Of course, the problem with playing this ranking game at most publishing houses is that there are slim pickings for a woman. First, the general breakdown of women to men in publishing is about 3 to 1. And of the men, about 70 percent are gay. So you’re talking a 10 to 1 female-to-heterosexual-male ratio. On top of that, aside from a few more high-profile departments like publicity, publishing is filled with a high percentage of former nerds (myself included) who spent the majority of their childhood indoors, reading books. My friend Jacqueline, for example, was featured in her local newspaper in North Carolina for reading over five hundred books in one year; she was five at the time. Not that I should talk, my greatest accomplishment as a kid was making it to the state tournament spelling bee, losing in the final round on the word precipice . This is not to say that all former nerds are unattractive. To the contrary, I think we’re a great breed, quirky, smart, and far more interesting than your average former cheerleader or ex-jock. Still, the list is not about being quirky and smart or appealing in an offbeat way; the list is about being sexy.
Anyway, one of the perks of being close to Michael is that I’m always privy to the male lists floating around, which is particularly interesting on the few occasions when I’ve been mentioned. It works like this: Michael tells me I’m on someone’s list whereupon I pretend to be some combination of embarrassed, nonplussed, or annoyed, all the while feeling secretly flattered. Who wouldn’t be? Even when chosen by a downright geek, it’s nice to know you rank.
But I still say, “Two spot?” because the last thing I want to appear is desperate or eager.
“You know. He thinks you’re the second-hottest girl at work,” Michael says.
“Who?” I say, rolling my eyes. “Gerald from the IT department?”
“Nope.” I give.
“Richard Margo,” Michael says smugly.
He now has my full attention. Richard Margo is our executive vice president and director of publicity and is very well-known at our house, as much for his prestigious position as his reputation for pitching in the minors for one season and for being a bit of a womanizer, not the sleazy kind, but the “never been married smooth intellect who wines and dines beautiful women” kind. He’s in his late forties but, unlike many men his age who are lucky to fetch descriptions like “handsome” or “attractive,” Richard can fairly be called hot. He has a very square jaw, deep-set blue eyes, and a slightly receding hairline, a combination of traits that conjures a certain rugged confidence. Even his nose, which looks as if it has been broken at least once is sexy.
Richard has not only been on my list since I arrived at Elgin Press, but he has consistently occupied my top slot, a fact that I’ve only admitted to Michael and a few other close friends (with others, I hem and haw, pretend to never have considered the subject, and then issue the preamble, “Please know that they are in no particular order,” which somehow makes the exercise seem less serious). In fact, Richard not only consistently tops my workplace list, but when Jude Law was caught in bed with his nanny, all his appeal went out the window, and a spot became available on my celebrity list. A spot I gave to Richard. At the time, Ben insisted that I couldn’t commingle my lists, whereupon I argued that he was “famous” at work. The point did not go over so well (Ben insisted that the whole theory behind the celeb list was their unattainable nature). So I bumped Richard, replacing him with Ed Harris, who, incidentally, could pass for Richard’s brother.
“Where’d you hear that?” I ask Michael, feeling somewhat shamed by my racing pulse. But in my defense, I haven’t had sex in months.
“From the horse’s mouth,” Michael says, proudly cracking his knuckles.
“You asked your boss that question?” I say, marveling over Michael’s ability to elicit illicit information from people, including higher-ups.
He shrugs. “Yeah, so what. Guys over lunch, you know. Phil Loomis and Jack Hannigan were with us, and incidentally, Hannigan had you on his list, too.”
“Damn Phil screwed me out of the hat trick?” I say.
Michael laughs as I casually return to the subject of Richard. “So who is Margo’s number one? Stacy Eubanks?”
Stacy Eubanks, a secretary in sales, is Beyonce’s blonde, blue-eyed twin and word has it that she moonlights as a porn star. (Michael claims to have spotted her in a video called Lezzie Maguire.)
“Nope. Stacy didn’t make his cut.”
“Imagine that,” I say, giving Richard’s list even more credence.
“I know. Shocked the hell out of me, too.”
“So who is his number one?” I say nonchalantly.
“That new French chick in sub rights.”
“Oh, yeah. Marina LeCroy. She’s very French.”
“Uh-huh. But apparently Richard’s got a thing for redheads because Naomi Rubenstein is in his mix, too.”
“I’d hardly call that a thing for redheads.”
“Two redheads out of five definitely qualifies as ‘a thing.’ I mean, you all don’t exactly make up forty percent of the general population.”
“Fair enough,” I say, wondering who the other two non-French, nonredheads on his list are.
“So what are you going to do about this?” Michael asks.
“Nothing,” I say, laughing.
“Nothing? Why not?”
“Because I’m a professional,” I say in a jokingly prim tone.
“There’s no antifraternizing policy here. And you don’t work for the guy,” Michael says. “You’re not even in publicity. What’s the conflict?”
“I don’t know. It might show an air of favoritism. Somehow discredit my books.”
“C’mon. That’s a reach,” Michael says.
Technically he is right. Richard runs the publicity department, and as such, has responsibility for all titles in the house. But many different publicists cover my books, and there are other checks and balances in sales and marketing, so it would be virtually impossible for Richard to make much of a single-handed impact on my career or the success of my books. Still, publicity has a huge say in book proposals and they can easily quash a book, so there could be an inference of favoritism coloring my success. Bottom line, I’ve never dated anyone at work, and I have no intention of doing so now. I tell Michael this and then say, “The whole discussion is moot anyway because Richard Margo is not interested in me. He was only humoring you by playing your little game.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Michael says. “Besides, I totally teed you up.”
“How so?” I ask nervously.
“I told him about your divorce,” Michael says. “He had no idea.”
“Michael!” I say. I know it’s ridiculous to keep hiding the fact from everyone, but I can’t help itI don’t like my personal affairs being discussed at work. And there’s something about divorce that is equated with failure, which is never a perception you want to parade around in the workplace.
“It’s no big deal,” Michael says.
“What did he say?” I ask.
“That he was sorry to hear it But I think you should know that he didn’t look one bit sorry to hear it. If you catch my drift.”
Michael leaves my office after giving me a final, dramatic brow raise and a skilled drumroll on my desk.
As much as I try to downplay my interest in Richard’s list, I report the news back to Jess that evening. She has never met Richard, but has heard me speak of him over the years and relishes the mere scent of an intra-office romance. So instead of taking the story for what it isa juicy, self-esteem-boosting bit of trivia, she becomes wildly animated, saying that he is perfect for me.
“He’s way too old to want kids,” she says.
I shake my head and tell her not to be ridiculous.
But a week later when Richard calls me out of the blue, saying he wants to discuss some matters over lunch, I can’t help wondering about his intentions. I’ve sat with him in numerous meetings, but have never had a one-on-one meeting with him. And certainly not over lunch.
“Sure,” I say, reminding myself that, our work lists notwithstanding, I have no interest in Richard (or vice versa). I’m sure that he only wants to discuss business. After all, I am becoming more senior all the time, and maybe an occasional lunch with Richard just reflects my status in the house. Perhaps he wants to go over publicity plans for my upcoming Amy Dickerson novel. Or maybe he wants to formulate a strategy to handle my most difficult author, Jenna Coblentz. Jenna’s been a huge commercial success for over a decade, but she is so demanding with publicity that her behavior borders on abusive, and it’s an editor’s responsibility to act as a buffer for the publicists.
“How does Thursday look?” Richard asks me in his rich, radio-DJ voice.
“Thursday’s perfect,” I say, without consulting my calendar.
“Bolo at one?” he says. Bolo is a popular spot with people from work and the publishing scene generally. He’d never choose Bolo if his intentions were at all impure.
“That works for me,” I say, all business.
On Thursday, I wear my most flattering pair of jeans and green seersucker jacket to work. I look casual, but stylish. Then I spend about ten minutes touching up my makeup at my desk before leaving for lunch. I stand by my claim that I have no interest in Richard, but figure that it never hurts in life to look nice, particularly when you’re going to be in the company of a hot man.
Richard e-mailed me earlier to tell me he was coming from a dentist appointment and would meet me at the restaurant. I walk briskly the few blocks to Bolo, but still arrive five minutes late. I spot Richard right away at a corner table wearing a sport coat and tie. A glass of red wine and a bowl of olives sit on the table before him. He is talking on his cell phone, looking somewhat agitated as he glances down at a small notepad, the old-school kind reporters carry. He has an air of importance. Then again, maybe I just know that he is important.
When he looks up and sees me, his face brightens and he waves me over. I give him a signal, as if to say, “Finish your call. I’ll wait here.” He shakes his head, says good-bye quickly, and snaps his phone shut, sliding it into his jacket pocket along with the pad. As I approach him, he gives me the half-stand and says, “Hello, Claudia.”
“Hi, Richard,” I say as I inhale his aftershave, something I first noticed on him during a shared elevator ride years ago. I love aftershave or cologne on a man. Ben never wore it. Even his deodorant was scent-free. It feels good when I stumble upon something not to miss about Ben. Unfortunately, I haven’t racked up many of those so far. “Any cavities?”
“Not a one,” he says.
“You’re a flosser?” I say.
“Nope,” he says, looking sheepish. “Just good genes, I guess.”
Our waiter, a young, blond kid with so much exuberance that I peg him as a Broadway performer, stops by, introduces himself as Tad, and asks what I’d like to drink. I don’t usually have wine at lunch during the week, but because Richard is drinking, I order a glass of chardonnay.
“Good. I don’t like to drink alone,” Richard says after Tad departs. “Unless I’m alone, that is.”
I laugh.
He laughs.
Then, as if to offset our beverage selection, Richard skips further small talk and immediately launches into business. Our summer list generally. A new author I just signed on board. A recent, mixed review of the Skvarla memoir in the Times . (Not that publicity ever cares too much about the content. Even bad publicity is good publicity.)
“And the big news is,” Richard says, as if signaling the reason for our lunch, “I’m this close to getting Amy Dickerson on The Today Show .” His index finger and thumb are a millimeter apart.
“You’re kidding me?” I say, even though I had already heard this news from Michael. It is huge deal for any book, but particularly a novel. Still, it’s usually not the sort of thing that necessitates a one-on-one lunch with the head of publicity.
Richard nods. “Apparently Katie really digs the book,” he says.
I smile at his use of the word digs . Richard frequently uses jargon from the seventies. Most people sound washed-up or silly when they drop slang from a prior generation, but with Richard, it’s endearing. I guess if you’re handsome and successful enough, you can pull off just about anything.
I resist the urge to say, “Groovy,” and instead cross my fingers in the air.
Tad returns with my glass of chardonnay and two menus. He asks if we’d like to hear the specials.
“Sure,” we say in unison, and then listen as Tad rattles off the longest and most detailed shrimp bisque description in the history of the world. Ben always hated food adjectivesparticularly the words moist and chewy . Cookie commercials presented a problem for him. I tell myself, No more thinking about Ben ! I peruse the menu, trying to find something that’s not too messy to eat. I decide on the seared-tuna salad. Richard goes with the pressed burger. I like the burger-wine combo.
“So read anything good lately?” Richard asks.
“You mean generallyor are you talking manuscripts?” I ask.
“Either,” he says.
I reel off a few titles in the first category and a couple of projects in the second.
“What else can you tell me?” Richard says after Tad takes our order and trots off. He looks at me expectantly, as if I’m the one who scheduled our little “business” lunch.
I take a sip of wine and say, “As far as work goes?” My mind races to various bits of gossip in the business generally. Just as I’m about to ask him if he’s heard the rumors that the mystery writer Jennifer Coats is unhappy with her editor at Putnam, and is shopping her new manuscript around, Richard shrugs and leans back in his chair. “Or whatever.” His whatever signals that this is most definitely not a business lunch.
I consider my response carefully, feeling as if I have just arrived at a fork in the road. Like the kind in one of those choose-your-own-adventure books I loved so much in elementary school. I could easily discuss the Jennifer Coats rumor or turn the conversation back to Amy Dickerson’s Today Show booking.
Instead, I hold up my left hand, wiggle my ring finger, and blurt out, “I got a divorce.”
Richard looks surprised, and I hope that he’s not going to play dumb and pretend that he knew nothing of my recent news. Then again, maybe he’s just surprised that I’m sharing it with him so readily. I’m a little surprised myself.