See Jane Date (3 page)

I eyed my reflection, wondering what else I could possibly do to make myself attractive to Jeremy Black. Gwen had once told me I looked like That Girl. All I remembered about the sitcom was that my mom used to watch it and crack up when I was little. I suppose there was a resemblance between me and a young Marlo Thomas, except I didn't have the flip to my hair. I did have similar sparkling dark brown eyes and shiny dark brown, shoulder-length hair and a pale complexion, but I was hardly That Girl. I was more Invisible Girl. At least as far as Jeremy Black was concerned.

Maybe I
was
trying too hard, like Aunt Ina thought. I wore prescription-free glasses a few times a week to make me look more editor-ish; they were knockoffs of a pair I saw on Julianne Moore in
In Style
magazine. Gwen wore glasses, too, but she may actually have needed them. My nails were always pale pink and short, per an article my mom had once read about Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, who'd said that fingernails should be the color of a ballet slipper, and toes a classic red. My mom had idolized
Jackie O the way I'd idolized Fran Drescher. Thank God I hadn't taken my style cue from
The Nanny.

I stared in the mirror, turning to the left, then to the right. I decided I was cute. Very cute, even. But I wasn't a hot babe. Not by any stretch. A few months ago I saw Jeremy leave a restaurant with his arm around a woman who looked like Heidi Klum. Nothing round on her except her perfect butt. Who was I kidding? Jeremy Black was
never
going to look twice at me—except to ask me either to make a copy of a manuscript or read his friend's sister's cousin's brother's girlfriend's manuscript and write a thoughtful revision letter.

I stuck out my tongue at myself like the twelve-year-old I felt like and dropped down on the futon with a big fat sigh. I suddenly wished I had that stereotypical single woman's cat to cuddle. There was absolutely nothing of comfort in my apartment. Except my photo of me with my parents, when I was eight. But you couldn't hug a photo.

“I'm back!” Eloise called through the door. I unbolted again, and she staggered in, out of breath. “Those stairs are going to kill us before these cigarettes do.” She threw the fresh pack onto the Parsons table. “Okay—it's promote-me time! Let's do your makeup first, then your hair, then you'll get dressed. I'm thinking the black suit with the cropped jacket and—”

I threw my arms around her and squeezed. Eloise was all the comfort I needed sometimes.

We both lit cigarettes. “Oh, wait!” I said. “We need the ultimate inspiration.”

In moments I had the Backstreet Boys'
Millennium
CD cranked up in my tiny apartment. Eloise laughed. Remke was trying to get the least-known, least-publicized Backstreet Boy (as if there
were
one) to write a tell-all memoir.
A told-to, tell-all, actually. Remke wasn't sure if cute nineteen-year-old singers could actually write or not.

Eloise and I sang along as she started working her makeup magic, showing me the steps in the mirror. The goal was sophisticated chic, yet natural. The light bronzing powder she'd whisked on my cheeks made me look slightly sun kissed—like an executive savvy enough to stay out of the sun during her weekend of frolicking with her successful boyfriend in the Hamptons.

My next-door neighbor pounded on the wall. Eloise and I rolled our eyes in unison, and I turned down the volume on my CD player.

An hour later, I stood in front of the mirror, grinning at Eloise. She beamed back at me through a puff of smoke and adjusted my black jacket and the little neck scarf. “You definitely
say
Promote Me.”

Now all I had to do was recreate it tomorrow morning at seven-thirty.

 

Squeak, squeak, squeak.

“Oh. Oh, oh. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

I opened one exhausted eye and glanced at my alarm clock. The red glowing numbers were too bright. It was 6:38 a.m.

Opera Man's sex life was going to ruin my chance to get promoted. I desperately needed my remaining hour of sleep. I'd tossed and turned for hours last night, perfecting my opening speech to William Remke. It had been close to two o'clock when I finally conked out. I'd drifted off to sleep hearing the squeaking of Opera Man's bed and the strains of
Celeste Aida.
I should be grateful I'd slept through his girlfriend's orgasm, which this morning was so loud that I could hear her breathy little moans between
ohs.

Opera Man lived directly across the hall, and we shared one long wall, which my futon was against. I had no idea what Opera Man's name was. Well, I knew his last name was Marinelli. But I only knew his first initial, “A,” because “A. Marinelli” was on the sticky label on his mailbox and on his apartment door. I could hear almost everything that went on in his apartment. Including his sometimes annoying but mostly soothing obsession with opera. I got to hear all the major performances. He'd had some nerve pounding on my wall about a little teenybopper music when he blasted
Carmen
and had such noisy sex. Eloise and I figured he looked like Ricky Martin. Who else could make a woman scream like that? In the two years he'd lived across the hall from me, I'd never seen him. Except for Eloise and two other single women—one on the second floor and one on the fourth—I didn't know any of my neighbors and rarely ran into them.

“Oh, Oh, Ohhhhhh!” Too bad she didn't scream his name. I'd finally know what the “A” stood for.

Maybe Opera Man had done me a favor by waking me up so early. I could use the extra hour to get ready and eat something other than the usual cream-cheese-slathered bagel.

“Oh, oh. oh. Oh, yeah! Ohhhh!”

Sometimes I wondered if everyone in New York had a better sex life than I did. The last time I was naked with someone was when I dated Soldier of Fortune Guy, so dubbed by Eloise. He was a friend-co-worker of our friend Amanda's boyfriend Jeff. Soldier of Fortune Guy and I had gone out twice, and on our second and last date, I'd broken a big rule by sleeping with him before date four. In the morning, he'd served me instant coffee and an English muffin on a makeshift coffee table that turned
out to be a stack of
Soldier of Fortune
magazines dating back to the Neanderthal era. I'd made the mistake of expressing my shock. We got into a huge argument, both snapped “Fine,” and I slammed out of his apartment. He was the fourth guy Amanda's boyfriend had fixed me up with. That had been almost two years ago. Jeff had stopped offering up his friends after that episode.

I hadn't had sex in almost two years. And that last time hadn't been so hot, by the way.

“Oh. Oh. Oh!”

Opera Man himself never made noise. Only his partners.

My alarm buzzed, and I decided to let it buzz the
ohs
out of my earshot. Opera Man immediately pounded on the wall. I shut off the alarm.

Maybe the “A” stood for Asshole.

I lay back in bed and closed my eyes. I had more important things to do than wish I had a sex life. Like fantasize that Jeremy was Opera Man and I was his Oh Moaner.

“J
aaane.”

I turned around and found myself standing way too close to Morgan Morgan, the assistant shared by Remke and Jeremy. Morgan Morgan was her real name, honest to goodness. She claimed that Morgan was her mother's maiden name and her father's last name, so her parents thought calling her Morgan Morgan was fated. I thought it was—

“William is ready to see you now, Jaaane.” Morgan always drew my name out in a Long Island whine. She was twenty-two, fresh out of Barnard, pretty in a horsey way, and she had her eye on my job. She was not to be trusted.

I glanced at my watch. It was exactly 8:59 a.m. My meeting with Remke was set for nine. The man was never, ever late for anything. I glanced around the loftlike space of Posh Publishing to see if Eloise was around for
a thumbs-up. She and her boss, Daisy, the art director, were huddled over slides on the light-box in front of the art department's wall of windows.

I shot Morgan an icy smile and walked past her and her puny cubicle, pausing for a second in front of Remke's door.
This is it. You're entering the corner office. About to demand your due! Deep breath, deep breath, deep breath. You can do it. Don't let him intimidate you!

The door suddenly opened.

“Ah, there you are, Gregg,” Remke clipped out as I stumbled inside. “Morgan!” he shouted past me, his head poked through the door. “Coffee! Let's go, let's go,” he snapped at me. “I have a meeting in fifteen minutes.”

Fifteen minutes.
I had fifteen minutes to alter the course of my entire life. I closed the door behind me and took a few steps inside the gigantic office, which, no kidding, was bigger than my apartment. The sun streamed in from the floor-to-ceiling windows behind Remke's desk and glinted off his thick silver hair and his silver-framed eyeglasses. He picked up a stack of memos from his in-box and sat his six-feet, three-inch frame on the caramel-colored leather sofa adjacent to his desk.

Was I supposed to sit next to him? Or in one of the guest chairs in front of his desk, which didn't face him? I gnawed my lower lip, effectively eating off the lipstick I'd so painstakingly applied. Remke was thumbing through papers. My palms began to sweat. A bead of perspiration rolled down my cleavage.
Deep breath, deep breath.
I glanced out the window-wall. I could see the top of the Chrysler Building, the Empire State Building and—

“Let's go, let's go,” he muttered, eyes on the memos. He said that a lot.
Let's go, let's go.
He said it at least a hundred times a day. It intimidated people so much that
by the time they finally spoke, Remke was halfway down the hall.

I cleared my throat. “Um, yes, well, I wanted to talk to you about my future at Posh.” I clasped my hands behind my back, not sure what to do with them. I wished I could belt out a confident statement the way Morgan Morgan could. I was six years older than she was, with six years of corporate experience, and I still said
um
and got sweaty palms. Morgan was very articulate. I doubted she even had sweat glands.

“Your future?” Remke repeated, thumbing away at the memos. “Why are you talking to me? Talk to Black. He's your direct supervisor now that Gwen's out on leave. In fact, you should wait till Gwen returns.”

Remke referred to everyone by last name except for Gwendolyn Welle, which annoyed me to no end. I figured it was a chivalrous-respect thing. Remke liked Gwen, respected her. I could hardly stand Ms. Phony Baloney, and was delighted that she had taken an extended maternity leave. Four months instead of three, which meant three more months without her oppressive presence. But it most certainly did not mean I had to suffer through three more months without a promotion.

Most of Gwen's workload had fallen to me, except for two major authors she'd been courting (Jeremy had managed to sign both—women, of course—the moment he'd flown out to personally meet them, which had pissed off Gwen royally). I'd been working double time for six years, and triple time from the minute Gwen had waddled out the door with her baby-shower gifts. I
deserved
the promotion. I'd broached the topic with her before she left. She'd given me the just-keep-doing-what-you're-doing speech and brushed me off by telling me I had her blessing to talk to Jeremy and Remke while she was out on
leave. One of the things I hated most about Gwen was that she was semi-decent to me. But that was only because she didn't see me as a threat. Talk about insulting. Why wasn't I threatening? I was young, smart and hungry. Wasn't I?

Remke was glaring at a memo. Lines were creasing his forehead.

I sat down in one of the guest chairs and twisted uncomfortably to face him. “Yes, well, um, I did speak with Gwen, and she suggested I talk to Jeremy or you, so, um, I discussed it with Jeremy, but he suggested I talk to you directly.” Did I sound like an idiot? I was never sure if I made any sense when I talked to certain people, like Remke and Jeremy or anyone who intimidated me.

Given my inability to look at Jeremy and speak to him at the same time, you can imagine how my conversation with him had gone. He'd barely let me finish my sentence. Maybe because I'd been staring at his shoes.

“Morgan!” Remke shouted toward the door. “Where's the press release on the Natasha Nutley deal? Morgan!”

Doubly annoying was the inability to determine if Remke was calling Morgan by her first or last name. I liked to think he was using her last name.

A short knock was followed by the door opening. Morgan Morgan entered with a mug of coffee, which she handed to Remke. “It's right on your desk, Williaaam,” she whinnied through her horsey mouth. She ever so efficiently trotted over to retrieve it for him.

Remke scanned the press release of Natasha Nutley's memoir, scowling. “Who wrote this?”

My cheeks burned. I felt Morgan's eyes on me, and I glanced at her. I could swear she smiled. She hid it, but I saw it. The bitch smiled!

I cleared my throat. “Um, I did?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?” Remke snapped, his ice-blue eyes narrowed at me over the rims of his glasses.

I'd spent four days (well, four sleepless nights at home, actually) writing and perfecting the 350 words on that piece of paper. Usually Gwen wrote publicity materials for the big projects, especially the initial press releases that announced a major sale. But thanks to her absence, I got to write up the impending publication of the Gnat's still-untitled memoir.

What could I have screwed up? Jeremy had approved the press release, which had been copyedited and proofread. All the pertinent information was there, and I quite cleverly, if I do say so myself,
told the story.
That was another Posh phrase, which meant emphasizing the key elements. Had I gotten the print run wrong? Called it a trade paperback instead of mass-market? Not focused enough on the scandalous nature of Natasha's doomed love affair with a famous actor? That was the heart—or lack thereof—of the Gnat's memoir.

Oh, God. Had I referred to Natasha as
the Gnat
in the press release?

“I mean, I
did,
” I corrected. I could kiss the promotion goodbye. I was going to be an assistant editor for the rest of my life. Aunt Ina's fears had been realized. From now on, I'd have to spend Sundays with Grammy, eating pastrami and butter cookies and keeping my sarcastic mouth shut so she wouldn't disinherit me. I'd have to ask Ethan Miles to Dana's wedding. I'd be forced to watch Morgan Morgan's meteoric rise from editorial assistant to associate editor, skipping assistant editor because—

“This is damn good,” Remke said, tapping the press release with his Posh Publishing pen.

Morgan frowned. I smiled.

“You help Nutley shape her memoir as well as you wrote this release and we'll see about that promotion to assistant editor, Gregg.”

Morgan smiled.

My stomach twisted. “Um, William? I, um…I'm already an assistant editor. I'm, um, hoping to be promoted to
associate—
”

“Morgan, get Black in here,” Remke interrupted. “Tell him we've got to talk about signing that Backstreet kid. Bring in our press kit, too. And more coffee.” He leaned against the sofa and thumbed through more papers. “Gregg, like I said.” He glanced up at me, then back down. “We'll see how you do with Nutley's manuscript. She brings a sophisticated level of celebrity cachet. And celebrities breed celebrities. We've got the budget to promote the hell out of the Nutley book, so there's no reason not to hit the
Times
extended list, Gregg. And if Jeremy can sign that Backstreet Boy, we're in the big leagues. And big leagues mean big budgets mean money for perks, like promotions. But don't you worry about that, Gregg. You just keep doing what you're doing.”

Morgan smiled.

Why did big cheeses like to say that? I heard the just-keep-doing-what-you're-doing crap at every performance review. It only made you feel worse and more powerless than you already did. After all,
what you were doing
wasn't getting you
anywhere
but brushed off. Maybe Gwen and Jeremy and Remke would like to try living in New York on twenty-six thousand a year, reading manuscripts on the subway to and from work. Maybe Remke would like to choose between buying cigarettes or dinner on the night before payday because he was totally and completely broke.

Okay, okay—I was done whining. And if I quit smok
ing, I'd be able to afford the
super-sized
chicken fajita burrito from Blockheads, the cheap Mexican restaurant Eloise and I always went to, right? I knew that, okay? But how could I quit smoking when I couldn't even get through a conversation with Remke without uttering an
um?

Remke tapped his pen on his Armani-covered thigh. “What are you both still doing here? Shoo. Go. We're done. Where's Black!”

Morgan lifted her nose as she walked past me out of Remke's office.

“Thanks, William,” I said. “About the Nutley release. I was, um, really proud of that myself, and—”

“That's fine, Gregg. Thanks. Close the door on your way, out, will you?”

Well, at least I'd gotten a compliment. And a
maybe.
Well, more a
goal.
My glum spirits perked up a bit. I'd gotten
more
than a just-keep-doing-what-you're-doing, I realized. Remke had pretty much outlined a defined thing I had to do: get Natasha's book on
The New York Times
extended bestseller list. That was the only way I'd get promoted. Unless Jeremy really did manage to sign the Backstreet Boy and up the budget for everyone. But unless the Boy was gay, I doubted Jeremy could work his magic quickly, if at all.

“Gregg, where are you taking Natasha Nutley to lunch today?”

Hand on the doorknob, I turned around. “Um, the Blue Water Grill?”

He stopped thumbing. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

What was wrong with me? Why was I a blubbering mess with this man? Why was I so insecure all the time?
I could only be grateful Morgan Morgan wasn't around to shoot me evil smiles.

“The Blue Water Grill,” I corrected with a firm nod.

“Fine. Keep it under a hundred. And keep her talking, too. This is the big time, Gregg. Natasha's a big fish for Posh. I've entrusted her to you instead of Black because you've got the school connection. Women yak, especially when they go back that far. Get her to confide in you. The goal is to help her reveal every sordid detail of the affair
and
to sign her to a sequel, focusing on her months in rehab. Rehab's sexy now. Do your best, Gregg.”

Maybe he'd forgotten that he'd already given me that speech five times since assigning her memoir to me last week. “I will,” I said, and slipped out of his office.

Rehab is sexy now.
Remke was such a jerk. Sometimes I wanted to take my fist and punch him right in his facelifted face!

I had bigger problems at the moment, though. Like how I was supposed to take Natasha Nutley to lunch at the Blue Water Grill without going over a hundred bucks. I'd have to say no to an appetizer or a salad, order the pathetic filet of sole and a glass of tap water, and watch Natasha fork the best salmon in the universe into her perfectly outlined mouth. Correction: I'd have to watch her order it, then eat only three bites, so she could retain her supermodel figure.

I'd fill up on the Blue Water's incredible bread. The bread was free.

“Morgan!” Remke screeched from behind me. “Coffee! Where's Black?”

I headed for my tiny office, Remke's monologue swirling in my mind. A sequel. Celebrity cachet.
Please.
Natasha was a small-time actress writing a small-time memoir about her small-time affair with an actor whose
identity she wasn't even allowed to reveal. Okay, so The Actor was rumored to be big time. So what? She'd milked his mystery identity and her supposed heartbreak for all it was worth. She'd sold her sob story to women's magazines, and she'd even managed to get booked on some B-list talk shows.