Farewell, Dorothy Parker (9 page)

But, of course, he was out of her league. And there was simply no way she could imagine fitting into this group.

“I have
nothing
in common with these people,” Violet said.

“So much the better.”

“I’m going to cancel.”

“No, you’re not. You’re going to invite them here so I can coach you through it.”

“Coach me?”

“Sure, I’ll buzz around unseen, but I’ll be able to whisper in your ear, give you advice on what to say.”

“I don’t know,” Violet said. “This doesn’t sound like such a great idea.”

“It will be the first in a series of lessons to teach you to be more assertive.”

“I don’t think it will work,” Violet said. “I…I don’t have it in me.”

“Of course you have it in you. You’re just afraid to let it out unless you’re writing a review.”

Violet couldn’t argue that point. Sometimes she felt like a cauldron of vitriol bubbling beneath a tight lid. Her reviews were the only safe way to let out some steam. Trying that in a social situation could be dangerous, volatile, terrifying.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t.”

“Are you giving up on winning custody of your niece?”

“Of course not.”

“Then you owe it to her, my dear. You owe her a sincere effort to bring your inner bitch into the light, where she belongs.”

Chapter 9

Violet made a point of going into the office at least three days a week. Aside from her weekly meetings, she could have done all her work from home, but she thought it was important to show her face at the magazine more often. And so she usually wrote her reviews on her home computer but did everything else—researching filmographies, responding to publicists, brainstorming headlines, approving edits, and submitting final copy—on premises.

Violet switched on her computer. As she waited for it to boot up, she carefully poured her coffee from the paper container into her office cup—an oversized purple ceramic mug imprinted with the movie title
AMERICAN VIOLET
. It had been given to her by a studio publicist with a sense of humor, and it had become something of an office joke; no one would ever mistake her cup for theirs.

The light on her phone was flashing, indicating that she had voice mail. She picked up the handset and played the messages back. The first voice she heard made her cringe.

Ms. Epps? This is Barry Beeman from the Algonquin Hotel. Please call me back at your earliest convenience.

He left his direct-dial number, but Violet hung up before he finished saying it. She knew he was calling to ask about the guest book she had stolen, and she just couldn’t handle the confrontation. Besides, she wasn’t ready to give it back. One day, she would slip it in a
padded envelope and have it delivered to the hotel. But not yet. She needed more time with Dorothy Parker.

Her colleague Travis Ornstein stuck his head in.

“You’re here,” he said.

“Morning, Travis.”

He was the magazine’s other movie critic, so they worked pretty closely together, dividing up the responsibilities every week, covering for each other when something came up, and trading off the lead review slot.

“I hope you’re in a good mood,” he said, as he lowered himself into the chair opposite her desk. He wore a black shirt and black pants with a purple tie. Violet was pretty sure there was a black jacket on the hanger in his office.

“Why?” she asked.

“Andi,” he said, referring to their department’s new editorial assistant—the one their boss had put in charge of proofreading their final copy for this week’s issue. With Buck, the young woman was respectful, even obsequious. With everyone else she had an attitude. It was as if she thought that being the boss’s assistant made her second in command. The kid had a lot to learn.

Violet found a napkin in her drawer and put it under her coffee. “What did she do?”

“Red-penciled my copy. Changed every ‘that’ to ‘which,’ expanded the contractions, excised every hint of voice until it read like a term paper.”

“Are you serious?”

“As Sean Hannity with acid reflux.” Travis was known for his colorful turns of phrase—both in real life and in reviews. That was the big difference between them. He was the same person on and off the page.

Violet sipped her coffee. “I thought she was just supposed to eyeball it for typos.”

“Little shit thinks she’ll make a splash by teaching us wretched critics the rudiments of grammar.”

“God help us. What did you do?”

“Nothing yet, but I’m trying to work up an appetite. I plan to eat her for lunch.”

Violet’s computer screen came to life and she jiggled her mouse, waiting for Windows to finish loading so she could see what damage the young assistant had inflicted on her copy.

“Did you submit yesterday?” Travis asked.

“Turned in my piece on
Man Oh Man
.”

“How was it?”

“Had its moments.”

The movie was about a single mom who had such a frustrating day of encountering sexism at every turn that she goes to sleep wishing she were a man. When she wakes up, she is. Violet had decided to open the review with a literary reference: Abby Collins awoke one morning from restless dreams to find she had been transformed into…Steve Carell. Of course, Violet brought the allusion full circle, ending the review by talking about the concept of metamorphosis as a Hollywood staple that just wouldn’t die, kind of like a giant cockroach.

“Okay,” Violet said, opening her Internet browser. “Let’s see if she butchered me, too.”

She clicked into the magazine’s internal server, which was set up to connect writers, editors, and production in one place. Everything in the magazine went through this portal.

She navigated to her page and clicked on her latest submission, which showed her copy in black and the editor’s changes in red. Almost every word of the piece had been changed, including the first line, which now read: Abby Collins woke up as Steve Carell.

“Oh, sweet God of mercy,” Violet said. “Little Miss Grammar Nazi never read Kafka.”

“How do you know?”

She started to explain about her opening reference but stopped at the sound outside her office. She and Travis both heard it at the same time, and their heads turned toward the door. It was Andi, talking to the assistant they shared.

“I hope she’s up for a fight,” he said, rolling his sleeves.

“You’re not going to hit her, are you?”

“Only metaphorically. And as hard as I can.”

He walked out the door just beyond Violet’s line of vision, but his voice reverberated. “I’d like to see you in my office, Andi.”

“Five minutes,” she said.

Travis got loud. Frighteningly loud, in Violet’s opinion. “Excuse me?”

There was a pause and then Andi’s exasperated, impatient voice. “What do you want?”

Violet was appalled by the girl’s attitude. She didn’t seem to think she needed to treat anyone besides Buck with respect. But Travis was a fifty-one-year-old movie critic revered around the world. Andi was a twenty-three-year-old who had graduated from college less than a year ago. Talk about hubris.

“I just told you what I want,” he said. “I want to see you in my
office.
”

“Can’t it wait?”

“Absolutely not.”

Violet leaned forward in her chair, listening hard.
Absolutely not,
she repeated in her head. One day she hoped to be bold enough to say that to someone with the kind of conviction Travis had.

“I’m talking to Dolores right now,” Andi said. “What’s this about?”

“What do you
think
it’s about?”

“Your review?”

“Listen, you little shit. I’m going to say this once, and if I ever have to say it again, it won’t be to your face, because you’ll be fired so fast you’ll be lucky to leave with your tattoos.
Do not mess with my copy.
If you find a typo, you may bring it to my attention. But beyond that, you’re not to touch a word. Not a noun, a pronoun, an article, a verb, an adjective, an adverb, a preposition, or a conjunction. Nothing. Do I make myself clear?”

No response.

Travis got louder. “I said, ‘Do I make myself clear?’ ”

“I’m not an idiot.”

“Answer the question.”

“Yes, Mr. Ornstein,” Andi said, her tone oily with sarcasm. “Perfectly clear.”

“And that goes for Violet’s copy, too.”

Violet stood. She needed to be part of this. She took one sip of her coffee for fortification and walked to the door of her office. Everyone in the outer office looked up at her, waiting for a comment. She knew she had to say something, something big and forceful, something to let Andi know she was behind every word Travis was saying.

They waited.

She folded her arms in an attempt to look resolute. “Right,” she finally said.

“Right?” Andi said.

“Travis, I mean. Travis is right.”

Okay, so it wasn’t big and forceful. But it was clear where she stood. That was something, wasn’t it?

Andi shook her goth black hair out of her face and rolled her eyes, then turned back to Travis, dismissing Violet completely.

“What
ever
,” she said.

Chapter 10

Everyone from Violet’s martial arts class was there.

“This is beautiful!” Mariana said, and gave Violet a hug.

After learning that the reason for the coffee get-together was to celebrate the commercial actress’s birthday, Violet took pains to set up the dining room the way Ivy would have. And though she lacked her sister’s Martha Stewart touch, she had to admit she did a pretty good job. The long, narrow room was quietly lit with dozens of candles. A panel of gold brocade ran the length of the old farmhouse table. In the center was a vase of hydrangeas cut from the garden out back. To the left of it sat a multi-tiered dish filled with tiny pastries. In deference to Suzette the anorexic, a large bowl of red apples sat to the right. The pretty cake, decorated with buttercream flowers and
Happy Birthday Mariana
in yellow script, remained in the kitchen, waiting to be carried in.

Violet returned Mariana’s surprising hug and backed away, excusing herself for a hasty retreat to the kitchen to make the coffee.

The two Lindas waylaid her in the hallway.

“We love the crown molding,” said the Linda with the long face. Violet thought of her as Linda One.

“The crown molding is to die for,” said the other.

“Thanks,” Violet said, glancing up at the ornate woodwork.

“Did it come with the house?”

“My sister did all this,” Violet said. “She was an architect and restored the place herself.”

“She did a beautiful job,” said Linda Two.

Linda One agreed. “Do you know how much she paid for the place? Next to nothing, I’ll bet. And it’s worth a small fortune now.”

“My parents bought the house,” Violet said, begging the question. She didn’t think the price was anyone’s business.

The Lindas pressed Violet on the purchase date, and when they learned the year, Linda Two gasped and Linda One squealed.

“They must have paid next to nothing for it!” she said.

“Next to nothing!” said Linda Two.

Violet left the two Lindas gushing over real-estate values and went into the kitchen, where she had left the Algonquin guest book. She took a few deep breaths, listening to the rest of her guests talking and joking in the dining room. For now, Mariana was holding court, en-tertaining the group with inside stories about the crazy world of commercial shoots. But soon enough they would expect some witty repartee from their hostess and resident movie critic, and the very thought made Violet want to throw up.

She opened the guest book, hoping Mrs. Parker remembered her promise to float around without taking on a corporeal form. Sure enough, there was no ghostly appearance.

“Are you here?” Violet whispered.

Nothing.

She shrugged and went about making coffee, hoping Dorothy Parker would appear in time to help her navigate the social waters of this little party. As she carefully counted the scoops of coffee, she became aware of a whooshing sound by her right ear, as if an insect were flying by. After a few seconds it became clear the sound was actually a whisper, though she couldn’t quite make out what it was saying. It sounded like
covey, covey.