See Jane Date (7 page)

 

I woke up on Sunday morning to pouring rain and a headache. Eloise had taken me out for Mexican last night; she'd insisted that a few stiff frozen margaritas would clear my mind of Kevin Adams. She'd been right. But now I had both a migraine
and
my memory restored.

At least I wouldn't have to go out in the downpour for
The New York Times
. I'd been smart enough to pick one up last night at the newsstand where Eloise had flirted with the Indian clerk.

I threw the comforter off me and shuffled into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.
Oh man!
I mentally whined.
I should have bought milk last night.
I opened the fridge and shook the quart of skim. There was just a trickle left.

This clearly wasn't going to be a great day, but it had to be better than yesterday. Amanda had called last night to hear if she'd sparked a love match. I sugarcoated the report by telling her that Kevin and I didn't seem to have chemistry, but that if he called again, I'd be happy to go out again.
Which he wouldn't.
No way would I tell her the guy was a big fat jerk. Amanda had done me a favor by fixing me up. Plus, I couldn't afford to re-alienate my wedding date resource's boyfriend.

I flopped back into bed and lugged the heavy
Times
onto my stomach, dumping the sections I never read onto the floor (Automobiles, Sports, Money & Business, the front section). I grabbed Styles and turned to the wedding announcements. I always liked to look for people I knew. Maybe three times in my life I'd recognized a name. Two from college and one from Posh, an intern who'd left a long time ago. The main reason I read the wedding section was to check ages and jobs to see how I stacked up against them.

Lots of twenty-seven-year-olds were getting hitched. Elementary teachers at private schools were aplenty, as were Internet executives like Larry Fishkill. Ugh. In a couple of months I'd have the joy of seeing Dana and Larry's faces smiling at me from these pages.

I scanned the names—and stopped breathing.

Max Reardon's smiling face stared at me. His arm was around a pretty redhead with freckles. Reardon and Carmichael, the headline read.

Max Reardon, 28, and Cheryl Carmichael, 26, both
Equity Analysts at the Bank of New York, were married yesterday at St. Stephen's Episcopal Church in the bride's hometown of…

Tears plopped on the newsprint before I even realized I was crying.

I ran into the kitchen and opened the cabinet under the sink. But I broke into sobs before I could even utter Eloise's name.

The phone rang. My legs were useless. I couldn't even manage to stand.

The answering machine clicked on. “Omigod! Jane, it's Dana! I can't believe this! Larry and I are sitting here reading the paper and having breakfast, and guess who got married in
The Times?
Your ex, Max! Remember him? Omigod, can you believe it? The wife's so pretty! Doesn't she remind you of Natasha a little? Everyone's so excited that Natasha's coming to the wedding! Did you buy the shoes? Call me later. Bye!”

 

I tried and tried to turn off the alarm clock, but it kept buzzing. And then I realized it was the telephone. I sat up, forcing open my eyes. It was six-thirty in the morning.

My sheets smelled like stale smoke. I'd gone through two and a half packs of cigarettes yesterday. Amanda had valiantly stayed through the first chain-smoked pack and a half, but when her eyes had become as red rimmed and watery from the smoke as mine were from sobbing, I'd had to force her to leave. Eloise had emptied the ashtray for me every time it hit five butts and sprayed Lysol after each half pack.

The nicotine must have done serious damage to my brain cells. Because unless I was mistaken, I'd actually agreed to go on more blind dates with acquaintances of Amanda's boyfriend. Eloise had convinced me that giving
up and arriving solo at the wedding would only make the Maxes and Kevins of the world
win.
But hadn't they? Who had the energy to fight them anymore? I was going to end up like Great-aunt Gertie. I might as well just accept it.

And then Aunt Ina had called to ask if I was okay about Max's wedding announcement. Her motherly concern had been so comforting that I'd almost burst into tears on the phone. Until I'd remembered that a woman with a supposedly wonderful new boyfriend wouldn't be so upset about an old flame's wedding.

Amanda had said she'd take care of everything. She'd whipped out the cell phone, and suddenly I had four new blind dates all set up. Three for this week (Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday) and one for next week (Tuesday). If Blind Date #1 worked out, I could cancel #2, and so on and so on.

“Yeah but, what if they're
all
busts?” I'd asked. “Then what?”

Dead silence had followed. We'd agreed to worry about that at Friday's Flirt Night Roundtable.

The phone shrilled again. I snatched the cordless. “'Lo,” I croaked into the receiver.

“Jane? Natasha. I'm so surprised to get you! I thought I'd be leaving a message, since you said you usually stay at your boyfriend's. Otherwise I wouldn't have called so early.”

Why was the Gnat calling me at
home,
anyway? She was
work.
Not a personal friend.

“Jane? Did I wake you?”

“Um, no, I was actually doing my yoga tape.” I breathed deeply, held and exhaled. “My boyfriend's away on business for a few days, so…”

“Oh, good then! I wanted to let you know I was plan
ning to stop by the office this morning, if that's okay. Oh, I just realized I could have left you a message there, but you don't have a direct line, and I never remember your extension so…Anyway, I spent a good chunk of the weekend sketching out a first draft of Chapter One, based on what you said. You know, about starting at the present and letting the past unfold as required. Great idea, Janey. I think I've got some good stuff down on paper.”

I leaned back against my smoky pillows. My hair reeked.

The Gnat was a little too awake for me. How could she be so coherent and on top of things at six-thirty in the morning?

“So I'd really like you take a look before I flesh it all out,” Natasha added. “I mainly focused on why I signed the legal papers while you-know-who was practically inside me.”

I cringed. That was just what I needed on a Monday morning following the Sunday morning I learned that my one and only serious boyfriend had gotten married: an earful on how Natasha had signed each letter of her name to the grinding motion of The Actor's expert sexual strokes.

I sat up and forced myself to focus. “Okay, so, um, it has to be later than ten, since that's when our editorial meeting usually ends.”

“Ten's great,” Natasha said. “See you later!”

I hung up and fell back against the pillows.

Was she
allowed
to call me at home? I'd have to set a few ground rules with the Gnat. She might have been a faux celebrity, but I didn't work twenty-four/seven. I was about to
date
twenty-four/seven, but that was another story. Who did she think she was, anyway, calling me at home?

This totally sucked. I couldn't wallow in my misery with my family, and now I couldn't even wallow at work. After all, I supposedly led a
fabulous
life, making a 100K a year with a boyfriend who owned a brownstone. That woman wouldn't care that her ex-boyfriend had gotten married. In the bride's hometown, no less.

But the real Jane Gregg did. Very, very much. So much so that she'd lit an extra candle in St. Monica's yesterday—to say goodbye to whatever lingering hope she'd unconsciously hung on to about Max realizing he'd made a mistake by dumping her.

Eloise had insisted it wasn't pathetic of me. It was closure, she'd said.

“Oh, oh, oh-oh”
Squeak. Squeak. Squeeeeeeak.
“Ohhhhhhhhhhh! Oh yeah!”

I banged against the wall and covered my face with my smoky pillow.

“T
he baby just pooped, everyone!” Gwen Welle announced from the speakerphone.

Even when she was on maternity leave, I couldn't escape her. She insisted on calling in for editorial meetings. Like anything important ever went on at these weekly wastes of time.

Could you tell I was in a bad mood?

The editorial staff of Posh Publishing had been in the conference room for half an hour, and all I'd learned was that a singer whose career had died in the eighties had signed on for a tell-all, as had a computer geek who insisted he'd been ruined by Bill Gates. Plus, our managing editor, Paulette Igerman, complained to Remke that Jeremy had changed the publication date of a book without alerting her. Paulette seemed to be the only woman alive immune to Jeremy's charisma. I didn't get it. Eloise was sure that Paulette was a lesbian.

“Morgan, order in a Continental breakfast for Jane's meeting with Nutley,” Remke said, tapping his pen on the agenda. “Keep it under twenty.”

I smiled. Morgan glanced at me with contempt. So, I'd done it. I'd crossed that golden line with Remke. I was now too important to order a fruit plate, a platter of Danishes and a gallon of orange juice from the gourmet deli down the street for my own meeting with an author. Morgan had to order it for me. That was something.

I felt Jeremy's gaze pass over me for a moment. What did he think of me? I honestly didn't know. I did know that he considered me hardworking. Gwen had offered that tidbit of praise from Jeremy in each of my performance reviews. And he seemed to think I had potential to be a good editor; he often entrusted me to do preliminary line-edits on his projects. But would he ever look at me? I mean, really look at me? Sometimes I had the feeling that Jeremy felt sorry for me. And other women like me. Which didn't include Morgan Morgan. Women who'd grown up on Thoroughbred farms weren't to be pitied when their twenty-thousand-a-year salaries were subsidized by their parents.

Jeremy knew I lived in a dumpy building and couldn't take taxis because I couldn't afford them. He'd seen me arrive at work every morning subway-sweaty in my Gap and Ann Taylor on-sale clothes. He knew I spent summers on a beach towel on the Great Lawn in Central Park, with a cooler of iced tea, manuscripts and tuna-fish sandwiches I made myself.

And I knew he spent his summers in East Hampton, dining on fifty-dollar lobster caught that day from an ocean he sailed on.

“Morgan!” Remke snapped, thumbing through papers
as usual. “Where's the P&L on the sex addict's autobiography?”

“It's the third from the last in your pile, Williaaam,” Morgan said, a satisfied smile on her flat face.

Remke was trying to decide whether to do the sex addict's memoir in mass-market size or trade. Everyone at Posh had made a copy of the manuscript to read. It was really steamy stuff.

Remke pulled out the profit and loss statement and scowled at it. “Morgan, take this back to Ian, tell him to run it at three hundred pages, mass-market, at $6.99. The content justifies it. Plus, we'll give it a really hot title.” Remke passed the P&L to Morgan. “Agreed, Black?”

Jeremy nodded. He was leaning back in his chair as though he were at the dentist. Remke sat at the head of the table, as always. Jeremy sat at Remke's left. The speakerphone was placed at Gwen's usual seat, to Remke's right. Paulette was next to Jeremy. I was in the chair
next to
Gwen's empty seat. Across the table, Morgan sat in a chair next to the empty seat beside Paulette.

We both knew our places. But
I
was moving up. Morgan would be busy for years trotting up and down the hall to the one-or two-person departments that made up Posh's publishing empire.

“Hello,”
Gwen snapped over the crackle of the speaker-phone, reminding everyone she was on the line. “William, we're on your dime long distance, so let's wrap up, okay? So, Jane, how's the Nutley tell-all going, anyway?” She had on her phony concerned voice. “If there's anything you need help with, you know I'm just a phone call away, right?”

“Right,” I chirped.
Yeah, right
was more like it. Even if I
had
a problem with the Gnat's manuscript, I wouldn't call Gwen. I'd have to listen to The Baby stories for
twenty minutes first. What was it about new mothers? Why did they think anyone was interested in their Kegel exercises or the color of their infants' excrement? New mothers
never
shut up. Everything they said was so scary and sickening, it was a wonder any childless woman ever got pregnant on purpose.

Plus, Gwen was a major phony. She was okay as a boss, and she
was
really good at her job, but I couldn't stand her personally. She sort of looked like Christine Lahti, minus the killer body, and she was married to an even bigger phony, a hotshot on Wall Street. They lived in Chappaqua, three streets away from the Clintons. During her pregnancy, Gwen had had the mistaken impression that I was interested in her sonograms, and now, when she called to check in with me privately, her endless nanny sagas. She'd been through two nannies already, and the baby was only four weeks old. Eloise and I had whittled away the time on many a stalled subway ride home from work coming up with baby names for Gwen's kid. My personal favorite was
Not.
Not Welle. Eloise's was
Oh.
Gwen had chosen Olivia, so Eloise had sort of gotten her wish.

Jeremy leaned forward in his chair. He was having a private discussion with Remke. Morgan and I twiddled our thumbs. Gwen was silent. The baby had probably pooped again.

I stared at Jeremy's profile, since he was otherwise engaged. He had a strong, straight nose and a square chin chiseled out of—

“So, Gwen,” Jeremy said, snapping me out of my appraisal of his beauty, “I'd like all unsolicited manuscripts to go to Morgan from now on.” He glanced at the telephone. “With you out on leave, we're short staffed. Nutley's high priority, and I don't want Jane distracted by
busywork Morgan can take on. For the next couple of months, Jane's going to be focusing on the Nutley book as Natasha writes the first three chapters and nails the outline. I'll handle the projects she's baby-sitting for you, Gwen, and I'll freelance out as necessary. We can get Morgan started on doing some preliminary line-edits, too.”

Morgan flashed a mouthful of teeth. For once, we were both pleased at the same time.

Remke eyed the telephone. “Gwen? Sound good to you?”

“Just fine,” Gwen cheeped. “Although I'd like someone to look over Morgan's rejection and revision letters. I know Jane'll be busy, but perhaps she can take home Morgan's drafts and return them the next day with comments.”

Excuse me?
It was bad enough that I had to work with the Gnat.
Now
I had to deal with a backstabber who was after my job?

Remke nodded. “Good idea, Gwen. Morgan, you're our screener now. Go to Jane with any questions or problems.”

Morgan shot me a dagger, then turned her suddenly thrilled expression to Remke. “Great, Williaaam! Thanks for the trust, everyone. I'm really thrilled to have this opportunity to flex my editorial muscles.”

What a suck-up. She was capitalizing on
my
success. Just like I was capitalizing on the Gnat's.

Jeremy nodded his cleft chin, then turned those magnetic Caribbean eyes on me. I immediately shot my gaze down to the table as though the scratches on the fake cherry wood were more interesting than his amazing bone structure. “I'll expect the first chapter of Nutley's memoir, excerpted, by next Friday.”

Next Friday?

“That's not a problem, is it, Jane?” Jeremy asked, tilting back in his chair again. “
Marie Claire
expects the excerpt in less than three weeks. Natasha gets two weeks to write the chapter, and you get a couple of days to excerpt it into twenty-five hundred irresistible words. I get one day to check it, and copyediting and proofreading get half a day. That gives us two days to spare for major problems.”

Drop-dead gorgeous
and
a math whiz. “Next Friday's no problem,” I said, daring to look at him for one and a half seconds. “I've had Natasha working all weekend.”

“Good job,” Remke cut in. “Keep it up. We're done here. Black, stay a moment. We need to talk about where we are on the Backstreet Boy.”

Next Friday.
How was I supposed to do
anything
this week but serial date? I'd have to work with the Gnat, train Morgan, go on four blind dates (with incredibly high expectations and rattled nerves)
and
mysteriously present a polished excerpt of Chapter One of
The Gnat Sucks
to Jeremy next Friday. My shoulders slumped.

I felt eyes on me. They belonged to Morgan.

No way was I letting
her
win too.

 

Morgan trotted after me to my office. I picked up the stack of slush manuscripts from my in-box and dumped them into her outstretched tanned arms. She was beaming. Perhaps the first genuine smile I'd ever seen on her horsey face.

I felt a drop of empathy for Morgan. She knew, like I knew, that all you needed was the chance. Once you got it, you either took it or someone else did. Morgan was taking it. In a way, I had to hand it to her, which, I literally
was.

“So, um, Morgan, if you have any questions or want to know how I'd handle something, just come ask me, and I'll—”

“I learned how to read in first grade, Jaaane,” Morgan said. “I think I'll manage just fine on my own.”

Asshole.

My phone rang, and Morgan disappeared.

“Jane Gregg.”

“Hi, Jane, it's Karen! Dana's maid of honor! How
are
you? I'm doing just great! I'm calling because I'm finalizing the plans for Dana's bridal shower, and I'd like to set up a meeting with the bridal party to go over the little details.”

Like what? Who would clean up all the wrapping paper? Who would make Dana her stupid bow-encrusted shower hat? Who would take home all the disgusting, wilted deli meat and cookies? Dana's shower was a bunch of women sitting in a circle in Karen's gigantic Forest Hills apartment, watching Dana shriek “Omigod, I love it!” each time she opened another gift. The theme was French Kitchen, since France was where Dana and Larry were going on their honeymoon. How many dish towels with the Eiffel Tower on it did one couple need? And how often was I going to have be in the insufferable presence of Dana's friends before I spontaneously combusted?

Karen was a replica of Dana, only with light brown hair and bigger boobs. They'd been best friends since the third grade at P.S. 101. Karen was the kind of person who slowly looked you up and down. Twice.

“A meeting to discuss final details?” I said, checking my e-mail. “Don't you think that's overkill?” The shower itself was the Saturday after next. The bridal party had already gotten together a month ago to plan the shower.

Silence.

I felt a little guilty. “It's just that things are really crazy for me right now, so…” I clicked open an e-mail from Amanda. She wished me luck on Blind Date #2, which was scheduled for tomorrow night. Andrew Mackelroy. He was supposed to call me today to make a plan.

“We're all
busy,
Jane,” Karen snapped. “And the shower's on the fourteenth—that's, like, in
two
weeks. The meeting will only be an hour or so. Look, if you don't want to be involved, just say so.”

I don't want to be involved.

I rolled my eyes instead. “Of course I want to be involved, Karen. Just tell me when and where, okay? My other line's ringing.”

“Saturday, at eleven-thirty at my place. First we'll meet, and the bridal party will head over to A Fancy Affair for our final dress fittings. Don't forget to bring your shoes.”

How could I?

“Saturday at eleven-thirty,” I repeated. “Can you give me your address again?”

She mentioned an address near Station Square.

“Okay, well, see you there.”

I hung up and scowled at my wall calendar. I'd been hearing about Dana Dreer's wedding plans for the past two years. Why such a long engagement? Because of the waiting time to book a ballroom at the Plaza, of course. Getting married at the Plaza was more important to Dana and Larry than getting
married.
But now that the “big day” was two months away, I'd be hearing about it every second.

What did I have to look forward to for the next two months, besides working with Gnatasha Nutley and Morgan Morgan? Let me flip open my date book and share:

Note to self: cross off peach peau de soie shoes with two-and-a-half-inch princess heel. Got 'em.