I’m hustling down the sidewalk to get to my McEnroe interview on time, trying to ignore all murderous Tiddleswich thoughts while mentally preparing answers to all the usual interview questions. The sounds of my twinkling ringtone echo from my pocket, and I pull out my phone, praying it isn’t Mr. Posher Than Thou calling.
It’s CiCi. I put my headphones in and answer.
“Hey, sugar tits,” she coos.
“You are way too peppy for my current mood,” I sigh. “What’s got you so chipper?”
“One of my clients just hit the New York Times bestseller list for her third book in a row. I’m queen of the castle today. How’re you? How was the first date?”
“Ugh!” I growl.
“So, it went well?”
I launch into an account of being dragged out in front of photographers for the benefit of Captain Cas, only to be left in solitary confinement with the perk of gourmet food for over two hours. Followed, of course, by the humiliating drop-off at a random subway stop mere minutes before my train left.
“Okay, that guy is a twisted fuck,” CiCi concludes.
“You’ll hear no arguments from me,” I say, rushing across a street before the walk signal ends.
“When do you have to see him again?”
I sigh. “I don’t know. I’m at his beck and call, so I assume it won’t be a lengthy sojourn.”
“Do you want me to start researching celebrity hit men?”
“Let’s hold off on that one,” I say, somewhat reluctantly. “In the meantime, all the congratulations on your client, sweets. That’s awesome.”
I can practically hear CiCi beaming through the phone—and also the sound of her rummaging in a bag of sunflower seeds. “Damn right it is.” I picture her twirling in her office chair, which I have witnessed firsthand on more than one occasion. “All right, I better get back to my actual job or something. Good luck at your interview, and let me know how it goes as soon as you’re done, lady!”
“Will do, madam. Love yer face.”
“Love yer face right back.”
I tuck my phone back into my coat pocket just as I hit the lobby of McEnroe. I pass through security and sign in, resuming my interview question prep in my head as I ride in the elevator.
The waiting area of McEnroe Publishing is somehow bare and cluttered at the same time. The furniture is minimalist and sparse, but the wall of bookshelves is stuffed to bursting with not only books, but little trinkets and figures. Looking past the staging area, I see that the house favors an open floor plan for the employees over individual offices or even properly isolating cubicles. I know open floors are all the rage in millennial companies, but as far as my chosen field goes, I’ve yet to meet an editor who doesn’t need a cone of silence to fully function. Either because it’s easy to be distracted by office noise and conversations, or because many of us tend to talk to ourselves and our manuscripts as we work, the need is the same.
While I have fairly set feelings on the office layout that I would gladly be willing to abandon for the chance to work at a house as prestigious as McEnroe, I still haven’t quite decided how I feel about the decor before I’m ushered into a conference room for my interview.
Three people stand upon my entering, all situated around the long conference table. The room has the same vibe as the waiting area, with an entire wall of bookshelves, filled to the brim.
“Clara,” the first woman says, reaching her hand out for mine. “So wonderful to meet you. I’m Donna Miller, head of acquisitions, and this is Shay Glau, and Ethan Johnson.”
“Pleasure to meet all of you,” I say, and shake hands all around. “Thank you so much for having me in. I’ve heard wonderful things about McEnroe.” This feels like a canned compliment, so I quickly add, “Obviously your reputation is well above the fold, so thank you for even considering me today.”
“We’ve heard wonderful things about you as well!” Shay offers.
My cheeks flush a bit. “Wow, thank you. You’ll have to let me know who to send a fruit basket to.”
They all laugh and look at me excitedly. We chat for a few moments, with Donna explaining the history and company philosophy of McEnroe, and I’m feeling pretty good about them so far, but I’m also nervously fidgeting my hands under the table, waiting for the inevitable question assault that usually comes in an interview.
“How is this all sounding to you?” Donna asks.
“It sounds amazing,” I say with a smile. “Though I wouldn’t have expected anything less from a publisher that’s managed to thrive as well as yours has in this economy, honestly.”
Shay smiles proudly and says, “Wonderful! We’d be thrilled to have you join our team.”
I blink at her. “Come again?”
Ethan chimes in, “Yes, we’d love to add you to our roster, Clara.”
I keep smiling, but I know my confusion is plain on my face. “But...you haven’t even asked me anything yet.”
“Your résumé speaks for itself,” Shay offers with a wave of her hand.
“Actually,” Donna says, “I do have a question.” I turn to her expectantly. “Do you know if Caspian is planning to publish anything in the future?”
“Excuse me?”
“We know he’s published short stories in the past,” Ethan adds. “But if he’s looking to do more, we’d be very interested in facilitating that.”
“Caspian.” I draw in a shaky breath. “You want to ask me about Caspian?”
“He’s one of the rare celebrities who seems to have actual writing talent,” Shay says with a chuckle.
“Don’t you want to ask me about—I don’t know—my vision for the editorial process? My strengths, weaknesses, goals? If I’m a team player? Anything?”
Donna looks down at what I assume is my résumé. “What I’ve seen here is all very impressive,” she says. “I think you’d be a good fit with our staff.”
I stare back at their expectant faces awkwardly. “Well, okay, then. Um. I’d like a few days to consider the offer, if that’s all right.”
“Of course!” Ethan says with just a hint too much enthusiasm. “I’ll email over all the specifics, things like salary and the benefits package for you to look over. If you’d like to get together to discuss any of it, we’re available. I know Caspian is a very busy man, but he’s welcome to join in as well! I know how important career decisions are for a couple.”
My eyebrows shoot up, and I force a smile onto my face. “Yes, of course. Lots to discuss.”
And that’s it. I shake their hands again, they chatter among themselves about what an attribute I’d be to their company, tittering over Caspian’s upcoming movie, and show me to the door.
I’m in shock, but I’m professional enough to keep my calm until I’m out of the building. The last thing I need is security camera footage of me screaming profanity in the elevator.
As soon as I hit the sidewalk, I yank my phone out and dial CiCi.
“How’d it go!?” she trills into the phone before I can even say hello.
“Caspian Tiddleswich is ruining my goddamn life!” I yell, causing other pedestrians to jump away from me.
“Okay, cupcake, walk me through it.”
I spend the ten-minute walk to the train ranting and raving about the world’s most ridiculous interview. “Can you believe that!? I could have been the shittiest employee in the world, but they think I can land them a deal with Sir Tiddles, and what the hell!?”
“Ugh. They always say it’s who you know.”
“I don’t want to know him!” I say, descending the subway stairs. “And I don’t want a job just because I fell ass over ankles into contact with him. I want a job because I’m a damn good editor and I can bring a lot to a new house. This is bullshit!”
“Maybe it’s not so bad,” she suggests, and I hear the sound of cracking sunflower seeds. “Maybe this just gets your foot in the door. Then once you’re working there, you can wow them with your badass editing skills. And what if this is the universe paying you back for suffering through Caspian’s crap? Is it really the worst thing in the world if you use his name to get an awesome opportunity?”
I angrily swipe my MetroCard and storm through the turnstile. “Yes.”
I can hear her considering the notion on the other end of the line. “Yeah, okay, it is.”
“This is infuriating.”
“Is the money good at least?”
“I don’t even know yet. They said they’d email it all over later. This sucks. I’ve waited months for an opportunity like this, and now it’s got Caspian stink all over it.” I sigh and glance down the platform. “My train is coming, though, so I need to hang up.”
“Okay, but just take a breath. This might not be as terrible as it sounds. Go home and relax for a bit.”
“I’d love to, but I have a bridesmaid dress fitting with Trina I’m already late for.”
“Oh, yikes,” she says, and I can almost see her wincing. “So, turmoil in tulle?”
“Exactly.”
“Do you ever stop and wonder if maybe you were a murderous dictator in a previous life or something?”
“Every single day.”
“Okay, go do the dress thing, then rest. Love yer face.”
“Love yer face, too.”
I hang up and climb on the train, still fuming.
My rage has not dwindled even slightly when I trudge into the little boutique bridal shop to meet Trina forty minutes later. It’s a nice place, hidden in a quiet corner of Queens, and they stock a lot of carefully maintained designer gowns from various decades. So while there’s that classy bride vibe, it also has the essence of a quirky vintage store.
As soon as I enter, a woman dressed in chic, well-tailored black clothing welcomes me. “Hi, there,” she says with a smile. “Can I help you with something?”
“Yes, hi,” I say, trying my best to shake off the storm cloud of rage I’ve been carrying for the last hour. “My name is Clara Montgomery. I have an appointment with Trina Prince to try on a dress?”
“Of course! Miss Prince is already in her gown, so if you’d like to follow me, I’ll take you back to the fitting rooms.”
I follow her through the shop, admiring rack after rack of magnificent dresses. I have to stop myself from ducking away to study some wickedly intricate beading on a Vera Wang from the nineties as she leads me to an open area with six dressing rooms surrounding a giant round blue velvet ottoman in the middle. There are mirrors everywhere, which, at the right angle, give the impression of an infinite bridal universe.
“I’ll be right back with your dress,” the woman says, leaving me to gratefully plop down on the ottoman.
Surprising no one, it’s vastly more comfortable than Gertrude.
A moment later, one of the blue curtains pulls back, and out walks Trina with another attendant. She’s wearing what I assume is her wedding gown, and it’s so beautiful, I can’t help but gasp.
“Oh my gosh, you look gorgeous!” I trill.
Trina bounces a little in place. “Thank you!”
It’s a mermaid-cut dress that poofs out at her knees. The bodice is, like, 90 percent sparkly crystals sewn onto the fabric. In the bright lights of the dressing area, it gives her a sort of sophisticated disco ball look.
“Ten bucks says Tom bursts into tears the second you appear down the aisle in that thing,” I tell her. “Heck, I’m getting a little weepy myself over here.”
“He’d better,” she says with a laugh. “It weighs about seventy pounds.”
My attendant comes back and hands me a garment bag. “There you are. Do you need any assistance getting into the dress?”
I look back at Trina. “Will I?”
She considers this. “I don’t think so? Maybe with the zipper, but it’s not, like, a lace-up corset or anything.”
I smile and shake my head at the attendant. “That’s too bad,” I say, crossing over to one of the empty dressing rooms. “My boobs look great in a corset.”
“They are the gift that keeps on giving,” Trina agrees as I slide the curtain shut.
Putting the hanger on one of the hooks, I carefully unzip the bag and await my fate. Bridesmaid dress roulette is a dangerous game. I’ve seen far too much peach taffeta to remain an innocent.
But to my surprise, the dress is...not bad at all. It’s a spaghetti strap, floor-length silk number in a rich navy blue, and the back cuts open to show a short pleated mauve train.
I know every bride tries to play the “You can totally wear it again!” game, and it’s almost never true, but this dress would actually work fairly well for the stupid movie premiere.
Somehow, I don’t think Trina would support that. Not before the actual wedding, anyway.
I wriggle out of my clothes and slide the dress on, impressed with how well it fits. I’d probably be even more impressed if I’d remembered to bring a strapless bra, so my ratty old violet straps weren’t ruining the scene up top.
I push the curtain aside and step out.
Now it’s Trina’s turn to gasp. “You look amazing!”
“Sorry about the bra straps,” I say with a sigh. “Promise I’ll remember a different bra on the actual day of.”
“Oh, that’s fine! It really looks great on you!”
“Well, thank you. And thank you for not picking a dress that makes me look like a badly frosted cupcake.”
“Your cousin Marissa’s wedding?”
I tap my nose and shudder. “I’d pay big bucks to destroy all photographic evidence of that day.”
The attendants have scampered off to do other things while Trina and I make notes about our respective dresses. What could be let out or taken in, too short, too long, etc.
After a few more moments of twirling, she pops into her dressing room and comes back out again holding an envelope.
“Hey, uh, Clara?”
“Yeah?”
“I really need to talk to you about something. Something important.”
I straighten up, feeling a sinking sensation in my stomach. “Okay. What’s going on? Is Tom okay?”
“Yes! Tom’s fine. Everything is fine,” she says, but I’m not comforted. “I just... I did something, and I feel like I need to come clean with you about it.”
“If you’re about to confess to cheating on my brother or something, I think this is going to go poorly,” I tell her, really hoping that’s not what’s about to happen here. “Although, I’d have to admire the dramatic effect of confessing it while we’re dressed like this, not gonna lie.”
“You’re so weird,” Trina says with a nervous laugh. “It’s nothing like that.” She squeezes the envelope in her hand a little tighter before handing it to me. “Here. This is yours.”
I take the envelope, eyeing her suspiciously. I open it and pull out a check from TMZ. Made out to me. For seventy-five hundred dollars.
“Whoa!” I sit up straighter. “What is this for?”
“That night when Tom and I came home, and Caspian Tiddleswich was there, well... I was so stunned to see him standing in our living room, and I, uh... I took some pictures of him with my phone.”
My jaw drops open. “Oh my god, it was you? Why would you do that?”
She’s obviously mortified. “I don’t know! I wasn’t even thinking. I just started clicking away, and he didn’t see me. And then, well, I emailed them to that website, and they were all excited because he looked mad and you were crying, and they offered me that money for the photo.”
“Holy shit. I can’t believe it was you who sold the picture. Trina!” I drop down onto the blue ottoman, gaping at the check. “I... How...? What in the world made you think to do this!? How did it even occur to you to sell it?”
Her entire face turns so red it almost matches her hair, and her expression shifts from straight guilt to a guilt/shame hybrid.
“I...” she says in almost a whisper. “I love celebrity gossip sites.”
I blink at her. “Say what now?”
Trina looks so embarrassed, I want to stand up and hug her, but I’m adhered to the ottoman by shock.
“I love the tabloid stuff,” she explains, looking like she wishes the floor would open up and swallow her whole, wedding gown and all. “I have since I was a kid. I would even buy the magazines when I was younger.”
“I...I don’t know what to say to that.”
She shrugs pitifully. “I don’t, like, stalk them all day or anything, but I like to scroll through the stories in bed because it always takes me forever to fall asleep, and Tom passes right out, so I just lie there and read until I’m ready to sleep.”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I mean, I get that. We all have our things. I’m weirdly obsessed with watching those videos of people coming out of anesthesia after they have their wisdom teeth out,” I offer, hoping to ease her awkwardness. “But how did you even know how to sell them a picture?”
“Oh,” she says, perking up a bit. “They always have a banner or button somewhere that tells people to call in sightings or send pictures in. Like, for sightings, they say it’s better to Tweet at them, because then they can get someone there faster and—”
I wave my hands in front of my face. “Okay, no, I get it.”
Her mortification and shame return. “I’m so sorry! I was in bed and scrolling through TMZ, and I was kind of half-asleep, and I thought it would be cool if it would bring in a little money to put toward the wedding, so I just...sent it in. I swear, I didn’t think it would blow up like it did! I thought they were going to put one of those black bar things over your face and no one would even know it was you. I felt so bad afterward that I had them write out the check in your name.”
I press my fingertips to my temples. “Trina. Oh my god. Do you have any idea how much trouble this has caused?”
She starts pacing in front of me. “I didn’t know you guys were dating! You said it was an old work thing, and I didn’t think it would be a big deal since you obviously weren’t working together anymore. If I’d known you were a couple, I wouldn’t have sent it, I swear. Why didn’t you tell us?”
I clamp my mouth shut. “Uh. Well.” The horror of having to lie to my own soon-to-be family bubbles up. “He’s a very private person, you know? And...it’s really new, so I didn’t want to make a big thing out of it.”
“Seriously, I am so sorry, Clara.” Trina drops onto the ottoman beside me, tears in her eyes. “At first I thought I’d split the money with you, since you could definitely use it, and I’d put my part toward the wedding, and it would be no big deal.” She bites her lip. “I really am sorry.”
My shoulders slump. “You know what? I can understand that. A lot. I forgive you.”
“Really?”
“Of course. It could happen to anyone.”
She leans over and hugs me. In the hall of mirrors, my guilty reflection stares back at me from a hundred directions.
“Look, I’ll tell Tom what I did, I promise. I just wanted to clear it up with you first, you know?”
“It’s fine, really.”
The sound of my phone buzzing from my purse carries across the room, so I carefully peel Trina off me and go to fetch it. I look down, and there’s a text from his highness himself.
Drinks tonight, 8.
A low growling sound forms in my throat. I type out and delete at least a dozen possible responses, all in the vein of Fuck you for your adolescent horse shit and for tainting the first real job lead I’ve had since I got laid off, you prick, and while I’m at it, fuck you for existing, but in the end, I send At your service.
“Are you okay?” Trina asks carefully. “You look a little wired.”
I throw my phone back into my purse with a little more force than necessary. “I’m swell. I get to go sort through other people’s trash for a few hours and then go out with my super famous, dreamy British boyfriend. So. Yeah. I’m living the dream.”
“Uh, Clara...”
I snap myself out of my rage blackout. “Yeah?”
“Can you maybe help me up?” I realize she’s rocking back and forth, kind of like an upside-down turtle. “This thing really does weigh, like, a thousand pounds, oh my god.”
I snort-laugh a little and reach out to pull her up. “Oh, wow, you’re not kidding. That is heavy.”
Trina looks me dead in the eyes and says with total seriousness, “He had better cry so freaking hard.”