said to Spencer, slipping under the sheets. “Wake up.”
But that was more than an hour ago—it wasn’t that quick, when all was said and done—and now he won’t get up. She studies this man lounging in her bed, the pretentious, obnoxious, but good-looking and undeniably talented writer—a tech blogger now, submitting short stories and working on a screenplay—she’d met a few months ago, at a party in a Bushwick loft to which she was dragged by a hyperactively social, unfailingly upbeat publicist she knew from a publishing house—assistants like Alexis aren’t on guest lists; they’re the hangers-on, the plus-ones—after they’d had an insanely unaffordable round of drinks at one of those Midtown hotel bars populated mostly by forty-something men wearing a strict uniform of bespoke suits with working buttonholes at the cuffs.
It was quite a different selection of men out in the Brooklyn ex-slum, feral beards and architectural mustaches, tattoos and piercings, engineer’s boots and clunky key chains dangling from the belt loops. Another type of uniform, perhaps even more complex and studiously maintained than the one in Midtown, just not as expensive.
She glances again at her handheld screen, the blurry digital line between personal and professional. Facebook won’t be a problem; only a few people liked Alexis’s status update, and Isabel isn’t especially engaged with Facebook anyway; she’s a weekend lurker. But Twitter, that’s a whole different story. Almost everyone at ATM is tweeting and retweeting constantly. Isabel isn’t one of them, thank God, but still she’s going to hear about it. In the kitchen, or the ladies’ room, or in a conference room waiting for a meeting to start, someone will turn to Isabel, and making conversation will ask, “So whatever happened to that anonymous submission that Alexis was loving? You sign that up?”
And then Alexis will be fully fucked.
She tugs Spencer’s arm, trying to actually drag him out of bed. “Please.” He has broken up with Alexis more than once. As it happens, they are at the moment broken-up.
He finally rises, starts pulling on his paint-spattered jeans and concert T-shirt, a New Wave show that took place in the East Village a few years before the guy was born.
First item today will be a long, punishing, atoning workout. It’s time for her to start getting ready for this year’s marathon; she’s a little behind schedule, slower than usual to recognize that winter ended and it was time to start outdoor running again. Then a doctor’s appointment, then a wax, a mani-pedi. And finally some unglamorous shopping—running shoes, underwear, toiletries, groceries. Not exactly the Sex and the City retail fantasy.
Nor was her weekend, spent immersed in that damn manuscript instead of the beach-and-binge-drinking lifestyle of one of her six allotted weekends in Southampton, a summer rental she’s sharing with at least two dozen friends, acquaintances, and strangers; the list of who’s entitled to what bed on what weekends looks like the org chart for a Fortune 500 corporation. But while everyone else tanned and partied, Alexis sat on peeling white wicker in the shade of the sagging back porch, turning manuscript pages in her lap, swatting away mosquitoes.
But once again, this will be another author and project she will not get a chance to represent, yanked out from under her, at dawn.
Her gym bag is now packed, except for reading material. She looks at her little leather Luddite notebook, re-reads her scant editorial notes on The Accident ; there’s practically nothing she thinks should be changed about the manuscript. Then she glances at the compulsively maintained Excel spreadsheet in which she keeps track of her reading. She runs her eyes across row #709, whose column A reads ANONYMOUS , column B THE ACCIDENT . She auto-sums the 2:15 and 5:15 and 4:30 and 3:30 and … she spent more than fifteen hours reading this photocopy that she
But that was more than an hour ago—it wasn’t that quick, when all was said and done—and now he won’t get up. She studies this man lounging in her bed, the pretentious, obnoxious, but good-looking and undeniably talented writer—a tech blogger now, submitting short stories and working on a screenplay—she’d met a few months ago, at a party in a Bushwick loft to which she was dragged by a hyperactively social, unfailingly upbeat publicist she knew from a publishing house—assistants like Alexis aren’t on guest lists; they’re the hangers-on, the plus-ones—after they’d had an insanely unaffordable round of drinks at one of those Midtown hotel bars populated mostly by forty-something men wearing a strict uniform of bespoke suits with working buttonholes at the cuffs.
It was quite a different selection of men out in the Brooklyn ex-slum, feral beards and architectural mustaches, tattoos and piercings, engineer’s boots and clunky key chains dangling from the belt loops. Another type of uniform, perhaps even more complex and studiously maintained than the one in Midtown, just not as expensive.
She glances again at her handheld screen, the blurry digital line between personal and professional. Facebook won’t be a problem; only a few people liked Alexis’s status update, and Isabel isn’t especially engaged with Facebook anyway; she’s a weekend lurker. But Twitter, that’s a whole different story. Almost everyone at ATM is tweeting and retweeting constantly. Isabel isn’t one of them, thank God, but still she’s going to hear about it. In the kitchen, or the ladies’ room, or in a conference room waiting for a meeting to start, someone will turn to Isabel, and making conversation will ask, “So whatever happened to that anonymous submission that Alexis was loving? You sign that up?”
And then Alexis will be fully fucked.
She tugs Spencer’s arm, trying to actually drag him out of bed. “Please.” He has broken up with Alexis more than once. As it happens, they are at the moment broken-up.
He finally rises, starts pulling on his paint-spattered jeans and concert T-shirt, a New Wave show that took place in the East Village a few years before the guy was born.
First item today will be a long, punishing, atoning workout. It’s time for her to start getting ready for this year’s marathon; she’s a little behind schedule, slower than usual to recognize that winter ended and it was time to start outdoor running again. Then a doctor’s appointment, then a wax, a mani-pedi. And finally some unglamorous shopping—running shoes, underwear, toiletries, groceries. Not exactly the Sex and the City retail fantasy.
Nor was her weekend, spent immersed in that damn manuscript instead of the beach-and-binge-drinking lifestyle of one of her six allotted weekends in Southampton, a summer rental she’s sharing with at least two dozen friends, acquaintances, and strangers; the list of who’s entitled to what bed on what weekends looks like the org chart for a Fortune 500 corporation. But while everyone else tanned and partied, Alexis sat on peeling white wicker in the shade of the sagging back porch, turning manuscript pages in her lap, swatting away mosquitoes.
But once again, this will be another author and project she will not get a chance to represent, yanked out from under her, at dawn.
Her gym bag is now packed, except for reading material. She looks at her little leather Luddite notebook, re-reads her scant editorial notes on The Accident ; there’s practically nothing she thinks should be changed about the manuscript. Then she glances at the compulsively maintained Excel spreadsheet in which she keeps track of her reading. She runs her eyes across row #709, whose column A reads ANONYMOUS , column B THE ACCIDENT . She auto-sums the 2:15 and 5:15 and 4:30 and 3:30 and … she spent more than fifteen hours reading this photocopy that she
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