Chasing Harry Winston (9 page)

She had just swung by her office to grab her purse when her phone rang and she saw her publisher’s extension on her caller ID. Leigh had just decided to screen him when she heard her assistant’s voice call out, “Henry, line one. He says it’s urgent.”

“He always says it’s urgent,” Leigh muttered to herself. She took a calming breath and picked up the receiver.

“Henry! Are you calling to apologize for missing the sales meeting?” she joked. “I’m willing to overlook it this time, but don’t let it happen again.”

“Ha-ha, I’m cracking up on the inside, I promise,” he said. “I’m not keeping you from a lunchtime manicure or a quick jaunt to Barneys, am I?”

Leigh forced a laugh. It was positively eerie how well he knew her. Although technically it was a
blowout
and a quick jaunt to Barneys. She couldn’t particularly afford either one right now, but her flakiness in both the personal hygiene and gift departments today had mandated that she splurge. “Of course not. What can I do for you?”

“There’s someone in my office I’d like you to meet. Come on over here for a minute.”

Goddammit! The man had a gift for intuitively sensing the most inconvenient moments of her day and then asking for something. It was uncanny and she wondered, for the umpteenth time, if he bugged her office.

She took another calming breath and glanced at the clock. Her appointment was in fifteen minutes and the salon was a ten-minute walk away. “I’ll be right there,” she said with enough cheer to fell a sequoia.

She speed-walked through the cubicles and winding hallways that separated her office from Henry’s. He obviously wanted her to meet a potential author or someone new they’d just signed, since he was a big believer in demonstrating how Brook Harris was run like a family and insisted on personally introducing all the editors to all the new authors. It was one of the qualities that had most impressed her when she’d first started out—and one of the main reasons so many authors signed with Brook Harris and stayed for their entire careers—but today it was really fucking annoying. Anyone less than Tom Wolfe and she wasn’t interested. She ran calculations as she rounded the corner and passed the elevator bank. Her congrats-on-joining-the-family-we’re-so-happy-to-have-you or some similar we’d-be-thrilled-and-honored-to-have-you-join-the-family speech would take only a couple of minutes. Another minute or two to feign interest in the new/potential author’s current work, plus one more to congratulate him on the success of his previous publication, and there was a chance she’d be out in under five. At least she’d better be.

She’d been up so late the night before trying to finish her notes on the last chapter of her newest memoir acquistion that she had slept straight through her alarm and had to race, unshowered, to make the sales meeting on time. It wasn’t until Leigh found a toweringly tall pale purple orchid on her desk with a note that read, “I love you and can’t wait to see you tonight. Happy First Year!” that she even remembered that Russell had made reservations at Daniel to celebrate their one-year anniversary. Typical. It was the single day in her entire career—possibly her entire life—that she’d overslept and left the house looking like a homeless person, and it was the only time it mattered. Thankfully Gilles had agreed to fit her in for a last-minute blowout (“You can have Adriana’s appointment at one if she doesn’t mind,” he’d offered. “She doesn’t mind!” Leigh had screamed into the phone. “I take full responsibility!”) and she planned to swing by Barneys and pick up a bottle of cologne or a tie or a dopp kit—really, whatever was closest to the register and came prewrapped—on her way back to the office. There was absolutely no time for dawdling.

“You can go right on in,” Henry’s perky new assistant drawled. Her spiky, pink-streaked hair didn’t fit with the Southern accent—or the conservative corporate culture—but she seemed able to spell and didn’t appear overtly hostile, so it was overlooked.

Leigh nodded her thanks and barreled through the open door. “Hello!” she sang to Henry. She guessed the man sitting opposite him, facing away from her, was in his early forties. Despite the early summer weather, he wore a light blue shirt and an olive corduroy blazer with patches over the elbows. His dirty-blond hair—light brown, really, now that she looked more carefully—was the perfect amount of shaggy, just grazing the top of his collar and falling slightly over the tops of his ears. Before he even turned to look at her, she knew, intuited, that he would be attractive. Perhaps even gorgeous. Which was partly why she was so taken aback when their eyes finally met.

The surprise was twofold. Her first thought was that he wasn’t nearly as good-looking as she had predicted. His eyes were not the piercing shade of blue or green she’d expected, but an unremarkable grayish hazel, and his nose managed to appear flattened and protuberant at the same time. But he did have flawless teeth, straight, white, gorgeous teeth, teeth that could star in their very own Crest commercial, and it was these teeth that captured her attention. It wasn’t until the man smiled, revealing deeply engraved but somehow still very appealing laugh lines, that she realized she recognized him. Sitting here, gazing at her with an easy smile and a welcoming expression, was Jesse Chapman, a man whose talents had been compared to Updike, Roth, and Bellow; McInerney, Ford, and Franzen.
Disenchantment
, the first novel he’d published, at age twenty-three, had been one of those impossibly rare books that was both a commercial and literary success, and Jesse’s reputation as a bad-boy genius had only increased with every additional party attended, model dated, and book written. He had disappeared six or seven years ago, after a rumored stint in rehab and spate of brutal reviews, but no one expected him to stay hidden forever. The fact that he was here, in their offices, could mean only one thing.

“Leigh, may I introduce you to Jesse Chapman? You’re familiar with his work, of course. And Jesse, this is Leigh Eisner, my most promising editor, and my favorite, were I forced to choose.”

Jesse stood to face Leigh, and although his eyes remained fixed on hers, she could feel him appraising her. She wondered if he liked girls with stringy ponytails and no makeup. She prayed he did.

“He says that about everyone,” Leigh said graciously, extending her hand to meet Jesse’s.

“Of course he does,” Jesse said smoothly, standing to envelop her right hand between both of his. “And that’s why we all adore him. Please, will you join us?” He waved his hand toward the empty space beside him on the love seat and looked at her.

“Oh, well, actually, I was just—”

“She’d love to,” Henry said.

Leigh resisted the urge to glare at him while she settled into the ancient couch.
Bye-bye, blowout
, she thought.
Bye-bye, Barneys.
It would be a miracle if Russell ever spoke to her again after the disaster that tonight would surely be.

Henry cleared his throat. “Jesse and I were just discussing his last novel. I was saying how we all—really, the entire publishing industry—thought the
Times
’ attack was inexcusable. Embarrassing for them, really, with its obvious agenda. Absolutely no one took it seriously. It was complete and—”

Smiling again, this time with the slightest expression of amusement, Jesse turned to Leigh. “And what did you think, dear? Did you think the review was warranted?”

Leigh was shocked by his assuredness that she had not only read but remembered both the book and this particular review. Which, irritatingly, she did. It had been the cover of the Sunday
Book Review
six years earlier, and the viciousness of it still resonated. She actually remembered wondering what it must be like for the author to read something like that about his work, had wondered where Jesse Chapman was when he first laid eyes on those brutal ten paragraphs. She would have read the book regardless—she’d studied Jesse’s earlier novels in countless college lit classes—but the sheer meanness of the review had propelled her to buy it in hardcover and devour it that same week.

Leigh spoke, as she often did, without thinking. It was a habit at direct odds with her methodical personality, but she just couldn’t help herself. She could meticulously organize an apartment or schedule a day or create a work plan, but she couldn’t seem to master the concept that not all thoughts need to be spoken. The girls and Russell claimed they found it charming, but it could be downright mortifying sometimes. Like in a meeting with your boss, for instance. Something about Jesse’s gaze—interested yet still aloof—made her forget that she was in Henry’s office, talking to one of the greatest writing talents of the twenty-first century, and she barreled ahead. “The review was petty, to be sure. It was vindictive and unprofessional, a hit job if I’ve ever seen one. That said, I think
Rancor
was your weakest effort. It didn’t deserve a review like that, but it wasn’t nearly on par with
The Moon’s Defeat
or, of course,
Disenchantment
.”

Henry inhaled and instinctively placed his hand over his mouth.

Leigh felt faint; her heart began to race at top speed and she could feel the sweat starting to dampen her palms and feet.

Jesse grinned. “Telling it straight. No bullshit. That’s rare these days, wouldn’t you say?”

Not sure whether this was an actual question, Leigh stared at her hands, which she was wringing with a frightening ferocity.

“A regular charm school here, isn’t it?” Henry laughed. His voice sounded hollow and more than a little nervous. “Well, thank you for sharing your opinion with Mr. Chapman, Leigh. Your
solo
opinion, of course.” He smiled wanly at Jesse.

Leigh took this as her cue to leave and was positively ecstatic to oblige. “I, uh, I’m so…I meant no offense, of course. I’m a really huge fan and, it’s just that—”

“Please don’t apologize. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

With tremendous effort, Leigh resisted the urge to apologize again and managed to get herself off the couch, past Jesse, and out of Henry’s office without further humiliation, but one look at Henry’s assistant’s face and she knew she was screwed.

“Was it really that bad?” she asked, gripping the girl’s desk.

“Whoa. That was ballsy.”

“Ballsy? I didn’t intend to be ballsy. I was trying to be diplomatic! I’m such an idiot. I can’t believe I said that. Ohmigod, eight years of work and it’s all down the drain because I can’t keep my mouth shut. Was it really that bad?” Leigh asked again.

There was a pause. The assistant opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. “It wasn’t good.”

Leigh checked her watch and grudgingly acknowledged to herself that there was no chance of making her appointment or getting back in time for the calls she had scheduled all afternoon with various agents. Back in her office, she began to work the phones. Her first call was to cancel with Gilles and the second was to Barneys. A pleasant-sounding salesclerk in the men’s department agreed to messenger a gift to her office before six. Leigh was baffled when he asked what she’d like; unable to think clearly and not particularly caring, she instructed him to make it in the $200 range and charge her American Express.

By the time the gift-wrapped box arrived at five-thirty, Leigh was close to tears. She hadn’t heard another word from Henry, who usually couldn’t make it an hour without multiple phone calls or stop-ins. She’d managed to run to the gym briefly—no workout, just a quick shower—but she didn’t realize until she was standing under the blessedly hot water that she’d left her gym bag in the office, the one with her cosmetics, a change of underwear, and, most important, her hairdryer. Although she would have thought it impossible, the mini-dryer attached to the gym wall with what seemed like a two-inch cord actually left her hair looking significantly worse than it had before the shower. Russell and her mother called her cell phone during the walk back to her office, but she screened both of them.

I am a vile human being
, Leigh thought as she examined herself in the ladies room closest to her office. It was almost seven and she’d only just ended her final phone call with one of her least favorite agents. Her hair hung in limp, frizzy strands, its flatness accentuated by the dark bags under eyes and the angry redness of a forehead pimple that had neither hair nor foundation to conceal it. She’d forgotten that Russell had once joked that she looked “lesbian chic” in the blazer she was wearing, and although she’d always loved its shrunken fit and its chunky gold chains and the fact that it was Chanel—the only article of haute couture she owned—she had never noticed until this very moment that it made her look like a linebacker. “Don’t worry,” she mumbled, unaware that she was talking to herself. “Russell’s a sports commentator. He works for ESPN. He dedicates his life to professional sports. Russell loves football players!” And with that, clutching the gorgeously wrapped gift box from Barneys, trying not to worry about the fact that its contents were a complete mystery, she gathered her unkempt self and hustled downstairs to hail a cab.

Russell stood outside Daniel, looking relaxed and fit and happy. Like he’d just returned from a month in the Caribbean, where he’d done nothing but treat his body like a temple. His charcoal gray suit hugged every toned muscle. His skin glowed with the health of someone who runs six miles a day; he was freshly washed and shaven. Even his shoes—a pair of black lace-ups that he’d bought on their last trip to Milan—literally shined. He was groomed to perfection, and Leigh resented him for it. Who on earth managed to work a full day and keep their tie that clean or their shirt that crisp? How was it always possible to match that well, to have coordinated cuff links with trouser socks, shoes with briefcases?

“Hi, gorgeous. I was starting to worry.”

She pecked him on the lips but moved away before he could open his mouth. “Worry? Why? I’m right on time.”

“Well, you know, I just hadn’t heard from you all day. You did get the orchid, right? I know the purple ones are your favorite.”