it, now everyone in the office is clamoring for a copy. I said, ‘Absolutely not—go out and buy it.’ ”
Charles sits next to her on the sofa. She reaches out and strokes his cheek. He takes her hand and kisses it. “Next time I go I’ll leave a note.”
“Make it a love note.”
He places her hand on his thigh and runs his fingertips between her fingers. He’s been boorish and self-obsessed lately—it’s time to give Anne something she wants.
“Anne?”
“Yes?”
“About a baby? There’ll always be a thousand reasons to wait.”
She turns away abruptly, withdrawing her hand. She really does look exhausted.
“I didn’t get a great deal of sleep last night. Can we discuss this some other time? Right now I need a nap. You know we have to be at Lincoln Center at eight.”
“I’m not going.” She freezes. “I’m sorry, Anne, I’ve made a decision to cut back on my socializing. It’s for my work.”
“Nice of you to tell me.”
“I really have to focus. It’s important.”
“I understand that, darling, but I think I have a right to be informed of these decisions, maybe even consulted. This is for the Fresh Air Fund, Charles, they do important work. And the tickets were five hundred dollars.”
Low blow. “If you can’t afford them you shouldn’t have bought them.”
Anne concedes the point with an almost imperceptible nod.She finishes her drink with a long swallow. “Am I supposed to just cancel our entire calendar, or should I find myself a walker? Too bad Jerry Zipkin is dead.”
“There’s that artist—what’s his name? You love his company.”
“I can’t believe this. You’re my husband, Charles.”
“I also happen to be a novelist.”
“Are the two mutually exclusive?”
“They may be for a little while.”
Anne stands up. Something hardens in her face, around the mouth. “Keep me posted,” she says, and walks out of the room.
Charles watches her go. The apartment feels polluted by their exchange. Why the hell did she bring up a piddling five hundred dollars like that, with the money she makes? She has every right to be angry about his backing out of the benefit, but it won’t last. She’ll go by herself, make some excuse for his absence, and have a terrific time. Anne’s a big girl, and she’ll soon see that he’s doing this for both of them. If he can come up with fifty really strong pages, Nina will snare a serious advance and everyone will breathe easier. But fifty pages of what? Does Portia think that some idea is just going to crash through the window and—
pow!
—he’ll have another great book? She sure as hell doesn’t have much respect for his process. That’s unfair. She’s
part
of his process. At least she used to be.
Charles grabs the bottle of Scotch off the liquor tray and heads for his office.
11
Emma sits at her desk sorting through months of old mail. Many of Charles’s fans, particularly the female ones, seem to project their deepest longings—for a son, a husband, a lover—onto him. In her week and a half on the job, she’s dealt with a pound cake sent by a sixty-two-year-old widow in Missouri, a naked photo from a married woman in Marina Del Rey, and an impenetrable love poem from an overwrought Wellesley freshman. And then there are the manuscripts sent in by would-be writers, and galleys sent by publishers hoping to garner a book jacket blurb. When she started, there were dozens of these lying around the office. She suggested to Charles that she read the books and write synopses for him to review. He praised her initiative, and using this system they’re working their way through the backlog. Ditto for the forty-two unreturned phone calls that greeted her on her first day.
Emma has a goal: to make herself indispensable to Charles Davis.
The mail sorted into its usual three piles—Throw Out, Answer, and Pass On—Emma looks up and surveys the office. There’s no doubt that she’s succeeded in bringing some semblance
Charles sits next to her on the sofa. She reaches out and strokes his cheek. He takes her hand and kisses it. “Next time I go I’ll leave a note.”
“Make it a love note.”
He places her hand on his thigh and runs his fingertips between her fingers. He’s been boorish and self-obsessed lately—it’s time to give Anne something she wants.
“Anne?”
“Yes?”
“About a baby? There’ll always be a thousand reasons to wait.”
She turns away abruptly, withdrawing her hand. She really does look exhausted.
“I didn’t get a great deal of sleep last night. Can we discuss this some other time? Right now I need a nap. You know we have to be at Lincoln Center at eight.”
“I’m not going.” She freezes. “I’m sorry, Anne, I’ve made a decision to cut back on my socializing. It’s for my work.”
“Nice of you to tell me.”
“I really have to focus. It’s important.”
“I understand that, darling, but I think I have a right to be informed of these decisions, maybe even consulted. This is for the Fresh Air Fund, Charles, they do important work. And the tickets were five hundred dollars.”
Low blow. “If you can’t afford them you shouldn’t have bought them.”
Anne concedes the point with an almost imperceptible nod.She finishes her drink with a long swallow. “Am I supposed to just cancel our entire calendar, or should I find myself a walker? Too bad Jerry Zipkin is dead.”
“There’s that artist—what’s his name? You love his company.”
“I can’t believe this. You’re my husband, Charles.”
“I also happen to be a novelist.”
“Are the two mutually exclusive?”
“They may be for a little while.”
Anne stands up. Something hardens in her face, around the mouth. “Keep me posted,” she says, and walks out of the room.
Charles watches her go. The apartment feels polluted by their exchange. Why the hell did she bring up a piddling five hundred dollars like that, with the money she makes? She has every right to be angry about his backing out of the benefit, but it won’t last. She’ll go by herself, make some excuse for his absence, and have a terrific time. Anne’s a big girl, and she’ll soon see that he’s doing this for both of them. If he can come up with fifty really strong pages, Nina will snare a serious advance and everyone will breathe easier. But fifty pages of what? Does Portia think that some idea is just going to crash through the window and—
pow!
—he’ll have another great book? She sure as hell doesn’t have much respect for his process. That’s unfair. She’s
part
of his process. At least she used to be.
Charles grabs the bottle of Scotch off the liquor tray and heads for his office.
11
Emma sits at her desk sorting through months of old mail. Many of Charles’s fans, particularly the female ones, seem to project their deepest longings—for a son, a husband, a lover—onto him. In her week and a half on the job, she’s dealt with a pound cake sent by a sixty-two-year-old widow in Missouri, a naked photo from a married woman in Marina Del Rey, and an impenetrable love poem from an overwrought Wellesley freshman. And then there are the manuscripts sent in by would-be writers, and galleys sent by publishers hoping to garner a book jacket blurb. When she started, there were dozens of these lying around the office. She suggested to Charles that she read the books and write synopses for him to review. He praised her initiative, and using this system they’re working their way through the backlog. Ditto for the forty-two unreturned phone calls that greeted her on her first day.
Emma has a goal: to make herself indispensable to Charles Davis.
The mail sorted into its usual three piles—Throw Out, Answer, and Pass On—Emma looks up and surveys the office. There’s no doubt that she’s succeeded in bringing some semblance
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