Chapter Eleven

 

Marianne was living with Will, it seemed. In a less-than-spacious studio apartment a mile from her old one, where all of her things had been moved except for those she abandoned to be discarded by Tannis in the trash barrels or dumpster.

“I was going to tell you,” Marianne said.

“When?” asked Eleanor. “You haven’t been speaking to me, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“It’s just ... I knew what you would say, El. I didn’t have to call you to find out. You’d say all the same things you always do and then we’d both be mad. And it’s not like you think. It wasn’t a sudden decision. It just ... happened.”

“Things like that don’t just happen,” said Eleanor.

“But it did. One day, I was with him, then at home. The next, it just didn’t make sense anymore. And I was only with Will.”

“You moved everything you owned – your name is being removed from the lease on your old apartment. If something happens, where will you go?”

“What do you mean, if something happens?” Marianne demanded. “What will happen, Elly? We’re happy. We’re meant to be together. I don’t want anything else but this.”

There were arguments for that. Millions of them, about it being irresponsible, dangerous, childish, even, to move in with someone whom she scarcely knew. Whose character and past were as foreign to her as, for instance, free market enterprise. But what good would it do to make them?

“Stop worrying about me. I’m happy. And that should be enough for you, shouldn’t it?”

It wasn’t. Eleanor was in a gloomy state afterwards. Pensive and moody as she sat on her sofa in a pair of shortened fleece pants and a pinstripe button-down shirt. It was only a partway comfortable ensemble – she would prefer to be wearing a softer shirt as well – but she wasn’t spending this evening alone.

At six-thirty, her apartment buzzer sounded. At six-thirty-five, Lucy was on her doorstep.

“I’ve come prepared,” she said. “Two takeout specials from the Italian Pie – the Caesar salads, light dressing – and a portable scanner for making quick copies.” She held up a white shopping bag, held in one hand by its paper straw handles.

Her hair was partly de-curled, flowing down her back in half-hearted waves which lacked the flawless finish of the office and were surprisingly longer than Eleanor remembered. A teal blue workout suit in place of her office clothes, white straw sandals dressy enough for the workplace – so this was Lucy Deane after hours. Eleanor was at once self-conscious of her straggly dishwater hair pinned untidily with its white clip and the loose nature of one of her blouse’s buttons.

“Come in,” she said, closing the door behind Lucy. Who was gazing, seemingly in awe, at her surroundings.

“So this is your apartment,” she breathed. “Wow. It’s so ... so ...”

Spartan. Bare. Dull. Eggshell. The possible outcomes of this sentence fired themselves off one by one in Eleanor’s brain like impish missiles.

“... so sophisticated. I love the lines and the harmony of the accent pieces. There’s no distraction – not that distraction is bad. I’m an art lover myself.”

“Thank you,” said Eleanor, who sensed a space in which to reply. “Here, let me take that.” She took hold of the shopping bag, placing it on the side table as she removed the two salad cartons inside. Plastic forks in cellophane wrappers were taped to the top, an extra-long receipt trailing towards the bottom of the sack from its adherence point on one of the boxes.

“Is that a balcony?” Lucy had crossed the room, sliding open the glass door that separated Eleanor’s living room from the railed-off patio suspended above the city, identical to all the rest of the apartment’s balconies with respect to its potted plants and sensible deck furniture.

“Wow. What a view.” Lucy’s voice sounded strangely diminished in the outdoors. “Of course, it’s not equal to the historic downtown – but what is, really?” She was leaning over the edge of the rail, peering up, then down, at the city landscape and the building’s outer walls.

“Indeed,” answered Eleanor, her voice low and somewhat grim with this reply. She was seated before the low, straight-legged coffee table, where the evening’s entertainment lay. The edited manuscript of her book.

A moment later, Lucy had returned and closed the door. Cross-legged on the floor before the manuscript, she drew it towards her and began unbending the brads from its holes.

“Let’s leave them.” Eleanor drew the manuscript towards herself again. “First, I want to read through the possible modifications I’m making to chapters one through five – the extension of the personal anecdotes and case examples.”

“Oh.” Lucy’s voice was slightly crestfallen. “I see. All right, then.” She folded her hands on her lap, a look of patience appearing on her face.

“Now, this part here is chapter one, where I modified the story about one of my examples–”

“Who’s the example?” Lucy interrupted.

“Who?” repeated Eleanor. “No one. I mean, it’s simply a random example of someone –”

“But who was it?” said Lucy. “Is it one of the columns? A letter? Or someone you knew personally?”

Eleanor pursed her lips. “It was someone I knew personally,” she answered. “But –”

“Then include that information.” Lucy crawled forward on her knees, inching towards the open pages. “That’s the kind of personal tidbit readers will love. Juice. Raw, real life between the pages.”

It was a former relationship of Eleanor’s own, actually. A thrice-dated individual whose previous love life had been the topic of conversation several years ago at a restaurant.

“This person gave me permission to use their story, but not their name,” Eleanor answered. “I can’t expose them to public recognition without jeopardizing my professional reputation.”

“Then change their name,” persisted Lucy.

“The details of the event would have to be changed or anyone who knows them will recognize the story.”

Lucy shrugged. “So change them,” she said. “Change everything. Grab it and fictionalize everything but the heart of it.”

Eleanor’s voice tightened slightly. “Isn’t that what I’ve already done?”

“But without juice. Without raw nerve, Eleanor.”

Eleanor paused. There was no way to argue this which would satisfy Lucy – short of letting her intern rewrite the story herself, that is. She chose to move on to the next modification instead.

“In chapter two, I made some basic vocabulary adjustments. But in chapter three, I rewrote page forty to extend the story about the infidelity club –”

“Is this another personal example?”

“No.” Eleanor sounded slightly terse. “No. This is an example from a column. And I can’t print the real name of the person who contacted me about it.”

“But it is juicier, don’t you agree? And while I see that no names are printed here, what if we added some? With a ‘names changed to protect the innocent’ angle’?”

“Perhaps,” said Eleanor. “But the publisher didn’t specifically request that to be changed. All they wanted was an extension of the description of the club’s rules.”

“But they didn’t say not to change it, did they?”

Eleanor’s fingers released their hold on page forty. “Yes, but it’s a matter of time, Lucy,” she said. “You realize that there are over two hundred pages here, more than half of which require some form of revision.”

“Don’t think of them as revisions,” suggested Lucy. “Think of them as opportunities. A chance to grow and expand and collaborate creatively with someone –”

“I’m interested in making the necessary changes, since this book is due in a matter of weeks now,” Eleanor interrupted. “And I have only a short amount of time in which to finish.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Lucy, reassuringly. “I’m prepared to work all night if necessary. We have hours ahead of us to get this right.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Two hours later, Lucy had settled herself comfortably against the sofa with an open tablet computer and snap-on keyboard balanced on her lap. Her energy levels were unchanged; whereas Eleanor’s had begun to show the strains of mental exertion. Combat for each change, persistent arguments turned aside only by her most forceful assertions, and a feeling of general stomach disagreement for some ingredient in the salad dressing.

They were still wrestling over the changes to chapter eight when Eleanor’s intercom buzzed.

“Yes?” She pressed the button.

“It’s me, Eleanor.” She recognized the sound of Brandon’s voice on the other end.

With surprise, she pressed the button for the door. What Brandon would be doing here at this hour, she couldn’t imagine. Her curiosity was only answered when she opened the door for his knock and saw him standing there with a large cardboard box. He was wearing an open brown trench coat, beneath which a rather nappy blue pullover and worn grey jeans were visible.

“Your canna,” he said. Presenting her with the box as he entered.

“My – canna. Oh.” She recalled now that Brandon had offered her a transplant from one of the plants from his apartment she had admired, if he ever found time to divide them individually. Red was the color scheme of her patio flowers, a series of hardy bulbs and impatiens in terracotta pots.

“Thank you,” she said, dutifully. “Does it need water? I suppose I should put it in the kitchen for now and take it onto the patio in the morning.” She shifted the box more securely in her arms as Brandon stalked after her, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat.

“I meant to bring it earlier, but a friend called. And then I waited forever for my takeout delivery –” he stopped talking as he entered the living room, where he stopped short as well. From her position before the sofa, Lucy waved cheerfully.

“Good evening, Mr. Brandon,” she called. He stared at her briefly as if she were a mutant puppy tied to the sofa’s leg, then entered the kitchen behind Eleanor.

“What is Miss Deane doing here?” His voice was low, but not low enough for Eleanor’s tastes at this moment.

“We’re working.” Eleanor set the box on the table and removed the potted plants from within it. There was a certain edge to her voice with this statement. She didn’t want to hear Brandon’s opinion on this subject at the moment.

“Working? It’s ten o’ clock at night,” persisted Brandon. “What possessed you to start now?”

“She’s been here since before seven. And we still have a great deal to do,” Eleanor continued, pouring a glass of water into the canna’s pot and busying herself with the task of folding the cardboard box into something flat and compact.

“You don’t even like this girl –”

“Lower your voice,” Eleanor hissed. “She can hear you, you know.” Lucy was not visible from behind the kitchen’s half-wall, but Brandon didn’t even bother to turn around to ascertain this fact.

“What I said was true and you know it –” he said.

“Regardless, she’s here and we’re busy, so you should go,” said Eleanor, placing the glass in the sink.

“You look exhausted.” Brandon’s voice was gruff.

“I am,” Eleanor answered, keeping her voice lowered to a whisper. She closed the door to the narrow little pantry beside her refrigerator, where cardboard was stored in neat division for reuse or recycling. “But she’s here and we’re working –”

“Then send her away,” Brandon interrupted, his voice lowered to her level.

“I can’t just throw her out. She means to be helpful –”

“You don’t find her helpful, so what does it matter?” said Brandon. “Since when have you been interested in grinding your nose in your work?”

“I have nothing else in my life,” answered Eleanor.

She had not meant to say it the way the words emerged. As if the thought of the past few weeks, Marianne’s distance and Lucy’s powerful presence, had been crushing against her. Perhaps even longer in time than that, as if her column’s milestone was a sign of twilight. Waning success and dwindling future on the horizon, just beyond her sight. She didn’t say any of this part aloud. Instead, she laughed slightly – a hollow sound, to her ears, and perhaps to Brandon’s as well. His grim face softened somewhat.

“And what does that mean?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Only that I have a very small personal life and a great deal of time on my hands. So why shouldn’t I be working?”

“There are other things you could do,” he ventured. “You could – take up a hobby, for instance. Or travel. You could travel. Or you could write –”

“Another book?” she finished. Giving him a look before she left the kitchen.

Lucy was giving serious consideration to something on one of the manuscript’s pages, her little mouth twisted beneath its glossy lip balm. Brandon surveyed her with a final begrudging look.

“Goodnight, Miss Deane,” he said. She looked up from her work.

“Oh, goodnight, Mr. Brandon,” she said. The door opened, then closed behind Brandon as he left.

Eleanor had waited near the kitchen doorway until he was gone, giving herself a moment for thought. Perhaps she should have brewed a pot of coffee. Or maybe she should simply tell Lucy to go home for the night and they would finish tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next.

She smoothed some of the escaped strands of hair from her face. “Let’s at least finish chapter eight tonight,” she said to Lucy, as she returned to her seat on the other side of the coffee table.