You Had Me at Good-bye Page 7

  I place my cloth napkin on my lap and shake Splenda into my coffee. “What’s on the menu today, Chef Laini?”

  “Oui, madame, we have a delectable veggie egg white omelet with just a touch of low-fat cheddar cheese.”

  “Sounds heavenly.”

  “Ah, but that is not all,” she says, and sets a small bowl to the right of my plate. “Also, for your palate’s delight, a creamy yogurt topped with fresh blueberries.”

  “Mmm. The perfect way to start my day.”

  “Good grief, you sound like a commercial.” Tabby staggers in, grumpy and frazzled. One good thing about having an acting job is that you don’t have to dress up for work, because they have a wardrobe for you when you get there. You don’t even have to do your hair and makeup.

  “Early shooting today?” I ask, because I rarely see Tabby in the morning.

  “Yeah. Blythe is a sadist. And I think she hates me.”

  “Eat your breakfast,” Laini soothes. “That’ll make you feel better.”

  “Don’t you get tired of cooking for us all the time?” Tabby grumps as she takes her omelet and heads to the table.

  “Don’t you like it?” Laini asks.

  “Well, of course I do. But—” Tabby doesn’t cook much better than I do, so it’s hard for us to identify with Laini’s obsession. But I think Tabby realizes she was a little hard on our friend. “Sorry, Laini. You’re the best, and I think I speak for Dancy and me both when I say we appreciate you keeping us fed in such style.”

  “No thanks necessary. I enjoy it.” She gives Tabby a small bowl of yogurt identical to mine. “Cooking is fun.”

  “To each her own,” I say. “But I agree with Tabby. I’d be a lot thinner without you—which would make my mother happy. And that would never do.” I grin.

  Laini and Tabby laugh. Having their own mother issues gives them complete understanding of my plight. “You got home late last night,” Laini observes, spooning sugar into her mug.

  I groan. “Don’t remind me.”

  “Must have been some long lunch with your mom.”

  I shrug and recount my day and evening.

  “No wonder all the leftover shrimp linguini from last night is gone,” Laini says as she sits at the head of our little table.

  “I was starving. That was wonderful, by the way.”

  Her eyes sparkle with pleasure. “I made it from scratch. Even the noodles.”

  “Wow. Impressive.”

  “Tell her why,” Tabby pipes up around a bite of blueberry-laced yogurt.

  “Leave me alone,” Laini shoots back.

  I stare at Tabby. “What did I miss?”

  “She bombed her test.” Cooking is to Laini what eating is to most of us. She takes the concept of comfort food to a whole new level.

  Laini settles back against her chair, her shoulders slumped. “I just don’t know what I’m going to do. This class is vital to passing the program. My professor thinks I might be slightly color-blind.”

  “That’s just silly.” I spear a piece of my omelet and hold it up for show. “What color is this?”

  She grins. “Yellow.”

  “Case closed.” I slide the forkful into my mouth.

  “Too bad it’s not that easy,” Laini says, sobering.

  “Well, I don’t know anything about interior design. But you can cook circles around everyone I know,” Tabby says, hopping up. “I have to get going. Early makeup call. My children-to-be have a skating exhibition this afternoon, so we have to be done shooting early. It’s at three o’clock at Rockefeller Center, if you have time to drop by. Shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

  “I’d love to, Tabs,” I say, genuinely regretting not being able to make it. “But after taking Friday off, I’m sure my to-do pile is going to be a mile high. Which is exactly why I hate to take time off.”

  “It’s okay. As long as you don’t miss the city competition next month.”

  I nod, sipping my coffee.

  “We wouldn’t miss it,” Laini promises for us both.

  I turn back to Laini after Tabby rushes out. “Hey, can you make that test up?”

  “Nope. But if I don’t bomb too badly on the next one, I should be able to pass the class. It’s just . . .”

  “What?” I prod.

  “I don’t know, Dan. I love it, but I’m not that great.”

  I just don’t know what to say. Because honestly, I couldn’t recommend her skills to anyone but male college freshmen. (Any help, even from a slightly color-blind designer, would be an improvement for most frat boys.) “There are different tastes for different types of people,” I say carefully, trying hard not to patronize. “You just have to tap into the right market for you.”

  She looks at me askance and hops up, taking our plates from the table.

  “Look,” I say after her. “Maybe you should think about going back to accounting. You’re good at that. More than good. And you can do interior design as a hobby.”

  She nods slowly, as though she hates to admit it, but she’s thought of it herself so it doesn’t come as much of a blow. “That’s probably what I should do.” She scrapes the plates into the garbage disposal. “Mom would be thrilled. Maybe she’d stop with the guilt trips every time she sees me.”

  We generously call Laini’s mom melancholy. Depressed and desperate is how I’d actually describe her. Also selfish, manipulative, and always trying to make Laini feel guilty. My friend never would have become an accountant if her dad hadn’t passed away right before college and her mom hadn’t pushed her with comments like “Your father would be so proud if you’d follow in his footsteps. Don’t you want him to look down from heaven and be proud?” And with Laini’s knack for math, it didn’t seem like that much of a stretch to think that might be the way to go. So she did, until she got let go from Ace Accounting after one of the Aces was caught embezzling, sending the company into bankruptcy.

  Laini finally switches off the disposal, and I take the opportunity to lend some verbal support. “Do what makes you happy, my friend. Nothing else matters.”

  Laini frowns. “Are you happy? Really and truly? I mean, you have your work, but are you happy with everything? What about the book you started writing last year?”

  I stare at her, slack-jawed. “How’d you know about that?”

  “You left your laptop open on the coffee table one night while you went to the bathroom.” She gives me a sheepish grin. “I couldn’t stop myself.”

  My mind shifts between irritation and curiosity. Curiosity wins. “What did you think of it?”

  “Well, you weren’t gone very long. But I definitely didn’t want to stop reading.”

  My heart swells at the praise.

  “When are you planning to finish it?”

  “Maybe someday.” I grin. “When I retire to my beach home in the Bahamas.” I drain my coffee.

  She laughs and takes my cup. “Well, you’d better get to work so you can keep building up that retirement fund, then.”

  “Thanks for breakfast.” I stand, towering over her five-foot frame, especially in three-inch heels. Still, I slip my arm around her shoulders and give her a squeeze.

  “My pleasure,” she says. And I know she honestly means it.

  Jack walks by and grins in a way that says he’s not going to keep on walking. That would be too easy. He stops at my desk. “Did you make that coffee? Rumor has it you make a truly wonderful cup.”

  “Very funny.” I grin back. “Did you clean up the break room? Rumor has it you bus a truly wonderful table.”

  “Touché,” he says.

  “You left without giving Nick a chance to thank you.”

  He looks away, and I can’t believe it, but he’s blushing. Which is sort of sweet. “There were no thanks necessary.”

  “Well, it was very kind of you to help out my friend. And greatly appreciated.”

  “The way you two were sniping at one another,” he says in his oh-so-British accent, “I wouldn’t have
guessed you to be friends at all.” Only it sounds like “atall.” One word. You have to hand it to the Brits. They have the coolest way of putting words together. Like adding a question to the end of their sentences. “That’s the way it is, isn’t it?” Things like that. I don’t know—maybe it’s just me—but I find it an incredibly soothing accent to listen to.

  “He starts it,” I mutter, and Jack laughs. I love the sound of his low, throaty laughter. It’s the main thing I remember about the days when Kale brought him home on holidays. His laughter filled the house and made my heart leap.

  I venture a look into his eyes, and he’s staring at me, like he’s waiting for . . . I can’t guess. I glance at my to-do list. “Do you need something?”

  His face goes stoic. “Not at all.”

  Heat rushes to my cheeks in the awkward silence that ensues. I clear my throat. “So, what’s on the agenda for today?”

  “Meeting with Tony. The Paris people will be here tomorrow, so we’re going over strategy.”

  Anthony Kramer, the publisher. It’s always a little tense when he’s in the office. And when I say a little, I mean a lot. He’s been in frequently over the last few days, because of the Paris people coming. Which explains the scurrying, tension, and downright terror of the office staff. I don’t know why everyone is always so upset when he comes by. It’s not like he ever actually speaks to anyone but those in command, like Jack and the other senior editors—and Fran, and I won’t even say what rumors are floating around about those two. Being simply an editor, I barely get a nod from the mogul.

  “Is this a meeting I need to attend?”

  Jack shakes his head. “Senior editors and higher only, from what I understand.”

  Which doesn’t really bother me. As much as I like having the 4-1-1, I have enough manuscripts and proposals piled up to keep me busy for weeks. Who needs to take the time for a meeting?

  Okay, this might sound petty, but if the meeting is not for anyone below a senior editor, then what is Fran Carson doing walking in there, right next to Mr. Kramer? As if I didn’t already know. Fran Carson—the editor who was in line with me for the job Jack Quinn swooped in and stole last year. The woman I’m constantly competing with. Or being forced to compete with because of her own low self-esteem. I swear, it’s like those beauty-pageant days all over again. Senior editors only, my eye. Did Jack know Mr. Kramer was going to bring his girl-toy into the meeting with them, or did he blatantly lie to me?

  “Are you all right?” he asks, obviously unaware of my scrutiny.

  “Yes, I’m fine. Just really need to get to these proposals.”

  He squints at me for a second while I practice that wide-eyed innocent look (another talent left over from pageant days).

  He straightens and taps my desk with the file he’s got in his hand. “While you were out Friday, I took the liberty of looking over your edit on Virginia Tyne’s latest book. There were a few things you missed that I thought pertinent. You might want to take note of some of my suggestions before sending it to her for revision.”

  The Virginia Tyne book? That’s my edit. My author. He had no right! And this isn’t the first edit he’s stuck his highbrow English nose into either. I can feel steam rising. I ball my hands, a little technique I’ve always used when I need to keep my cool. A few things I missed, indeed.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “Is there a problem?”

  “Problem?” I ask through clenched teeth.

  “Your face is red.” His lips twitch.

  “It is not.”

  “It most certainly is. Extremely so, if I may be so bold as to mention it.”

  “Well, you just did, so . . .”

  He smiles. “So I did. I’ll take my leave. Excuse me.”

  I watch broad shoulders in a perfectly tailored suit walk away from me. Frustration shoots through me as I grab the edit with his “suggestions.” I’m all set to shoot him down, argue about how stupid his thoughts are. Only, every single comment he made is . . . right. Disturbingly so. Embarrassingly so. What is wrong with me that I missed her overuse of the word plethora?

  I fight back tears as I type his comments and mine into one unified e-mail to the author. His comments add another three pages to the six I’ve already written, which Virginia is going to be upset about. But I’ve had to talk more than one author off the ledge after a particularly long edit. And I’m sure this one will work out fine. I hope.

  The day goes from bad to worse. The tension in the office is off the charts because of Tony’s visit and preparations for the Paris people. Plus we get calls from five agents, checking on submissions and getting huffy about the postponement of a committee meeting that will decide the fate of the manuscripts they’re hoping to sell for their clients. I hate days like this. I never, ever should have taken a day off.

  To compound things, just before I’m about to call it a day, Virginia Tyne slams into my office. I hate authors who live in New York and barge in any time they want, instead of calling or e-mailing. Only the A-listers have the nerve to do it. My assistant, Claudia, looks absolutely white as she follows her in. “I’m sorry,” she mouths behind Virginia.

  “It’s all right, Claudia. Close the door behind you, please.”

  Virginia has written thirty books in twelve years. She’s a publisher’s dream. Writes fast, writes well, and meets her deadlines. Plus, her books sell respectably well. Not like Cate Able, by any means, but respectably enough that the publisher wants to keep her happy, which is why she’s been with Lane Publishing for so long.

  My hormone headache is at an all-time high when she barges in, flings a printed-out copy of what I know instinctively is my e-mail on my desk, and plops herself down in the chair opposite me. “What can I do for you, Virgie?”

  “You can explain this letter is what you can do. And don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean, either.”

  This is Virgie’s first book since Jack took over. I’m debating whether or not to let him take the rap. But no. That wouldn’t be professional.

  I clasp my hands on the desk in front of me. “Would you like to go over the letter point-by-point so we can discuss your concerns? As you know, these edits are meant to be a dialogue, not a command.”

  “I most certainly would not.” Her voice shrills a little, and I can tell she needs a drink. And, believe me, if I weren’t so dead-set against alcohol (because of my dad, you know), I’d offer her something to calm her down.

  “Then I don’t know what you want from me.” My head is killing me. What did I do with the Midol I keep in the office for days like this?

  “Young lady,” she says.

  Oh, good heavens. This is not going well. I can tell it’s about to become an “I was writing before you were born” kind of talk.

  “I started with this company before you graduated from college. I think I know when a character is fully developed.”

  “You mean Tallulah, the main character?” That’s what’s bothering her? I thought that was the mildest of Jack’s suggestions. And, really, the most obviously correct of his observations.

  “Who else?” She snatches up the letter. Lifts her glasses from where they hang around her neck from a gold chain—I know it’s gold, because I bought it for her last year for Christmas. She slips on the glasses and looks at me over the top of them. “And I quote,” she says (and you can imagine her tone). “‘This character is inconsistent and her swings in emotion from paragraph to paragraph border on the ridiculous, even hilarious at times.’” She shoots me a look that says, “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

  I pull out the manuscript. It’s still at the top of the pile. Although I never dreamed it would happen this soon, I actually anticipated this little encounter with Virgie, so I sticky-tabbed several examples I thought might come up. (Ingenious on my part, as it turns out.)

  Her face blanches as I start to read. By the time Tallulah has laughed, cried, flashed anger, and had her heart clench with compassion about ten tim
es in two pages, I’m fighting hard not to laugh out loud.

  Oh, who am I kidding? A giggle emerges.

  The poor insulted prima donna lets out an outraged huff.

  “I’m so sorry, Virgie,” I say. And I might have gotten away with it, except then another giggle emerges, and another, until I’m wiping tears from my eyes and I’m absolutely about to—as Tabby would say—bust a gut.

  I’m still reading, and laughing so hard I can’t stop, when she jumps up, snatches the edit letter from my desk, and glares at me. “This isn’t over,” she hisses.

  And oh boy, do I believe her. I sober up pretty fast.

  Forty-five minutes later, I’m sitting in the back of a taxi, all traces of laughter gone. All I can do is cry. I don’t believe it. I do not believe it. Mr. Kramer forced me to take a month of my built-up vacation time. All right. He isn’t technically forcing me. Just strongly suggesting that if I can’t keep from laughing in one of our top authors’ faces, perhaps I’m working too hard.

  Working too hard? Work is all I know. It’s the only thing that makes me feel good about myself. Well, it used to, until Jack came along and made me feel insecure and incompetent. And he had already left for the day by the time Tony finished mollifying Virgie, walked her to the elevator, and then bulldozed into my office with his “suggestion.”

  “But what about my workload?” I asked, sounding whiny and pathetic even to my own ears.

  “Fran can take over for you.” Fran? Fran, who always tries to make me look stupid and inferior?

  And to top it off, Fran was “conveniently” standing right outside the door that Tony forgot to close on his way in to ream me.

  “Did you call me, Tony?” she asks, all innocent and professional.

  “Oh, good, Fran, you’re here.” He smiles at her because she’s the type to make him think she’s the cream of the crop, and he’s the type that is too absentminded about this sort of thing to know any better. Plus, well . . . I already mentioned the rumor about those two. “Dancy is taking some vacation time, and I’ll need you to handle her pressing work. Do what you can, and see who’s available to freelance the rest of her workload.”