Faking Life Page 8

  Talking to John, she'd felt like a normal girl again and it felt good. Sitting at the bar with a glass of wine, talking to a good-looking guy was something she hadn't done in ages. Too often she lived vicariously through Courtney, listening to her friend drone on about fun-filled dates with men, not boys, lining up to take a single New York gal out for a night on the town. Wasn't that what she wanted? Did it really matter if she worked for Nico? Surely she could get to know John and keep her professional life out of the equation. But something still didn't feel right.

  She needed to clear her head, get away from Nico and the office. Esther looked at her watch; only nine-fifteen. She couldn't realistically leave for at least another eight hours.

  “Is there anything else you need from me right now?” she asked. Nico returned to his desk. He folded his hands over his lap, studying Esther. Finally his mouth softened and a smile crept over his face.

  “No, I don't.” Esther turned to leave, but heard Nico say her name. She turned back, hesitant. “Why don't you take the rest of the day off. It'll do you some good. Go home and get some rest.” Esther searched for words, her mind blank. Nico merely smiled and said, “I'll see you tomorrow.” Esther could only nod and trudge back to her desk.

  “Everything alright Est?” Frank asked. She hadn't noticed, but he was standing right next to her, close enough to smell the overpowering musk of his aftershave.

  “I'm ok. I'm going home,” she said. She saw her reflection in his pale green eyes. She turned away when she felt a tear wet her cheek. “I think I just need some rest.”

  “I hear that,” he said, standing up straight and yawning loudly. A trail of saliva hung from his mouth. “You should take a nap or something. We'll see you tomorrow though, right?” As if he has the right to request my attendance at work, she thought.

  “Yes, I'll be here tomorrow Frank.”

  “Well, good. Wouldn't want to fall behind on anything, would we?”

  “Exactly.” Frank was too busy licking his teeth to notice the sarcasm in her voice. She pretended to wipe her nose but instead cleaned the moisture from her eyes. She grabbed her purse and strode past him. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Bye, have a safe ride home.”

  “Will do.” She leaned into Nico's office. “See you tomorrow Nic.” He looked up. He had on his reading glasses on and was perusing a manuscript. He took the glasses off and placed them gently on his desk.

  Nico grinned warmly and said, “See you in the morning.” Esther gave a weak smile and left the office.

  She ran to the subway station, purse flapping against her side, wind tearing her cheeks. She sat down on a speckled orange seat across from a sleeping man with a copy of The Wall Street Journal tucked under his arm. His dark skin was sallow under a dirty white sweatshirt and his jeans were covered in splotches of paint. A frizzy gray beard spilled over his collar. The fabric on his shoes was torn and the right one didn't have any laces. Esther listened to him breathe, the air rasping in and out of his lungs in a steady, comforting rhythm. On the seat next to him were three shopping bags: Gucci, Prada, Armani. They were filled with dirty clothes and soup cans. The train was full but nobody dared move the bags to sit down. They stood and watched him sleep, ignoring him.

  When the train reached 96th Street, Esther dragged herself up the stairs, passing a woman in tattered rags. A sign written in broken English rested on her knees at an awkward angle, a dirty coffee cup filled with random change. A young man on the platform was handing out yellow pamphlets. Esther took one, then tossed it once she was out of sight.

  She ran through the lobby of Normandie Court and let the elevator door close as a man asked her to hold it. Entering the apartment, she fell into the deep sofa and curled her arms around her knees. Her body trembled. She hugged her knees tighter.

  “Hun, is that you?”

  “Hey Court,” Esther said, straightening herself out. “I forgot you were off today.” Courtney came out of her room wearing loose blue pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt with 'Cornell' stitched across the chest. “Stole those from an Ivy-Leaguer, huh?”

  “Yeah,” she said, crossing the room and taking a seat on the couch. “He never returned the silk boxers I bought him, so I figure any clothes he left here are rightfully mine.”

  “It would hold up in court.”

  “So howcome you're home so early? Everything alright?”

  “Yeah,” she said, yawning. “Nico gave me the day off. Rough morning.”

  “Rough morning? It's barely ten, what happened? More stuff with that guy you saw at the bar, the one who's writing a book?” Esther nodded. “What happened?”

  She sighed. “I'm not sure. Every part of me says I should feel guilty for going to see him, but I don't. I left the bar because something just didn't feel right, him not knowing who I was. I don't even know the guy but I feel like I'm deceiving him.”

  “Are you?”

  “No. Well, yes and no. I didn't tell him I worked for Nico. I held back, Court. But at the same time the only reason I went was because I wanted to, not because of Nico, so it shouldn't make a difference where I work, right?” Courtney stayed silent. Esther took a breath, deciding to get it off her chest. “Nico thinks if we can manipulate John Gillis, play with his life, he'll get a bigger advance. I just wanted to meet him, and now I feel like everything's falling apart.” Courtney put her hand gently on Esther's arm. She closed her eyes and felt Courtney squeeze gently.

  “I don't really know what to say, Est. I've never been in that kind of situation.” Esther sighed. Of course she had to be in the only possible situation Courtney had never been in. “All I can say is follow your heart. You don't need to answer to anyone except yourself. If you want to see him then see him.” Esther nodded. Simple words, but they made sense. “So can I make you anything? Cereal, waffles, some juice maybe?” Esther perked up.

  “Do we have any wine?” Courtney grinned.

  “Let me check.” She went to the pantry, knelt down and pulled out a bottle of Chardonnay. “What the hell. Where's it say two girls can't get drunk at ten on a Thursday morning?”

  “Here, here,” said Esther. She took a pair of teardrop shaped goblets from the cabinet. Courtney twisted the corkscrew, nearly pushed the cork into the bottle, and pulled it out intact with a satisfying pop. She filled Esther's glass and then her own. They clinked glasses and took a long sip. Esther shuddered.

  “Mmm,” Courtney moaned. “I never knew it could be this good so early in the morning.” Esther laughed.

  “Are we still talking about wine?” she asked, drawing a look from Courtney.

  “Well Miss, I can tell where your mind is right now. I think it's already going to your head.”

  “Well keep it coming,” she said. “Maybe I should have a glass of wine with breakfast every morning.”

  “I'm sure that would impress your boss, coming in to work looking like Anna Nicole Smith.”

  Esther sipped her wine. “At this point, I don't think it would matter how I show up to work.” Courtney sighed and took Esther's hand again. Esther squeezed once and let it go, wrapping her free arm around her knees. She pressed them close to her body and wished John Gillis could read her mind.

  Chapter Seven

  John awoke in a cold sweat, his hands moving their way to his nightstand where they found the lamp and flicked the switch on. He squinted until his vision adjusted and then checked the clock. Five-thirty in the morning.

  “Fuckin-a,” he mumbled, rubbing crust from his eyes. He sat up and pulled his feet over the bed, clenching his toes into little fists. He tried to remember the dream he was having right before he woke up, but couldn't place it. He faintly recalled uninvited hands groping him, the sweet smell of perfume that nearly choked him to death. The wine in his mouth. John tasted sour bile in his throat.

  “John?” came the whispered call from the other bedroom. He heard three knocks on the wall. He must have somehow woken Paul up. “Dude, you ok?”

  He y
awned and sat up. “Yeah, I'm fine.”

  He got up and threw on a t-shirt and a pair of gym shorts over his boxers and went into the living room. He plopped down on the green loveseat and rested his feet on the coffee table, stretching his arms above his head in a massive yawn. Paul poked his head out sideways from the doorframe like an image from a Three Stooges cartoon.

  “I heard you banging against the wall.” Paul took a seat on the couch. “What happened? You look like hell took a bath.”

  “Bad dream,” John said. He ran a hand through his matted hair and yawned again. “Strange. I only got home an hour ago.”

  “Must have been a busy night. You're usually back by 3:30.”

  “Yeah, you missed a good one. Lisa put on an awesome show, ended up with almost two hundred in tips. I felt kinda guilty taking my share.”

  “If think if you danced every night Slappy's would get shut down for health code violations. Something about hazardous white ass. I'm sure it's in the book if you look it up.” They sat in silence, two old friends in the dead of night having a conversation like they were having a quiet lunch. Paul picked his nose. John searched between his fingers for imaginary pieces of lint. Finally John broke the silence.

  “Paul?”

  “Yeah buddy?”

  “You remember last semester of our senior year, when I had that Econ term paper, the one I didn't start until the week before it was due, and I kept you up for like four straight nights writing it while I was high on Jolt cola?”

  “Yeah, you still owe me sleep for that.”

  “Anyway, you remember the second night, how you came back from the football party at the Gamma house at four in the morning with that tennis chick? I think her name was Patty or Penelope or something.” Paul smiled wistfully.

  “Polly. The one who kept asking if we were John and Paul from The Beatles, then fell on the floor laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world.” John absently rubbed the arches of his feet. It felt good, kneading his tired skin after a night of running back and forth trying not to slip on melted ice.

  “That's the one,” John said. “You remember how she wanted to jump you right then and there? She said it didn't matter that I was in the room typing away like a madman.”

  “Yeah, I remember.” He paused as though conjuring up the night in his mind. “What made you think about that night?”

  John said, “You sent her home. You said 'sorry toots, my boy's got work to do. I'll see you some other time.' You said that, remember?”

  “Something along those lines. I'm not sure what my exact words were…”

  “Those were your exact words,” John said. “Trust me.”

  Silence. John stared and rubbed his feet while Paul tried to figure his friend out. John could tell Paul was trying to jump inside his head, and for that reason he refused to look up, refused to acknowledge him.

  “John, that was like seven years ago.”

  “I know. I just wanted to thank you since I never did at the time. It was a pretty cool thing to do. She wanted you bad, but you knew I needed quiet to do work so you sent her home.”

  Paul snorted a laugh. “Lot of good it did me. I ran into her the next night at the hockey house and she tried to get Gavin McNamara to drop a keg on my head. And me yakking in the toilet all night couldn't have helped your peace of mind that much.”

  John finally looked up at his friend, his eyes a mess of red and veins. Paul cocked his head and turned his mouth up in a sympathetic half-smile.

  “I know, but thanks anyway. I owe you that much.”

  Paul folded his hands below his chin and rested them on his knees. “Why're you thinking about this now?” he asked.

  John shook his head slowly. “I don't know.” Paul closed his eyes, sighed, and walked to his room.

  “Well I'd love to sit here and reminisce, but I have to be up in two hours. If anything else is on your mind, you know where I live.”

  Paul closed the door and left John sitting alone in the darkness.

  Chapter Eight

  Nico Vanetti sat alone in his office, a few solitary drops of fifteen year-old Glenlivet beading at the bottom of the tumbler in front of him. The clock read 1:13 a.m. The office was dark save his computer, casting a luminescent blue glow around his desk. His hand trembling, Nico picked up the bottle and refilled the glass. Caressing the liquid, took a long breath, closed his eyes and threw it back. The alcohol burned in his throat, blood pounding in his temples.

  Valerie had given him the bottle six years ago with a note that read “FOR EMERGENCY USE ONLY”. She'd signed the note with a lipstick kiss and a cupid's arrow through a red heart. She made him swear on a seven-figure advance never to open the bottle in times of strife, only in celebration. Since then, there hadn't been cause to celebrate. And after tonight, he wasn't sure there ever would be again. And if he'd ever needed a drink, now was certainly the time.

  Once again, Nico ran his eyes over the tiny print running across his computer screen, the words cementing their place in his head.

  How on earth did it get to this point?

  The email was from Clarence Watters, whose ancient contract remained framed on Nico's wall like a physician's degree. Nico stared at the computer screen, the glow beginning the blur as his mind swam in an alcohol-induced haze. He read the letter again, then looked over at the shelf. A dozen Watters novels crowded the cherry wood. He read the email again.

  Dear Nico,

  We've been through some great times, haven't we? I owe my career to you Nic, you gave me my start in this business. I don't take that lightly and I never will, but I feel that the biggest rewards often spring from the biggest risks. Sometimes the sweetest relationships must come to an end for both sides to blossom. It is with this in mind that I've decided to sever our relationship and find representation elsewhere.

  I know you're probably wondering what went wrong. Let me assure you that it is as much my doing as it is yours. To be honest, I feel it's time. I feel it in my bones and in my words and I know deep down that this parting will be mutually beneficial.

  Thank you for your guidance and generosity, and for taking a poor Alabama farmer and helping him live his dreams. May you find yours, Nico Vanetti, if you haven't already.

  Always,

  Clar

  Nico reread the letter and refilled his glass. Always, the letter was signed. Through all the short-term partnerships in his life, the failing marriage, the deteriorating career, Watters was the one entity Nico had thought would be…always.

  He slurped half the drink and missed the coaster he tried to set it on, instead hitting the edge of the table and spilling whiskey onto his pants. He stared up at the ceiling, his heart pounding, as if expecting God himself to apologize. Nico took a breath and wiped himself off with a piece of paper from the printer.

  There was less than an inch left in the bottle. Nico knocked the tumbler over as he grabbed the handle and swallowed the last bit. He slammed it down on the table hard enough to crack the glass, then tossed it in the garbage and read the email again.

  What does he want, my soul? Ben Affleck to star in a shitty movie adaptation? All of his books are the same, Nico thought. Watters wrote historical novels, all set in the south, all about cookie-cutter blond-haired, square-jawed heroes combating the evils of racism. They were good reads, he'd give Watters that, but they weren't the kind of books that would break new ground or make Hollywood stand up and take notice. Each book fetched a respectable six figures, but his last few paydays had decreased dramatically. His last book sold for a hundred and fifty grand—a full hundred thousand less than his first novel had gone for. And that one he'd sold twenty-five years ago.

  The sales for his latest, Sweet Song of the Susquehanna, were disappointing. One insightful review noted that Watters's books were like an aging actor who was content to mail in his performances for a steady paycheck, coasting on name recognition alone.

  And just like that, after twelve books, four New York Tim
es bestsellers, three film options and one made-for-T.V. movie starring Robert Urich, Clarence Watters decided that Nico Vanetti should no longer represent him. Suddenly, Nico's clientele was dangerously unproven.

  He opened up his desk and pulled out the two hundred odd pages of John Gillis's memoir. Glanced over the first twenty pages, Nico gently ran his fingers along the paper as if it might crumble into dust. At 6:30, when he'd received Watters's email, Nico knew the future of Vanetti Literati rested on John Gillis. He needed a breakout star, a new idol to pin on the marquee. Bad fortune was riding Nico's coattails like an angry mob and if he didn't do something to stem the onslaught, soon he'd be bled out. He could sense other agents waiting in the wings like greedy shadows waiting to poach his top clients. If he didn't give them a reason to believe, they'd surely be tempted just as Watters had.

  It's a soft market, he'd told himself on several occasions. The recession is killing everybody. But in his heart, he knew it wasn't true. Other agencies were breeding new stables of media-ready authors whose appearances on Oprah and Regis and Kelly sent their asking prices into the stratosphere. John Gillis was the ace up his sleeve. Clarence Watters was old news. Gillis was the future.

  “Goddamn fucking country bumpkin,” Nico seethed, sneering at the yellowed contract on his wall. He looked at the gorgeous bookshelf to the right of his desk, four stories high and packed tight with millions of dollars worth of sales. Foreign translations, audio copies, even books that had been translated into Braille. It was a life's work, a good life. But that life was being attacked at its very foundation.