See Jane Date (4 page)

The whole thing was almost unbelievable. Because she'd stupidly signed some legal document The Actor had had drawn up, the Gnat was—by penalty of law—prevented from ever discussing or writing about the guy or her affair with him in any medium, including print, radio or television. She'd cunningly gotten around it by referring to him as The Actor and creating a buzz around who he was.
That
was the story, the scandal behind the scandal.

Who really cared?

Potentially five hundred thousand people, according to Remke. Which was why I had to devote the next two months to guiding Natasha in fleshing out her outline and writing the first three chapters.

Morgan was returning from the kitchen with another mug of coffee for Remke. Jeremy Black was right behind her. He nodded at me and walked toward Remke's office.

Suddenly everything moved in slow motion, and sound was barely audible.

The sun shining in from the windows across the left wall of the loft lit his thick dark brown, wavy hair and made his Caribbean-colored eyes even more…Caribbean-colored. Never in the history of the world had there been a better-looking man. He was honest-to-goodness
handsome,
movie-star handsome. James Bond handsome.

Thirty-seven years old, six-one, 175 pounds. Harvard—undergrad
and
M.B.A. He was smarter and more sarcastic than he was nice, but the VP and editorial director of a
small, niche-publishing house was supposed to be a bit ruthless. He lived in a loft in Tribeca (mere blocks from where John F. Kennedy, Jr., and Carolyn Bessette had lived), worked out at the Reebok Sports Club next to people like Jerry Seinfeld and dated women who looked like models but were also vice presidents. The only thing I had in common with Jeremy Black was Posh Publishing. And that wasn't saying much.

I slipped into my tiny windowless office and groaned at the fresh stack of manuscripts Jeremy must have deposited in my in-box on his way to Remke's office. Great. Just in time for the weekend. Normally Jeremy would dump unsolicited manuscripts in Gwen's in-box, and she'd screen them for herself, then dump the losers in my in-box. So at least there was a chance for a “maybe” to be lurking in there. If I could spot a potential bestseller in the slush pile, I'd be promoted to associate editor in a heartbeat. And then my life wouldn't be contingent on Natasha Nutley's success.

Fat chance of that, though. Real Life Books wasn't just celebrity (and I use that term loosely) tell-alls. I'd had to suffer through poorly written, dull memoirs from nobodies about colon surgery (not sexy enough, per Remke), cocaine addiction (passé, per Jeremy), the I-hate-my-mother trend (whine, whine, whine, per me) and the I-grew-up-poor-and-ugly-until-I-became-a-supermodel phase (oh, please! per Eloise and her boss). Spare me. Spare us all.

The next
New York Times
extended list bestseller was doubtfully waiting for me to recognize its worth in the slush pile. I'd have to rely on making my name at Posh by getting the best work out of the Gnat, not that it would thrill me to see her succeed. The woman was milking her fifteen minutes off someone's else's ongoing fifteen
minutes! Her celebrity was fake. So why shouldn't I milk my promotion to full editor off
her?

Was that so wrong? After all, I'd been ordered to do just that by the president and publisher of my own company. And hadn't I learned that being Miss Nicey-Nice had gotten me to where I was today? A big fat nowhere.

The intercom on my telephone buzzed. “Jaaane,” came Morgan's intolerable voice. “Your cousin Dana called while you were in Remke's office. She said you have the number.”

“Thanks.” I rolled my eyes and stabbed the intercom button off. Great. Now I'd have to call back Dana before I went to lunch with Natasha. Talking to my cousin generally made me feel nauseated. Then again, maybe calling her back now wasn't a bad idea. I couldn't afford to eat anything at lunch, anyway.

The intercom crackled again. “Jaaane—I forgot to tell you. She said to call her on her cell. She's at the Plaza till noon. Something about a pre-stroll down the aisle.”

The unexpected sting of tears hit the backs of my eyes.
Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!
I ordered myself.
Do not lose it. You have a big meeting ahead of you.
So what if Dana's sipping tea at the Plaza and walking around with her stupid cell phone as she floats down the aisle in her own stupid mini-ballroom? You're having lunch with a semi-big celebrity! A celebrity you even
know!
You're doing just as well as Dana. Better, actually. Dana didn't even work, unless you counted occasionally advising her neighbors about color schemes. Actually, that sounded pretty good.

I slumped over my desk, defeated.

My eyes landed on the tiny photo of my parents and me in a heart-shaped frame that Aunt Ina had given me. My dad, handsome and smiling, was lifting me up in his
arms, and my mom was squeezing his biceps. According to Ina, who'd snapped the photo, I'd been three.

I wondered how my father would feel if knew that Dana was the one walking down the aisle of the Plaza Hotel in two months. Would he be disappointed? Shake his head and tell my mother I'd failed him?

Maybe I'd better explain. It had been Marvin Gregg who'd shown me the Plaza Hotel for the first time.
“See that fancy hotel, Princess?”
he'd said, pointing across the street as we strolled up Fifth Avenue. We were on our way to the Central Park Zoo for a Jane-and-Daddy-only-day.
“That's the Plaza. It costs a million dollars just to go inside. But that's where you're going to have your wedding. One day, I'm going to walk you down the aisle in the ballroom of the Plaza Hotel! Whaddaya think of that, Princess?”

“Daddy, I'm only nine!”
I'd complained, hands on hips. I remember staring up at the hotel and thinking it looked like a castle. That hadn't been the mere musings of a child. The Plaza Hotel
did
look like a castle.

“Yeah, but you're gonna be all grown up one day, Princess,”
he'd said, squeezing my hand.
“And you deserve a million-dollar wedding. I tell you what. You find the guy, and I'll see what I can do. How's that sound, Princess?”

“Daddy, I wanna see the monkeys! Let's go, already!”
I recalled whining. And I remember him laughing. He'd twirled me down Fifth Avenue to the corner of 59th Street as though we were ballroom dancing.

Marvin Gregg died the next day of a freak stroke. He was thirty-six years old.

I'd never told anyone about that conversation. Not my mother, or Aunt Ina, or even any of my friends. It wasn't the kind of thing you told anyone. It was the kind of thing
you just kept close to your heart. Sometimes it comforted you, and sometimes it made you cry.

“Jaaane!”

Now what? I stabbed the intercom button. “Yeah?”

“Remke said you should come up with title suggestions for the Nutley memoir and write back cover copy for the sales catalog before you leave for lunch. He wants both on his desk by noon.” I heard the you'll-never-get-it-done-in-time triumph in Morgan's voice.

“No problem,” I said cheerily, stabbing the intercom button and sticking out my tongue. Titles and back cover copy by noon. Great. I had only a hundred other things to do, not to mention going over my notes for the lunch meeting with the Gnat.

I checked my e-mail. Sixteen new messages. Nine were from Morgan: Remke's dictates for Posh employees. The use of blue pen was now against company policy, since it didn't mimeograph as well as black. Editors were never to use red pencil to edit, as copyeditors traditionally used red. Lunch was limited to one hour, except for author and literary agent lunches, which had to be approved in advance. The use of letterhead for scrap paper was absolutely forbidden. On and on and on. My favorite was:
The frivolous use of e-mail is strictly forbidden.

I clicked open a message from Eloise.
Tell me how it went with Remke on our cig break!—E.

What would I do without Eloise? I ignored all messages related to work and opened one from Amanda Frank, which had also been sent to Eloise. The three of us met without fail every Friday night for the Flirt Night Roundtable, which included gossip, venting about work, nine-dollar drinks, guy hunting and, of course, flirting. Amanda and her boyfriend had moved in together a year ago, so she was out of the running for the flirting part. But she
never missed a Friday. Well, actually, we never did much
flirting
at all (we mostly eyed cute guys and occasionally tried to meet them). It had been Eloise who'd dubbed our early get-togethers “Flirt Night,” and it had been me, the editor, who'd added the “Roundtable,” since we discussed flirting more than we did it. The name had stuck. Each week for six years now, we'd traded turns at choosing the place to meet and arranging with everyone.

Hey guys! How about Tapas Tapas, the new place on 16th off Union Square, for tonight's FNRT?
Time Out
mag says it's the latest Beautiful People hot spot and has great tapas. It's super-expensive, but oh well! Same time as usual. See ya'll later!—Amanda

Amanda was a transplanted cowgirl from Louisiana. Honest—she was from a ranch and everything. She had long blond hair, something rare in New York City, and attracted a lot of guys our way every time we went out, which Eloise and I sincerely appreciated. I typed back a
Can't wait,
then clicked onto Word to start drafting titles and back cover copy for the Gnat's memoir.

Title Suggestion:
The Gnat Sucks.
Back Cover Copy Headline:
The true story of Natasha Nutley, a blood-sucker squashed in her prime. Read it and weep tears of joy that you're not her!

I smiled. If only.

 

Natasha Nutley kissed the air close to my cheek. I couldn't even lampoon it as the Hollywood kiss; everyone I knew kissed like that. Well, except my own friends. Acquaintances and business associates air-kissed, sometimes going so far as to air-kiss both cheeks, as though they were European. If someone was willing to muss up her Bobbi Brown lipstick by actually kissing your flesh, she was your real friend.

Natasha settled her super-thin self into the chair across from me at a back table in the Blue Water Grill. I hadn't seen her in ten years, since graduation day at Forest Hills High School. She looked exactly the same…well, sort of. At least she didn't look twenty-eight. Maybe she'd already had work done on her eyes?

“Omigod!” she trilled one second later. “I see my agent. I have to go say hello! Excuse me, Janey?”

I nodded and forced a smile. Janey. Hardly an appropriate name for a big deal senior editor like me. (I wasn't going to tell the Gnat my
real
title.) I watched Natasha glide to a table full of tanned men. More air-cheek kissing.

I was grateful for the reprieve. When the hostess had led Natasha to my table, my heart started booming in my chest. Suddenly I wasn't even Jane Gregg, assistant editor at a respected publishing house in New York City. I was Jane Gregg, brainy loser at Forest Hills High.

Robby Evers's sixteen-year-old face and his tall, gawky body flashed before my eyes. My heart squeezed with sympathy for the lovesick teenager I'd been. The
heart-sick
teenager, thanks to the Gnat. How I'd hated her.

I glanced over at where she stood laughing with the Tanned Men. How was it possible that she'd never looked more gorgeous? She was ten years older than when she'd had everyone at Forest Hills High wrapped around her pinky. But now, she had the beauty, body and mystery of a woman. And a truly beautiful woman, at that.

Actually, the Gnat looked a lot like Nicole Kidman. Down to the red Botticelli ringlets, the slightly upturned nose, the beauty and the height. All she was missing was Tom Cruise as an ex. Though if rumor had it right, The Actor Natasha had had the affair with was hot stuff himself.

Natasha Nutley had that celebrity
je ne sais quoi.
Whenever I saw famous people in New York, it was as though they traveled with their own soft lighting. They didn't look like ordinary people. And the Gnat was anything but ordinary. Ordinary people didn't get romantically involved with television actors who made
People
magazine's Sexiest Men Alive list. Ordinary people didn't become famous by not only sleeping with men who made the list, but actually having a
relationship
with them. According to Natasha's outline for the tell-all, she'd been his one and only for seven weeks.

On their first date, which had been in his bed (slut!), he'd made her (and every woman he got involved with, apparently) sign The Document. Which basically said that if Natasha discussed him or their relationship in any medium, or even with friends, The Actor could sue her for everything she had and everything she'd earn in the future.
Including
royalties of the tell-all. So why did she sign such a stupid, insulting document? Why did she even sleep with a man who'd handed her a legal document while taking off her bra? Every spotlight-seeking answer was explained in the outline she'd written for her memoir.