Keep Dancing (17 page)

“You look like you’ve starred in a horror movie,” I said. “Want to get in the shower? I’ll strip the bed.”

“In a minute. That feel good?” he asked.

I found a clean spot on his nose and kissed it. “Better than good. Astounding. Stupendous. Earth-moving. Galaxy-shattering. Thank you.”

“Any time, baby. I ain’t afraid of a little red.”

“I should say not; you just took a bath in it. Let’s get in the shower before I get stuck to the sheets,” I said.

He started the shower as I put the sheets in the sink to soak. Jack came toward me, walking Frankensteinish with arms outstretched.

“Heeere’s Johnny!” he cackled in a schizo voice. “Redruuum…”

I laughed. “I was so afraid after I read
The Shining
, I never saw the movie.” He opened the shower door and we got in under the spray. Jack lifted his face to the water as a pinkish stream ran down his chest.

“I went to a screening with Mark and Suzanne. Mark and I were about to pee our britches, we were so scared.” Jack wiped his neck with a washcloth. “We kept going out to get snacks, to avoid the terrifying scenes. On the other hand, Suzanne, that cold bitch, sat there calmly taking it all in, not the least bit perturbed. Man, this stuff really sticks to you,” he added, scrubbing at his hands.

After we dried off, I put on his “Things Go Better with Coke” tee-shirt, and Jack wound a towel around his waist. We remade the bed, ordered pizza, and ate listening to “Rebecca” by Big Joe Turner and Bull Moose Jackson’s “No Mercy.” We kept the conversation light, but his departure weighed heavily on my mind. After our meal we started fooling around again. His towel was propped up by a tentpole; I undid it and began smooching his abdomen.

“Let me give you something to remember me by,” I murmured as Jack shut his eyes and groaned.

I lay there memorizing his face as he slept; his thick dark eyelashes and eyebrows, expressive even in slumber; the creases at the sides of his sensual mouth; the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. Jack stirred and peered at me.

“I could go for thirds. Not that the first two times weren’t brilliant.” He got up and rifled through a drawer. “Want to put this on?” He held up one of the scraps of lingerie he’d given me for Christmas.

“You want to do it again already?”

“What can I say? I’m a sex machine, baby.” He did a James Brown hip-shimmy.

“God, you really are. Just give me a minute to catch my breath.”

I didn’t say what I was thinking: with his insatiable drive, how was he going to be chaste for three and a half weeks? Especially with all those gorgeous women throwing themselves at him. I knew he wasn’t into the groupies, but he’d dated plenty of models, movie stars, and other fancy hangers-on.

“What if you get stoned on tour and some woman comes along?” I blurted out.

Jack drew the garters up my leg. “Weed doesn’t affect me that much anymore.”

“I hope you won’t do a lot of coke.” I knew he used it on the road to keep his energy up—and because he liked it.

“It’s good you’re coming midway through. Keep me on the straight and narrow.”

I hope he bears that in mind when he’s at Party Central, two thousand miles away.

Jack kissed me, creating a ripple from my breasts to my toes. As we made love one last time, I took in every lush sensation, storing it up for the coming drought.

I had told Ted I’d be in late the next morning. I helped Jack with last-minute packing, cramming a few more packages of guitar picks into his carry-on since he always lost them. Rick came up to collect the luggage, and we all rode down together. As Rick loaded the car, Jack and I kissed and kissed out on the sidewalk with pedestrians gawking and cabs honking and messengers pedaling and hungover punks walking their dogs. Finally we pulled apart. Jack gave me one last look, and darted into the backseat.

At least I had something to distract me that day. A literary agent had sent me a late-night talk show host’s humor book, which I planned to bring up in the editorial meeting. When my turn came, I quickly described the project and its potential, given that the show had millions of viewers.

“Isn’t his audience kind of young?” Erica cut in before I’d finished my pitch. “I wouldn’t think a bunch of college sophomores would spend their allowance on recycled jokes.”

My hackles rose. “A lot of adults watch it too; I have the statistics. And over half of the book will be brand new stuff from his writing staff.”

“I’m just not seeing it.” Erica folded her arms with a snarky smile as several others shook their heads.

“I think it would be huge,” Cathy chimed in. “I know tons of people who love his show.”

“I agree. See me after the meeting and we’ll cook up an offer,” Ted concluded. “The show’s headquarters are down the block. We’ll get together with them once we own it.”

Just as we were leaving, the managing editor stuck her head in. “It’s tip sheet time again!” she sang out as everyone groaned. “I need one for each of your titles by end of the week. The marketing director wants them well in advance of sales conference.”

I was familiar with the dreaded tip sheets from my previous job. For every one of our books, we had to fill in a zillion pre-publication facts, and wing it on whatever was still TBD. Supposedly the sales force used them to get bookstore orders, and those numbers determined the first print run. It would be nice not having to do Harvey’s this time around.

Erica caught up with me on the way out. “I would think you’d be too busy with your new prize author to acquire anything right now. Dermot Chase is quite a handful.”

“I’m sure I can manage,” I said coolly. I felt like adding,
Mind your own business,
as I continued down the hall to Ted’s office.

“Try to pre-empt this late-night book for a hundred thou,” he said, polishing his glasses on his shirtsleeve. “Perry will complain, but this is just the kind of commercial stuff we need. Come see me if the agent wants more.”

I could hardly believe my ears. “Great! Oh, and I’m getting together with Dermot after work. He’s handing over the first batch of chapters.”

“Very good; keep me posted. One bit of advice about this TV guy: I’d keep a distance from these celebrity types. Be friendly, but don’t ever believe they’re your friends. There’s a big difference.”

He has no idea how close I am to a
real
celebrity
, I thought. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“When’s your family reunion again?” Ted asked.

I didn’t correct him. “Middle of March.”

“Congrats on your big acquisition!” Cathy exclaimed. “I heard you got it for a hundred-fifty.”

“Thanks. I’m still in a daze. We’re meeting with the show’s head writer next week. I guess I have to do a tip sheet for it, since we’re pushing it out in the fall.” I stared at the stack of forms on my desk. “What should I do for a description of Dermot’s novel? He hasn’t even finished the first draft.”

“Just make it up. The reps never read those things anyway.”

Cathy had told me that Perry Stroud hardly ever came down to our floor—unless he was visiting Erica, since she did all the “important” books. But after lunch, our publisher stepped into my office holding a paper cup. I was just winding up a call with the head writer of the TV show, who was excited about the deal. It turned out Stuart wrote all the host’s jokes and would be the real author of the book, which suited me fine. Even on the phone, he was hilarious. I hung up and quickly slid my copy of the
Post
under the
New York Times
, knowing Perry would look down on such light reading.

“So, you’ve signed up a little humor book,” Perry said. He went over to the window, parted my ficus and gazed out at the skyscraper canyon. “Ted said it’ll be ready by fall, but we have a lot of big titles on that list.
Serious
books.” He leveled his gaze at me. “I don’t want to clutter up the imprint with frivolous junk.”

My face burned. “I was just talking to the head writer. He’s already written half of it.”

“Hmph. And you’re dealing with Dermot Chase, I hear.” Perry took a sip of his coffee.

“Yes, I’m meeting him tonight. He’s delivering some chapters,” I said.

“Erica’s an old hand at mollycoddling important authors; I don’t know why he wanted to switch. Do you think you can get it out of him in time? We have a lot riding on this one.”

“He seems eager to get going. I’ll start on it right away.” I felt like adding,
I can’t write it for him.

Perry dumped his coffee into my ficus. “See that you do.” On his way out, he put his empty cup on the corner of my desk.

I had thought I’d just meet with Dermot in the conference room, but he suggested grabbing dinner. Since Jack was away, I figured, Why not? There was reason to rush home. And after all, I was supposed to give my new author the white-glove treatment. I was surprised when Dermot suggested Elaine’s, the Upper East Side actor-and-writer haunt; I’d pictured someplace more low-key. But that was fine, because I could put the meal on my expense account. Hawtey had given me a nice fat allowance that I hadn’t even begun to make a dent in.

I got to the restaurant early out of nerves, checked my coat and waited for Dermot to show. His piercing blue eyes met mine as he came through the door, flashing a big smile. Beneath an elegant coat and jacket his shirt was undone a few buttons, revealing a tanned chest. I was glad I’d worn the stylish interview suit Vicky had helped me pick out.

“So good to see you,” he murmured, bussing my cheek. Not realizing he was going for the other one, European-style, we bumped noses. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

The spicy hint of his cologne lingered pleasantly in my nostrils. “Oh no, I just got here.”

Dermot handed his coat and briefcase to the coat-check girl and went to embrace the restaurant owner, who held her cigarette aside for his kiss. “Elaine, this is Julia, my talented new midwife. She’s going to extract this novel from me, come hell or high water.”

“Your usual spot’s ready,” Elaine said without giving me a glance. As she led us through the dark room, famous faces gazed at me from the book jackets plastered on the walls—and from a few tables, as well. I dropped my eyes to avoid breaking the cardinal rule in Manhattan: Never stare at a celebrity
.
Dermot stopped every few seconds to speak to people he knew as I stood awkwardly beside him. Finally we were seated, and he asked the waiter for a bottle of Burgundy.
Is it okay to put alcohol on my expense account?
I wondered.

“So, Julia. You’re a fresh face in the grizzled publishing world. What brought you to New York in the first place?” Dermot spread his hands on the table, ringless but for a large onyx set in gold.

I fiddled with the menu tassel. “Originally I came here for grad school, but then I decided I’d rather be an editor than go for a Ph.D.”

“Wise choice. I arrived fifteen years ago, determined to write the great American novel. Little did I know, I’d wind up writing three of them.” Again the sexy flash of those white teeth in his bronzed face. “Which one’s your favorite?”

“Um,
Oblivious Journey
?” I named the only book of his that I’d read. I took a sip of wine to collect my thoughts.
I’ll have to do some catch-up skimming over the weekend,
I realized. Seeing that he was waiting for something more, I added, “I really loved it. But all of your works are such important contributions.”

“I’m glad you feel that way. Yes, we’re ready,” he said to the waiter. Hoping to keep the tab down, I ordered one of the cheaper entrees, while Dermot went for the pricey steak tips.
I guess I won’t get in trouble for expensing this fancy dinner
, I thought as the waiter took our menus. Harvey used to complain if a bill hit forty bucks.

Dermot waved at someone across the room, and then focused on me. “This new novel has been tough to jump-start,” he said, twisting his onyx ring. “I’m having trouble with one of my female characters, Penelope. She’s about your age, so I’m hoping you can give me some insights.”

“Insights into…?” The last drops of wine slid down my throat like scarlet silk
. It even tastes expensive,
I thought as Dermot refilled my glass.

“The inner workings of the mind of a twenty-four-year-old woman. What makes her tick. What turns her on.” He raised an eyebrow as the waiter set our plates in front of us.

I was happy for the interruption. With the wine I’d drunk and Dermot’s forceful blue gaze, I was feeling discombobulated. Stalling, I took a bite of overcooked pasta.

“Do you think you can help me with that?” Dermot persisted. “I need details that will really flesh her out.
Intimate
details.”

“Oh, sure! I’ll try to put all that into the notes.” I took another sip of wine and tried to focus on the reason for this dinner. “You have some pages to give me?”

“You’ll soon have it in your hot little hands.” Dermot speared a steak tip and brought it to his lips. “Since this is the first time we’ve worked together, you should know that I get heavily involved in the design. I can be a bit obsessive about the typeface, the chapter ornaments. You should probably get your people going on it; I’ve been known to change my mind numerous times. Same thing for the cover.”

I gulped; at my previous house, we never ran the interior design by authors. They were lucky to get a good gander at the jacket before it went to press. “Okay, I’ll get the art department started.” I put down my fork as Dermot polished off his steak.

“You know, the Book Awards are coming up next month. I’m pretty confident my latest novel’s a shoe-in,” he said.

I knew that Dermot’s first book had won the prestigious award. “I imagine Ted has reserved a table. I’ll ask him about it.”

“You’ll have to come, too.” Dermot put his hand over mine and gazed at me. His eyes seemed to radiate a searing heat; they really were an amazing shade of blue. “It would be a good opportunity for you to mingle with the
hoi polloi
,” he added. “We’ll have to get you out and about more, Ms. Nash. I hadn’t even heard of you before you started at Hawtey House. You don’t want hide your light under a bushel.”