Ms. Taken Identity (5 page)

“You must really like your coffee,” I say. “Two cups?”

“Skim latte for me, café breve for my assistant.”

“And she doesn’t get the coffee for you?”

Katharine Longwell shrugs. “I wanted to stretch my legs. And she’s a he, by the way. Brent. Which is why I came over. Other
than Brent, you’re not my typical fan, a young man like yourself.” Her voice is a little husky, Catherine Zeta-Jonesish in
a way. “I’m intrigued.”

It comes across like a pickup line. Then, when she makes no bones about checking out my arms and chest, I’m certain of it:
she’s flirting.
With me!
For a moment I almost feel bad for her, since she’s in her forties if she’s a day and she thinks I might actually be digging
on her.

“To be honest, Katharine, I wouldn’t exactly call myself a fan.” I lean a little closer. “I’m reading your book for another
reason.”

“Oh?” she says, taking the bait, her lips curling into a smile.
I’ve got her!
I have her wrapped around my little finger. Katharine Longwell is my pinky ring. She thinks something delicious is coming
her way. And that’s when it happens.

There’s a clip of Michael Jordan playing against the Lakers in the early nineties, ready to slam it home, another easy two
for His Highness. But as he soars toward the basket, eyes wide, tongue waggling, you see his body instinctively seize upon
the moment, recognize something greater, so he windmills the ball, drops it lower and switches hands, then lays it up and
off the glass, kissing it in. A slam dunk, impressive in its own right, has become a shot for the ages. That’s where I am
today. The lane is open, my path is clear, I have only to stuff it home: “Your book is a load of crap.” Slam dunk,
in your face!
But it’s too easy. So my brain pulls a Jordan, ratchets into a higher gear, realizes something more spectacular is there
for the taking. My mouth simply needs to follow.

“Actually, I’m reading it because of my cousin. She’s a huge fan.”

“Oh, really.”

“The biggest. She’s read everything you’ve written.” I flip to the “Also by Katharine Longwell” page. “Like
Confessions of a Serial Virgin
,
You’ve Got Male
,
Ms. Opportunity
,
Dolce & Gabbana & Heather
. Those are the ones she’s always talking about. And the new one here,
The Cappuccino Club
, she told me I’d be amazed. And I am.”

She tilts her head in a schoolgirl sort of way. “Nice of you to say, Mitch. And your cousin.”

But I’m just revving up. “And here’s the thing. She’s a bit of a writer herself. Not in your league, of course. But she’s
serious about it. She wants to be just like you. In fact, she dropped out of college to do it. She was studying genetic engineering
or something like that, but how could she do that and hold on to her dream? Because you know how it is: when the writing bug
bites you, you’re a goner.”

I’ve hit her from several angles and she’s not sure which piece of information to respond to. She opts for the one I hadn’t
expected. “Does that mean you write, too?”

“Who, me? No. Are you kidding? My cousin and I just talk a lot, since her fiancé left her after she dropped out of school.
And put on the weight. I just read her stuff. Actually, I represent her, too. I’m trying to help her get something published.
It’s tough out there, you know. Though you probably don’t, since, of course, you are who you are.”

She nods, serious-faced. “I still remember those days. I wasn’t always who I am.”

“But you are now.” I give her a wink—
a wink!
—and now I realize where all this is leading. “Which reminds me. She’d absolutely kill me if I told her I ran into you and
didn’t get an autograph.” I slide the book over to her. “Would you mind?”

“Of course not. What’s your cousin’s name?”

“Bradley.”

“
Bradley?
”

“That’s right. It’s short. For Bradjolet.”

“‘Bradjo-
what
’?”

“Bradjo
let
. It’s French. Her father’s a chef. Just put ‘Bradley,’ though. That’s what everyone calls her.”

You can tell she’s trying to untangle the
French
from the
chef
from the
Bradley
, and it’s not really working, but I’m not helping, so she just smiles politely and writes a note.

“How’s that?” she asks, passing the book back.

I read what she’s written and nearly choke. “Perfect.”

She checks her watch again and this time says she absolutely needs to go, since Brent is probably out in the car having a
heart attack. We shake hands again.

“I really enjoyed talking with you, Mitch.
A lot
.” She gives me one of those deep, lingering gazes, and hasn’t let go of my hand. “So let me give you something.” She reaches
into her purse and hands me a card. “This is my office in Chicago, and my e-mail. And here’s something else.” She scribbles
a number on the back. “My cell phone. If your cousin has something you think I should read, give me a call.” She gives me
the once-over again. “Or if you just want to come to Chicago sometime, on me, I’m sure we could find something to do…”

I’m not making it up: that’s how she ends our conversation!

“Uh, yeah, sure. I’ll keep it in mind.”

With that, she puts on her shades, picks up her coffees, and breezes out the door, and I’m left with an autographed copy of
The Cappuccino Club
and the cell phone number of the most popular chick-lit writer in the country. Just my usual Saturday morning at Starbucks.

I sit back in my chair and take another look at what she’s written: “Bradley, Never give up. Listen to your heart, and write
with it. Katharine Longwell.” Are you kidding me? How gullible is this woman? I’ll be laughing about this one for weeks. But
my mind’s still humming, still kicking around ideas, not ready to let it go, till… I bolt forward so quickly that the
guy next to me flinches. Suddenly they’re with me at the table—Vanessa, Gisella, Sasha—Sirens all of them, clamoring for my
attention, whispering honeyed temptations into my ear: Do it, do it, do it.

Do what? Do what? Oh my god, you don’t mean…
that
?

Yes,
that!

Outrageous. Unthinkable.
Absurd
. And yet…

I mean, how hard can it be? Katharine is no Rhodes scholar, yet she does it and makes a fortune. And look at everything I
have going for me. I’m a writer. I have an “in” with a famous author who said she’d read it. I have a built-in pseudonym with
Cousin Bradley. This is perfect! The only thing I’m missing is a plot, but who cares? Give me two weeks to work on some cockamamie
scenario about engagement rings and shopping sprees and bridesmaid dresses and impossibly dreamy guys, and
voila!
Hello publication. Not exactly the way I’d dreamed of getting my name (or my cousin’s) into print, but like the Stones once
sang, you can’t always get what you want. So chick-lit it is.

B
radley and I shoot baskets on Sunday, and afterwards I show him the book and tell him my plan. He thinks it’s funny but not
hilarious—he doesn’t have an ax to grind with these people like I do—though he does offer a few words of advice: Baby steps
before the masterpiece, little grasshopper. We both agree my first step is to research chick-lit, sniff out its essence, capture
it in its pure, undiluted form, before I turn it all on its Prada-loving head. So I’m off to Bookzilla.

I grab copies of all the chick-lit books that have sold at least a billion copies. How do I know they’ve sold a billion copies?
Because if
I’ve
heard of them, they must have. I prefer to be a gentleman about this and not name names (though Katharine I already have,
but you know why), but I will provide summaries, from which you might be able to tell which books I’m talking about, since,
by some coincidence, you may have a
friend
who’s read one of them and spilled the details. One is about a chubby British girl who keeps a diary, listing all the calories
she’s consumed and cigarettes she’s smoked, and she cheers herself when she’s good, and scolds herself when she’s bad, and
pursues a guy at work, who turns out to be an ass, and winds up with a guy who wore a bad sweater the first time they met.
Another is about a chubby American girl whose ex-boyfriend writes an article about what it’s like to be involved with a larger
woman, which pisses her off, but she decides she wants him back, but he’s not interested, but his father dies so they sleep
together, and she winds up pregnant, but now he’s with someone else, and oh, what to do. Another is about a young fashion
assistant who dreams of working for
The New Yorker
, but she’s stuck working for the boss from hell, who wears a certain style of designer clothing (which is in the title) and
treats her like dirt. Those are three of them. There are others.

For the next few hours, I sit at a table in the café and pick these books apart, and it’s like I’m back in high school, sophomore
year, dissecting a frog, only without the safety goggles or formaldehyde smell. I pull back the skin and expose a network
of handbags and bitchy bosses and decadent desserts, observe the way it’s all put together, then go deeper, prodding and poking,
till at last I get to the vital organs and the heart of what makes this monster tick: hunks. Of course, along the way I see
plenty that’s not for the faint of heart, appalling and nauseating sights that, if you’re not expecting them, can turn your
stomach and make you gag. But I stick with it, so that by the time the store is closing, I have a model of the chick-lit heroine
and the plot she finds herself in. I’ve cracked their code and discovered their Magdalene, who turns out to be ten pounds
heavier than she’d like to be. And just in case I’m found out by any keepers of the chick-lit grail secrets, and my notes
tampered with or destroyed, I’ve boiled it down to six Fs for easy recall: female fantasy fulfillment = food, fashion, fucking.

I get back to the apartment and decide nothing should begin tonight, though I do clip the author photo of Katharine from the
back cover of
The Cappuccino Club
and tape it on the wall for inspiration. I feel good knowing Auntie Katharine will be watching over me.

I’ve given the class a Hemingway story for today: “Hills Like White Elephants.” It’s a spare, tightly written piece, and the
students do a good job catching the drift of what’s going on, but unlike the fiasco we had with Updike, I want them to give
intense scrutiny to craft and technique, crawl into Hemingway’s skin, figure out why he made the shadow “warm,” the hills
“white and long,” the country “brown and dry.” Because they just as easily could have been something else (lots of words in
the dictionary, last time I checked).

I’ll admit it’s heady stuff, so I’m not surprised when I get a knock on my office door a little later. What I am surprised
by is who it is. Molly.

“Busy?” she asks.

For you, always. “I’ve got a minute.”

She swaggers in and plops down before I ask her to sit. She’s almost wearing a skirt. And a top.

“What’s up?” I ask.

She smoothes the fabric of her skirt, which quickly turns into tanned leg.

“So where do I stand in this class?” she asks.

“How so?”

“In terms of a grade.”

“Ah, it’s way too early for that. We’re only a couple weeks in.”

“But based on everything so far.”

“Okay, fine. Based on everything so far… one paper, which was an A; homework assignments, which you do; and you speak
up in class. I guess I’d say your grade is pretty good at this point. But a lot can change between now and the end,” I add
ominously.

“So it’s an A?” she says, ignoring the last part.

I make a face that I hope conveys the fact there could be some doubt on the matter, but I don’t think it does.

“Good.” She crosses her legs left over right, and Sharon Stone pops into my mind.
Basic Instinct
Sharon Stone. She flashes me a piece of paper. “Can you give me a hand with this?”

It’s one of the fliers that’s plastered all over campus, announcing the Shakespeare San Diego Program over winter break. Students
need to nab a faculty sponsor to write a letter of recommendation, but freshmen have to make a strong impression and move
faster than most (though I’d be willing to bet that’s Molly’s specialty, making an impression and moving fast). Ordinarily,
I’d rather not give her the time of day, but this I’ll do, since both of us will know for all eternity that she came crawling
to me for help. (Smug? Petty? Who, me?)

“So when do you want it?” I ask.

She arches her brows suggestively. “When do I want
what
?” she says coyly, as if we’re talking about something else.

“The recommendation letter, Molly. The letter.”

That one makes her laugh. “Oh, Mitch, sorry. You’ve got it all wrong. I already have one from Professor Anderson. He’s the
one who suggested I apply.”

Professor Anderson? The chair of the department? The guy I can barely squeeze five minutes out of to discuss my dissertation?

“When did you talk to Professor Anderson?” I grill her.

“Actually, I
do
talk to him, every Tuesday and Thursday. I have him for Poets of the Harlem Renaissance.”

But that’s a junior seminar!
I start to object, then cut myself short. Because that’s exactly the reaction she wants, so she can gloat about the special
consent form and dean’s signature and whatever the hell else she coaxed out of half the administrators on campus to get into
the class.

“Wonderful.”
Shoot me
. “So what do you need from me?”

“Just your phone number. They may call to ask you how I’m doing in class. Reference sort of thing.”

“Whatever.”

She pulls out a little black book and I rattle off the number, then make it clear I’m busy and have plenty of work to do and
this conversation has come to an end. She stands and lingers in the doorway.

“You know, your campus number would have been fine. But this is cool, too.” She puts a hand on her hip, a little extra arch
in her back. “Not accidentally on purpose trying to tell me something, are you,
Mister
Samuel?”