The Ghost of Greenwich Village: A Novel (16 page)

“So that night,” said Cassandra, downing a slug of merlot, “we get together in Russell’s hotel room and make a list of everything we’d learned to put into the show.”

“Right,” said Russell, “and I wrote something like ‘Our writers have scoured the park for tips you can use to have a great time. And here are the top ten.’ ”

“Innocuous, no?” chimed in Quirine, putting down her gimlet. “But the next morning, when Giles saw the script, guess what happened?”

“What?” breathed Eve.

“He changed the word ‘writers’ to … ‘staffers.’ ”

“No.”
But Eve suddenly remembered the caption under her picture with Klieg in the paper. She’d been called “an unidentified
Smell the Coffee
staffer.”

“Yes,” came the unanimous reply.

“They never mention writers on the air. Ever. They’ll give a nod to the producers, bookers, and production assistants,” said Steve. “They’ll mention the director and even the prop guys. But never us.”

Eve had been disappointed to see the gang when she first walked in, but now she was glad they were here. She was learning a lot. And since the Village was turning out to be a dry hole when it came to meeting people, this band of writers might yet be her best chance at a social circle.

“And what about the production meetings?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” asked Mark.

“Giles consistently compliments every other department except ours. Now, why is that? The writers aren’t exactly a secret to the staff of the show.”

“No, but we do have the temerity to be in a union,” said Russell. “We make more than the bookers and a lot of the producers. Plus we don’t constantly put in ‘face time’ with Giles the way the other departments do. We get on with our—not inconsiderable—work.”

Quesadillas arrived, but they sat, congealing. The writers seemed hungrier to get things out than take them in. They were sorry for themselves, true. But they were also prickly, dramatic characters worthy of
The Happy Island
, Eve decided. She felt a sudden surge of affection for them.

“Hey, you guys, c’mon. I told you not to bombard Eve with all this stuff, remember? You’ll scare her,” said Mark, who had been quiet for the last few minutes. Eve was thrilled that he’d actually been concerned about keeping her.

Cassandra rolled her eyes again. “Please. You think we should all be grateful just to have jobs. Admit it.”

“Yeah, well, he does have a point,” said Russell. “In theory, this is one of the greatest jobs ever. Steve—you got to talk to DiMaggio, for God’s sake. And Cassandra, you interviewed Paul Newman before he died.”

“And, at the risk of giving you swelled heads: You’re all extremely talented,” said Mark. “Each of you could be at
The New York Times
or
Newsweek
or even writing novels. But you’re not. You’re at
Smell the Coffee
. There has to be a reason.” The others grunted into their drinks. “Okay, what about this?” he continued. “You can’t open a paper today without reading about the latest round of news layoffs. If we hadn’t snuck Eve in while Orla was away, we’d probably have lost another position in this department and we’d each be writing
four
segments a night.” This sobered the table, and the writers bowed their heads in tacit agreement.

“But that doesn’t mean this job doesn’t suck sometimes. Mark, you can’t deny it. Tell Eve what’s going to happen if she ever starts writing for Bliss,” pushed Cassandra. Mark shook his head. “Fine,
I
will,” she said. “When you start writing for Bliss, and be glad you’re not near ready to yet. But if you ever are, get ready for major pain. No matter how talented you are—”

“And you are, Eve,” interrupted Russell. “Still green, but you’ve gotten some interesting shit out of some pretty boring
people. Personally, I think it’s because you’re the last earnest girl left in New York.”

A chorus of “Mmm-hmm”s went up, which Cassandra quashed with an
“Anyway.”

“No matter how talented you are, this woman will treat your work like a pile on the sidewalk to be stepped over. Even when you give her what she wants, it’s not what she wants.” Eve thought this had to be bluster, since Cassandra wasn’t yet allowed to write for Bliss. But the others nodded with heavy heads.

“She doesn’t want what she wants?” asked Eve. “What does that mean?”

Quirine elaborated. “It means you rack your brains to come up with an intro that is perfectly suited to her. Something even her husband would swear she’d written. You’re feeling good. And the next morning, you watch as she fixes those big blue eyes on the camera. She pauses dramatically and says … something totally different.”

“It’s as if she punishes you if you out-Bliss Bliss,” Steve said, nodding.

“You should confront her. Tell her to knock it off,” said Cassandra to Mark, sounding a little slurry.

“Yeah, thanks for that,” he said, not even looking at her.

“I’m serious. You’re the boss now. Tell her we want some fucking respect.”

The writers exchanged looks. Eve wondered why they couldn’t just enjoy the fact that for the most part, Hap appreciated their work. But perhaps that was a writer’s nature, to focus on the bad review.

“So, given the circumstances, what is it you want?” Eve’s voice sounded hoarse and she coughed. “I mean we. What do we want?” she asked the table at large.

Quirine swirled her glass. “This is a question.” There followed an uncomfortable silence.

Finally, Russell spoke up. “I guess what we want is what
everybody wants. Some kind of … credit. Acknowledgment. I know they’re never gonna say, ‘Hey, by the way, folks at home, we’ve got a team of great writers here who help make our anchors look like rock stars.’ But could Bliss go through just one segment—anybody’s—the way it was written more than once a century? Could Giles throw us a bone at a production meeting? Or when they’re thanking the whole staff at the end of the Christmas Day show, could they say the word ‘writers’?”

Everyone nodded into their drinks.

Eve thought for a moment. “It seems to me,” she began. The others, lost in private meditations on their unjust treatment, didn’t look up. “It seems to me … ironic.”

“What?” asked Russell.

“It’s ironic,” she said, feeling very wise and very drunk. “That we—writers, of all people—should be without a voice.”

The group gazed at her as though she were the Oracle at Delphi. Either that or they were just very drunk, too.

   • • •

The others melted away into the night, citing exhaustion, waiting boyfriends, or suspicious girlfriends, leaving Eve alone with Mark as she nursed her last drink.

“Mind if we get out of here?” he asked. Eve nodded, pushing the glass away, still half full. It sounded like he wanted the second half of their evening to begin.

“You seemed a little out of sorts tonight, given that it was a celebration,” she offered as he helped her on with her sweater. His hand brushed her neck lightly and sparks flew down her spine. How long had it been since she’d been touched? Months.

“I guess it was because it suddenly hit me: I’m gonna be you guys’
boss
,” he said as they headed out the double doors to the empty street.

“And you’re not sure what you should and shouldn’t say anymore,” she said.

“Exactly. I mean, I’m aware of the downsides of this gig as much as anyone. Hey—taxi!” But the cab turned in the other direction, its red taillights disappearing down the street. “But I know what it’s like to lose a job. And that was worse. Much worse than a job that’s occasionally superficial and thankless.”

Eve couldn’t imagine Mark being fired. “Really? What—?”

“Damn. Do you think we should walk over to Third? This is ridiculous.”

He was certainly eager. She wondered if he was going to ask her to go over to his place. She certainly hoped so, since hers was out of the question.

They got to Third Avenue and found a taxi waiting at the light. “Well, good night,” said Mark, opening the door for her. “Thanks for coming out.”

Eve hoped her face didn’t betray her disappointment. “You don’t want to maybe … hang out? A little while longer?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Like you said, I’m your boss now.”

“Does it really matter?”

He sighed, seeming to acknowledge that this discussion had been coming. “Look, I really like you, I do. I think you know that. You’re beautiful, and incredibly sweet. Smarter than most people at the show.” He paused for a moment, seeming to consider something. “You want to know something?”

“What?”

“That day when Orla Knock came in? Asking me about the two other writers we had on file? And I told her they were doing vacation relief at CNN?”

“Yes.”

Mark flicked his eyes down the street, then brought them back to her face. “I lied. I didn’t even call them.”

“Really?” The thought thrilled her more than anything he’d ever said or any look he’d ever given her.

“Yes, really. But I don’t want to mess this job up, or complicate it more than it already is. Orla was never anyone’s friend. But I
am
you guys’ friend, so I just want to avoid any possible weirdness, okay? For everyone’s sake.” He gave her a winsome little smile and guided her into the taxi. “Okay, Toulouse?”

Eve nearly teared up at the use of his pet name for her. She nodded and waved halfheartedly as the door slammed shut. As the taxi cruised downtown, for once Eve didn’t see the mythical city around her. All she saw were the smudges on the window.

S
omething was wrong when the highlight of one’s weekend involved walking the dog and looking for plaques on old buildings. Yet even as Eve lamented how things had ended before they began with Mark, she couldn’t help but be a little moved to discover Pound and Millay, who had also lived alongside one another on her mother’s shelves. She felt energized by them and decided to try for something harder: to track down some lesser-known writers, especially among the Beat generation. Eve took to carrying a small pad of paper to scribble down the addresses of the homes she found and had filled three pages so far.

On Saturday afternoon, she and Highball found themselves on a previously unvisited block of Jane Street, in front of a consignment store called Full Circle. It lured her with a Peggy Hunt lace cocktail dress in the window. They entered and Eve ran her fingers over the sheer black netting that overlaid the champagne taffeta bodice.

“I don’t know about that for you.”

Eve turned around. A young woman behind the counter was addressing a lumpy customer who’d just stepped out of a dressing room wearing what looked like a hand-painted Mexican blouse and skirt, probably from the forties.

“Excuse me?” said the customer.

“The print on the skirt makes you look wider. And the wooden buttons add bulk at your bust. It’s not flattering.” The content was harsh, no doubt, but the young woman’s delivery was so sincere that it almost muted the hurtfulness of her message. “Try the bias-cut yellow sundress over there instead.” The customer frowned at her reflection and stomped back into the changing room.

Eve approached the counter, which displayed an array of rhinestones, pearls, and cameos, set against slabs of black velvet. She picked up a carved green Bakelite cocktail ring and tried it on.

“Now, that’s something,” said the proprietress. Like Eve, she was spare of build, although she possessed a coltish, animated quality that made her presence seem quite vivid. She pushed back a curtain of blond hair, somewhat stiff with dye, to reveal large brown eyes, rimmed in black kohl like Cleopatra’s.

“It certainly is unusual,” said Eve. She slid the ring off and put it back.

“I mean your cardigan.” She gestured at Eve’s cashmere sweater, with its appliquéd pieces of antique Asian textiles. “I can’t remember the name, but that’s the one where the label is sewed into the waist instead of the collar, right?” Eve shrugged out of it and handed it over. “Carruthers. I knew it. Can’t imagine what you paid for it.”

“It was my mother’s.”

The girl gave a low whistle. “She has great taste.”

“Had, actually.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry.” She sounded like she really
was
sorry.

“Thanks,” said Eve. She admired some brooches for a minute or two. “May I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why did you warn that woman away from that outfit?” Eve whispered the question because the woman was still in the store, prowling somewhere in the back and making disgruntled noises.

“It wasn’t right on her.”

“It wasn’t
that
bad.”

“But it wasn’t absolutely right. And that wouldn’t be fair to her. Or the dress.”

“Not fair to the dress?”

“That dress deserves the right person. She’s beautiful, but delicate. I worry about her. She’s not exactly a kid anymore and the next person who takes her home could be the last partner she’ll ever have. I want her to be with the right one at the … end.” She pressed a button that popped open the cash register, and began making stacks of bills. Looking down, she said, “I anthropomorphize clothes. I realize this is not normal, but there it is.”

Eve stuck out her hand. “Eve Weldon.”

“Gwendolyn Montgomery.” They shook but before either could say anything further, the dressing room door burst open and out came the customer, this time in a sky blue polyester pantsuit, circa 1975.

“Now, that,” said Gwendolyn under her breath, “is a match made in heaven.”

   • • •

The answering machine light was blinking when she got home. Eve pressed the button, kicked off her shoes, and headed into the kitchen.

“Eve. Is this you?” She stopped in her tracks. “Not sure if I dialed right. Anyway, Alex here. From the Met gala thingy. I know it was months ago but it’s been a crazy summer. Wondering if you want to hang tonight. Call me.”

Eve looked at the machine, overcome with excitement.
Finally
. Of course, it happened just when she’d stopped thinking about him, but that was life for you. She lifted Highball’s front paws and began to dance around the apartment. Then something occurred to her. Asking her out at the last minute, after all these weeks, was not a good sign. At the very least, he assumed she didn’t have plans. And of course, she didn’t. Vadis was still on
the road. Quirine had once said they should take in a movie together but hadn’t mentioned it since. And Mark? Well.