Come Dancing (7 page)

His chest pressed against my back, his heartbeat like a drum kick through my shirt. My stomach was doing somersaults.

“Just hold those in and then strum. That’s your basic D.” When I didn’t move, he stroked the strings for me. His arms encircling me felt like an embrace.
Why is he showing me these stupid chords when I’m dying for him to kiss me?

“Next you go to an E.” He lifted my pointer and positioned it, then my middle finger, then my fourth. “Don’t be afraid of it, Julia,” he said in a low timbre, his lips brushing my cheek.

Suddenly my skin prickled with goosebumps, and I gave an involuntary shiver. I couldn’t stand the tension any longer. As I turned toward him, the guitar clanked against the bottle between his legs and knocked it sideways.

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry!”

Jack grabbed the frothing bottle and slammed it onto the table. He stood up, his jeans soaked. “Well, that cooled me down. Let me go change.”

He went back through the loft to his bedroom.
What a klutz! I can’t believe I dumped a whole beer in his lap. He must think I’m an idiot!
I stood and paced around the table.
How moronic! Maybe I’d better go before I make an even bigger fool of myself
. I waited a few more minutes, but when he didn’t return, I grabbed my bag and punched the elevator button until it came.

Outside it was pouring rain, so I sloshed over to the subway. I got on the train and stared at the graffitied doors as the crowded car lurched its way downtown.
Only I could blow a night with Jack Kipling. He probably wishes he hadn’t invited me over
. The doors slid open and people shoved their way on. A couple with safety-pinned eyebrows sat across from me and started making out. A bedraggled guy came through ranting about rent control and shaking his cup in people’s faces. The passengers studiously ignored him, and each other. I got out at my stop and slogged over to Broome, thoroughly disgusted with myself.

The phone was ringing as I turned the second lock. I peeled off my dripping shoes and got ready to settle in for a long call from Dot. “Hi, Mom,” I said.

“I’ve been called a mother before, but not in that sense of the word.” Jack sounded amused.

“Oh! Hi. I can’t believe I spilled that beer all over you. I hope I didn’t ruin your jeans.”

“My jeans have survived worse. You vanished on me.”

“I’m sorry, I was just so embarrassed. I didn’t even thank you for playing the music.”

“Glad you liked it. Listen, I have to go to this thing next weekend, this… birthday thing for one of the guys in the band.”

I started to get excited, but I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Jack paused for a moment. “Do you want to go?” he said. “All I have to do is show up. Then we could get something to eat. Play some more blues.” I felt my pulse thumping.
Did he just ask me out?

“I’d love to.” Suddenly I envisioned a bunch of rich rock stars and their girlfriends at a bash. My raggedy punk stuff probably wouldn’t cut it. “What would I wear to something like that?”

“Wear anything you want. So I’ll pick you up Saturday after I get out of the studio, and we’ll go to this shindig. I’ll call you when I’m done, around ten-thirty. Want to give me your office number too?”

Breathlessly I recited it to him.

“Now I can track you down, day or night. All right. See you Saturday.”

I hung up and did a little spin on my worn rug. Having his arms wrapped around me had felt incredible. What would it be like to kiss him … to touch his chest? It had been months since I’d made love with anyone—not that my sleepover with Eric even fit that description. I had a feeling Jack would be amazing, if we ever got to that point.

I put on my favorite Floor ballad and sat in the open window looking out at the taxi lights coming on further down Broome. I didn’t want to get my hopes up too much, but this was the kind of Cinderella story you read about in New York; somebody from nowhere suddenly met someone famous, and all their dreams came true. I just hoped I’d have a chance to really connect with Jack before the pumpkin imploded and all the mice scattered.
Enjoy it while you can
, I told myself.
And whatever happens, don’t set yourself up for another heartbreak
.

Welcome to the Working Week

I was so distracted the next day, I made about a zillion typos. As I was redoing a letter for the third time, Harvey came into my cramped office.

“How’s the Collins novel coming along?”

“I’ve been whacking away, but it’s slow going.”

“Well, keep at it. We can’t miss our call-to-print.” His gaze dropped to my chest, and I hunched my shoulders to slacken my blouse. “Tell you what. Why don’t I take you out for a drink Sunday? A reward for all the extra editing.”

Ugh. He’d mentioned several times that his wife took their kids to her father’s Park Avenue townhouse for dinner on Sundays. “That’s my laundry night,” I said.

Harvey’s schedule was packed with meetings on Tuesday, so he had no time to harass me. On his way out to his midday boozathon, he stopped by my desk.

“I’m taking an agent to the Four Seasons,” he said, unfolding his sunglasses. “Don’t wait up.”

I just rolled my eyes. After he left I browsed through the
Post
, my secret vice. I always kept it tucked inside the
New York Times
to avoid comment from my highbrow colleagues. An item on Page Six caught my eye; former sitcom actress Isabel Reed was up for a role in a new big-budget film after several years below the radar. The last line mentioned that she lived in the Chelsea Hotel in Manhattan, and was working on a memoir.

When I was growing up, Isabel Reed starred in my absolute favorite TV show about a schoolteacher who sang the lessons to her kids. I’d never missed an episode, and the theme song was wired into my subconscious.
I wonder who her literary agent is … probably her book has already been sold
. Harvey’s words echoed in my mind:
Come up with your own ideas
… Maybe it was worth spending ten minutes trying to track her down, once I got back from my own lunch date.

Vicky and I always met at a diner halfway between our offices. Today she looked very professional in a conservative gray suit. “I have to get back to the office in an hour. We’re having a goodbye toast to Daphne at three,” she said as I slid into the booth.

Vicky had introduced me to the editor-in-chief’s assistant at her company. “She’s leaving?”

“Yes, it’s pretty horrible. Bill called her into his office and said that because she hasn’t acquired anything, she should start looking for a new job since he can’t promote her. But everything’s shut up tight as a bad clam with this recession. He’s already given her position to the sales director’s nephew, or else you could have tried out for it.”

My stomach sank. “The minute there’s an opening, it always gets filled by someone with inside connections. I’ve been to three ‘informational interviews’ in the last six months, but the only information is that they aren’t hiring.” I tried to flag the waitress, but she ignored me and kept talking to the busboy.

Vicky frowned. “I don’t see how they think you can just magically acquire a book if you don’t have an expense account to lunch the agents. That’s the way to get them to send you projects, right?”

“That’s pretty much it. You’re supposed to talk yourself up during the meal. I feel so awful for Daphne. What is she going to do?” This was just the kind of fate I dreaded. It was entirely possible to grind away for years and then be told you’d reached a dead-end.

“She’s moving back to St. Louis, where she’s from. She’s going to stay with her parents while she figures things out.”

“God, that’s depressing. Sometimes it seems like I’ll never make it here. It’s so hard to get ahead.”

“I know. If you stay an assistant for more than two years, you get typecast as just a secretary. And editorial seems worse than the other departments; I guess because there’s such a glut of you English majors,” Vicky commented.

“If I don’t acquire a book soon, Harvey will probably fire me too,” I said glumly. I waved at the waitress again.

“That’s not going to happen. He’d be lost without you to do all his work.” She glanced at the laminated menu. “So I hear you’re going to a party with Jack next Saturday.”

“I was going to tell you if you hadn’t been too busy to return my call.”

“I’m in the middle of booking a tour. Every time I think I’ve got the schedule nailed down, the author changes it.”

“I’m just kidding, I know you’re busy. Is Sammy taking you to this party? It’s for a guy who plays with the band; one of the backup players I guess.” She and Sammy had been hot and heavy ever since they’d first gotten together. Vicky was blasé about it, saying she was just going to enjoy the sex, free pot, and booze while it lasted.

“Sammy said he wasn’t invited. I think the birthday boy has a beef with him over something. Probably a good thing for you to be alone with Jack.”

“I was stunned when he asked me. Especially after what I did.” The waitress finally took our orders, and I told Vicky about my beer-spilling episode.

“Geez, Julia. Way to arouse the guy.”

“I know. But he was a good sport about it. He seemed to think it was funny.”

“Sammy did say Jack likes your sense of humor. And the fact that you don’t act too impressed. So maybe you’re the woman of the moment,” she said as our food arrived.

“He must have women coming out of his ears—or whatever body part they’d be crawling out of. By the way, I’m not mentioning Jack to anyone. Saturday will probably be the last time I ever see him.”

She gave me a sarcastic glance. “I promise I won’t tell anyone a famous rock musician wants to take you out. I mean, Jesus, how embarrassing is that.” She shook the catsup bottle a few times to get it going, and the liquid erupted in a spreading puddle.

“That’s a lot of catsup,” I observed.

“It’s okay, our President says it’s a vegetable.”

We split the bill and went out onto the white-hot sidewalk. Vicky frowned at my second-hand suit. “You’ll need to wear something other than your usual gear. Come over Saturday and pick out one of my party dresses. I have an outfit that’ll remind him he wants to do you.”

Vicky’s story about Daphne made me dread becoming another unemployment statistic. The minute I got back to the office, I called the Chelsea Hotel and asked for Isabel Reed. A sleepy-sounding voice at the front desk told me he’d take a message. I repeated my number twice and spelled out the company’s name. Just as I was packing up to leave, the phone rang.

“Julia Nash?”

“Yes, this is Julia.”

“I’m Isabel Reed. Did you call me?”

I started to get excited. Her voice sounded vaguely like I remembered from the show.

“Yes! I did. I saw that you were writing a memoir. I wondered if you had a literary agent.”

Isabel sighed into the phone. “I barely have an acting agent, much less a literary one. Although maybe that will change if I get this part in the movie.”

That was good news; if she had an agent, he’d probably skip over me and send the manuscript straight to Harvey. “I was a huge fan of your show. I’d love to see whatever you’ve written. I work with the publisher here.” I figured I shouldn’t start off by saying I was just an assistant.

“Well, there isn’t much yet, but I can give you what I’ve got. I’m out of town next week for the audition, but I’ll call you when I get back.”

“That would be great! I look forward to meeting you.”

I hung up, my mind buzzing. Maybe I’d finally hit upon something that even Harvey couldn’t dismiss.

I had a lilt in my step as I walked home, excited about Isabel’s call and still pinching myself that I would see Jack on Saturday. He was much easier to talk to than I would have thought. And beneath the cool persona, he struck me as very intelligent. But my god, he was a rock star, and I was, well … a glorified typist. Or at least a work-in-progress. I’d puzzled over his interest in me until I gave myself a splitting headache. Surely there was a line of models and starlets waiting their turn—but could he be tired of those types? I guessed I’d just go with it and see where things led.

As I was switching off my lamp, the phone rang. “Were you going to call me this week?” came my mother’s two-pack-a-day voice.

“Sorry, I was really busy. Did you just get in?”

“Yeah, I was down at Buck’s for a while. When are you coming home? I haven’t seen you since Christmas. You can’t be—” she coughed— “that busy.”

“I’m not sure. I have a lot of deadlines coming up.” Immediately I felt guilty; I knew I needed to pay her a visit. “Maybe I can get there in August when it slows down.”

“This guy I know from the bar drives a truck up to New Jersey every so often. I told him I might hitch a ride with him and come see you. Lately the weekends have been pretty quiet around here.”

“I imagine you’ve had more going on than me,” I said, trying to discourage her. Dot’s personality was way too big for my little loft. “What’s happening at the store?”

“I finally asked Erwin for a raise, but he’s hemming and hawing, the skinflint. This week he’s got Marie and me double-checking the inventory. Oh, by the way, her cousin did wind up getting back with that guy.”

I couldn’t recall which cousin this was; the extended families of her friends tended to coagulate in my mind. “I hope that goes fast for you. I’d better turn in; I’ll talk to you soon.”

“I’ll be at Buck’s again tomorrow night, so don’t call until after ten.” She hung up.

I wondered how much my mother was drinking these days. After Dad left, she’d gone on some real benders. I remembered struggling with algebra homework back in high school, forcing myself not to call the bar because it annoyed her. One night I’d picked up the phone at twelve, then cradled it. By two a.m., I’d resolved to call in half an hour if she didn’t show. Finally I heard her Dodge Dart roll up the driveway at quarter to three. I ran out into the freezing February darkness, clutching my denim jacket over my gown. My mother was tilting sideways in the front seat, fumbling for something on the floor mat.