Playing for Julia (9 page)
Authors: Annie Carroll
“Oh Julia, you look so beautiful.”
An hour later we walk into a restaurant on the Sausalito waterfront. It is ordinary looking inside and out: old-fashioned wooden booths lined up along the front windows and a counter with stools that spin around further back. Salt, pepper, sugar and napkins in their metal and glass containers are on each table. Austen grabs newspapers from a pile near the doorway. After we’ve ordered—an avocado, bacon and cheese omelet for me, the ‘usual’ for him—he hands one paper to me. He must eat here often, I realize, if the waitress knows what he wants.
“
Voices
should start covering events in Marin. It would make things simpler, instead of having to search through a bunch of local papers to find out what’s going on. See if there is anything listed in that paper.”
“I’ll
tell Cathy. She edits the Weekly Events section.” Then I explain the Guest Editor change that’s going on at
Voices
and what I’ve heard about Eric.
“But he’s only going to be there for a week,” I add.
“Then David will be back.”
The waitress brings M
imosas in two glasses. Not a pitcher full.
He scans a
newspaper. “It says here that there is an art fair today in Mill Valley. Let’s go see what that’s all about.”
After brunch it is a short drive
north to Mill Valley, a small town full of expensive homes tucked into the tree-covered hills of Marin. Its main street is lined with small local stores and a couple of art galleries.
The air is warm and summery. No damp fog. No bone-numbing chill.
It’s heavenly—my wish for summer warmth has come true. I think I am going to have to spend more weekends out of the City in the summer.
Several dozen artists have set up displays of their work
on tables and under canopies along the center of the main street. We amble along, hand in hand, part of the crowds of people slowly making their ways past the displays. One jewelry maker creates exquisite cloisonné earrings and pins. A young potter turns out extraordinarily beautiful bowls, but with my salary going to pay for silk undies—no beautiful bowl for me.
In jeans and a t-shirt, Austen isn’t drawing stares the way he did at the Fillmore. We are just another couple visiting the art fair
which is a relief as far as I am concerned. I know he loves the attention sometimes, but I feel uncomfortable being in any spotlight, let alone the glare of rock and roll.
We get ice cream cones
—chocolate for him, strawberry for me—then wander toward a stage where a folk group is playing. Sitting on a low stone wall, we watch from the back of the crowd.
“She’s really good,” comments Austen. “
Her voice is like a bell. The guy with the guitar…” He shakes his head.
I smile. I know
the one guitar player he admires is in that band called Cream. That’s in addition to John, his songwriting partner, of course.
It’s early evening when I
drop Austen off at the airport. “I miss you already, Julia.” He holds my head and kisses me. “I’ll call you.”
“Dream of me.”
“Dream of me, baby.”
Then he is out of the car and disappears into the doors to the terminal. I wish he could stay. How I wish he could stay.
* * *
Voices
office seems subdued on Monday. People are at their desks. Not a lot of chatter and the usual catching up on weekend activities. Dan comes in late and when he begins to go over the rough layouts for the next edition, I realize why he was less than enthusiastic about the Guest Editor idea—at least about Eric being the Guest Editor. Cathy’s Weekly Events section, which normally takes up six columns, has been slashed to one and a half columns.
“One and a half columns?” I am stunned. “Everyone knows that’s
the most popular part of
Voices.
Why is she only getting that amount of space?”
“Ours not to reason why.”
Dan shakes his head, disgust on his face. “Eric has some political diatribe about Nixon he wants to run and decided to take that space for it. He’s not willing to cut even one word of the article.” Then he adds archly: “It’s the Guest Editor’s decision.”
“Oh my god. Cathy is going to have a fit when
I show her this.”
And she does. “I
can barely squeeze one day’s worth of events in that space. What does that stupid jackass think he’s doing?”
“He’ll be gone in a week, Cathy. David will be back and everything will get back to normal.
Oh. Before I forget. Austen has a request. He wants you to start covering events in Marin. He says he has to search through a bunch of little local newspapers every week to find out what’s going on over there. It would be simpler if he only had to look at
Voices
.”
Cathy begins to laugh.
“Nothing like having some rocker make special editorial requests. Well, maybe we can do it. It’s not a bad idea. I’ll talk to David once Eric is out of here.”
* * *
I put a Creedence Clearwater album on the record player for dinner music tonight. I love the single “Proud Mary”; it really moves. After the gloom today at the office something upbeat is definitely called for.
“I didn’t get the job,” Ali announces as we
sit down to dinner: cubed steak sandwiches, our usual green salad and glasses of rosé wine. We finally have a matching set of four real not-very-expensive wine glasses we bought at Cost Plus.
Ali
has been subdued since I arrived home. Now I know why.
“What job?”
“At
Rags
. As a display advertising saleswoman. I had the interview today and the woman told me they wanted someone with experience selling advertising space. I don’t have that, but when I told her that I was the one who dressed you for that photo with Austen, she told me she would be willing to look at any photos I have of street fashions. I’ve decided I am going to buy a better camera this week and start taking pictures. Maybe I can finally put all those art classes I took in college to use. I would really love to do something creative.”
“Well,
don’t plan to take photos of me. And thank your lucky stars you didn’t get the job. Ali, both David and Dan think
Rags
is only going to last for a few more months, then you would be out of work and looking for another job. You don’t want to go through that again.”
I take another sip of wine
and think back fleetingly of our first weeks in San Francisco and everything we went through to get jobs.
“
How did you get the interview anyway? Did you just call them?”
“No, I talked with
Mark and he made the initial contact for me.”
“
Mark? What does he have to do with a women’s fashion magazine?”
“He sold a photo to them—that one of you and Austen outside the Fillmore. I saw the photo credit and I thought—“
“Mark took that photo? Then sold it to them?” I am in shock. I feel somehow betrayed. I’ve thought of Mark as a friend—he helped me get the job at
Voices
—but now…I don’t know.
“What wrong
with that? Mark’s a freelance journalist. It’s how he makes his living—“
“
Ali, that photo made me feel like someone was spying on me, sneaking into my life. I really didn’t like it at all. The fact that Mark took the picture makes it even worse. I’ve always thought of him as a friend, but… he didn’t even ask if he could take a photo; he just did it. It would have been better if it had been taken by a total stranger, not him.” I shake my head in disbelief.
“Julia
, wake up. It comes with the territory whether you like it or not. As long as you’re dating Austen things like this are bound to happen. And it could be worse. If you were dating someone as famous as Mick Jagger or Jim Morrison or one of the guys in Crosby, Stills and Nash, or who’s that other guy, Neil Young—you’d have photographers snapping pictures of you all the time.”
“That
’s no consolation—thank you very much,” I snap.
I take another bite
of my hamburger. I am surprised that Ali thinks it was okay for Mark to sell that photo. Do I have to start wondering if she is going to do something like that? Sell a photo or write some gossipy tell-all. No, that wouldn’t happen—would it? Ali has been my friend for years now. She wouldn’t do that. At least I hope not. And I haven’t told her much about Austen and me so she would not have much to tell unless she made it up out of her imagination.
“Well, I guess it’s done now and that issue of
Rags
is lining garbage cans all over San Francisco,” I add ruefully: “And Mark can pay some of his bills this month.”
“Well, it wa
s not all bad news today.” Ali’s face lights up. “How would you like to go boating?”
“I would love to. When?”
“Friday evening after work.”
“What’s this all about?”
“One of the women at work, Charli, has been dating a sales rep from one of the new FM radio stations and they’ve been invited to a boating party on Friday evening. It’s some sort of business thing. Anyway, she asked me if you and I would like to join them. The boat is owned by a guy who has a printing company. He’s young, she says, and cute.”
“Maybe someone new for you?”
I smile.
“Maybe someone new for you, too.
There are supposed to be a lot of people there.”
Do I want someone new? I don’t think so.
All I have to do is think about being with Austen and—no, no one new now. Boating on the Bay sounds like fun, though.
Dan shows up late again the next day. He is smoking in the office. He’s never done that before. I’m afraid to ask him what’s going on because I’m not sure I want to know. He shouldn’t be this obviously concerned if we only had three—no, two and a half—more days of Eric. I think he knows something.
At lunch Cathy tells me she’s as much in the dark as I am.
All she knows is that it took one day for her to completely fill and edit that column and a half—her work for the entire week. The biggest part was to decide which events to include, which to omit and it was mostly the omissions she had trouble with. She adds that Eric hasn’t met with her, either. Hasn’t even said hello to her.
“I guess that tells me what he thinks about our Weekly Events section
and me. Not much. I don’t think much of him either. If the guy wants to write about national issues—like Nixon and the war—he should go to New York where the national magazines are headquartered. I can’t wait ‘til David comes back. I’m going to tell him I don’t like this Guest Editor idea at all. He’s being way too idealistic.”
Cathy may not have as much to do since Eric arrived, but m
y work is still the same. This week, however,
Voices
is going to have many more pages of gray columns of type. It won’t look as interesting as it usually does.
When my phone rings, I am trying to figure out
where to squeeze in a last minute ad to visually break up all that gray type. When we went over the roughs Dan told me to handle any late ads however I wanted because these pages—with column after column of type—don’t follow his original design at all.
“Hello. This is Julia.”
“Hi, baby.” I’d know his honey voice anywhere and suddenly my day is brighter. But why is he calling me at the office?
“Hi.”
“Am I interrupting anything?”
“No. I’m sitting at my drawing board, working. What’s happening?”
“It looks like we’re wrapping things up here soon—at least for a while. I’m going to be back up there on Friday. Why don’t you come over stay with me for the weekend?”
Friday. Oh dear. I don’t want to miss that boating party. I haven’t been out on the water since we arrived here.
And I promised Ali.
“Oh
. Austen, I have something I have to do Friday evening. It’s a business event. I don’t think I can skip out on it this time, but I could come over on Saturday.”
“Business before pleasure, huh?” He sounds amused. “Oh
, you working women.”
“Saturday then?”
“Sure, baby. I’ll call you then. And dream of me.”
“I always do.”
* * *
Thursday evening is the usual craziness of closing. Friday morning the
Voices
office is like a tomb. Eric is still in David’s office or is it Eric’s office now? I don’t even want to walk down the hallway to Cathy’s tiny office. I call her. She doesn’t know where David is either.
About mid-morning Eric saunters into
my office.
“Where’s Dan?”
“I haven’t seen him yet this morning.”
“When he comes in tell him I want to see him.”
“Okay.” I look back down at the drawing board, although I haven’t much to do until Dan arrives.
“You’re Judy—is that it?” He is smiling at me in a way that makes me feel
slightly uneasy.
“
My name’s Julia.”
“
Oh, yes. Dan said you’ve only been here a couple of months. You worked at
TV Weekly
in Seattle, didn’t you?”
Oh my god. Is this some sort of trick question?
No, no, I am being paranoid because of all the stories I’ve been told about him. It is a perfectly innocent question.
“Yes, I assembled and edited the information about the TV programs
at first, then starting doing the layouts a few months later.”
He nods his head. “How do you like working at
Voices
?”
“I
t’s great. The work is interesting and I really like the people.”
“
That’s good.” His smile is making me even more uncomfortable, particularly since he hasn’t said a word to me until now. “I need to get to know the staff better. Maybe we can have a drink after work one of these days.”
I am struck dumb. I
nod my head and smile at him, but it is a totally fake smile. Where is Dan? Where is David? And why does Eric need to know the staff better? Is he replacing David? Why does he want to have a drink with me? I’m one of the lowest people on the totem pole at
Voices.
Only Susie, the receptionist, is less important than me. Julia, stop worrying, I scold myself. You had a drink with Dan after work and it was fine. Having a drink with Eric won’t be any different.
A half an hour later Dan walks in
and I breathe a sigh of relief. At least he’s still here and still my boss. Then he confirms it: Eric is replacing David. As soon as Dan leaves to meet with Eric I call Cathy.
“David’s out. Eric’s in.”
“Oh shit. I guess I better update my resume today. I won’t last long with that jackass in charge.”
“Don’t quit, Cathy. Wait and see. Maybe it will be okay.”
“I doubt it.”
* * *
I feel like I have been liberated when I leave the office at the end of the day. All day everyone was tense and jumpy as a cornered cat, myself included. Going aboard Tony’s boat in the Marina is like being transported to another world—one I love and miss more than I thought.
From the introductions it appears that
most of us work for newspapers or magazines in one capacity or another. There are a couple of radio and TV guys, too. Maybe 12 people in all. Tony is apparently the only one from the printing business and he definitely lives up to his advance billing. He is cute in a way I think of as ‘adorable Italian’: dark slightly curly hair, dark eyes, and a seemingly perpetual smile. And that smile has been turned on Ali from the moment she stepped on deck.
After making sure everyone has a drink in hand, Tony fires up the engines and slowly steers his boat—the Bella Maria—out into
the choppy waters of San Francisco Bay. I immediately wish I had brought a scarf with me; my hair is whipping around my face. Fortunately, I’m wearing my Seattle sailing clothes: jeans, a chunky black turtleneck sweater, Sperry Topsiders and a sturdy windbreaker. Boating on the Bay is obviously more like boating on windy, gusty Puget Sound and not much like paddling around sheltered Lake Union, but I am so glad to be out on the water again.
“What’s this I hear that there’s been a shake-up at
Voices
?” The question comes from a tall, ordinary-looking guy with short brown hair and hazel eyes. He’s wearing an Irish Fisherman’s sweater and jeans. I don’t remember his name, but I think he works for one of the TV stations. He’s the second one to ask me about it.
“Yeah. Eric is
the editor now. We found out about it this morning.”
“He doesn’t seem to be a likely choice, if you ask me.
This is how many magazines…two, three…that he’s been in charge of. All of them failed. He should stick to writing. That editor from New York was an odd choice, too.”
“
I really don’t know that much about it. And I liked David, the one from New York. I’m sorry he’s gone, but I’m sure things will be fine with Eric in charge.”
“Little Mary Sunshine here—huh?”
He grins. “I‘ve heard that resumes have been streaming out of there all day.”
I shrug my shoulders. I don’t
want to think about
Voices
, but it seems to be Topic Number One tonight.
“That’s Alcatraz, isn’t it?” I ask
pointing to a rocky island with low concrete buildings on it. Then point at another. “What’s that? Is it another island or a peninsula?”
“Angel Island. It’s a state park.
” He turns and looks at me. “Are you new to San Francisco?”
“
Sort of new. Ali—she’s the one talking to Tony—and I moved here from Seattle a few months ago.”
We talk about
how San Francisco compares to Seattle. I am surprised to learn that Mr. TV Station likes kayaking. Not many people even know about kayaks or they think that only Eskimos use them for hunting seals. He tells me about exploring the Sacramento River delta after the Spring floods are over. The delta is an immense area at the north end of the Bay with hundreds of miles of twisting waterways, he explains. The water is at its lowest at this time of year which makes it a good time to go there. He goes on to tell me that the Navy uses a lot of the area to train sailors for river boat operations in Viet Nam, so there are limits on where he can go these days.
T
he Bella Maria continues north across the Bay then Tony turns it west toward Sausalito. From the water I can see that the only flat street in Sausalito runs along the waterfront. It is all steep hillside behind it. Austen’s home must be somewhere high up there on one of the winding streets. I am surprised to see a few rather strange-looking houseboats moored at short docks. Some of them are wildly colorful, others absolutely ramshackle. They are not at all like the tidy houseboat communities in Seattle. Mr. TV Station tells me that Sausalito used to be a fishing village. Lately it has become fashionable in an eccentric, bohemian way to live there.
It turns out that Tony’s brother owns a restaurant
near the waterfront and we are all going there for dinner. Wow, Tony must be a really successful printer—a big boat, treating us all to dinner and drinks—and he’s so young. He can’t be over 30, maybe even younger. And he’s had Ali at his side since we left the Marina.
Tony’s brother
, Luke, welcomes us as we settle in around a big table in the restaurant that looks more modern than the typical Italian style décor found in San Francisco. Instead of dark burgundy red walls and Chianti bottles for décor, there are white walls and large, framed Italian travel posters.
The TV station guy—I wish I had caught his name—
is on one side of me, Charli—her boyfriend calls her Charlotte sometimes—is on the other. Big plates of antipasto are set on the table immediately, along with bottles of red wine made by Tony’s uncle up in Sonoma. We eat. We drink. We laugh.
Everyone has their own take on the change at
Voices
. A couple of people have stories about Eric, but nothing worse than I have heard already. Someone says that there may be a new newspaper like
Voices
starting up in the East Bay. No one seems to know any details about it, even whether it is located in Oakland or Berkeley. I notice that Tony doesn’t say a word about this new weekly; he probably knows something, but is not going to tell us or even let on that he knows. Unlike Marin which is right across the Golden Gate Bridge north of San Francisco, the East Bay seems far, far away—another world altogether.
S
uddenly, I see Austen standing near the entry with John and the blonde woman who was with them at Vesuvios. They appear to be waiting for a table. I look away instantly, then scold myself: don’t try to hide. So I look back at them again. He sees me and I smile. He smiles back and winks. Oh, is he going to come over? I hope he doesn’t. Cathy’s comment about the ‘Austen wall around me’ has really stuck in my mind. Only Ali, and maybe Charli, in this group know I’ve been dating him. I don’t want the others to know—at least not now. I enjoy meeting new people, discovering new things—that’s why I moved to San Francisco. Being surrounded by a wall… I don’t even want to think about it right now.
Then I realize that Mr. TV Station has asked me something.
“Sorry. I was distracted,” I say, smiling apologetically. “Too much to think about with all that’s going on at
Voices
.”
I look over there again and
Luke is seating Austen, John and the young blonde woman at a table. From the way they are talking to each other John, Austen and Luke seem to know one another. Maybe this is another restaurant where Austen eats often.
The food and wine seems never-ending
, but eventually we finish with tiramisu—a heavenly Italian dessert made with lady fingers and a cream filling —and strong coffee. As we all get ready to go back to Tony’s boat, I glance over toward Austen again and see another woman sitting at their table. She has long black hair, a lacy black shawl wrapped around her dark red dress, and is wearing knee-high black pirate boots. I can’t see her face. She is talking to Austen who is laughing, apparently at whatever she has said. A bolt of jealousy burns through me. Who is she? Is she his date tonight? Is she going to spend the night with him? Am I just one among many? My fears, not deeply buried in the first place, start bubbling to the surface. Suddenly everything I was warned about seems to be coming true right in front of my eyes. This is horrible. Worse than horrible.
