As soon as we pull up to Fromage, I begin to feel like I’ve made a horrible mistake.
I’ve never seen so many photographers in one place. There has to be at least forty of them, all crammed together on the sidewalk looking into the window of the restaurant, and when one of them spots our car pulling up, most of their heads turn in unison like a flock of flamingos with giant cameras hanging from their spindly necks.
“Oh Jesus,” I whisper, staring out at the throng.
“God,” Caspian mutters. “I knew it would be bad, but this...”
I turn to him, my horror uncontained. “Why is it like this? I thought the ten or fifteen you usually have was awful.”
He shakes his head and looks past me. They’re starting to aim their cameras at us, and I’ve never been more grateful for tinted glass in my life. “Part of this is just because this restaurant is always littered with people hoping to get their pictures taken. And I’m assuming part of it is probaby because someone we’re meeting with called a handful of the paparazzi themselves to let them know we’d be here. As for the rest... I’m guessing they’re here because, well, you and I caused quite the stir with our adventure yesterday.”
“Lucky us.”
“Indeed.”
The driver is outside the car now and heading around to Caspian’s side to let us out, and I have to fight the urge to leap across his lap and lock the door. Or possibly fuse it shut forever with a blowtorch.
Caspian takes my hand in preparation, and I grip him tight. “I swear, if you let go of me, I will die in that stampede and come back and haunt you until the end of your days, Tiddleswich.”
“I was going to tell you not to let go of me,” he says with a wink.
Then the door is open, and it’s somehow so much worse than I had anticipated. I don’t know what the car is made out of, but it very effectively muffled the now-deafening volume that is echoing through the back seat as we move to climb out. The driver is trying to block people as best he can, but he’s only one man in a sea of clicking desperation.
What makes this all the more horrifying is, through the chorus of “Caspian!” and “Mr. Tiddleswich!”, for the first time I hear multiple people yelling, “Clara! Miss Montgomery!” as well.
Nope. He definitely doesn’t have to worry about me letting go.
I don’t think we ever discussed whether it was okay for me to hang on to him like a tiny monkey, but that’s pretty damn close to what’s happening.
It can’t be more than twenty feet to the door, but it feels like a mile-long walk of nightmares—and once we are inside, it somehow doesn’t feel any less smothering.
The hostess is a woman in her very early twenties with her hair sleeked back into a perfect low chignon. She’s wearing a white blouse that is so low-cut, I can see her actual navel, which has me questioning again how people wear shirts like that without their boobs making public appearances. She’s the second hostess I’ve seen in a similar top, and I’m starting to wonder if there’s some sort of citywide regulation that requires these women to stand at the ready with their sternums on display. I make a mental note to hit the internet for answers later.
“Welcome, Mr. Tiddleswich, Miss Montgomery,” she says in a low purr. I am not a huge fan of this new trend of people I don’t know calling me by my name with no introductions. “The rest of your party is already seated. If you’ll follow me, please.”
“Hmph,” I mutter as we trail behind her. Caspian looks down at me curiously. “Every reservation I’ve ever made, they won’t seat until the entire party is present.” He grins, and I roll my eyes at him in mock exasperation. “Celebrities.”
We’re escorted to a large round table by the front window. Five people already seated and, by the looks of it, a drink or two in.
“May I take your coats?” the hostess asks. Caspian pulls his off smoothly and hands it over. Before I can finish unbuttoning mine, he takes the collar and waits for me to slide out.
“So gentlemanly,” I say quietly. He gives me another wink, and I swear, this chivalrous new habit of his is a little unsettling and a lot more appealing than I care to admit.
We turn and face the other diners. “Hello, everyone,” Caspian says in his perfectly Shakespearean voice. “My apologies for the lateness. I’d like to introduce my date, Clara Montgomery. Clara—” He starts gesturing at our dining companions. “This is Geoffrey VanHousten, and his wife, Deanna.”
A gray-bearded man in his fifties wearing a polo shirt and suit jacket smiles and gives me a wave. His slightly younger wife, looking masterfully elegant in a navy cocktail dress, smiles at me as well.
Caspian continues. “This is Walter Donahue and his fiancée, Arabella Quinn. And last, but never least, David Bishop.”
I wave awkwardly at the table. “Hello,” I say. “It’s a pleasure to meet you all.”
Caspian pulls out a chair for me, and I sit, enjoying this gentlemanly side of him. As soon as he joins the table, the comments start flying.
“So, Clara,” Deanna asks kindly. She has a friendly face, framed by light brown hair sprinkled with a few grays, and a soothing voice. “What do you do? How’d you manage to lock down our Caspian?”
“Um.” I look at my date. “I’m not sure I’ve locked anything down.” His mouth twitches, and I add an annoyingly coquettish giggle for good measure. “I work in publishing. I’m an editor, but between houses currently.”
“Oh, yeah?” Walter, who kind of resembles a cliché Wall Street businessman from the eighties with his loosely worn tie and slicked-back blond hair, pipes up. “An editor? Arabella here has been wanting to write a book, haven’t you?”
Arabella lights up. “I have! I think it’ll be a big seller.”
“What kind of book?” I ask her. I take a slow, measured breath that I’ve rehearsed a thousand times. Enough to calm my irritation, but not so obvious that anyone can tell what I’m doing.
Why have I rehearsed this? Because anytime I meet someone new and they find out I work—well, worked—in publishing, I am immediately bombarded with claims that they have an idea for the next Harry Potter. Other times, people give me a lengthy and often unfathomably detailed account of their lives, which they think would make just the greatest book ever, but they don’t have time to write it, so could I do it for them?
It’s exhausting.
“Well, I don’t know what someone in publishing would call it.” She says “publishing” in a tone I’m taking either as reverie, or mockery. It’s a tough call. “But there’s these teenage vampires, and their city was destroyed by the government. Then the main character gets cancer and has to lead the revolution while going through chemo.”
I bite my lip, and my hand jumps out to grab Caspian’s knee in a death grip. “That sounds really fascinating!” I say with more fake enthusiasm than I’ve ever mustered in my life. “I bet it will be a lot of fun to write!”
“Don’t I just sell the idea and someone helps me write it? What are those people called?”
Her fiancé offers, “Ghostwriters?”
“Yeah!” Arabella smiles. “You’d buy an idea like that, right?” She turns to Geoffrey. “And you’d scoop the movie rights up, I’m sure.” She laughs as though this is the most obvious course of action, and I squeeze Caspian’s knee harder. He has a casual smile on, but I can see the muscle in his jaw straining to hold back laughter.
I would wager what little money I possess that Arabella was the one who tipped off the paparazzi. Her short sequin-covered violet cocktail dress seems purposely designed for sidewalk-posing.
Geoffrey smiles a far more genuine smile than I’m managing and turns to me. “What sort of books do you edit, Clara?”
It’s hard to hold back the flood of personal grousing about the life of an unemployed editor, but I’m on a mission for Caspian’s sake. I release his knee, and he drapes his arm over the back of my chair, listening intently.
“Well, I focus on children’s literature. I did a lot of young adult, but I’ve always had a huge soft spot for middle grade.”
“Have you worked on any books that I might have heard of?” Deanna asks kindly. “We have a daughter who’s eleven.”
I decide right there I like Deanna and Geoffrey. “Well, let’s see. Oh! Last year one of my authors released a book about the daughter of a pirate who takes over a rival ship after her father tells her girls aren’t meant to be captains.”
“Captain Featherwig?” Geoffrey says.
“Oh my gosh, yes!” I’m thrilled that they recognize it, and my stomach flops excitedly.
They both laugh. “It’s one of her favorites,” Deanna says fondly. “For three months straight after that book came out, she dressed like a pirate. It took us weeks to figure out she’d torn open a feather pillow and hidden it under her bed, and that’s where her ‘wig’ had come from.”
I’m beaming. “That is so wonderful. It really is a great book.”
“I’d been looking into the rights,” Geoffrey says. “Are you still involved with the project?”
And there comes the sinking depression. I keep my smile magnanimous. “Unfortunately, our house didn’t survive the merger with Alkatraz over the summer. But I still have so much love for that book and the author. I hope it works out.”
“Oh, that awful e-retailer?” Walter makes a disgusted noise. “They’re the downfall of society, mark my words.”
“Does anyone even read books anymore?” Arabella ponders. “Isn’t everything digital now?”
“They’re still books,” I insist, using everything I’ve got to keep my smile intact. “Even on an e-reader, it’s still a book.”
“I read print books,” Caspian chimes in—his first full sentence since we sat down. “I appreciate the convenience of a digital book when I’m traveling, of course, but nothing will ever replace bound pages.”
I look at him gratefully, which is a jarring change of pace from my previous pledge to curse his entire existence.
The waiter comes by to take our drink orders. I’d been so busy talking I didn’t think to look at the menu, so I just reflexively order my usual G&T.
The conversation steers to various enterprises. I study my menu with extra concentration in hopes of having a moment to catch my breath. From what I overhear, it sounds like Geoffrey is a fairly bigwig Hollywood director attached to Caspian’s possible next film project. I wonder if it’s the Top Secret watermarked script. Deanna—whom I’ve decided I really want to be friends with—is a stay-at-home mom to three and active on the boards of at least four thousand charities.
Walter is a producer on whatever film this is, I think. Arabella is... Aside from a wannabe writer, I’m not really sure. She seems to have a lot of opinions on things, though. David Bishop is unnervingly silent, and I can’t figure out what he’s here for.
Caspian is a completely different person in front of people he knows well. He’s got a great sense of humor, and it doesn’t take much to get him to laugh until his teeth show and the sound echoes through the restaurant. It’s very endearing.
I’m liking this side of him more and more by the minute.
However, much to my dismay, our table by the window has given the photographers prime access to our little party. I’m angled just enough that the flashes aren’t directly in my eyes, but it’s still obnoxious, like sitting near a strobe light. I’m probably judging, but I feel as if Arabella chose her seat at the table with care to be in full view.
When the waiter comes back with our drinks and prepares to take our orders, I flash back to CiCi repeatedly suggesting the lobster, but think better of it, remembering my newfound truce with Caspian. I go for a very autumnal-sounding salmon dish with sweet potato hash instead.
When the waiter hits Caspian, I don’t know what I expected, but the slow-roasted pork with apples seems surprising to me. I suppose I need a minute to adjust to this new version of him who feasts on traditional fare as opposed to the one I pictured feeding on the hopes and dreams of small children.
I hear my shiny new phone buzzing nonstop in my purse hanging on the back of my chair, and I whisper an apology to the group as I pull it out.
I try to hold back my sigh, but my shoulders slump a bit of their own accord. Dozens upon dozens of texts and calls. I ignore all but CiCi’s and see multiple pictures attached. Caspian and I in the car. Caspian and I exiting the car, making me terribly thankful I didn’t wear a dress, because holy shit, that photographer had to be low to the ground.
A picture of us sitting here at the table taken through the window.
This is the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen.
I text back. Where are these coming from?
She answers immediately. They’re all over Twitter and the Page Six site.
I suck in a breath and tuck my phone back in my purse.
“Everything all right?” Caspian asks softly.
“Absolutely,” I say, and turn my attention back to the table. Caspian rejoins the conversation, and I’m sure I should as well, but I’m distracted by the horde of people outside the window. They aren’t just focused on our table, and I know there must be other celebrities here. I don’t have a clue who they are, but the flashing lights outside are nonstop.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice people at other tables subtly trying to take pictures of us with their phones. They’re not even paying attention to their own companions; they’re just rubbernecking all the tables in hopes of spotting someone outlandish.
I take a deep drink and feel grateful they make ’em strong here. I’m not used to the feeling of people staring at me, but that’s exactly what’s happening. People who have no idea who I am are snapping photos of me sitting next to Caspian and posting them to god knows what on the internet.
Someone pounds on the window just to the right of where Deanna is sitting, and we all jump. It’s a photographer trying to get everyone to turn and face him—which we all absolutely do, in shock, and he starts shooting pictures to the point where I see little stars from the residual flash again.
Our waiter comes running over. “I’m so sorry,” he pleads. “Management is having that man removed from the property. Is there anything I can do for you all?”
Geoffrey looks at David with great annoyance. “You wanted the table by the window,” he says, exasperated. David just shrugs in response and throws back the rest of the bourbon in his glass. He’s not a chatty man.
Deanna puts a hand over her heart, but Arabella turns slightly in her seat so her legs are crossed and visible to the window. I decide right then I don’t like Arabella.
“Will you excuse me for a moment?” I say to the table, and stand up before anyone can respond. I scurry away in search of the ladies’ room and find an attendant who leads me into my own luxurious personal bathroom. It’s nicer than any NYC bathroom I’ve ever been in. All that’s missing is a claw-footed bathtub, and I’d never leave this place.
I lean over the sink and take a few breaths. I’ve been able to fake my way through this evening pretty well so far, but I’m getting overwhelmed fast.
People always say publishing is a lot like the entertainment field, but with a bit less drama. Sure, we have our own high school–level crap and obnoxious people, but unless you’ve written the hot new thing about teenage lovers gone awry and it’s been made into a major motion picture, no one really gives a shit about publishing folk. Especially not the editors. I’ve been very content to sit at a desk in silence and watch words become books.
It’s a wonderful life.
Now my mom is going to see all those pictures and she’s going to call me over and over and over. As is everyone else I know.
I reach for my phone to text CiCi and beg for a pep talk, then realize I left my purse hanging on the back of my chair. I try to take another deep breath, and it comes in shuddering. My eyes are starting to burn.
How is this my life? This isn’t me. I’m not fancy restaurants and storage unit robberies and paparazzi. I’m pizza and manuscripts under a blanket.
There’s a knock on the door. “Just a moment,” I call in a shaky voice.
“Clara?” It’s Caspian.
“Yes, just a moment!” I trill. I’m starting to hyperventilate.
The bathroom door starts opening, and I scramble away from the sink, trying to keep my composure.
“Is everything all right?” he asks, closing the door behind him.
“What the hell are you doing?” I demand. “You can’t just come into an occupied bathroom. What if I was, uh, bathrooming?”
He makes a face at me. “You seemed uncomfortable when you stepped away. I wanted to see if you needed anything.” He holds out my purse. “Also, I brought this.”
I mean to take it gently, but rather rudely yank it out of his hand instead. “Of course I’m uncomfortable! There are pictures of me popping up all over Twitter and people are banging on windows to get your attention and I’m on a pretend date with a freak who followed me into the bathroom!”
My legs go wobbly, and I fling my hands out to steady myself on the wall.
Caspian the Great very calmly sits down on the floor with his back to the door. “I am a bit of a freak, aren’t I?”
I’m sucking in very unsatisfyingly shallow breaths. “Less so than I thought yesterday, if that helps. And I can’t believe you’re sitting on a New York bathroom floor. That’s how the zombie apocalypse is going to start, you know.”
He gives a little laugh and stretches his long legs out across the tiled floor, crossing them at the ankle, calling back my memory of him in the storage unit. “Care to join me?”
I eye him suspiciously. My legs are still feeling rubbery, but I’m not about to crawl over to him. I carefully sink down to my knees and lean forward a bit to catch my breath.
“I was going to be a bastard and give you a MetroCard the other day at lunch,” he says.
“What?” I say in confusion, trying to casually brush the tears out of my eyes and hoping he doesn’t notice. “I have a MetroCard.”
“I assumed you did. I was going to give you one for the sole purpose of rubbing it in that I’d be making you dance back and forth into the city at my whim on the train. I have cars at my disposal that you could have easily used, but I wanted to make a point. I was trying to be cruel.”
I frown. This would be a lot easier to take in if I weren’t gasping for air on the floor of a bathroom, for crying out loud. “I don’t really know what to say to that.”
“The others find you very charming.”
I’m feeling a bit of whiplash at the sudden change of subject. “Yeah, I don’t know what to say to that, either.”
Caspian smiles at me. “I apologize. This is a lot to ask of someone, and you’re doing a wonderful job. I’ll have my driver take you back to your brother’s tonight.”
I pull in a full breath and nearly yelp with joy at the feeling of expanded lungs. “There’s no need, honestly. The train’s fine. Just as long as the not-dropping-me-off-in-the-middle-of-nowhere agreement stands.”
“It stands. And consider the offer of a lift to be part of my apology.”
“You’ve already apologized,” I remind him, exhaling slowly. “Which I appreciated, by the way.”
“I know, but I keep remembering all the horrible little things I had planned. And while you may not need to hear them, I feel the need to continue to apologize for them.” I want to cut him off and insist it’s all not necessary, but he looks so sincere and bizarrely out of place sitting on a bathroom freaking floor, I don’t stop him.
“You’re really on a confession kick lately.” I reach over and poke at his shoe. “If it makes you feel any less awful, I routinely imagined you falling into open sewer grates.”
He laughs hard. “The Looney Tunes demise. I admire that.”
I snort a little. “Yeah, okay, it was a tad Bugs Bunny.”
“Do you feel up to finishing dinner? If you’d rather call it a night, I understand.”
I take another deep breath and shrug. “I’m good. It was just a little overwhelming for a minute.”
“I have to admit, I’ve spent the last week hoping you’d fail spectacularly at this, so I’d have cause to gloat. But you really have been doing amazingly well.”
“You’re kind of a jerk sometimes, aren’t you?”
He nods. “I can’t argue. I’m disappointed that it’s accurate.”
“I was joking,” I say, poking his foot again. “Come on. We were both assholes to each other. It was our thing.”
“I guess I don’t like having a guilty conscience.”
I intend to be supportive, but an unfortunate thought barrels into focus. “Uh. Do you realize that if anyone saw you come in after me, they probably 100 percent think we’re in here having sex.”
Caspian cycles through several expressions. A furrowed brow. Wide eyes. His mouth popping open.
Finally, he deflates and drops his head in defeat. “Christ. That’ll make for an interesting headline tomorrow.”
I have to giggle. “I look forward to my mother’s apoplectic reaction to that headline. But hey, we’ve been in here long enough, I think you’ll be portrayed as appropriately virile. Your handlers will probably dig that.” I sigh. “That said, there is such a thing as too virile, so we should probably get back.”
Chuckling, he stands up and brushes off his pants. He takes a few steps forward and holds his hand out to help me up.
I accept the proffered hand, and he easily pulls me to my feet. “You’re sure you’re all right to continue?”
“Yep. I’ve got this. One solid freak-out’ll do me.”
He gestures to the door. “Shall we?”
I gape at him. “Dude. You just sat on a bathroom floor. If you even try to walk out of here without washing your hands, the deal’s off.”
With a deep and genuine laugh, he joins me at the sink.