Pounding the Pavement (28 page)

“Pas couramment. Je n’ai pas assez de temps pour pratiquer.”

Mischief stops dancing. Mischief grows so fat and unwieldy, her eyebrows make way to let it pass. She’s impressed. And so am I. Who knew those four years of college French would actually stick?

“Okay, Sarah, tell me something.” Marianne leans forward on her elbows, her palms pressed down on the desk. Is it time for the curve ball already? I must be doing exceedingly well. “You say you’re an avid reader on your résumé,” she says. “I’d be curious to know what the last good book you read was.”

You have got to be
kidding
me! Man, if all my interviews were this easy, I’d—well, I guess I’d be employed.

“Well, you know,” I inch forward a little, as if confiding a particularly juicy secret. “When I was in Paris, I picked up a French translation of a German book that was pretty good. Have you heard of
Die Dämmerung?”

“You read that?” she asks incredulously.

“Yes.”

“What did you think?”

“I thought it was fantastic.” I shrug. “I enjoy German absurdism. It’s a nice change from all the generic, cookie-cutter romances we have here.” Suddenly I remember Marianne Langold’s client roster includes a fair number of actresses who have eked out a damn good living playing the heroines in screen adaptations of such generic romances. “But, to tell you the truth,” I add, anxious not to alienate her just yet. “I really do enjoy a good romantic comedy, too. It’s my guilty pleasure.”

Phew. Close one.

There is a rap at the door. Marianne and I both pivot in our seats to find a young man with incredibly chiseled features and amazing bone structure open the door and lean his head into the office. He’s wearing a tie to put my entire wardrobe to shame.

Marianne stiffens and scowls. “What?” she barks.

“Sorry to interrupt, Ms. Langold. Do you have a second?”

Her scowl deepens. “Absolutely not!” She gestures to me. “Look who I am talking to!”

The man turns to me, stricken, and studies me with a look of terror I know oh-so-well. It’s the same look people gave me at the wedding when I told them I was a Rockette. The same look I know I gave Sarah Wagner when she waltzed into the recording studio. He’s trying to place me, trying to figure out what in the world could possibly make me so goddamn special.

His uneasy silence is finally broken. The room chimes with the silver bells of Marianne Langold’s laugh once again.

“I’m just kidding.” She chuckles and points to me. “She’s nobody!”

Her laugh is contagious. Soon, the man at her door has caught
it. And then I have, too. I laugh because I have to. Because crying in an interview is against the rules. But, inside I can feel myself shrinking. I am no longer Persephone. I am not even Sarah. I am, in fact, that dime a dozen, that one among many of the unemployed. I am nobody.

The laughing feels good, though. The laughing gives me the strength to wave good-bye to the man when he exits the office, it gives me the strength to smile politely when Marianne describes the position she is looking to fill. It gives me the strength, in the end, to follow her when she stands and leads me out.

Before she opens the door, however, she leans in and whispers to me.

“Now, I’m not really supposed to say this,” she begins. “I don’t get final approval on new hires. Human Resources likes to recommend the applicants themselves, check references, that sort of thing. Makes them feel necessary, I suppose. But the job is yours, as far as I’m concerned.” She extends her hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Sarah. You’ll be hearing from me soon.”

I am so thrilled, I want to kiss her. So, I do. Twice, once on each cheek.

“Comme on fait en France,”
I explain.

She beams.

And I? Well, I’m overcome with a strange sensation I can’t quite place. Could it be victory?

I yank out my cell phone and start dialing Laurie’s work number as soon as I step off the elevator on the ground floor.

“You and I met as interns at the New York Film Fest,” I tell her.

“I know that.”

“But you’re a couple of years older than me. I just graduated this May.”

“Ooookay.”

“Laurie, please! You’re my only reference!”

“Relax. You have nothing to worry about.”

“J
ust pick a restaurant,” Jake implores. “Any restaurant.”

“Do I have to?”

“Somewhere
nice
,” he insists.

I groan. “You know I hate picking restaurants.” I really, really do. New York City is like a diner with a daunting ten-page menu—one you know you’ll never read entirely. The first time the waiter drops by, you panic and stutter and finally ask that he return in another five minutes. But when he comes back, you still can’t quite decide between the chef salad, the tuna melt, or the chili with a side of fries. So you make someone else at your table order first and hopefully their selection will be appealing enough for you to just say, “I’ll have the same.”

“What about Vietnamese?” Jake asks. “You liked Nam Phuong, didn’t you?”

“That’s all the way downtown.”

“How about Pastis?”

“Too expensive.”

“I told you. I don’t mind. I
want
to take you out.”

“But we have to make reservations—”

“I’ll call right now.”

“No, no, no,” I shake my head adamantly. “They’ll still make us wait. I hate waiting for food. I’m hungry
now.”

“Wanna go to Serendipity? We can get that frozen hot chocolate you’re always talking about.”

“Look, Jake. My feet are killing me. I just took off my shoes. Are you really going to make me put them right back on again?”

He burrows his head in his hands. “So that’s it? You just want to order in?”

“You mind?”

“What? Chinese again?”

“Mmmm. Perfect.” I stretch back on the sofa and prop my sore toes up on the coffee table. Jake sighs and heads into the kitchen to find the menu.

“You sure about this?” he asks when he returns. “ ’Cause I’m happy to take you anywhere you want to go.”

“I don’t get it! Why all the fuss?”

“Because I want to do something
special
for you. I want to celebrate.”

“Why? I didn’t get the job yet.”

“So? She said it’s as good as yours.”

“Still …” I trail off. There really isn’t a good reason for me to so stubbornly refuse Jake’s sweet offer. But celebrating this early on has a troubling fall of Troy element to it that I just can’t shake.

“Chinese is exactly what I want tonight,” I say resolutely. “Order the House Special Chow Fun. And we’ll use the real plates.”

“Fine,” he grumbles as he picks up the phone.

The food arrives twenty minutes later and by then I’m ready to tear open the paper bag with my teeth and burrow in for my spring roll. Jake, however, shoos me out of the kitchen and makes me clear off the coffee table. He sets down two bamboo place mats.

“Where’d you get those?”

“They’re yours.” He eyes me curiously. “You don’t recognize them?”

I shrug. “Must be Amanda’s.”

He ducks back into the kitchen and returns with a saucer for the duck sauce. Then it’s two small plates for each individual spring roll, and after that, two larger plates for the noodles.

“Sit down already, will you?” I plead.

“No, this still isn’t right,” he says, chewing thoughtfully on his thumb knuckle.

“It looks wonderful. Can we eat now?”

“Hang on a sec.” Before I know it, he’s trotting into my bathroom. I dip my spring roll into the duck sauce and take a bite.

“He we go!” He emerges proudly displaying two of my vanilla-scented votive candles.

“What do you think?” He digs around in his pocket for matches.

“Very nice,” I say with my mouth full, patting the sofa cushion beside me. He doesn’t sit until the candles are lit and appropriately positioned. I shove the duck sauce toward him. He doesn’t touch it.

“You know, I got you something.”

I swallow hard. “You did?”

“Yeah.”

“Like what?”

“A gift. More like a reward. For a job well done today.”

My heart sinks. The whole night he’s been nothing but kind and considerate and loving, and here I am with duck sauce on my chin and a stray noodle stuck to my lap.

“Oh, Jake,” I say softly. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“But I wanted to.” He grins and hands me a small package wrapped in simple brown packing paper. I take it from him eagerly, then freeze at once.

I don’t even have to unwrap the gift to know what it is. It’s a book. And the reason I know this is because there is a silver sticker on the crease, just underneath the ribbon. The name on the sticker, in elegant bold font, is “Regal Bookstore.”

“Go ahead. Open it.”

Wordlessly, I peel back the wrapping and try to keep my trembling
fingers from betraying my rage. I flip the book over to the front cover.
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
.

“I noticed you finished those other two manuscripts,” he says. “You left one at my apartment. I figured you probably needed something new to read.”

I put the book down on the table and look up at him, feeling my eyes burn. “Where did you get this?” I demand.

“Huh?” My reaction has startled him. “Oh, just this little bookstore in my neighborhood. A couple of blocks away from where I live.”

“Why did you go there?”

“I thought it was obvious.” He shrugs. “I went there to buy you a book.”

Subtle tactics are beyond me at this point. I start spewing the angry words before I have a chance to rethink them. “You sure this has nothing to do with your ex-girlfriend?”

Jake blinks at me. “How did you know—” He stops himself, his eyes narrowing. “Have you been going through my stuff?”

“I don’t think it matters right now.”

“
I
think it does.”

For a moment we say nothing, silently fuming, letting our heated glares do the fighting for us. Finally, Jake looks away, focusing his attention on the dancing flames of the candles. “For your information,” he says, “she wasn’t working today.”

“And how would you have known that?”

“I don’t think it matters right now.”

I seethe through clenched teeth. “I think it does.”

“Know what? I’ve told you a million times before. I’m not going to talk about this.” He rises stiffly and grabs his wallet, stuffing it angrily into his pocket.

“Fine.” I remain seated. And even though there is a knot gnawing at my stomach, even though my throat feels parched, and my eyes are stinging and a wave of nausea is welling up inside me, I clench my fists and wait for the anguish to subside.

“I’m leaving now,” he tells me coldly, probably waiting for me to stop him.

“I think that’s a great idea.”

    You could look at my day in one of two ways. You could say I’ve spent the entire morning waiting for the phone to ring. But that sounds pathetic. True, but pathetic. And so damn obvious. Of course I spend the morning waiting for the phone to ring. I am always waiting for the phone to ring. No matter what I’m doing, or how much I’m enjoying it, believe me—I will stop
cold
if I think I’ve heard ringing. Because there is always that chance, that thrill—the mystery! Answering that phone could change my life completely. You just never know.

On the other hand, you could also say I’ve spent my entire morning smoking. Which is also true. And also pathetic. But at least it sounds more productive, as if I’ve accomplished something. The ashtray holds the proof that I have been hard at work for the last few hours burning the hell out of the last of my nicotine supply.

In times of great desperation, bad habits fit most comfortably. And smoking is no exception. It’s a familiar cycle I can easily slip into. Inhale and exhale. My yin and yang. Like entertaining thoughts of calling Jake and then firmly deciding to wait for him to call me. Hating myself for overreacting. Then hating
him
for having the power to cause me so much grief. What is my chief complaint anyway? The only glaring mistake Jake ever committed was the fact that he had the
gall to exist before I met him. He’s probably had torrid affairs, he’s probably fallen in love, and he’s probably even had his heart broken—all before I ever came into his life. It kills me! All I ever wanted was to believe that we were meant to be, that I conjured him up out of thin air expressly to be my soul mate. I’d like to think that I wouldn’t have handed over my heart to just anyone kind enough to take it. Or would I?

If Jake is going to reduce me to this, if his admittedly minor transgressions can cause me so much distress—even unintentionally—than he damn well better earn the right. He better call me. He better apologize for being the only person in the world who could possibly make me feel this weak and vulnerable.

Or should I just grow up and call him?

By 3:30 p.m., I’ve run out of cigarettes. Grumpily, I slide on my sneakers, stuff my keys in my pocket, and head to my front door. I skid to a stop before I even reach the hallway.

Could it be? Did I just hear—my phone ring?

I alter my course and make a mad dash for the telephone.