See Jane Date (28 page)

Something suddenly occurred to me, something I hadn't given a thought to before now. If Jeremy approved the partial, that meant Natasha would go home, back to Santa Barbara and her proposing boyfriend. She wouldn't need weekly meetings or hand-holding to start the major work of writing the complete manuscript. Huh. No more Natasha to jangle her bracelets. No more tossing of the ringlets. No more phone calls at home or intense subway rides. No more
her.
I was just starting to get to know Natasha Nutley and, I had to admit, I was a bit curious to know her a little better. Not to sound like a self-help book, but in a way, the more I learned about Natasha, the more I learned about myself. Or at least that was how it seemed. I supposed I could even admit to
slightly
liking her. I knew she was staying in New York through a week or two of August; the boyfriend was flying in on the first, they'd go to Dana's wedding on the second, and they'd probably spend the following week walking up and down Madison Avenue, shopping for baby Prada clothes and furniture and accessories for the nursery. Then they'd fly back to the houseboat, and I'd hear from Natasha once a month or so, as she progressed with
The Stopped Starlet.
I'd planned to talk to her about the sequel Remke wanted once I had Jeremy's comments on
Stopped.
Overwhelming her with the idea of a second memoir before now would have been too much for her, and if Jeremy panned the partial, she might be less deflated if she knew he was behind her to the extent that Posh even wanted a sequel.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. Three-twenty.

The intercom buzzed, and I jumped. “Jaaane,” whined Morgan. “Jeremy would like to see you in the conference room.”

Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom. I stood up and took a deep breath. The partial manuscript was good. There was no way Jeremy could say otherwise. Head held high, I smoothed my hair, picked a piece of lint off my Ann Taylor jacket, wiped my sweaty palms on my skirt and marched down the hall. I stopped by Eloise's office for a
you go, girl,
but she wasn't there.

The moment I entered the conference room, I saw the platter of cookies and the champagne and little plastic cups. Who was getting married now? Paulette? Daisy? Remke himself? I spotted Gwen behind Paulette; she was lifting Olivia into her arms from the baby carriage. If Gwen had turned up for this announcement, it had to be something big. Eloise was standing in the back, looking at the final cover mechanical for the
Skinny-Minny Wanna-Be
memoir. We caught eyes and I sent her a questioning look. She shrugged. The entire editorial and art departments were dotted around the room, plus Ian, the grumpy profit-and-loss number cruncher who I was forced to deal with way too often, and Irma, the temperamental contracts manager.

“Thanks for coming, everyone,” Jeremy said, effectively stopping the chatter in the room. “Gwen has come in to make a special announcement.”

What could she possibly have to announce? She was getting a divorce from Phoney-Baloney? The baby's poop was now green? Oh, God. Was she quitting?

“Hi everyone!” Gwen trilled as she handed Olivia to Morgan, who held the baby at an awkward distance from her body as though Olivia were contaminated. “I most
certainly do have a special surprise announcement. I'd like everyone to get ready to clap their hands. Jane Gregg has been promoted to Editor!”

My mouth dropped open. Claps and cheers. Pats on the back.
Editor?
Had I heard right? Not
Associate
Editor? The champagne poured. I stared at Gwen, stared at Jeremy, stared at Remke, stared at Eloise. I finally clamped my mouth shut, but it fell open again. I'd gotten promoted!

“I'm so proud of you, Jane!” chirped Gwen. She took Olivia from Morgan and rocked her up and down in her arms, then came over to stand next to me. “Say hi-hi to Posh's newest editor, Livie-loo.”

I played with Livie-loo's wispy blond curls. “I thought maybe I misheard, Gwen. I'm promoted to
full editor?
”

“You deserve it, Jane,” Gwen said ostentatiously but welcomely gracious for once. “You were held at the editorial assistant level for a bit too long because you were so good and we didn't really need another editorial hand. And then you got stuck as an assistant editor for too long because of budget problems. You've proved you're editor level. Jeremy read Natasha's partial this morning, faxed me a copy, and we had a conference call with William. And
voila`.
”

“Yes, congratulations, Jane,” Jeremy said, patting me on the back. “You've been very loyal to Posh, and we've all appreciated that and your hard work. The Nutley memoir really shows what you're capable of. It's dead-on.”

Dead-on. Little currents of happiness started tingling at my toes and worked their way up to my fingers. Dead-on. I knew it! I couldn't wait to call Natasha and tell her.

“Good going, Gregg,” Remke added. “And now that Natasha's working full speed ahead on the bulk of
The
Stopped Starlet,
you'll be taking on a couple of additional projects.”

“Your own projects,” Jeremy added. “You won't be doing any more initial line-edits. You'll be doing your
own
edits.”

I could feel myself beaming. I'd done it. I'd gotten my promotion. And not the perfectly fine promotion to associate editor. I'd leaped right over that to full editor! There were some accomplishments that no one could ever take away from you, and this was one of them.

“Okay, let's go, let's go, everyone,” Remke snapped. “Drink up and let's get back to work.”

Eloise squeezed me into a huge hug. “We are going to celebrate big time tonight!”

“Jane,” Gwen said, settling Olivia in her baby carriage. “I'm so pleased about your promotion! When Jeremy called me to let me know he thought the memoir was proof of your readiness, I'd never been so proud! I mean, I taught you everything you know, so this really bodes well for my management skills. I've always said, I trained you well!”

I mentally rolled my eyes and smiled at her. “I appreciate everything you've done for me, Gwen. You've been really good to me.” Good enough, actually.

She beamed and rocked the baby carriage back and forth. “You've blossomed, Jane. I've watched you grow from a twenty-two-year-old novice into a full editor. I'm just so proud. Ooh—guess who just made poopy face?” Gwen cooed to Olivia. “Jane, want to help me change her?”

“Um, I would, but I promised Eloise I'd go over the
Skinny-Minny
mechanicals with her, so…” A total lie. Changing a baby's dirty diaper wasn't exactly how I wanted to celebrate my promotion.

“Jaaane,” Morgan said, two plastic cups of champagne in her hand. “Congratulaaations on your promotion. That's really greaaat. You definitely deserve it.” She handed me one of the cups, then tapped mine with hers before heading to the table to snatch two chocolate-chip cookies.

Well, well. Would wonders never cease.

“Am I too late?”

I turned around at the sound of Natasha's voice and shocked myself by being glad to see her. We hadn't gotten together in three weeks, since the day of Dana's shower. She looked like herself again. She wore tight black leather pants, a tiny lavender microfiber tank top and high-heeled, lavender-black snakeskin slingbacks. Her perfect Nicole Kidman ringlets appeared sunlit, even indoors. She didn't look the least bit pregnant, but then again, she was barely three months along.

“Natasha, I got promoted to Editor!”

“I know.” Her bracelets jangled as she tossed a few ringlets behind her shoulder. “Jeremy called and asked if I'd come over at three-thirty to celebrate. Congratulations! That must mean my chapters are coming along okay, huh?”

“He loved them!” I whispered. “So did Remke.”

She flashed those super-white teeth in a dazzling smile. “Jeremy told me. I was so thrilled. You and I make a great team.”

A team. Natasha and I. Huh. I hadn't thought of it that way before, but that was certainly what the editor-author relationship was.

“Champagne?” I kicked myself the moment the word was out of my mouth. Was I a total idiot or what? Hadn't I just read the fleshed-out outline of Natasha's life? The
woman was a recovered alcoholic. Not to mention pregnant.

“No, thanks,” Natasha said. “I don't drink. And neither does the baby.” She patted her tummy.

Oh, God. I was an idiot. “I forgot for a second. I'm sorry.”

“I'm glad you forgot.” Natasha flipped a ringlet behind her back. “That must mean you're starting to see me as me, and not the mess in the book.”

Huh. I most certainly was. Interesting. That was part of the realization I'd come to last week at the Flirt Night Roundtable. Unless you knew Natasha, really knew her, you wouldn't,
couldn't,
know her by reading her outline.

“So, it turns out I'm going to stay in New York for a while,” Natasha added. “Sam doesn't think I should be flying around so early in the pregnancy. Isn't that crazy? He's such a silly worrier! So he's going to fly out on the first of August and spend a few weeks with me here. Wow, can you believe it's almost August? Dana's wedding will be here before we know it.”

Yes, it would. In two measly weeks. And would Timothy be sitting next to me, making small talk with the Houseboat Dweller and twirling me around the mini-ballroom? I had no idea anymore. He hadn't called “to check in” this past week. Not once. All week I'd vacillated between He Likes Me, He Likes Me Not. I'd even plucked a flower from someone's first-floor window box and tried my luck; I'd ended on a He Likes Me Not. Why did this have to be so confusing? If he missed me, if he really liked me and wanted something to develop between us, wouldn't he have called? A three-second call on his way back from the bathroom or to lunch or to sleep. Wouldn't he want to talk to me? He'd found the time to call me last Saturday night, after all.

He was coming over tomorrow night. If he didn't give me the Can We Just Be Friends speech, the It's Not Me, It's You, I'd remind him of the wedding and make sure he knew how important it was to me that he be there. Surely for a special occasion he could get off duty. Couldn't he? Surely if it was really, really, really important to me. Right?

 

“Whoo-hoo!” Amanda yelled from our table in Evelyn's, a super-swanky Upper West Side bar. The Flirt Night Roundtable had the celebration of my promotion as its agenda. “Jane pays for everything now that she's a hotshot editor!”

I laughed. “Hey, my raise doesn't go into effect until the next pay period, and these drinks are nine bucks each!”

Eloise exhaled a stream of smoke. “You know what, Jane, my dear? You've got me raring to go. I'm gonna ask Daisy about a promotion on Monday. I'm due, too.”

We all clinked our Cosmopolitans to that. “Okay, guys, I need to know what to do tomorrow night for Timothy's arrival. Do I doll up the place with scented candles and Marvin Gaye? Or is that too much?” I had absolutely no idea what was going to happen when Timothy showed up. Would we order in Chinese, watch HBO, make love and make plans for a next date? Or would I get one of the speeches? “Who am I kidding. He's coming to dump me.” I slumped down on my chair.

“No way,” Amanda insisted, “From what you described of his phone call, he's coming for a nice, low-key night with his honey, who he misses so much.”

I brightened. “Do you really think so?”

“Guys don't come over to break up with you,” Eloise
threw in. “They do it in public places so that you can't make a scene. You're totally safe.”

I took a sip of my drink. “So what do you two think—candles and music and a little wine? Pizza and Coke? Nothing?”

Amanda and Eloise chewed their stirrers and mulled that one over. “I say doll up the place,” Amanda said. “If you don't, that's like you expect something bad is going to happen.”

“But what if something bad
does
happen?” I pointed out. “What if he
is
coming over to end it? Do I really want to be smelling vanilla and listening to Marvin Gaye when he dumps me? I'll never be able to listen to Marvin Gaye again.”

“He is not going to dump you,” Eloise declared with all the assurance of a best friend.

“I'll bet one hundred bucks he dumps me,” I wagered.

Eloise exhaled a stream of smoke and smiled. “Jane, even though you're a hotshot editor at Posh, you still can't afford to lose a hundred bucks.”

“Yeah,” Amanda agreed.

“In fact,” Eloise added, “I'll put up a hundred that Timothy tells you he's oh so sorry for his doctorly schedule, and he's gonna make it up to you by taking you to dinner at Gotham or Daniel.”

“I'll put a hundred on Timothy, too,” Amanda said. “I have faith.”

“In him or me?” I asked.

Eloise swatted me with her stirrer. “You, you fool.”