The Pink Ghetto (7 page)

I shouldn’t have cared. Fleishman was my friend, and he was more friendly as a friend-friend than a boyfriend. In the past, every time it seemed that something was starting to brew between us, it seemed he would simultaneously start slipping away. That he would avoid my eyes and suddenly develop a fondness for going with his guy buddies to see loud movies with lots of explosions and sexy girls in tank tops carrying machine guns.

But when we were just friends, like now, he was so something else. We were so comfortable together, like an old married couple.

It was so irritating. Why couldn’t the person you want just fall in love with you? That would solve everything.

I forced myself to focus on my work rather than the enigma that was my roommate. Gradually I became more involved in the story, and before I knew it, it was after midnight and Wendy was coming through the door.

She glanced at Fleishman on the futon, and then me camped out on the table. Then she did a double-take back to Fleishman. Fleishman and Max.

I winced. Fleishman and I hadn’t discussed what Wendy would say about the dog. But now that I considered it, there
might
be trouble…

“Do you know what month a woman’s supposed to have an amniocentesis?” I asked, hoping to distract her.

Wendy wasn’t looking at me. “What’s that?”

“It’s the test pregnant women take to…well, I’m not sure why, exactly. But the woman in this book is going for an amnio in her second month. Isn’t that a little early?”

She put her arms akimbo and affected a Bones from
Star Trek
voice. “Damn it, Rebecca, I’m a lighting designer, not an obstetrician.”

I laughed.

“But that’s
not
what I was asking you about.” She pointed to Fleishman’s snoozing form. “What is
that?
”

“Oh, that’s Maxwell Perkins. Fleishman brought him home today.”

Wendy sank into a chair. Lately she had seemed to chafe about stuff going on in the apartment. “Isn’t this the sort of thing we’re supposed to have roommate conferences about?”

“When have we ever had a roommate conference?”

“You’re right. It’s not a democracy, it’s a dictatorship…and from now on it’s going to be a dictatorship run by that little ball of fur there.” She seemed genuinely worried. “This is no joke. Dogs are a lot of trouble.”

“That’s what I was telling Fleishman. But he was being so sweet—he bought the puppy for me for my first day of work.”

She crossed her arms. “You don’t think that’s kind of odd?”

“Why?”

“It’s sort of…cozy. Giving a person a puppy. Don’t you think?”

“Well…yeah, it seemed kind of
domestic.
”

“Right. Like Fleishman wants to play house.” Her brows arched meaningfully.

I lifted my arms, and suddenly realized how stiff my shoulders felt from being hunched over that book. I had to stretch like Cassie had in her office this afternoon. I couldn’t believe I had been working for almost four hours, and I still wasn’t anywhere close to done. Maybe I wasn’t doing this right.

“How did your day go?” I asked.

“Okay, except I got my next project. I’m going to have to design the lights for
Death of a Salesman.
Another dreary one. My professors must think I should specialize in tragedy and angst, but I tell you what. It’s made me want to graduate and go light roller-skating tourist musicals and revivals of
Annie.
”

I nodded. I knew just how she felt. Back when I was an undergraduate studying English lit, I spent semesters slogging through James Joyce and William Faulkner when I would dream of getting out and reading fun stuff again. Pure fluff.

I stared down at my marked-up copy of
The Baby Doctor and the Bodyguard.
As wish fulfillment went, this seemed a little over the top.

R
enata told me that the catalyst for her weight loss, the event that drove her into the arms of Jenny Craig, was losing her virginity on graduation night.

Her older brother, who was just home from college and working at a country club for the summer giving tennis lessons, had let it drop that Jake Caddell, a boy in her class she’d had a crush on since third grade, was going to be working at the same club as a golf caddy. Not that her brother knew about this unrequited love of hers, or even suspected it. Jake wasn’t the best looking guy in her class, and he certainly wasn’t the smartest. He was one of the cut-ups, though he was one of the rare boys she’d known since third grade who had never used her appearance as the butt of his humor.

That alone would have made him a dreamboat. But because of his comparative kindness to her, she’d also endowed him with all sorts of attributes over the years: gorgeous brown eyes, wit, incredible aim with a spitball…

Right before graduation night, the talk of the school was that Jake’s girlfriend, Courtney Rogers, had dumped him for Rance Dumars. Jake was free, wide open, and on graduation night, fortified by two Mickey’s Big Mouths, Renata made her move. She waited until the band played a slow number, and then—boldly, bravely, tipsily—she asked him to dance.

The element of surprise worked in her favor. Jake blinked a few times, then said, “Sure, why not?”

Two dances, one long drive, and five cans of Old Milwaukee later, the two of them were huffing away in the back of the Caddell family’s Chrysler minivan. Which, even in Renata’s state of inebriation, was not all that comfortable. About the time her taffeta skirt was pushed up to her chin, she began to have doubts.

When she felt his erection pressing against her—urgently—she raised an alarm.

“What’s the matter?” he panted. He sounded a little annoyed, but she could understand. They had reached a critical juncture. She could feel his sweat dripping down her neck.

“This is my first time.”

“So?”

She bit her lip…not sure she should take a chance. “So…won’t it hurt?”

“Nah—and anyway, it’ll be over in like, five seconds.”

“Really?”

In the movies, sex scenes seemed to go on forever.

He pressed against her again, and she felt a surge of heat between her thighs.

“Trust me,” he murmured.

She did.

He was such a liar. He thrust into her, and for a moment it felt like a steak knife going into her vagina. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

But he was right about one thing. He chuffed against her for about five seconds, fast, like a fornicating bunny, then he stopped, groaned, and collapsed on top of her.

“Goddamn!” he moaned.

Renata winced. She could feel something dribbling down her leg and toward the beige upholstery beneath them. She hoped it wasn’t blood.

Jake sat up, hitched his pants up from his ankles, and began zipping and buttoning. Following his lead, Renata sat up, too, and tried to pull herself together. Her dress was a wrinkled mess, but she didn’t care. Despite the pain, and the curious brevity, she felt lit from within.

I am a woman now
, she thought, not entirely humorlessly.

When they crawled into the front seat, where Jake chugged the remains of a beer before firing up the van again, she decided to toss out a hint concerning her future availability. She knew he was a sought-after guy, but look where a little initiative had gotten her so far.

“This could be a great summer,” she said.

“Oh yeah?” He sounded distracted. “How come?”

“Well…I’m not really doing much of anything. If you want to get together sometime.”

She imagined going and hanging out at the country club every once in a while. Sharing a Coke.

Maybe he would even give her a golf lesson.

“Oh.”

“For dinner, or a movie, or…”

“You know what?” he said. “The truth is, I’m not even gonna be around much this summer.”

She darted a look at him. “But—” She bit her lip.

“No, see…I, uh, I’m going to be working on my uncle’s farm this summer. In Pennsylvania. I might be around occasionally, visiting…I mean, if you happen to run into me or something, that’s probably the explanation…”

She faced forward. “I see.”
He thinks I’m too fat to be his girlfriend.
Her face burned.

But maybe he wasn’t lying. Maybe he’d decided to turn down the country club job…

Over the summer, her brother mentioned Jake in passing several times. He was a golf caddy at the country club all summer.

Renata vowed that the next time a guy slept with her, he wouldn’t want to toss her away like an old tissue afterward. And the next time she saw Jake, she swore she’d knock him off of his feet.

She waited until she had starved down thirty pounds, and then squeezed into a pair of shorts and went to the country club to see her brother. She happened to pass Jake, who walked right by her without recognizing her. He did a double-take, but by that time, she had noticed that he had a sunburn and a piggy nose. And she recalled that he wasn’t very bright.

Besides, she’d spent a lot of time in the library in June, and after researching some back issues of
Cosmo,
she was fairly sure that sex was supposed to last longer than five seconds.

L
esson One:
Beware of the phone.

I had never really worked in an office, and my social life and my credit history had always been orderly enough that a ringing phone was nearly always a welcome thing. God knows, sitting in my office, staring at that intimidating pile of manuscripts on my bookcase—which had managed to grow—talk seemed preferable to speechless angst.

“Hello?” I said.

“I got the cover!” The voice on the other end—a female voice with a pronounced drawl—sounded sniffly, congested. Either this woman had a doozy of a cold or she had been crying for a long time
.
“I’m sorry…I’ve just been so upset…I had to call you.”

“Well, good. I’m glad you did. But, uh—”

There was a clatter on the line, followed by the faraway sound of a nose being blown. A second later, she picked up the phone again. “Have you seen it? I mean, I know you did, but it seems strange since there was no note attached when you sent it…”

Lesson Two:
Beware of the phone, and always announce your name first thing.

“I’m sorry, you might be a little confused. You see…uh…I’m not Julie.”

There was a pause. A sniffle. “You aren’t? I asked for Julie’s extension and Muriel put me through to you.”

“I know, but—”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Rebecca Abbot?”

“Well, Rebecca, my name is Luanne Seligson. I write as Shanna Forrester. I’m from Venita, Oklahoma, and I’m looking for my editor.”

I tried the best I could to clear things up for her, explaining that Julie had a baby—yes, wasn’t that wonderful…odd that she hadn’t heard—and that I was taking on her authors. “It’s so good to meet you,” I said.

This announcement was met with stark silence. “Nobody told me!” she said in a distraught tone. “She left
how
many weeks ago?”

I cleared my throat. “Just a few…”

“A few! Did Julie call Dan?”

“Who?” I asked.

At my ignorance, the voice looped up another notch on the hysteria scale. “Dan Weatherby! My agent.”

“Oh—well, possibly.” I realized from the rattling in Luanne’s throat that this was not a time for maybes and possiblies. I needed to project something more affirmative. More upbeat. “Well, I couldn’t say
who
Julie called, exactly, but I want to assure you—”

“Dan never breathed a word of this to me!”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’ll bet he’s as shocked as I am!” she declared. “Julie has always been my editor. Always. Going all the way back to
Too Many Babies!
”

I spent the next five minutes assuring Luanne that I was every bit as eager as Julie was to promote her career.

“Well I very much doubt I’ll have a career after this child molester book comes out!”

She was hollering. There was no other way to describe it.

“Child molester book?” I asked, alarmed.

“
Pursuing Paula!
On account of the cover!”

I crooked the phone between my left ear and shoulder as I scrambled to find this cover. After frantically pawing through the file cabinet and then my overflowing in-box for a minute, I had the cover of
Pursuing Paula
in my hand. It was from the Hearthsong line. On the front was a man who looked vaguely like Ben Affleck might have if he had been going gray at the temples. He was standing behind a teenage girl and had his hands clamped on her shoulders. The girl was looking off nervously to the side.

My God, she was right. The pose made the man look like a child molester.

“Hm…” I tried to approach this diplomatically. “Is there a reason the art department put a little girl on the cover?”

“That’s not a girl, it’s my heroine! She’s a librarian, and she’s twenty-seven years old! How the art department fouled this up so completely is beyond me!”

Me either. Failing to see any other option, I started babbling promises to right this grievous wrong…or at least see what I could do.

Lesson Three:
Never make promises.

When I hung up the phone, I marched across the hall to confer with Rita.

“She’s in the outer office,” Lindsay told me before I could even knock.

I stopped. “Where?”

“Next to the ashtray in front of the building.”

Damn. I turned on my heel debating whether I should wait or go outside to track Rita down, but I stopped as I passed Andrea’s office. Maybe she could give me some tips on how to handle this. I rapped on the door.

For a moment there was no response but the sound of paper rustling and a steel file cabinet door slamming. “Come in!”

I poked my head in, and Andrea, who was sitting rigidly behind her desk, blew out a breath and reached for her file cabinet. “For God’s sake, it’s just you.” She pulled out a newspaper and shook it open to the want ads. “The classifieds this week are for crap. Did you notice?”

I closed her door and edged toward her desk. Andrea made me nervous. “I just got this job,” I reminded her.

“Oh right.” She slapped the paper down. “So what can I do you for?”

“I just talked to an author. She was sort of upset about this cover…” I pushed the evidence across the desk.

Who knows? Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I thought. Maybe Luanne had just been overreacting.

Andrea recoiled. “
Eww!
What is this book about, some coach that seduces girls on the junior high basketball team?”

I shook my head. “There’s no girl in the book. The heroine’s supposed to be a twenty-seven-year-old librarian.”

“Wow!” she exclaimed, with something between revulsion and awe. “That really is a shitty cover.”

“So what do I do about it?”

She blinked at me. “
Do?
”

“To fix it.”

She laughed. “There’s no
fixing
it. The cover’s done. See? The title’s on it—probably tens of thousands have already been printed. That’s all she wrote, Myrtle.”

“B-but if I talked to Rita?”

Andrea nearly doubled over. “What’s she going to do? Blow magic smoke rings on it?”

My ever shaky confidence began to tremble like a wet hamster. “I thought maybe since she was senior ed…”

Losing interest in my dilemma, Andrea shook open her paper again. “No one in editorial has control over the art department.”

“But how could Troy have let this go through? It’s so obviously bad.”

“He probably took one look at the hunky guy with the sideburns and didn’t see anything else. I’m mean—look at that man. He’s definitely a good looking child molester. He looks sort of like Ben Affleck.”

“But—”

“Forget it, Rebecca. Tell the author better luck next time.”

I slid down in my chair. “Okay, here’s the deal. I told the author I’d do something.”

Andrea’s eyes went from squinting in concentration on an ad to popping open in shock at my stupidity. “Oh God! What possessed you?”

“She was so upset…Julie left and didn’t tell her.”

She grunted. “That Julie! Her water broke two weeks early and she tore out of here like a shot, lucky cow.”

I frowned. “Why didn’t she take maternity leave?”

“That’s the most disgusting part. She has this husband who works on Wall Street and begged her to be a stay at home mom. So she knew all along that she wasn’t coming back…and she even told Mercedes. The dope!” She shook her head mournfully. “She really didn’t know how to play the system.”

“I don’t feel like I do, either.”

Andrea waved her hand. “Give yourself a month or so in the pink ghetto. You’ll know all the angles in no time.”

“The pink ghetto? What’s that?”

“You’re in it, sugar plum. Romance publishing. It’s a world unto itself, always clamoring for respect and getting none. The authors get no respect, and neither do the editors. If you don’t watch out, it’ll suck you in and never spit you out. You’ll be stuck in the hood, just like me.”

“You’re doing okay,” I told her. “I bet when the next job does come along, you’ll miss this place.”

Withering doesn’t really describe the look she shot me. “Is your name Rebecca Abbot or Rebecca of Sunnybrook Fucking Farm?”

I stood up and reached for
Pursuing Paula.
“My name’s going to be mud if I don’t get this cover situation figured out.”

In the hallway I nearly had a head-on collision with Rita. We sidestepped just in time and I began to speak, but she gestured with her coffee cup that she didn’t have time. “Senior ed meeting,” she explained, rushing past. “I’m late.”

I skip-stepped after her down the hall, unloading my burden. “What can I do?”

“Just make up something. Tell Luanne that we made the heroine youthful because we’re trying to reach a younger demographic.”

“Um…I don’t know if that will calm her down. She’s pretty upset. Julie didn’t call her to tell her that she was leaving.” I skidded to a stop as a horrible thought occurred to me. “Do you know if Julie called
any
of her authors to tell them she was leaving?”

“Of course she did. I think. Luanne probably just fell through the cracks.” Rita stopped outside the conference room door and her brows knitted. “Still, you’d better call everybody.”

Oh God.

“You needed to do that anyway,” she said. “I guess I should have told you that, huh?”

I schlumped back to my office, feeling defeated. How was I going to call that poor woman back and tell her that a book that probably took her months and months of work to write was going to be sent out with that child molester cover? She would be devastated. She would hate me.

She would know I was a fraud.

When I turned the corner into my office, I found Cassie standing in front of my bookcase, looking through my manuscript pile.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m taking some of your authors.”

“
What?
”

“Just four,” she said, then added, “so far.”

“Rita didn’t say anything to me about giving you my authors.”

At the mention of Rita, she looked openly contemptuous. “Of course not. Rita’s been out all morning. And I have no idea where
you’ve
been, but my phone’s been ringing off the hook.”

I craned my head forward. “Why? Because of Luanne?”

She laughed. “No, because it’s all over the romance web rings that Julie bailed and left a novice in charge of her author list. Somebody who doesn’t even know what tip sheets are.”

“I just thought…”
Wait.
My blood ran cold. “How would anyone know that?”

She froze, realizing she had made a slip, and shook her head. “Well, what was I supposed to say to all these worried authors who called me? Tough luck, you’ll have to work with this new chick, this total novice, or lump it? Authors aren’t idiots, Rebecca. They have careers at stake here.”

“They do, or
you
do?”

She smirked as she grabbed a fat manuscript from my shelf. The rotten thief.

“I’m not a novice,” I lied. Well, I had a day under my belt now.

“Right. Like working on some woman’s memoirs is the equivalent of four years of hard work. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. Life isn’t fair. I’ve always known that.”

I squinted at her. “It’s certainly not fair of you to take my authors away before I’ve had a chance even to talk to them.”

Fair was not the way of Cassie Saunders, however. And with Rita in a meeting, there was little I could do for the moment but watch as Cassie made off with her loot.

When she was gone, I sank into my chair, burning with frustration. By all rights I probably should have marched right into her office and shoved one of those pilfered manuscripts down her throat. Instead, I sat there in a funk, wondering if I really deserved to be bested by her. And deciding that I probably did. I was the interloper here, after all.

It was only a matter of time before everybody found that out.

The phone rang, and—still not having learned Lesson Number One—I automatically reached for it.

“Am I speaking to the girl genius?”

If the male voice had asked me if my refrigerator was running, I couldn’t have been any more certain this was a prank. “This is Rebecca Abbot,” I said.

“Right, Rebecca Abbot. Editor extraordinaire, or so I’ve heard.”

An uncomfortable chuckle burbled out of me.

“I know—the suspense is killing you. My name is Dan Weatherby.” The name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. “Luanne Seligson’s agent.”

“Oh! Right!” I suddenly had the urge to put my head down on the table and cry. I was so not ready for this conversation. “I guess you heard I spoke to Luanne.”

“Yes, I’m very sorry. Julie called me before she left, but then it slipped my mind to call Luanne. My bad.”

A hint of sunshine peeked out through the clouds. Except there was still the matter of the child molester. “About that cover…”

He laughed. “Don’t worry, I think between us we’ve talked Lu off the ledge.”

We had?

We?

That word had such a comradely ring to it. I perked up. Suddenly I noticed what a rumbly, sympathetic sounding voice Dan Weatherby had. “I’ve been raising heck around here about it.”

I know, I know. But I had to tell the man something. “Raising heck” sure as hell sounded better than “whining to my coworkers.”

“I told Luanne you would,” Dan said.

How did he know? Or rather, how had he arrived at that very shaky and utterly wrong conclusion? He didn’t know the first thing about me.

“I explained to Luanne that there wasn’t a lot that could probably be done at this point.”

“You did?”

I wondered suddenly what Dan Weatherby looked like. He sounded a little like Russell Crowe, when he wasn’t speaking in the Aussie accent. I leaned back in my chair and twirled a Paper-mate pen through my fingers. I really liked Russell Crowe, apart from the jackass movie star behavioral problems.

“I also told her that if you are half of what Mercedes built you up to be over the phone fifteen minutes ago, she’s in great hands.”