Authors: Sebastian Stuart
“Mr. Davis. Good morning. Is Nina expecting you?”
“No.”
Jeffrey picks up his phone. “Nina, Charles Davis is here.… Of course.”
Jeffrey hangs up and leads Charles across the hall.
Nina’s pale gray office is dominated by her Pollock, bought when he was still affordable. Every line cool and uncluttered, the room epitomizes a certain post-World War II vision of modernism,
a Midtown soul mate of Philip Johnson’s New Canaan glass house. Guess what, Nina, the world’s moved on.
Nina rises from her desk and crosses to Charles, taking his hand in her own. He’s always loved the feel of Nina’s hands and in a rush of emotion he considers ditching his plan.
“Charles, what a surprise. Can Jeffrey get you a cup of coffee? Something to drink?”
Charles shakes his head and remains standing. Jeffrey disappears.
“Charles, I am on such a high about this new book. When will I get more? I want to send a chapter to the
New Yorker
.”
How can she do that? How can she think some unformed, uneducated kid from the outskirts of nowhere is a better writer than Charles Davis?
“Nina, please. This isn’t a courtesy call.… This is difficult.”
Nina’s face grows grave. She sits behind her desk and waits for him to continue.
“For the first two decades of my career, I couldn’t have asked for a better agent, but the last two books have been a disappointment. I feel that you mishandled them.”
“You call the quarter-million advance I got you on
Down for the Count
mishandled?”
“I’m not talking about money. I need a fresh start, a rebirth. A resurrection.”
“You’re leaving me.”
“I’m leaving you.”
Nina looks down at her desk. Charles knows there won’t be any tears, any curses, a scene. Breaks like this are best accomplished quickly, cleanly. In the end, it’s all about the work. When she looks up at him all her polish and poise and sophistication are gone.
“Just like that, after twenty-four years?” she asks.
Charles meets her gaze; he owes her that.
“I’m hoping we can remain friends,” he says.
They look at each other for a long time, compatriots for whom things will never be the same. Nina runs her fingers lightly up the back of her neck and then, as if a switch has been flicked, her jaw tightens.
“I’ll call you next time I need a golf partner.” She stands, walks to the door, and opens it. “Let Jeffrey know what you want from your files.”
Charles knows how difficult she could have made this, could still make it, and he’s grateful.
“Good-bye, Nina.”
As he walks down the long hallway he feels guilty and exhilarated in equal measure. By the time he reaches the lobby the exhilaration has overwhelmed the guilt. Firing Nina is just the sort of bold move he needs to make a new beginning. Look at the work he’s been doing with Emma. Why, he’s practically writing her book, and doing it with a fervor and imagination that surprises even him.
Charles grabs an apple off the kitchen counter and takes a bite. He strides into his office and stops cold: Portia is sitting across from Emma, wearing black and smoking a Pall Mall. She looks tired and tiny, but fierce nonetheless.
“Jesus Christ, Charles, I know I’m a wrinkled old bag, but I don’t look
that
bad.”
Charles struggles to regain his bearings; as far as he knows, Portia hasn’t been to Manhattan for years. How jarring to see her here, in this apartment, in this room—with Emma.
“Portia …”
“Another of the old Dartmouth dinosaurs bought the farm, so I crawled out from under my rock to see the old bastard off.”
“Emma, why don’t you take a break, get some air.”
Emma stands up and puts on her coat.
“Don’t take any crap from this guy,” Portia says.
Emma laughs. “I’ll try not to.”
Charles watches as Emma walks down the hallway.
“Why, I’d love a drink,” Portia says, reaching for her cane. She follows Charles into his office and sits down with a sigh. He pours two shots of Scotch, fighting to control the slight trembling of his hands.
“Bright girl,” Portia says after taking a healthy swallow.
Charles notes the twinkle in her eye. “Oh, you two had a chance to talk?”
“No, I was too shy.”
Charles fidgets with a tiny iron sailor he uses as a paperweight. Even after all these years, Portia has the ability to reduce him to a rattled kid. She’s too fucking honest, like a moral flashlight aimed into his soul’s darkest corners. Charles is sure she can tell that he and Emma are sleeping together. What else can she tell?
“What did you discuss?”
“She was very tight-lipped. You have her well trained. She said how interesting it was to work for you, how much she was learning.”
Charles looks down into his drink. A pigeon coos on the window ledge.
“What’s her background?” Portia asks.
“She’s from some kind of broken home. I can’t get much out of her. Tight-lipped, as you say.”
Portia polishes off her drink and holds out her glass for a refill. “How are you, Charles?”
Charles wonders if he should tell her about firing Nina. They never talk career, only the work itself. Why bother her? Why get into all that explaining?
“I’m taking your advice, trying to stay in the game.”
“Good. When can I read something?”
“Why is everyone on me? You can all read it soon enough.” Charles immediately regrets his outburst. He stands up and walks over to the bookcase that’s filled with foreign language editions of his books. “This is the Japanese edition of
Down for the Count
. Some cover, huh?… Don’t look at me like that, Portia.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m going crazy or something.”
“Charles, you’ve never stooped to melodrama.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been working too hard. But it’s good. I think I’m on to something.”
Portia knocks back her drink and stands. “Well, that’s what I came to hear. Now let me catch my plane out of this hellhole.”
Charles holds Portia’s arm as they wait for the doorman to hail a cab. He has rarely touched her before and he feels self-conscious; he can feel her small bones and can tell she doesn’t like being held. They don’t look at each other.
“Send me something soon, Charles. I need reasons to stick around.”
“It’s always good to see you,” he says.
“What’s left of me.”
At that, Portia smiles up at Charles. No, she beams, her whole face lighting up, embracing the absurdity, the futility, of the human condition, and suddenly it’s nearly thirty years ago and Charles is a young man sitting in a New England classroom being inspired by a lonely woman who burns with a ferocious passion for the written word.
“There’s lots left, Portia, lots.”
It must be the New York air pollution that’s making tears well up in Portia’s eyes. Mercifully, a cab pulls up. The doorman holds open the door and just as Portia is about to climb inside, she turns.
“And, Charles?”
“Yes?”
“Be nice to that girl.”
“I’ll try.”
Through the rear window, Charles sees Portia defiantly light up a cigarette. Woe be to that driver if he asks her to put it out. Then the cab disappears into the New York traffic.
Anne is walking down Sixth Avenue toward Le Bernardin to have lunch with her mother. It’s a cool sunny day and the air is deliciously dry. She’s decided to have the baby. If Farnsworth is the father, so be it. The child will still be hers. And if her marriage to Charles falls apart she won’t be alone. She’ll have Eliza, or Luke. She pulls her phone out of her purse.
“Kayla.”
“Anne.”
“I’m sorry I hung up on you.”
“No big deal. What’s up?”
“I’m going to have the baby.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Anne, that’s sensational.”
“You’re going to be a godmother.”
“Whatever the hell that is.”
“Think expensive presents, savings bonds, that kind of thing.”
“I’m going to come to New York and throw you a huge garish shower. We’ll invite all sorts of celebs, get lots of press. You can start a new catalog called
Kids at Home
.”
“It’s already being prototyped.”
“It’s a bitch being best friends with a genius.”
“Don’t I know it. I’m on my way to have lunch with Mom, tell her the news.”
“Oh, God, she’s going to be so thrilled her face-lifts will crack. Even rich right-wingers love grandchildren. Makes them feel almost human. How’s Charles taking impending fatherhood?”
“Haven’t told him yet. Tonight.”
Anne walks into the cool confines of Le Bernardin. Suddenly she’s famished, longing for something rich and slightly ghastly, like a baked stuffed lobster. The maitre d’ is expecting her and escorts her to the choice front table where her mother is sitting. There’s a man sitting with her, his back to Anne.
“Darling, there you are!” Frances exclaims.
The man turns. It’s John Farnsworth. Anne feels her mouth go dry, her stomach hollow out. She puts a hand on the back of a chair to steady herself.
“Anne, how splendid to see you,” Farnsworth says, standing and bowing slightly, a gentleman of the old school.
The maître d’ pulls out Anne’s chair and she sits.
“Anne, you look pale.”
“I’m fine, Mother. Hello, John.”
“I’m on my way out, I just popped over to flirt with your mother,” Farnsworth says. “Of course she’s much too young for me.”
Frances laughs at the cheap flattery. She looks exquisite in a Barbara Sinatra-ish kind of way, her skin tight and luminous, her golden hair sweeping down to frame her face. She’s wearing a beige wool suit with pink velvet trim—a southern Californian’s idea of autumn style. She lays a hand on one of Anne’s.
“It’s so good to see you. How are you? Busy as a mad bee, no doubt. My daughter the superstar.”
A waiter appears. Anne would love a martini but orders herbal tea. Farnsworth orders Scotch, and Frances carrot juice spiked with a shot of vodka.
“My yoga teacher approves of vodka,” she announces.
“We won’t bore your mother with business talk, Anne.”
“Oh, go ahead, my husband does it all the time,” Frances says. She and Farnsworth laugh.
Anne has a hard time looking at him, at that jowly red face. She gets a whiff of his bay rum and it brings back a flood of memories—that bay rum curdling into sweat and lust and sour breath. She wants to pick up her knife and jab it into his eyeball.
“She’s quite a gal, this daughter of yours,” Farnsworth says. He places a moist heavy hand on one of Anne’s. She pulls hers away and opens her napkin.
“I’m so proud of her. You know that, don’t you, darling?”
“Thank you. I think I get a lot of my drive from you.”
“And your beauty,” Farnsworth adds.
“Isn’t he awful?” Frances says to Anne.
“Awful.”
Their drinks arrive. Anne inhales the soothing aroma of her chamomile tea.
“News flash—I snagged Jay Leno for our hospital benefit,” Frances announces. “Terribly nice man. Absolute professional. We’re going to raise two million or I’m a monkey’s uncle.”
“That’s terrific, Mother.”
“I probably should have gone into business myself. But back in
my
salad days, women just didn’t.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t like business, Frances. You’re far too cultured. Business is brutal. Isn’t it, Anne?”
“It certainly can be.”
“We cover it with a veneer of civility, but it’s really the law of the jungle out there.”
“Well, here’s to the veneer,” Frances says, lifting her drink and taking a long swallow. “God, I adore carrot juice.”
Anne feels as if she’s stepped outside herself and is watching
the scene from a remove. The muffled clink of dinnerware and chatter of the other diners becomes a surreal buzz. Her limbs begin to tingle. She puts her hands around her teacup for warmth.
“Anne, has John told you that he and Marnie have endowed a gallery at the Museum of Fine Arts up in Boston? It’s terribly exciting. The dedication ceremony is in March. Dwight and I are going,” Frances says.
“How
is
your wife?” Anne asks.
“Marnie? She’s fine. Up to her ears as usual.”
“That’s good news. Last time I saw you she was ill.”
“Oh, that. Turned out to just be a forty-eight-hour flu.”
Sour bile bubbles up at the back of Anne’s throat. “Will you excuse me?” she says quickly. She stands and forces herself to take measured steps as she crosses the restaurant. In the ladies’ room, she leans over the toilet and retches out a thin stream of watery brown fluid. She sits down and waits for the dizziness to pass. Her mouth tastes rancid. She hastily gets a cup of water, rinses out her mouth and spits into the sink, then takes a long drink. With her mouth open she draws deep, steadying breaths. Finally she feels halfway human. She pulls her phone out of her purse.
“Dr. Arnold’s office.”
“This is Anne Turner, may I speak to Dr. Arnold please, it’s an emergency.”
As she waits for the doctor to come on the line, Anne presses a palm against the cool marble of the sink.
“Judith Arnold, Anne.”
“I’d like to schedule an abortion. As soon as possible.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. I just want to get this over with.”
“You’re at approximately how many weeks?”
“Twelve.”
“Then we don’t have much time.” There’s a pause and then Dr. Arnold says, “How’s Friday at eleven?”
“Good.”
“See you then. You’re sure you’re all right?”
“I’ll be a lot better after Friday.”
When Anne returns to the table, Farnsworth is standing with his hands on the back of his chair.
“I’m off. It was a pleasure seeing you both. Anne, let’s have lunch next week.”
“I’ll call you,” Anne says.
“And, Frances, if you ever want to make a little mischief …”
“Oh, be gone, you terrible man,” Frances says with a big smile.
Anne sits down and looks at her perfect little salad, which she can’t possibly eat.
“I swear John Farnsworth and your stepfather are cloned from the same DNA,” Frances says, taking a bite of her salad. “Superb salad. Anne, what
is
the matter with you? I know—Charles’s book. Well, darling, that’s what you get for marrying a man in the arts. Live by reviews, die by reviews. Now what’s the big news you were going to tell me?”