Hot Desk: A Novel - 11

It was winter before EDA took the interns out to lunch. Jane had bought a Russian hat with earflaps from a thrift store on Astor Place—Rose insisted it was real fur—and had taken to wearing it everywhere in the bitter cold. She was wearing it now as she waited for Drew and Rose to meet her at York Tavern, stomping her freezing feet but reluctant to go inside in case EDA was already there. The idea of being alone with him was both terrifying and intriguing. Mostly terrifying, though, so Jane stayed outside until she spotted Rose in her puffy white parka and high shearling boots, followed closely by Drew, who looked miserable, shoulders hunched, and hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his beloved red plaid jacket.

“Jane!” Rose gave Jane a hug even though they had seen each other an hour earlier. “Why are you out here?” With a sharp-eyed look, she answered her own question: “He’s not worse than freezing your ass off!”

“My hat keeps me warm,” Jane answered, looking pointedly at Drew, who refused to tamp down his self-described “fabulous” hair.

“We’ll see who has hat head during lunch.” He brushed by her, teeth chattering.

The York Tavern, with its always-crowded wooden bar up front, was also a fancier restaurant in the back, with long banquettes of cracked green leather situated under antiqued mirrors and brass chandeliers. Despite its mediocre food and nonchalant service, the York Tavern had been the lunch destination of choice for East River Review staff since 1960, as both magazine and restaurant were established at the same time and had grown comfortably tolerant of each other’s shortcomings. Jane had frozen for nothing, as EDA was nowhere to be seen. The brusque hostess led them back to “Teddy’s booth,” where they were ignored.

“Let’s go to the Film Forum tonight.” Rose took the Arts and Leisure section of The New York Times out of her bag and found the movie information. “I really want to see La Piscine . It’s a sexy French thriller from 1969.”

“Is it in subtitles? Because my French isn’t perfect yet.” Jane’s French was nonexistent, though Rose, who had spent a year modeling in Paris after high school and even now was occasionally persuaded by her agency to walk in fashion shows, had been drilling her on the basics: le fromage, le vin, le pain, le chocolat chaud .

“Can’t tonight.” Drew tried to get the waiter’s attention but was unsuccessful. “Though I love Jane Birkin.”

Jane took the plunge and removed her hat. In the artfully tarnished mirror and in Drew’s expression, she could see that her hair was both flattened and static. “Don’t gloat,” she admonished him.

“I’m just sorry that Teddy has to see you this way,” he teased. “Jane should make her hair more like Jane Birkin’s, trust me.” Drew licked his fingers and tried to tamp down Jane’s hair. She batted his hand away.

“Why can’t you come with us? It’s been so long since you hung out!” Rose complained.

“First of all, we were just at that art opening concert thing at Club 57. And three nights ago you made us listen to the Joan Jett album a thousand times.”

“She’s so badass! It’s just that we miss you, Drew.”

“Anyway, Paco’s been pretty depressed lately, and I think I cheer him up, you know? His boyfriend Jermaine is sick and they don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

“I’m so sorry.” Rose squeezed his arm. “You’re excused from the movie, then. But just for tonight. Oh, now I have ink all over my fingers.” She stuffed the newspaper back into her bag. “I’m going to go wash my hands.” As Rose was heading to the bathroom, the hostess was leading EDA to their table. They could hear Rose say hello as they stopped to exchange a few more words. EDA turned to watch her as she walked away. Then he was upon them, shedding his heavy leather coat, cashmere scarf, and a Cossack hat similar to Jane’s but without the flaps and definitely made of real fur. He flung everything on the seat while the hostess clucked, then gathered it all to hang up.

“Interns!” he proclaimed cheerfully, waving over a suddenly attentive waiter. “Sir! We need something to warm us up, eh? How about a nice full-bodied cab? Find us a ’58 or a ’68, would you? How does that sound?” EDA rubbed his big hands together and settled into the booth.

“Sounds good,” Drew answered, though it was not clear, Jane thought, that EDA expected a response.

“Thank you,” she added, but EDA was examining Drew’s coat, which he hadn’t removed, since, Jane knew, he was still cold.

“Charming!” he exclaimed. “A real Holden Caulfield!” Suddenly he jumped to his feet, almost upsetting a basket of bread that had just appeared on the table. “Please.” He ushered Rose, back from the bathroom, into the booth. His glance swept over the three of them and he rumbled, “So it’s true! The best-damn-looking crop of interns in quite some time—dare I say, ever?”

Before any of them could speak—not that Jane thought any of them would—EDA was ordering for everyone. “Steak frites all around and some Caesar salads if the girls prefer.” He nodded at Drew. “Medium rare?”

“Of course.” Drew didn’t look at Jane and Rose.

“Now that’s settled.” EDA leaned back against the booth, his legs spread so that his corduroy-clad knee pressed against Jane’s outer thigh. Slowly, slowly, she moved her leg away, fussing with her napkin, but he was oblivious, and she was sure someone his size couldn’t help but take up more than his own space. “Tell me your dreams, interns! Let’s begin with Rose. How is Anders, my dear?”

Of course EDA would know Rose’s father. Jane saw a tiny ripple pass over Rose’s face, but she recovered quickly. “Doing very well,” she answered, her voice betraying no discomfort, only mannerly calm. “I’m sure he says hello.”

“I’ll be seeing him at the board meeting next month. We appreciate his generosity.” EDA slathered butter on a roll and nodded encouragingly. “I seem to recall you offering your editing services to me at the fall issue party. Is that a path you’d like to take? Will your internship be a stepping stone to a career in publishing?”

Drew kicked Jane under the table. Unlike Jane, who blushed at the slightest provocation, Rose met EDA’s gaze with poise. “Absolutely,” she said evenly. “I’d love to work in publishing.” Jane knew that Rose had carried out her dare that night, but none of them expected EDA to remember, much less to bring it up. All Jane recalled was how alluring she felt in that dress and meeting up with Rose in the bathroom to marvel at the sense of ownership they felt over the town house: there, on the window seat where Allen Ginsberg had climbed up to declaim a poem, was where they read manuscripts; there, where her NYU thesis adviser tried to stick his hand up Rose’s skirt, was where Jane had eaten pesto pasta salad for the first time; there, where Paco, in gold hoop earrings, had danced with Yoko Ono, was where they had each met with Parker to receive and mostly ignore “feedback and evaluation.”

EDA laughed, a low chuckle that put them at ease. “You Vassar girls are always confident minxes!” He paused to admire the bottle of wine and examine the cork the waiter handed him. “Splendid! Now, Rose, I would be honored if you would take a look at my latest work. I’ve been tinkering around with an idea for a new novel, but I’m a little stuck. Perhaps you could take your red pen to it?”

Rose paled, a sign, Jane knew, of her excitement. “I would love to,” she said, clenching Jane’s hand quickly.

“That’s the spirit!” EDA took the bottle from the waiter and poured it himself, handing Rose and Jane the first glasses. “And what about you, Holden Caulfield? What are your plans for the future?”

“Well, sir…” Drew began, uncharacteristically formal.

“Call me Teddy! None of this ‘sir’ nonsense! Wasn’t that long ago that I was sitting where you three are, plotting the birth of the East River Review .”

“I’m interested in the art side of it,” Drew said. Jane could tell he was trying not to say “sir” again but couldn’t bring himself to say “Teddy.”

“Ah! And Paco has taken you under his wing, has he?”

“Yes, he’s been really helpful. I’m learning so much.”

Jane and Rose exchanged quick smiles. Yes, Drew was learning about cover design, but the image of Paco taking Drew under his wing evoked wild nights at the Saint more than commissioning print series.

“Maybe you’d be interested in visiting Keith Haring’s studio? He’s a friend of the magazine’s and of mine, and I know he would make the time to show you around. If you’d like that?”

“Of-of course!” Drew stuttered. “Really? I would love that! I… I saw his first solo show last year.”

“Wonderful! I’ll make that happen. We’ll get a silk screen out of him for the cover one of these days.” EDA turned the high beam of his attention on Jane. This was the closest she had ever been to him. He was the most attractive man Jane had ever seen, yes, but the book jacket photo she had mooned over didn’t do justice to the force of his presence. And it wasn’t just his size, Jane thought; it was a particular charisma, one that layered an absolute confidence over the magnetism of talent and a whiff of danger. Jane couldn’t have said what the danger was, but she felt it when his leg pressed against hers and when he held her pinned under his focus. “Ellen tells me we have you to thank for the Cisneros story. A very keen eye! It’s not unusual that interns who show a knack for that sort of thing stay on, get added to the payroll. Ellen thinks you might be a good candidate to follow in Parker’s footsteps. What do you say?”

Jane was speechless. Staying on, getting paid, becoming an assistant editor at the East River Review —she and Rose had spent many nights planning exactly how it would go.

“Jane’s also a great writer,” Rose enthused before Jane could answer.

“Is that so?” EDA poured each of them more wine, finishing the bottle. “The most rewarding part of my job is discovering new voices. At the very least, I hope I’m good for some valuable feedback. Oh, my dear, you’re blushing! What I’m trying to say is that I would be willing to read a few poems or a story or whatever you have to offer. If you are so inclined!”

Jane finally mustered the words: “I am.” The heat rose off her cheeks, and she pressed the back of her hand to one side and then the other to cool them. “I would love that. Thank you!”

“Splendid!” EDA said again. Jane was unsure if he was speaking to her or to the waiter who was delivering plates of food. Both? “Now, interns”—his dark eyes sparkled as he lifted a steak knife—“ask me anything!” As the lunch unfolded and another bottle of wine was poured, Jane relaxed. EDA—no, Teddy , as he insisted again—commanded the conversation, but he drew them out, pinpointing their interests and casually expounding on the exact well-known artist or writer that dovetailed with their enthusiasm. Jane saw each of them blossoming under his consideration, presenting for his approval their brightest laughter, best ideas, most eager selves.

Teddy insisted that they order the carrot cake for dessert, but before it arrived, he looked at his watch and announced that he had a meeting. Clad once again in his outerwear, he shook hands with Drew, patted Jane warmly on the shoulder, and kissed Rose’s cheek. They watched as he steamed ahead through the dining room, stopping to greet those he knew and those who introduced themselves. The hostess trotted behind him with his satchel. The carrot cake arrived and was disappointingly dry. Jane felt the three of them struggling to recalibrate, to fill the sudden emptiness they had never before experienced when they were together. The glow of his stories, the warmth of his bulk next to her, existed alongside his sudden absence. The contradiction of it was something they would usually parse; instead, they were quiet, a little dizzy from the wine. Jane was sure they were thinking, as she was, about all the promises Teddy had made.

Later, after the movie, Rose leaned against her bed, on the floor with her knees up, while Jane lay on the bed on her stomach, head near Rose’s. “Everyone was so tan!” Rose moaned. “I’m like a ghost! I’ll never be invited to a villa on the Côte d’Azur.”

“Everyone was so beautiful, it was distracting,” Jane added. “Was the movie even good? All I can remember is gorgeous limbs, gorgeous clothes, gorgeous pool.”

“Jane Birkin is stunning! Do you know that she’s eighteen years younger than Serge Gainsbourg?” They were listening to “Je t’aime… moi non plus” on repeat, with Rose getting up to lift the record needle every time the song ended.

“And so?” Jane was editing one of Rose’s stories, and Rose was editing one of Jane’s.

“And so I’m just saying…” Rose tapped her pencil on Jane’s notebook. “Your story is perfect, by the way.”

“I don’t think it’s really done! What am I going to show him?” Jane fretted. Since lunch, which had left all of them awed and headachy, she had been trying to think of something finished enough to present to Teddy. “Yours are all so polished!”

“Polished doesn’t mean great,” Rose assured her. “You have to help me toughen up this motorcycle story, please. I hear you have a very keen eye…”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Jane tugged Rose’s hair gently.

“Just promise me you won’t chicken out,” Rose demanded. “You need to show him ‘Tomboy.’ It’s your best one. It’s like a punch in the stomach. But in a good way.”

“You can write all my flap copy,” Jane laughed. She knew “Tomboy” was her best story, but Rose’s confirmation made it official. She had written most of it in Professor Marshall’s class but had started it years earlier when she had found a photo of herself as a ten-year-old, hands on her hips, her sturdy legs planted firmly apart, her steady gaze challenging. It was the year before her father had died and her mother had started going to church every day. Jane recalled exactly the moment and the feeling: she was pretending to be Peter Pan, and his fearless insouciance had become her own. “Tomboy” wasn’t a pretty story—it wasn’t even finished to her liking—but Jane loved the powerful little girl at the center of it.

Rose was right: she would hand it to Teddy and see what he thought. She would not chicken out. With a little shiver, Jane rewound: she would hand it to Teddy and see what he thought … just casually giving her own work to Edward David Adams, who had asked her—sincerely, warmly—to do so. Jane had turned his generous offer over and over in her head ever since lunch. Teddy had been a real-life fairy godfather (as Drew declared), and they marveled at how he had granted each one of them a fondest wish. For me, two wishes , she thought. Staying at the East River Review and reading my story . Jane was incredulous, yes, but there was something stronger than disbelief at her luck that thrummed below the surface: a wave of confidence, of craving. Everything was falling into place.

“Okay.” She smoothed out Rose’s manuscript on her lap. “I have ideas about your motorcycle story. Are you ready?”

“Wait!” Rose got up and started the song over again.

“Here’s what I think,” said Jane. “She’s a little wild, right? But nothing really bad. Then when he takes her on the motorcycle at night, it’s reckless: it puts her life in danger. I would play that up. Some way to show she’s changed. Okay, remember you had that stray cat in the first draft? Bring him back! But this time he’s not friendly. Maybe he bites her?”

“Yes!” Rose gnawed at her pencil. “Or he scratches her? Like a big, mean swipe. But she kind of likes it?”

“Exactly.” Jane made cat claws and hissed at Rose. “She licks her wound. Literally!”

“You’re a genius!” Rose exclaimed.

“ You’re a genius! And you’re going to be editing a genius any day now.”

“I’m editing one right now,” Rose said. “Except you don’t really give me much to do. I can’t wait to hear what Teddy thinks of your tomboy!”

“So how many years is it?” Jane asked.

Rose didn’t even pretend not to know what Jane was talking about. “Nineteen,” she said immediately.

“He is better looking than Serge Gainsbourg,” Jane allowed.

“Serge is pretty sexy, though.” Rose smiled. She got up to attend to the record player.

“Not again, I beg you,” Jane said. “Put on Joan Jett. Anything else!”

Rose was starting to argue when the buzzer blared. The girls looked at each other, startled. “What time is it?” Rose asked.

Jane rolled over so she could read the big clock radio on the bedside table. “It’s after one. Could it be your dad?”

“No—he’s in Geneva. Also, he has a key. Also, if he didn’t, Joe would just let him up, right?”

“Did we get stoned and order Chinese?”

“That was last night.” Rose went into the other room, where Jane could hear her garbled conversation with Joe the doorman.

“It’s Drew,” Rose called out.

“That’s weird.” Jane sat up. Drew had only spent the night with them at Rose’s a few times. “Maybe the train wasn’t running?”

Rose opened the apartment door to wait for the elevator. Jane heard a ding and then Drew’s footsteps. Rose gave a little cry. Jane scrambled off the bed and stopped cold in the doorway. Drew’s face was swollen below his eye, and there was blood under his nose. The sleeve of his red plaid jacket hung off his shoulder where it had been ripped.

“What happened?” Before Drew could answer her, Rose opened her arms and hugged him.

“I was walking to the subway”—Drew’s voice was muffled by Rose’s hair—“and I got jumped.”

“What do you mean?” Jane asked. “Why?” She knew the wording was wrong as soon as it came out of her mouth.

Drew pulled away from Rose and wiped a hand across his bloody face. “Because, Jane, I’m a queer,” he said sharply.

Jane had wanted to go to him, to hug him too, but she stayed rooted in the doorway, flushed. Everything was bunched up painfully inside her. I know that , she thought, and I’m sorry , and It’s not fair , and We couldn’t protect you . But she didn’t say anything.

“Come on.” Rose led Drew gently toward her father’s room. “Let’s get you cleaned up. You can sleep in here.” Jane forced herself to move forward, and as Drew passed, she grabbed his hand. “It’s okay,” she whispered. She knew it wasn’t, but she was grateful when Drew squeezed her hand before letting go. His kindness in the face of her awkwardness, even when he was the one who had been hurt, struck Jane’s heart. Tears sprang to her eyes.

She went into Rose’s room and gently shut the door. The walls were thin, and she could hear Drew crying and Rose murmuring. In not following them, Jane knew she had opened a tiny fissure. Drew and Rose were already more sophisticated than she was, and they had an easy shared language of growing up in New York City. Jane hadn’t even understood that Drew liked boys. Paco was the first openly, outwardly gay person she had ever known. More than that, Rose was the caretaker who knew what to say, how to comfort. There was a small, hard place in Jane formed by her fear of doing the wrong thing, of jeopardizing the incredible good fortune she had found this past year.

She sat down and gathered up Rose’s necklace from the bedside table. It was cool and heavy. She slid it from hand to hand until it warmed. She put it against her throat and looked at the mirrored closet. Rose had been wearing the necklace when they first met. Tomorrow, Jane would make it right with Drew. She would give Teddy her story. The necklace dropped from her hand into her lap. She picked up her notebook and began to write.