Faking Life Page 25

  If he hadn't been banging his head against the table, Esther would have guessed he was coming off of a hangover.

  Nico either didn't notice she'd entered or didn't care, and continued the assault on his cranium for a full minute while Esther stared in disbelief. When he finally stopped, Esther could see a large red welt on his forehead.

  “Esther, you're early this morning.”

  She didn't know what to say, so she nodded.

  Nico smiled. His eyes had a faraway look as his head bobbed up and down. He reminded Esther of her Alzheimer's stricken grandmother who used to nod the same way when informed for the thousandth time that Esther had already graduated college.

  “That's wonderful,” he said, pushing away from his desk. He stood up and paused for a moment, looking through the empty doorway, then slowly met her eyes. “You know, hiring you was one of the best business decisions I ever made. I mean that Est, you're a boss's dream come true.” Nico came around the desk and leaned on the corner. His breath had a heavy mint flavor, suggesting that he'd either gone heavy on the Schnapps or guzzled an entire bottle of mouthwash.

  “I'll…let you get back to work,” she said, turning to leave.

  “No,” he said. “Stay for a while. Please.” He looked small, frail. His suit was wrinkled and the heavy bags under his eyes reminded her of politicians speaking during times of strife.

  “Why should I stay?”

  “Well, everyone else is leaving, I thought I could count on at least you to stay. We've been together so long, I just don't want you to be one of them…those people who turned their backs on me.”

  “What do you mean those people…” Esther assumed he was referring to his wife, but something told her there was more.

  Nico picked up several pieces of paper from his desk and held them out to her.

  Esther hesitated, then took them. There were five pages, each one printed out from Nico's email account and each ending with a different variation of the phrase I hope we can still be friends. She read the first four with a lump in her throat. She recognized every name.

  They were all clients of Vanetti Literati, and they were all terminating their contracts active immediately. Though stated in varying terms, they all felt they would be remiss in working with an agent whose personal life had become, well, an issue with the press, and whose passion for his work had seemingly been trumped by his disruptions outside the workplace.

  Esther said, “It's ok, right? I mean, they're not all of our clients.”

  Nico nodded and told her to keep reading. When she saw the sender of the fifth email, she gasped.

  It was from John Gillis, and in the subject heading was typed only one sentence.

  I can't do this anymore.

  Esther looked at Nico. He had a distant smile on his face and was fiddling with a pen.

  “I guess you could say it's all there in writing,” he said. Esther shook her head in disbelief and she felt tears ready to burst forth. If it wasn't for her…if only she'd done something, said something, been honest with him…

  It pained her to picture John sitting at home typing out the letter, knowing so much of the blame lay on her shoulders. She looked again at the email's heading and her breath caught short. He'd sent the email at 1:00 in the morning on Sunday. The same night she'd confessed her ties to Nico.

  Her body could still feel the bitter air as she walked away from him that night, his eyes boring a hole in her back that still burned. She'd felt a slight tingling sensation, expecting him to approach from behind and touch her, to forgive, to understand. But soon the sensation subsided. She was expecting nothing now.

  And as she'd climbed into the taxi that smelled like an old running shoe, Esther had looked over her shoulder, hoping he'd run up to the door and tear it open, embracing her, his now familiar touch on her face. Her heart tore in half as she watched him stand motionless in the night, hands tucked in his pockets, his face a wall of granite. She'd cried the whole way home, then thrown herself on the bed and wept until she couldn't see straight. Courtney came home three hours later with her date in tow. When she saw Esther lying in a puddle of moisture, she'd immediately sent Greg home with a curt apology and a peck on the cheek. Then she set a kettle and made Esther a cup of tea.

  Esther had begged Courtney to let Greg stay. Just because she'd driven away the most intense emotions she'd ever felt didn't mean Courtney should suffer too. There was no reason for them both to end the night alone. Courtney laughed and gave her a cup of Darjeeling with honey and said that they wouldn't be alone for long. If this guy John had any brains, he'd be calling any second to apologize.

  That's the problem, Esther had said. John had nothing to apologize for. It was she who'd ruined it, and he who deserved the apology. Courtney just stroked Esther's head and said it would all work out. Everything does in the end. Bad things don't happen to people like her.

  Not unless there's a reason for it, Esther had said. Not unless there's a lesson to be learned.

  But what scared her most was that she might have destroyed what had attracted her to John in the first place, what had been his passion for months. And for what? She didn't know whether his book could be recovered, but John Gillis still possessed the talent and passion that was more important than the pages themselves. Everything she'd loved on the page existed within him.

  But the book, God she wanted to read it. There were so many pieces missing that only John had seen, pieces that might be lost forever. If only she'd told him earlier, told him the truth from the beginning.

  “Esther, we need to keep Gillis as a client. We need his manuscript,” Nico said. He reached into his desk and pulled out a half-empty bottle of scotch. He pulled out a pair of snifter glasses and filled them halfway. He offered one to Esther, who politely declined.

  “Nic, it's barely nine a.m.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. Forget it.” Nico shrugged and poured her drink into his.

  “Nic, I don't know if we can have the manuscript.” She hesitated, unsure whether to inform him of its destruction. She didn't think he'd buy it. He'd probably assume it was an attempt to keep him away from John.

  “Est,” he said, the smile disappearing from his face, his tone hushed and intense. She strained to hear him. “Est, this agency is dying.” She remained silent, not out of shock, but because she agreed with him. Just then the door clicked open and Frank Menegaro walked in. He glared at Esther, still angry over her bruising his right testicle. He'd threatened to quit, but Nico had approached and whispered in his ear. Frank sat down in a huff, accepting Nico's comments. He'd been ignoring her ever since.

  He noted the two of them and folded his arms across his chest.

  “Am I missing something?” he said, a smear of cream cheese dotting his lower lip.

  “No Frank,” Nico replied. “Could you do me a favor and check my messages?” Frank cocked his head and licked the smudge from his face.

  “No problem. I'll be at my desk if you need anything. But keep her away from me.” Nico asked Esther to close the door when he'd left.

  “Back to what I was saying.” He poured another generous dose of scotch. “Est, we need that manuscript. We need it to save this agency. If we act quick enough, there's enough money on the table to turn it all around.”

  She shook her head. “Nico, we have other clients. So we lost a few, it happens. We'll make up for it. We have a whole stack of queries that come in every day, surely one of them must be…” Nico shook his head before she could finish.

  “Esther we can't make up for it. I can't make up for it. I don't have the energy you do. I can't go digging anymore.” He stretched his arms wide, showcasing his wrinkled shirt. She'd never seen him like this. His face seemed to have been etched in coal, smudged and uneven. Even in the old days, when he'd work until midnight and be back in the office at eight the next morning, Nico was as lively and chipper as a young athlete being paid to compete in a sport he loved.

  “Est I
'm dying,” he said. Esther took a step back, drawing a nervous laugh from Nico. “Not literally, though I suppose that would be cause for concern. What I'm saying, Est, is that I can't live on what we've got right now. Trust me, those authors won't be the last to go.”

  Nico rummaged through some papers on his desk and picked up a newspaper. Esther recognized it immediately as the Sunday New York Post.

  “Have you seen this?” he asked, flipping through until he found what he was looking for. He held it out to her. She was already familiar with the piece.

  “Nico, I…”

  “This is some pretty captivating stuff,” he said, his eyes perusing the page like he was reading it for the first time. “A real human interest piece, I must say. Good to know quality journalism always prevails over slanderous gossip.”

  “Nic they're reporters. It's their job to print stuff like that. People like to read about scandals and martial problems. It sells papers. It's nothing personal.” Nico smiled. Esther felt her heart wrench. She looked at her employer with a sense of remorse. Then, sadly, she realized the truth.

  That's all she saw Nico as now—an employer. The embers had ashed over. There was no fire left, no purpose, no driving sense of worth. All that remained was a broken down man in the throes of defeat. And she knew, just as he did, that those four authors were merely the first wave. Soon there would be a second, and then a third, and eventually a great tsunami that would wipe them out. Maybe it was time for her to jump ship, to see if any agencies were looking to hire a young, ambitious woman who'd lost just a touch of the innocence she'd possessed several years ago. The passion was still there, she'd say. She just needed some timber to give her a spark. Try to make up for what she'd done to John Gillis.

  And why was she defending him from the slander of the press? For years Nico had taught Esther that the most important thing—above all else—was publicity. Bad press was better than no press. With it came a recognition factor that otherwise didn't exist. But it was different for agents. Their job was to stay behind the scenes, out of the public eye. Nico had circumvented the one law he was sworn to uphold.

  “Nic, maybe you need some time off,” she said. He looked up, a glint in his eye that held possibility. She spoke with swift confidence. “I can handle our clients while you get over this. They'll see it as you making an effort to put it behind you. I'll need some help, you'll have to fill me in on some of their background, but I can handle it. Nic, I can help you.” Nico looked pensive for a moment, like a gunman deciding whether to hand over his weapon before the police opened fire.

  Finally he shook his head.

  “I appreciate your concern, but we're this close to that one big hit, that big score that'll prove I still have it. I just need to it to happen before things get out of hand.” Things are already out of hand, Esther thought. And she was at least partly responsible.

  “I need you to help me get John Gillis back,” Nico said. Esther squeezed her eyes shut. I can't, she thought. It isn't right. I lied to him once, there's no way he'll forgive me. And even if he did, why would I be helping? For him, or for me?

  Nico smiled and his eyes perked up, the sudden change in his demeanor throwing Esther off. He said, “I bought you something, Esther. Call it a present, a gift. For all the work you've done on this, for all your help.”

  “Nico, I don't want anything from…”

  “Just look.” Esther sighed and nodded. Nico reached under his desk and came up with a package wrapped in shin blue foil, a red ribbon tied around the outside. Nico, what have you done?

  She tentatively took the box from him and lay it on his desk, Nico grinning from ear to ear. She knew whatever was in the box wasn't cheap. Nico wasn't like that. He wasn't one to give cheap gifts, or accolades. Giving her a gift was wildly inappropriate, but something made her untie the string. She watched a huge smile spread across Nico's face. She carefully picked open the wrapping paper, sliding out an unmarked white box. A clothing box.

  “Nico, what did you…”

  “Keep going.”

  She slowly lifted the top of the box away, revealing a layer of tissue paper. She saw a layer of white beneath it. She peeled away the paper and gasped, her fingers closing around the most gorgeous gown she'd ever seen.

  It was made entirely of white satin, a yellow bow tied around the back that cinched in front. She couldn't help but laugh as she held it up to the light, the glare shimmering in her eyes. The neckline fell perilously deep, and she smiled inwardly at the thought of her cleavage bursting out of the fabric. She imagined John's face if he ever saw her in it, his mouth open, his hands drawing her near, exploring her body beneath the fabric.

  “Nico, I don't know what to say.” He smiled and gestured to the box.

  “Keep going.”

  “Keep going? But…” She picked the box back up, suddenly noticing the additional weight inside. There was another layer of tissue paper, this one thicker, covering the entire bottom. Looking at Nico skeptically now, she tore away the final layer to reveal what lay inside. Her heart tore in two when she saw what lay beneath the final layer of tissue paper.

  She picked up the two-piece lingerie outfit, the bra made of see-through black mesh. The panties had no fabric covering the crotch.

  “I figured,” Nico said, a careless smile on his face, “you could use that for your special nights with John. The nights he's sure to remember.”

  She stared at Nico in horror, but then looked up, her resolve firmed. Suddenly, Esther had never been surer of anything in her life. She shoved the dress back into the box without folding it and tossed it all behind Nico's desk. What she and John had was pure, and she'd never let this monstrosity touch it.

  “I'll do it,” she said. “I'll get John Gillis back. But I have one condition.” She approached the desk and placed her hands on the glossy mahogany. “If I can do this, if I can get him back, I want to represent him. Not you, me. Take those clothes and return them. If I ever see them again, or even a shred of wrapping paper I walk. I don't want you anywhere near John. I negotiate the contract, I submit the manuscript. Otherwise I'm gone right now and so is John Gillis. If I'm going to do this, it will be on our terms—mine and John's.”

  “Fine,” Nico said without hesitation.

  “Fine.” Esther turned and walked out of the room.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  John listened to the rhythmic breathing and watched as drop after drop of clear liquid fell into the tube that ran from a steel hanger into a needle embedded in the arm of Paul Shrader. He watched Paul's eyelids flutter, eying the bone-white bandage wrapped around his head.

  They'd taken the tube out of his mouth earlier, Paul's breathing raspy but strong. Paul didn't seem human, like a robot had been hooked up to the machine, not his friend. Not Paul. Yet there he was, a second-degree concussion, two-dozen partially digested pills and over a fifth of vodka being sucked out of his stomach.

  He'd gathered Paul's hysterical mother in his arms, Paul's father looking on, trying unsuccessfully to remain emotionless, a rock they could rest on. His lips quivered at their sides as his teeth chattered uncontrollably.

  “Why would he do this?” she'd said, the tears dripping into her mouth. “Why would he need to do this? Doesn't he know we love him?” John had nodded, remained silent, took the stringy hair into his hands and stroked them as she cried into his chest.

  Suicide attempt, the doctor had said. Passed out in a bar, hit his head on the floor. Unconscious when he hit the ground. That's where the concussion came from.

  John stayed up all night with Paul's family, trading solemn silences. Paul had woken up once during, Paul's mother holding his hand as her son mumbled incoherently, his eyes blinking at the dull glow from the light fixture. His dry lips smacking, then slowly closing as he passed out. His mother cried and told her baby to wake up, gently slapping his arm. John watched in awe, scared that such a simple movement could rip a hole in their suffocating blanket of fear. For the first time in ho
urs, John had taken a breath.

  He got lucky, the doctor said. If he hadn't been in a public place, who knows when he would have been found. They might not have gotten to him in time. John nodded as Paul's parents fired questions. He got lucky. John didn't believe that for a second.

  The next day, morning sun peeking through the drawn shades, John sat by Paul's bedside holding a paperback he'd bought in the hospital gift shop. He'd passed by rows of wilted flowers and lonely greeting cards, it dawning on John that he was in the single most depressing store he'd ever seen in his life. The musty magazine racks, all copies dated at least two weeks behind, accentuated the notion that shoppers wouldn't merely be looking for sympathy gifts, but something to pass the time while they prayed their loved ones would make it through. The shoppers wandered around grimly, picking up Hallmark cards from an aisle that celebrated no holidays or special occasions.

  The sound of Paul's breath was the only noise he could hear as he flipped the pages. A light-blue tube ran from a socket in the wall and ran into Paul's nostrils. A saline drip ran from a hanger, crisscrossing his arm like a cold, gray noodle.

  John turned to page 93, then flipped back. Who was this Larry the book kept referring to? Was he the main character? What the fuck was this book about? Hell, almost a hundred pages in and he didn't even know what he was reading. He thought he recalled something about a cattle drive, or maybe not. His eyes had been scanning the words for hours, but were retaining nothing. He looked up at the motionless form lying in bed. A watched pot never boils, he thought. Paul won't wake up as long as I'm paying attention. Paul's parents were busy trying to locate the nearest Starbucks. John had asked them to bring back the strongest cup they could find. Three Sweet-N-Lows should do the trick.

  He kept telling himself not to feel guilty, that he wasn't to blame. He would have prevented it. Maybe that was the reason he'd kept the contract from Paul. Deep down, whether he'd been up front or not, John knew Paul's reaction would likely have been the same. And where had he gotten the drugs? Zoloft. He hadn't had a clue. But the booze…Jesus. He'd polished off at least ten or twelve beers, and that was before he hit the bar.