Romance Is My Day Job (12 page)

The holiday break arrives, and not a minute too soon. I pack my best clothes and fly to my new home, to New York City, where I am destined to move . . . as Gunther's wife.

He doesn't meet me at the airport this time. I can take a cab or the bus, he says. Don't I understand how taxing it is to meet a person at the airport? Of course I do. He must be nervous about proposing to me. Maybe he'll surprise me anyway on bended knee at the terminal!

But when I don't spot him at the meeting place or baggage claim, I'm crushed. Thirty dollars later, I trudge up the five flights of stairs and knock on the door. He barely kisses me. I start unpacking and put my presents for him underneath the tree. Of course I check for a ring box. Not there. But maybe he's saving it for a special moment. I prepare myself for the big event.

I wait and wait. Days go by and it's finally Christmas Eve. He hasn't even touched me, which worries me. What's happened to my Gunther?

Finally, we exchange gifts and he brings out the pièce de résistance: an ancient teapot (I don't drink tea) from China. He found it at a flea market in Chelsea. Maybe we can brew his favorite tea together.

Inside the pot sits a long, eloquent letter on fancy paper all curled up, explaining his love for me, that we need to get to know each other, and that it's too soon for marriage. The missive has all the earmarks of a rejection, and I take it to heart. I am thoroughly disappointed. Gunther is officially drifting away on parchment.

It seems like the end of the world to leave Gunther on January 2, 1997, but when I get off the plane, the relief floods me.

After confronting him, Gunther says I misheard about “the little box.” He claims he never intimated that he'd purchased an engagement ring and it must be my imagination, my desperate desire to marry him.

A few days before Valentine's Day, a year since I received those bright yellow roses, Gunther breaks up with me over the phone. I saw it coming when he yelled at me over the birthday salmon.

The idea of moving without Gunther saddens me, but at the same time I feel weightless. At least I made it through to the end, didn't run away when it got too difficult. In fact, most of my time with Gunther was difficult. I start to understand the truth: Gunther isn't the one. He is a complicated person. So am I. He would leave me to die in a cave (the way Ralph Fiennes does to Kristin Scott Thomas in
The English Patient
), weep bitter tears of regret over my beautiful corpse, then find another redhead.

On the edge of thirty years of age, I am moving home, with or without the promise of Gunther. Starting over yet again isn't so bad. My mother and brother will be thrilled. My father and stepmother maybe not so much, but they like it when I come over to mow their lawn or help them clean windows. If I'm good, we'll also have frozen yogurt. My family is worth a move back east.

Saying good-bye to those desert sunsets isn't easy. Those quaint one-story adobe buildings, the ridges of California-esque homes, and even the strip malls. My friends have a party for me. Chris and I reconcile for two seconds and bid each other a fond adieu—meaning we will never talk again.

Gunther resurfaces around Christmas, a year after our terrible holiday break. He is desperate with love for me. I know I should delete the gushing e-mail, but my loneliness wins out. We make plans to see each other after our long separation. But when I see him again, I remember how he wasn't there. Not for any of it—the master's thesis, the master's defense, the packing, the moving, the full-time teaching load, the three graduate courses I took, the lonely Valentine's Day, the two-week Christmas disaster.

Then again, he did give me a great gift. I would never have moved back east if not for him. So many things wouldn't have happened if not for him.

My desire for true romance evaporates as I focus on a fresh start in my career and an improvement in my surroundings. Dating duds is a huge waste of time—at any age. Though by this time, I've heard the whole “You have to kiss a lot of frogs . . .” thing enough to feel a little jaded. I don't even want a prince right now. It's perfectly fine if my love life is on the back burner, because romance is far better in books and movies.

And besides, it's all about me now.

Some people are settling down, some people are settling and some people refuse to settle for anything less than butterflies.

—Candace Bushnell,
Sex and the City

1997

What a difference a few months make. Gunther is gone, I've moved from New Mexico, and now all my dreams are coming true. I'm almost thirty, overly educated, unemployed, and living with my parents in New Jersey (about forty minutes from Manhattan). My two cats have already ruined the upholstery. What more could I want?

I'm excited to start over, spend more time with my family, and find a career more in line with what I love: reading. Going into publishing would allow me to read full-time. There's something to be said, too, for being home and having parents fuss over you. Mom and Don do what they've always done: teach, write, argue about history or who's taking out the garbage, and throw dinner parties every chance they get. This is comforting to me since I've just uprooted myself. The only missing pieces are my brother, Patrick, who's in Manhattan, and my stepbrother, John, who moved to Texas a few years ago. It's just me and the parents.

I adjust to the move quite well until full-throttle humidity sets in. I forgot how gross the tristate area gets in the summer! Every day it saps me of energy, but I stick it out through June and July. By August, I'm barely conscious, resulting in this conversation at the dinner table.

“How about more potatoes?” My mother starts putting them on my plate before I even answer. I know she's worried about me. And frustrated because I've lost about ten pounds since moving back east.

“It's too hot to eat,” I answer. This is a hint for them to turn on the air-conditioning. Apparently, old people enjoy sweating like dogs. We've had this tug-of-war all summer.

“Don, would you turn on the air-conditioning?” Mom asks.

The man argues for about two seconds, then does her bidding. They both don't like the artificial air, but the ultimate goal is to fatten me up. Don draws a cartoon of my mother handing me—a string bean—a hamburger with a caption: “Bonnie's Patience Is Wearing Thin.” In all of his drawings, my mother is wearing a pink bathrobe. You have to wonder what he's thinking.

But seriously, how can I eat when I have a job and apartment to find? In Manhattan, no less? This is scary stuff. Can't I at least have a moment of flipping out? No, because the sooner I get a job and apartment, the sooner I won't live with my parents. On the whole, we get along and they are very generous, but taking the train into the city is a drag.

I read the papers, sift through the want ads, looking for jobs in publishing. I'll take anything, even though I want to work in the romance genre, or fiction, at least. Those early days in Cleveland come back to me—looking for temp work, finding work clothes, feeling giddy about a new beginning. Manhattan is frightening to me. There are too many people. How will I find a job even remotely suitable, especially since I'm not sure what publishing houses are available to me?

One morning, I dress in my old graduation dress, which looks corporate, and head out for the train to go “pound the pavement.” This is where you cue the
Saturday Night Fever
music, with John Travolta walking the streets in his disco clothes. There's nothing remotely glamorous about what I'm about to do. And these days, you don't exactly show up at the office and apply. But I need to do something active. My mission is to stop in at a few temp agencies and register in person. I haven't had to do this in a long time.

At the train station, just as I finish buying a ticket, a wave of stomach-plunging panic hits me. How can I go back there? It's such a big city. I'm going to die. If I were married, I'd just go home into the loving arms of my husband. Why didn't I marry someone rich and good-looking? I'd have no problems whatsoever.

Oh God, how will I get home? I can barely move. I'll be the lady in the middle of Penn Station having a nervous breakdown. This is when I stand on the train platform and start crying. The sunny sky feels oppressive. I can't move forward physically, much less emotionally. This is no way for me to look for a job. What would I say to these temp agencies? They'll know I'm in crisis. Moving from New Mexico to Manhattan was too drastic a change. Why did I think I could start over in such a big city?

I turn around and run home, sweating in the awful heat, feeling dizzy. My mother is in her office on the second floor. I'm completely out of breath, falling apart.

“What's wrong?” she asks calmly.

“I can't do it, Mom.” I'm sobbing. Mom has only cried once in front of me. I, on the other hand, feel no shame blubbering my face off repeatedly. It's not even an issue.

Sadly for me at that moment, Bonnie Smith is not a “there, there” type of mother. She won't rush up and hug me and tell me it's going to be okay. She did that in Cleveland, but not now. I'm too old now. This is not a near-death situation. I've lived six years as a full-fledged grown-up person.

“Why can't you do it, Patience?” Her eyes are stony brown, not a shred of warmth. I know she loves me like crazy, but she's kicking my ass.

“It's too much.” I cry even harder. My corporate outfit feels like a clown suit. Teaching French in New Mexico was such a good gig. Now I've screwed it all up for this desolate stinky place that has garbage on its streets and noisy, crazy people. Dogs piss everywhere, at least judging from what little time I've spent in New York City in the summer. Oh yes, my summer with Gunther.

“So, you're going to stay here and be a big baby,” Mom says.

Can you believe she said that? I know she's right, but would it kill her to be gentler? Gentle is the wave of the future. If your student gets a D in your class, it's okay. He's not “feeling” right about learning French. How will it help him with his big plans to be Donald Trump? Oh, little Ainsley can't make it to class. She's having some issues since not getting invited to so-and-so's party. I've heard many excuses and requests for indulgence over the years, and now I'm giving one to my “old-school” mother. I've been through so much, I should take extra-good care of myself, spend a few days relaxing and reading magazines.

Every heroine needs a push, and my mother is usually mine. Then again, I am her daughter, so I push back.

“I'm not going in to New York
today
.” My voice is a little stronger and I go back to my room with my furniture-destroying cats. The strong thing to do would be to rush right out and catch the next train. But screw it, I do feel like a total mess. By the time I got home, it would be night.

I know Mom is disappointed in me. She's aware of that mantra I have flowing through me, the one from seven years ago:
You've been through so much. Give yourself a break.
She teaches students like me every day, ones who ask for a paper extension because they have the sniffles.

I've given myself plenty of breaks and pity parties. It's easy to fall back on trauma—though it is valid to some degree—and not advance. But do I want to stay in this house, watch my shows, and put off my dazzling future? If I were a character in a Jane Austen novel, my options would be limited. I might be able to attend a dance, maybe take a trip to London to visit my aunt and uncle. Not so for me. My choices are limitless, and it's paralyzing.

I'm afraid of being mediocre, even though on some days it's fine to wallow in an average life. Otherwise you might die from the stress of being so amazing. I'll push past this bad period. So I don't make it into the city today. But I am on the train the very next day. I don't find a job that day, but it's a start.

 • • • 

Going to my first Smith family reunion since my return east is difficult. The Smiths are a fabulous breed—friendly, loving, and they all have a dry sense of humor, as well as a large appetite for starches (cookies, potato salad, macaroni salad—it's one of the many reasons why I love them). Since my grandparents passed away, our family functions are more sedate. It's up to the aunts and uncles to keep us together and organize reunions.

I want to show everyone that I have my shit together, even though I don't. Showing up counts for a lot, doesn't it?

We meet somewhere in Connecticut, out in the boonies. Most of all, I know my father will be there, and his approval means everything to me. The vibe I get is that he wishes I'd stayed in Albuquerque. Why would I give up a good teaching job to come east when there's nothing here (except family)? He would love for me to marry and settle somewhere far away—at least this is my sense. How did things between us change so fast? One day, he was telling me what a special person I am, the next, I'm this foreign element disrupting his landscape.

This only makes me try harder. If I am a mess, I make sure I have the appearance of a beauty queen. My hair is lush, chin length. I'm wearing white shorts (how confident is
that
) and a black shirt, makeup flawless. Basically, I'm dressing for my father. The reunion turns out to be a golden afternoon of chatting, mingling, eating. At one point, I corner my father.

“So I'm back!” I say.

“Good, good.”

I can tell he's not buying my faux-cheerfulness. It's a bummer when someone knows you're treading water. “I'm getting into publishing, sending out résumés. I was dying in Albuquerque.”

“Oh, I thought it was a good place for you, nice school.”

“I couldn't do it forever. I'm not a teacher.”

I try to emphasize this, but he's still not hooked into my façade. My mother would at least pretend that all was well and say, “Good for you!” He's eating a potato chip, which is a rarity since he's given up junk food.

It dawns on me that he doesn't expect a lot from me anymore. I could stay in Albuquerque in a job that doesn't suit me, and that would be ideal. This whole striking into new territory seems rash and neurotic. In some ways, he's right. My life would have been just fine, teaching French, gradually losing my Parisian accent, not seeing my family all that much, dating more cyclists, eventually marrying someone who worked at Intel.

But now I'm here, along with all my possessions, my cats. I have bigger plans. As with college, I'm just not sure how they will materialize. In the meantime, at least I care enough to haul myself to the reunion. My greatest fear is not that he disapproves, but that he just doesn't care anymore what I do.

My cute white shorts and I make it home somehow, more determined than ever to prove my father wrong—or surpass whatever path he may have laid out for me.

 • • • 

I blanket the New York publishing scene with cover letters and résumés. It is starting over at its finest, with me trying to convey that I am worthy enough to start at the bottom, which is where I belong. My experience in publishing consists of having read several books on how to edit, devouring countless romance novels and French literary fiction, and grading students' papers, as well as doing my own writing. I learn about copyediting and network with publishing contacts. One person leads me to another person until I get a temp job in the publicity department at Simon & Schuster.

On my first day, I'm whisked to my adorable cubicle (just like in the movies!), where I type and ferry around covers for initials. My boss is this blue-eyed blonde who loves to curse. She gets so impassioned that I think she'll have a heart attack. But I love her feistiness. In fact, New Yorkers tend to be witty, I discover. Everything moves at a faster pace, even the humor.

I know from the start I won't work permanently at Simon & Schuster. Publicity is not my goal, but my fascination with the romance novel blossoms as I study industry magazines such as
Romantic Times
and
Affaire de Coeur
,
both of which give reviews of the latest titles—and there are a lot of them. At my local Barnes & Noble, I pick up as many of these little nuggets as I can, along with a few thick ones by Jackie Collins (I'm a superfan) and Danielle Steel. I even join Romance Writers of America and go to a few of the New York chapter meetings. It is a supportive, nurturing network with a definite feel of “us versus them” (with “them” being the editors). I'm not sure where I fit in since I did write my masterpiece,
Teacher's Pet
,
and yet I'm trying to get a job in publishing. Which side am I on? Hanging out with both sides can't hurt, right?

From the beginning, I make friends with Tanya, a sassy historical-romance writer, who seems to have a wealth of knowledge about the romance world. Over the phone, we have a long conversation about my background, how I came to love reading romance, and what I plan to do. I tell her that I want to write romances, to which she chuckles, since, of course, I must have been bitten by this special bug. She tells me who's who and what's what, mostly from her long experience as a writer trying to get into print. You gotta watch those publishers, always trying to mold you, always trying to be marketers. Okay, that seems typical. But still, you want to get published, right? So what other options are there?