unsteady feet to the front door, to the sidewalk. She lights a cigarette, the smoke flooding her lungs, the nicotine rushinginto her bloodstream. She’d tried Wellbutrin and Xanax; she’d used patches and gum. In the end, the only thing that made her quit successfully was being pregnant.
But then, after everything, she couldn’t help but start up again. At first it was just a single cigarette per day, or two. Then it became a few, and within months she was back to pack-a-day. Over the past couple of years, she’s tried to quit a few times, but not seriously. She anticipates—she accepts—failure. Because she doesn’t want to quit, not really. She wants instead to try, and fail.
She’s the last of her friends who still smokes, which makes her feel like a polio victim in the early 1950s, having just missed the invention of the vaccine. A relic of a different era.
She takes another drag, and glances in the restaurant window, and sees Jeffrey hunkered down above the manuscript.
T he generic-looking man in the standard-issue gray suit ambles through the dining room, drops his bag in a chair. “Excuse me,” he says, leaning over Jeff’s table, “may I borrow your pen for a moment?” The man points at the Sheaffer on the tabletop.
Jeff glances down. “Sure.”
“I’ll be right back.” The man picks up the pen, walks to another table.
Jeff returns his attention to the stack of paper in front of him, to the manuscript that he hopes—that he knows —is the thing he’s been waiting for. Now that it’s here, something this big, he’s worried, unconfident. He hasn’t had something this important since that Pulitzer winner a half-decade ago. He’s out of practice, afraid of how to handle it, how to present it to his boss, his colleagues. Of how to manage Isabel, and her expectations, and timetable. Afraid of other editors to whom she might submit it, afraid of a bidding war, an auction, a humiliating defeat. Afraid of other, less easily identifiable issues, prickling his psyche. Afraid of the decisions he will face. The decisions he will make.
When the man returns, leaving the pen on the table and saying “Many thanks,” Jeff barely glances up, lost in thought. He never imagined this manuscript would actually happen.
The unmemorable man retreats, replaced by the sexy waitress in her white shirt and black apron. What is it about women in servile uniforms? “More coffee?”
Jeff looks up at the waitress, past her, to the table where the man should be. But there’s no one there. Jeff looks down at his empty cup. “Yes, thank you.” This is going to be a long day. He flips to the middle of the manuscript, and starts reading.
The Accident
Page 202
Before long Wolfe Worldwide Media was operating two dozen news websites across Europe, and buying up stakes in newspapers and television stations. They had begun the process of launching the American cable news network, whose awareness-building publicity blitz entailed giving countless interviews with other media, reporting on itself, the media’s favorite topic.
During one of these interviews, Charlie was asked if there had been any particular event that triggered his reform, the total transformation of his lifestyle that began the summer after his junior year in college. He gave up alcohol and drugs entirely. He dedicated himself to studies, and his spare time to volunteer work. Almost overnight, he evolved from a singularly irresponsible, selfish, substance-abusing teenager into an extraordinarily serious, sober, and earnest young adult.
“No,” he said, with a relaxed, easy smile spreading across his face, maintaining unflinching eye contact with the camera. “I just thought it was time to grow up.”
CHAPTER 8
“C ome on, come on, come on .” Alexis tugs on Spencer’s arm. “Please.” After she’d hung up with Isabel, she’d thought, what the hell, the damage was already done. No further harm in a good-morning quickie. “Dude,” she’d
But then, after everything, she couldn’t help but start up again. At first it was just a single cigarette per day, or two. Then it became a few, and within months she was back to pack-a-day. Over the past couple of years, she’s tried to quit a few times, but not seriously. She anticipates—she accepts—failure. Because she doesn’t want to quit, not really. She wants instead to try, and fail.
She’s the last of her friends who still smokes, which makes her feel like a polio victim in the early 1950s, having just missed the invention of the vaccine. A relic of a different era.
She takes another drag, and glances in the restaurant window, and sees Jeffrey hunkered down above the manuscript.
T he generic-looking man in the standard-issue gray suit ambles through the dining room, drops his bag in a chair. “Excuse me,” he says, leaning over Jeff’s table, “may I borrow your pen for a moment?” The man points at the Sheaffer on the tabletop.
Jeff glances down. “Sure.”
“I’ll be right back.” The man picks up the pen, walks to another table.
Jeff returns his attention to the stack of paper in front of him, to the manuscript that he hopes—that he knows —is the thing he’s been waiting for. Now that it’s here, something this big, he’s worried, unconfident. He hasn’t had something this important since that Pulitzer winner a half-decade ago. He’s out of practice, afraid of how to handle it, how to present it to his boss, his colleagues. Of how to manage Isabel, and her expectations, and timetable. Afraid of other editors to whom she might submit it, afraid of a bidding war, an auction, a humiliating defeat. Afraid of other, less easily identifiable issues, prickling his psyche. Afraid of the decisions he will face. The decisions he will make.
When the man returns, leaving the pen on the table and saying “Many thanks,” Jeff barely glances up, lost in thought. He never imagined this manuscript would actually happen.
The unmemorable man retreats, replaced by the sexy waitress in her white shirt and black apron. What is it about women in servile uniforms? “More coffee?”
Jeff looks up at the waitress, past her, to the table where the man should be. But there’s no one there. Jeff looks down at his empty cup. “Yes, thank you.” This is going to be a long day. He flips to the middle of the manuscript, and starts reading.
The Accident
Page 202
Before long Wolfe Worldwide Media was operating two dozen news websites across Europe, and buying up stakes in newspapers and television stations. They had begun the process of launching the American cable news network, whose awareness-building publicity blitz entailed giving countless interviews with other media, reporting on itself, the media’s favorite topic.
During one of these interviews, Charlie was asked if there had been any particular event that triggered his reform, the total transformation of his lifestyle that began the summer after his junior year in college. He gave up alcohol and drugs entirely. He dedicated himself to studies, and his spare time to volunteer work. Almost overnight, he evolved from a singularly irresponsible, selfish, substance-abusing teenager into an extraordinarily serious, sober, and earnest young adult.
“No,” he said, with a relaxed, easy smile spreading across his face, maintaining unflinching eye contact with the camera. “I just thought it was time to grow up.”
CHAPTER 8
“C ome on, come on, come on .” Alexis tugs on Spencer’s arm. “Please.” After she’d hung up with Isabel, she’d thought, what the hell, the damage was already done. No further harm in a good-morning quickie. “Dude,” she’d
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