Chapter Twenty-One

 

Em let herself into Frank's apartment and was waiting for him. Obviously, he was still stuck at dinner — whatever dinner this was in Frank's never-ending calendar of business-social obligations. She sat down on the armchair near his writing desk, dropping her coat and shoulder bag to the floor.

She had forgotten to tell him about the Sea Hawks tickets this Saturday. Her encounter with Colin had driven it from her mind, as if he was still scattering her thoughts even from a distance.

Not that it mattered. Frank would want to go, she was sure. Everything was returning to normal, except for her newly-softened feelings towards Colin. She had said she had forgiven him. She had for some of his words, at least — the ones about herself. The rest, she was not certain about.

Frank using her. No, not true. She had given her help freely. Colin had been mistaken about that, feeling the contempt for a rival self-help author, no different than Frank felt for Doctor Ferris sweeping through the charts with his own success. It was exactly the same.

Nevertheless, she did something she had never before done. Instead of lifting the pile of chapters waiting on Franks' desk, she opened the drawer below Frank's catch-all one. The drawer where he kept the chapters not yet finished, not yet discussed or reviewed by the two of them.

There was nothing there. No typed pages, anyway — nothing but a handful of notes scribbled on others. The backs of old manuscript pages, on scraps of paper and blank printer sheets.

Repulsiveness of assumptions about individuals — like tastes, hobbies, beliefs....Add chapter about pros and cons of surprise shifts in character....women find it appealing when men surprise them with moments of perceptiveness about their partner; also, when they volunteer for chores, positions of leadership, tasks other people shirk, etc ... add section talking about how sensitive masculinity can be overplayed — pettiness, jealousy, self-deprecation — to detrimental levels, even with sensitive partners....Discussion section on what attracts/repulses women of various personality types, using the established perception groups of men. Draft a guide to men's potential pool of relationship partners based on his perceived type.

Page after page like this one were stacked in the drawer, about a dozen in all atop the pile of blank printer paper below. Em recognized many of the notes as things she had talked about — on her show, at dinner with Frank, other times when they had talked about relationships.

Most of these words were hers, in fact.

Em rifled the drawer, looking for other pages, then searched the other two drawers. Finding staplers, scissors, sticky notes, highlighters, but no chapters. On Frank's computer, copies of the chapters she had already read — ones with the highlighted changes they had talked about over dinners in Frank's apartment.

Nothing else. Not even an outline.

She was sitting in the chair beside the desk when she heard Frank's key turn the lock. He entered, pulling his coat off. "Hey, Em. Sorry I'm late. I think someone on my street's having a party tonight. There's no parking — did you notice?" He tossed his keys on the counter.

"Frank," she said. "Have you ever had dinner with Janet Fairfax?"

He paused in the act of hanging up his coat. "Yes. With you," he said.

"Besides that."

"Ummmm...yes. Once or twice, I think. You know, I've had so many business dinners, I can't recall who, what, or when half the time." He pulled off his scarf and hung it up also.

"Have you ever texted her? Emailed her?" Em looked at him.

Frank's expression was shifting. "What's this about, Em?"

"If I checked your phone," said Em, "would there be messages from Janet Fairfax on it? Personal messages?" Her voice was calm, although a little bit of emotion was trembling under the surface.

Frank sighed. "I don't know. Maybe." He sounded perturbed — he was avoiding her gaze, Em noticed. "What is this about, Em? Really?"

"This." She held up his book, and the notes from the drawer. "Why aren't there any more chapters, Frank? Why aren't there any parts of the book that I haven't seen? Nothing but stuff we talk about — stuff we both agree on for the manuscript."

Frank relaxed a little. "Is that all?" he asked. "It's a work in progress, Emmy. I'm not a fluid, outline-driven writer. You know that." He took a bottle of water from his refrigerator and opened it, taking a long sip. "I like to take the writing process slowly."

A year's preparation, Em remembered. That was four years ago, when he was beginning his first book, and long before the publishers had probably begun to push for the second one's appearance.

"Who were you having dinner with tonight, Frank?" She looked at him as she asked this question.

He didn't answer right away, but she could see it in his face. She felt tears stinging her eyes, although she didn't let them fall.

Frank's face was still turned to hers. "I had dinner with Janet Fairfax," he answered, nonplussed. "Just a friendly, professional dinner."

She nodded. "I see." She laid the notes on top of the manuscript again. She rose and gathered her coat and bag. Frank's eyes were filled with concern now.

"Em, wait — nothing happened. This is nothing, all of this — what's made you even think about this kind of stuff —"

"There's nothing in your book, Frank," she answered. "Nothing that I didn't put there. Don't you realize that? Don't you realize how that looks to me — how it feels to me to know that?"

"How?" Frank asked. "You ... you inspire me. So? Isn't that a good thing? Em, I thought you knew that already. How valuable your opinion on my work is to me —"

"Valuable, yes. But this — this is more than that, Frank." She blinked back the tears that were trying to escape. "As for you and Janet — was she the first, Frank?"

"Em, don't be this way." Frank's voice was slightly pleading. In his body language, the way he squirmed and evaded her gaze, Em read the truth. Janet was not the first one.

"What's really happening here, Em? Nothing." His hand was on her arm, trying to keep her from leaving. Because Frank had begun to realize that's exactly what she intended to do. "Not tonight, not any night. Nothing happened, I promise."

"Maybe so." Em smiled, sadly. "Maybe nothing ever happened. Between us, I mean. Maybe I was just fooling myself all this time."

"Because of a dinner? A few pages of notes? Em, don't —" Em could see the lines of tension crossing his face, even though he was avoiding her eyes again. Was he ashamed of what she would see? Guilt? Regret? Anger? "Don't do this, Em."

"We can't go on like this, Frank. I don't think you even have an idea where we are right now, much less where this was supposed to end up. There's no future, Frank."

"You know, I wasn't going to use your work without credit, Em. You know that, right?" Frank countered. His voice was breaking, the sound of desperation in it. "If you had just waited until the book was finished, you would have seen that. I mean, you've been a very big help, and I sense why you're upset about this. But I can talk to Cheryl and change all that..."

"Call Janet. Have dinner with her tomorrow, too. It's fine with me." She lifted her bag onto her shoulder, turning the knob to Frank's door. "But, please, hire yourself an editor from now on."

She closed the door behind her. Frank's words about his manuscript echoed in her head. You've been a very big help... your opinion on my work is valuable....All words uttered so confidently, so easily, without a trace of humility for the absence of his ideas on the page. Frank had never been humble, but she had never suspected him of being deceptive. Not once in the past two years of their relationship.

That party where Frank first met Colin — had he attended it with someone other than herself, she wondered? The whole time he had been dating her openly, had he been flirting with other women at cocktail parties, meeting them at restaurants for dinner? Keeping his options open while keeping her on hand?

Now she understood the disgust in Colin's voice when he mentioned Frank's name. Sadly, and strangely, she found herself agreeing with him, as the first tears escaped her eyes.

 

 

*****

 

 

Two years of caring about someone can't be forgotten, even after five minutes of ugly truth. Em sat alone at the diner a few blocks from home, trying her hardest not to cry. It was easier to stave it off in public, where witnesses were helping her keep the tears at bay. Maybe there was something to Colin's stance on public dignity after all.

The coffee in front of her was growing cold. So was her heart, although it was also raw and fragile deep within her. Frank had seemed so honest. So clever, so fascinating, so warm and open. How could she not see the flaws beneath that charm, when she could see the flaws beneath Colin's facade so easily? Both disguising themselves from the public eye, both hiding different frailties beneath their masks.

Strange that it should be Colin's true face that proved to be the least repulsive. It seemed unfair that the man she accused of lying to her would expose her own boyfriend as a liar. She never believed Colin, had never planned to trust his words. Her apology to him had been a conditional one — a partial regression of her dislike in order to keep him from saying anything else painful. Now, she supposed, she owed him a real one, as another tear slid down her cheek, splashing into the coffee below.