There was a life in his story, as though his soul had been scanned and printed out.

  She confidently strode into Nico's office and placed the pages on his desk, far away from the brimming cup of coffee. Two hours later, Nico called her name. He was sitting straight backed in his chair, a devilish grin on his face.

  “Esther,” Nico said slowly, enunciating every syllable. “Start the wheels turning. I want a list of editors by the end of the week. I'm going to send over samples of what we have, but I'll tell Gillis to keep submitting entries as he goes. By the time we're ready to sell, I want them salivating over every word.” Esther wasn't sure why, but a relieved laugh escaped her body. They smiled in silence and once again, for the first time in ages, Esther was proud to work for Nico Vanetti.

  ***

  She arrived home at a quarter to eight, gave a polite nod to Felipe, the night receptionist at Normandie Court, and rode the elevator to the twenty-third floor. The apartment felt warm, the sky outside still tinged with a hint of orange and blue. Night hadn't yet fallen. Now she could settle down, maybe take a bath, put on some 80's glam rock and settle in. Maybe throw some popcorn in the microwave, see if Courtney wanted to watch a movie.

  Esther could smell the Chinese food as soon as she opened the door, and welcomed the greasy smell into her nostrils. Courtney was on the couch, a sloppy noodle dripping from a pair of chopsticks. She cursed as the noodle fell in between the cushions. She was in powder blue pajamas bottoms, a Friends rerun on the DVD player. Her lime green sweatshirt was so hideously out of style that it was probably in style.

  Their apartment was a small two-bedroom with a so-called living room barely large enough for a couch and endtable. Esther and Courtney had moved to the Upper East Side after the expiration of their two-year lease in a rat-infested shithole on 55th and 11th . The Normandie complex was a blessing. The sidewalks clean, building graffiti-free, with lush green trees with knee-high iron fences to guard them from the marauding canines of the New York elite. Most of the tenants in Normandie were young: young families, young singles. She'd never seen anyone other than a deliveryman over the age of thirty-five.

  At twenty-six, Esther was a three-year veteran of the towers. Yet unlike the previous rental, their apartment was devoid of unwanted loud noises, rodents, the sexual escapades of their neighbors, anything. Not even the doorknobs squeaked. The month they arrived, Esther and Courtney had thrown a housewarming party that went horribly awry, spilling into the hallway and culminating in a less than amused neighbor calling both called the police and fire department. As penance, they rarely invited guests over, save Courtney's Merry-Go-Round of boyfriends and Esther's parents who stopped by twice a month to drop off food supplies.

  Courtney lowered the volume on the television set. “Oh hey, I didn't you'd think be home till late so I ordered from First Wok. I would have waited if I'd known…”

  “It's o.k., Court. I've had enough Lo Mein this month to feed the Ming dynasty.” Esther took off her jacket and hung it in the closet, tugging and pulling to make room between the dozens of hangers used by Courtney, finally tucking it between a blue pea coat and a red Burberry jacket she'd bought on sale last week, now on sale for even less. “So, what's new in your world?”

  “Well,” Courtney said, rolling her long, blond hair between her fingers. “I think that guy Jimmy, the one in mergers and acquisitions, you know, the
one with the eye? Anyway, I'll bet a dinner at Nobu that by Friday he's going to ask me out.” Esther laughed.

  “So do I get the dinner if he doesn't, or are you that sure?” Esther knew full well Jimmy was probably going to ask her out. Give them time and they all did.

  “Well, he invited me to Lava Lounge after work next Thursday. He said there were a bunch of people going, but the way he asked made it sound like he wanted it to be just him and me. Fishy, you know?”

  “So what did you say?”

  “I said no of course!”

  Esther frowned.

  “Why of course? Did I miss something?” Courtney paused the picture right as Chandler was tripping over a couch. She sat upright and assumed the familiar lecture position. At least once a month she took time to instruct Esther in The Ways of Men. Not that it was Sanskrit to her, but Esther knew her roommate's opinions on dating differed greatly from her own. And from most other people on the planet.

  “Est,” she said. “I know this guy wants to take me out. But the way he asked me left him a loophole. It wasn't definitely a date, since according to him there's the possibility of other people being around. There's no way in hell I'm letting him off on a technicality. If I'd said yes right away, he'd know I was saying yes to a date and he'd have the upper hand. Then if he got cold feet, he could weasel out of it by saying 'oh, I just meant we were going out with the whole company.' By saying no, he's got to suck it up and ask me on a real date before I commit. And he's got to do it before the weekend otherwise he knows I'll have plans. If he doesn't make the first move, he'll never make the second or third, you know?” Esther shook her head.