Faking Life (9 page)

“Sorry, what'd you say?”

Paul looked at him skeptically. “What's wrong with you? You look weird.” John turned and gave his friend a huge grin.

“Nothing. I just remembered that there are times when I love this job. I'd forgotten that.” Paul laughed.

“Have another drink. This one's on me.”

Tonight felt like a breath of fresh air after years of being trapped inside a musty cellar. It's been so long that I almost forgot how sweet it can be. I'm a firm believer that everything happens for a reason. Sometimes things happen to make you forget. Sometimes things also happen to make you remember.

It's been so long since I've been able to enjoy another person's company, someone who asked questions I wanted to be asked, who genuinely wanted to hear my answers.

I just met the girl tonight, but I was tempted to take Paul's magazine and show her the thirty-three autographed pages. I wanted to let her in on the joke. Let her breathe some of my air. I'm willing to bet she'd appreciate it.

Of course, meeting a girl like Esther makes me think about how much I want someone in my life. I want to lie down at night and feel a woman's hot breath on my cheek, but it's hard to wine and dine when your hours are six to three.

Before I started working at Slappy's, I was what you'd call a prolific dater. Actually, date is the wrong word to use. To date you have to care about your future. You have to be looking long term. Most hope to find the right connection. I didn't care about that. Every date was like joining a pair of mismatched socks, thrown together carelessly.

I feel like I've been missing something. I've watched thousands of women pass through my bar like wraiths, and not one of them I've truly cared for, none I've ever really known. You'd think that I could fall for just one. One I could hold. I'd nearly given up on life's randomness. I'd settled into a suffocating routine. I suppose sometimes it's easier to be broken from the mold than to break free yourself.

Dating isn't the same anymore. It's all about one-nighters, who-knows-who, and 'do you have any single friends?' Online and personal ads. You email me your curriculum vitae and I'll email you my assistant's fax line. When was the last time someone walked into a bar, met someone they felt a connection with, and went home satisfied with a phone number? How many second or third dates have materialized from a chance meeting over a Tequila Sunrise? I've never even had the chance to have a chance.

Maybe I should quit, get a job at a hotel bar in midtown. Sinatra playing on the speakers, pouring Tom Collins after Tom Collins. I'd rather watch intimate conversations than hear another person ask, “So where's your hedge fund located?”

I can never tell why people want to talk to me. Are they buttering me up for free drinks later? Badgering me to introduce Lisa or Stacy? And which women are actually interested, not just looking for a quick lay, but really
interested.
I get enough bland “you're kinda cute” comments to know I'm a decent-looking guy and I've had my share of decent-looking women. But for pure fulfillment, I'd prefer a hag who wants to talk than an underwear model whose I.Q. is smaller than her dress size.

I guess that's one of the reasons I enjoyed meeting Esther. She wasn't there to seduce me, wasn't there to pick me up or to drink off a whole week of work in one sitting. Everything seemed to happen by accident. I was afraid she was there to meet someone, that she'd be whisked away by some jocular boyfriend before we got a chance to talk. Girls like her always seem to have boyfriends, like some magical cloud that rains down a new schmuck the minute their old relationship ends.

I'm the new millennium Charlie Brown, that cloud always looming over my head, the rain pouring down while Patty and Lucy are off playing with Snoopy and seducing Linus. I feel a deluge coming, but I want someone in it with me. I only want it to rain once, some tropical storm that flies by overhead, lets loose a perfect raindrop, and is never seen again.

Whether or not I see Esther again, for the first time since…I don't know…I found myself smiling with a girl. Nothing in the world can beat the feeling of looking into someone's eyes and finding yourself smiling just because.

E
sther could feel something different before she set foot through the dark blue door of Vanetti Literati. The day had started inconspicuously enough; a breakfast of Egg Beaters and toast, the subway ride stuck between a disheveled suit with bad cologne and an old woman wearing last Tuesday's
Daily News
as a hat. Cup of coffee from the corner vendor outside the office, agonizingly slow ride to the ninth floor.

She was raring to go, her mind churning with ideas when she turned her key in the latch, but the first thing she saw caused her to slump into her chair in dismay.

Nico was prancing around his office, screaming into the telephone like a journalist on a deadline, waving pages around like a better with a winning lottery ticket. It didn't take Esther long to figure out what he was holding.
A new shipment
, she thought, and Nico was surely spilling the beans.

Her stomach lurched. Had John written anything about their meeting? What if he had? But what if he hadn't?

“I'm telling you Jack, this changes everything.
She
changes everything. Can you imagine the possibilities? She's a goddamn ace, and the rest of the deck is full of 'em.”

Esther froze. Guilt seeped into her bones. She realized with horror who was being discussed.

“…a breath of fresh air,” Nico said, belting the words out with the bravura of an opera veteran. “Now
that's
something. Talk about a plot twist, this is the best scenario I could've hoped for. Hold on a sec, I'll put her on the phone.” Nico put the receiver on the table with an audible
smack
. “Esther, would you come here? Someone would like to speak with you.”

She slowly entered the office, avoiding the lascivious look from Frank Menegaro.

“Fun night?” Frank said, smirking.

“Fuck off.”

“Not in your wildest dreams.” She rolled her eyes and stepped into Nico's office, loudly clearing her throat.

“Yes, Nic?”

Nico pointed to the phone. “Jack Kurgan, executive editor at Babington Press would like to talk to you.” He picked up the phone and held it out to her. “So talk.” She frowned and took the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Yes, Ms. Williams?”

“Speaking.” Nico's mouth was open in a wide grin. He egged her on with wild hand gestures.

“Ms. Williams, I just wanted say how impressed I am in your dealings with John Gillis. I'm very, and let me stress
very
, interested in John's book, and I'm excited to see what else you have in store. Inserting yourself as a love interest will appeal to many, many readers. I can see why Nico speaks so highly of you.”

“Thanks?”

“No need to thank
me.
You're the one who deserves commendation. I know Nico has big plans for Mr. Gillis and I'm sure you'll do everything possible to see that this memoir reaches as many eyes as possible. Hopefully you'll agree with me that come time, Babington will be the right home for John. Take care Esther, and I'm looking forward to see what happens next.”
Click
.

Nico stared at Esther as she placed the phone back in the cradle. He was rubbing his hands together and, for a moment, Esther hoped the friction might set his suit on fire.

“Well?” he said, as though awaiting an answer to an earlier question.

“Well what?” Esther was absolutely disgusted. Nico had perverted what she'd done. She'd never meant to be a bargaining chip. She wasn't there to spruce up the memoir, like parsley on steak. Shame swept through her body like searing heat. She'd let John down. How could she not have seen this coming?

“Well,” Nico said, beaming. “That's the second major publisher absolutely
thrilled
with this turn of events.” Esther could actually visualize herself grabbing a paper clip from his desk and cinching his nostrils together.

“What turn of events?”

“Everything in the book, it's so much deeper now. There's a brand new element, and I think we've proven my theory between you and Jennifer. Esther, how else can I put this, you've become his
love interest
.” Esther swallowed and nearly gagged. “I don't know whether you did it on purpose—frankly I don't care—but I'm incredibly proud of you. I'd like to think in your tenure here I've taught you well, but some talents are inherent I suppose. Knowing how to propel a story along, for instance. You pulled it off brilliantly, and I expect bigger and better things now that we've gotten the ball rolling.”

“Nico,” she said, trying hard to compose herself. She felt her muscles tighten, her face heating up, blood rushing to her temples. “Anything that happened at that bar happened because
I
wanted it to, not because you told me to. John happens to be a really decent guy, and whatever he wants to write about is his decision. I want no part of it. I keep my life out of our client's books “ Nico's eyebrows rose and he laughed.

“Not anymore,” Nico said. He triumphantly held up the new pages. “Esther, don't you see what we have here? This is revolutionary! We can actually
provide
content for this book without losing a shred of its honesty. We know we can influence him. And dear, that's all the power in the world.” Esther felt like she'd been kicked in the stomach. In all her time with Nico, he'd never addressed her by anything other than 'Esther' or 'Ms. Williams. “Dear” was new. It made her cringe.

“Don't kid yourself,” he added, his grin sliding into a subtle sneer. “You enjoyed hearing your name. I know what it's like. It's like your own personal acknowledgement, but instead of a smarmy 'I'd like to thank so-and-so,' your blood runs in the pages. I'd be jealous if I didn't know how much money you're going to make for us on this deal.”

Esther could feel her legs losing strength. She braced herself and sat down in the chair across from Nico. The pages on his desk seemed to swim together, creating a giant jumble of words, verbiage, and tenses Esther couldn't decipher. It was like someone had taken the world's largest set of refrigerator poetry and dumped it into her brain.

“Are you alright? Can I get you a glass of water?” Nico asked, still grinning.

“Yes, please,” Esther managed.

“Frank! Frank, get Esther a glass of water.” Esther heard a shuffle behind her and Frank appeared with a Dixie cup, half of which he spilled on the floor before it reached her.

“Thanks,” she said, taking a sip.

“You're quite welcome,” Frank said, placing his hand gently on her shoulder, sending a tremor of unwanted electricity through her body. “Anything else you need boss?” Nico looked up at Frank, a violent twitch in his eyes, a signal between the two men that Esther couldn't interpret.

“Not right now Frank, I'll talk to you later. Thanks for the offer.”

“So's she finally coming around?”

“Coming around? What are you talking about?”

Frank clicked his tongue. “Est, he's right you know. I mean, look at it from another perspective. It's really pretty cool.”

“Nico, please,” she said. Nico nodded and calmly shooed Frank away.

He waited until the door latched shut and said, “Now you see, there's someone who's looking
forward
to helping out the team. Frank sees my vision. I don't understand what you're having such a hard time.”

Esther felt her legs go slack.

Esther barely recognized the man sitting in front of her. To make it worse, Nico looked as though he was aware of this. He sat back in his chair and looked down at his desk. Gone was the man Esther had met when she was fresh out of college, the man who was willing to fight for the projects he believed in, digging tooth and nail not for greed, but because he knew his clients needed the money to live. In that man's place was one consumed by his own lofty goals; the notion of a large payday outweighing the very sanctity of the project he'd been hired to guide, to protect.

Nico's grin slowly melted into a dour frown. He came around the desk—no, he
glided
around the desk—and stood behind Esther. He placed his hands delicately on her shoulders and began to massage them. Her body tensed as she felt the pressure on her bones. She shifted, squirmed, hoping her movements would deter him because her mouth wouldn't open. Esther could see his reflection in the polished frames on the desk, his face off-kilter like something in a funhouse mirror. His fingers felt distant, unraveling.

“Nico…”

“Yes?” Nico said absently.

“Nico your hands…” Suddenly he retracted, his hands recoiling as though they'd been bitten.

“I'm sorry. I can just tell how tense you are about this whole thing.” He stepped back and ran a hand through his hair. “The only reassurance I can give is that I know it's for the best. Not only for John Gillis, and you
know
the esteem in which I regard him, but for all of us. For you as well, Esther.” He sat down on his desk. “Can't you see what we're dealing with here?”

“I see what we're dealing with, and…”

“Then you
must
understand my motivations,” he said. Esther wondered if he'd been waiting for her to speak just so he could interrupt. “This boy Gillis, he's stumbled onto something he can't possibly comprehend.”

“I don't follow. If he can't comprehend then why can we…”

“Because I, well
we
,
we
have the advantage of seeing the full picture. I don't envision this memoir as a one-trick pony. I see tie-ins. I see film rights. I see conferences. I see John Gillis as the Generation X Jack Kerouac and Tony
fucking
Robbins wrapped up in one neat package with a pretty bow on top. Do you think
he
sees that?”

“I don't think it matters if…”

“
Of course
he doesn't see it! How
can
he? It's our job, Est, no, our
responsibility
to make sure John Gillis's memoirs are as exciting, captivating, and inspiring as humanly possible. And if that means adding some truth without endangering its realism, then it's our obligation to make sure it happens.”