Spanish Disco. Erica Orloff
thing forever. I need this book. We need this book.”
“You couldn’t sell West Side. You wouldn’t sell. This is your baby.”
“Baby or not, things are tight. We’ve had a couple of bombs. That damn actress’s book—why’d I buy it? So we’re in trouble, and I need you to pretend you’re going to Vegas. You’re going to Vegas, and you’re taking all our chips and you’re putting them all down on black. In the big roulette wheel of publishing, this is our chance to create a legacy. To leave our mark.”
“I need another cup of coffee. I need to talk to Grace about handling my shit while I’m gone. I have to make a dozen phone calls. I’ve had no sleep. I haven’t eaten. And I’m really cranky.”
Lou cocked a smile at me. “Just another day at the office.” When he smiled, which was much rarer than when Helen was alive, he was still that good-looking kid from Doubleday who made a name for himself by working longer and harder and smarter than anyone else. His blue eyes shone.
I winked at him and went to my office. I slipped off my shoes. Lou’s habits had become remarkably enmeshed with my own. I started my personal coffeemaker—I don’t work and play well with others, and I don’t share my pots of coffee. As I heard the sounds of brewing ecstasy, I leaned back in my chair and put my perfectly pedicured feet up on my desk—“Cherry Poppin’ Red” nail polish on my toes. What do you pack to go see a Pulitzer-prize-winner? Do you let him see you before your first morning cup of coffee?
I stared out the window at the Atlantic Ocean that a few hours ago I had described to Michael. Now, everything was different. I was taking all our chips and betting on black.
3
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