Hot Desk: A Novel - 22

There had been no Post-it yesterday. The desk was clean enough. Ben picked up the cactus in its new pot and examined it again. Rebecca Blume had watered it and upgraded it. What did it mean? Was she making an investment in their shared desk? After the surprising and unforgettable events of Monday night, Ben had spent an inordinate amount of time reliving them. Even now, his gaze drifted to the Synergy Room and he felt a rush of heat. Of course, he had texted her that night to make sure she got home safely in the inopportune Uber. He had texted her the next day to suggest they talk. He had wanted to text her yesterday, but Ava had advised him to take a break.

The rest of the time, Ben was reaching out to Jane and Rose, reading snippets of the material they had been sending him, editing it together into a proposal for Caro. The idea for the memoir project predated any real connection with Rebecca, he reminded himself. After a quick response to his first text—possibly drunken? Was that the issue?—she was ghosting him. Maybe he would reach out once more? Forget it. If she didn’t want to see him again, he would respect that. It might kill him, but he would.

The computer dinged with a Blabber message from Howie, who was sitting at his desk.

HOWIE:

heard the big news

BEN:

?

HOWIE:

futuristic stories nice

Ben’s meeting had gone well, and Caro had let him increase his offer enough to win Marc Cooker’s book in an auction run by the agent, Trixie Carter. His first acquisition at Hawk Mills! He would need to keep wins coming to make up for the loss of the Lion’s estate. Caro was disappointed, obviously, but she was professional enough not to blame him, at least entirely, when Avenue had announced its acquisition of the estate.

HOWIE:

thinking ken kesey

BEN:

??

HOWIE:

merry prankster! beat generation? wrote one flew over the cuckoo’s nest?

BEN:

I know who ken kesey is

HOWIE:

for tonight

Rose had insisted that Ben come to the East River Review sixtieth party in Southampton. His invitation was the subject of much office gossip, according to Howie. Ben’s feelings were mixed: he knew he didn’t really deserve to be there as a junior editor, but he did want to pay tribute to the Lion, even though he had experienced a crash course in the toppling of idols. Also, it would be amazing to hear DeLillo speak. Who was he kidding? DeLillo was not the point. Seeing Rebecca again—she would be there, right?—was the point. Should he text her to see if she was going?

HOWIE:

costume would be mostly sideburns

BEN:

not wearing a costume

From across the room, Howie popped up in disbelief. He loped over and came to a halt at Ben’s side. “It’s a theme party!” he finally wheezed.

“It’s optional,” Ben argued. “And I’m not a costume guy.” Howie’s disappointment was hard to witness.

“I have two other very low-maintenance ideas.” He coughed. “John Lennon glasses? Whaddaya think?”

“No.” Ben checked his phone. Nothing. In half an hour he had a meeting. Then a call with Trixie, who was interested in looking at what they had collected so far and had generously agreed to explain to Jane and Rose how an agent could make selling their book easier and more lucrative. Rose and Jane were meeting with her next week, and if that went well, he hoped to get the go-ahead from Caro to present a proposal for their memoir to Hawk Mills. Jane, whose writing was unsentimental and original, had revealed that she had been working on a novel, and Ben was also going to bring that information, along with Rose’s old New Yorker stories, to Caro. It would be gratifying to publish the memoir and then Jane’s novel as Avenue was reissuing the Lion’s work.

“Okay, hear me out,” Howie persisted. “You go as Kurt Vonnegut. It’s basically just a walrus mustache. Genius, right?”

“Not a costume guy,” Ben repeated. He couldn’t help the image that flashed into his head of kissing Rebecca while sporting a walrus mustache. Absolutely not. Of course they wouldn’t be kissing at a work event. And judging by her silence this week, maybe ever again.

“What time is the Jitney leaving?” Howie asked. Ben’s invitation had specified which Jitney he was to board to begin the exodus to Long Island. (Ava had helpfully explained that the Hampton Jitney was basically a tricked-out Greyhound bus for rich people not rich enough to have a driver.)

“Three p.m.”

“We have time,” Howie mused.

“Not. Going. To. Happen. Do you have the title comparisons I asked for? Any jointly written memoirs?”

“Boss, so far I’ve only got the Bush sisters. Will keep looking.”

Howie went back to his desk to find what Ben needed. After sorting through an almost overwhelming number of emails, Ben joined Mrs. Singh for a quick cup of tea in the kitchen before his meeting. Because she had brought him a muffin, he was spared the indignity of rooting around the leftovers from a breakfast meeting: pale cantaloupe and cheese cubes, a few grapes and stray toothpicks strewn on a black plastic tray. The days of donuts were now few and far between. He learned from Mrs. Singh that thickened flaxseed was a desirable substitute for egg and that someone who used to work in Design had tried to expense a family vacation to Jamaica. He learned that Frank French was publishing an op-ed in the Times on the success of hybrid workplace management and the ability of hot desking to maximize space utilization. Their teatime was interrupted by a FaceTime call from Ava, who was at the Union Square farmers market.

“I was thinking you could ask Rebecca to ask Stella Marino-Miller about less meat, more mushroom loaf.”

“ Mushroom loaf ? Also, as you well know, she’s not answering my texts.”

“You’re seeing her tonight, right? Look how gorgeous this is!” Ava held up a bouquet of leeks.

“Don’t forget, you have to stay with Butch. I’m going straight from here to Southampton.”

“Abolish private property!”

“Ava, I’m at work. What else?” Mrs. Singh was rinsing the teacups and not even pretending not to listen.

“Get through this party for the Lion—try not to cry—and also move things along with Rebecca. Don’t fuck it up!”

“I appreciate your support,” Ben said, clicking off his phone and turning apologetically to Mrs. Singh. “Sorry about that.”

“I do have a recipe for mushroom loaf, dear,” she said helpfully. “Lentils and turmeric!”

“I’ll tell my sister.”

It was still early when Ben got another FaceTime call, this one from Jane and Rose, who crowded into the frame and waved at him. “What did you think of what we sent?” Rose asked.

“So good!” When Ben had first broached the idea of their writing a memoir in response to the Lion’s work, he had been a little hesitant, especially after the shock of reading Making the Sun Run and of coming face-to-face with Rebecca. Rose and Jane had smiled at each other in their private way and agreed it was a good idea. And the more he thought about it, the more it seemed like a way to make something positive out of the whole mess. “Let me take this into a pod.”

“Did you like the part about stuffed cabbage with Allen Ginsberg at Veselka?” Jane asked.

“And Jane’s story that Teddy basically plundered to write Hoydenish ?” Rose added.

“That was crazy.” Ben shut himself in the spaceship. “And now that I’ve read Jane’s version, it’s hard to stomach the other.”

“Although Hoydenish is a better title than ‘Tomboy,’ ” Jane admitted. She didn’t sound as bitter as Ben would have been. “And he got a whole novel out of it…”

“It’s cathartic,” Rose said. “And you can’t imagine how wonderful it’s been to be back with Jane, revising it all on our terms.”

“I’m so glad,” Ben said. “It would be helpful if you could both write some more about your lives after that time. I’m thinking it will be important for readers to see how the experience at East River Review was formative in different ways—how it resonated for both of you long after the fact.”

“I’m not sure anyone wants to read about my life in Philadelphia.” Jane’s face was obscured for a minute as the camera dipped.

“No, that’s exactly what people will want to read about,” Ben promised. “It seems to me the heart of the story is the damage and the reclamation—for both of you: the version of what really happened. I think a lot of women will be able to relate. And a lot of men will have their eyes opened… I know I did.” He winced a little. But that was why they were doing this. “Just keep sending me everything. I know it’s moving quickly, but I want to get it all going concurrently with whatever Avenue has planned for the Lion’s estate. Once you get everything to an agent, I’ll be able to pitch it to Caro.”

“We don’t mind a fast pace,” Rose assured him. “We already had so much material.” She turned the cell phone away from her and Jane. “It’s complete mayhem here right now.” Ben could see hordes of people scurrying around outside a huge glass window. He could make out the ocean in the background. “We look forward to seeing you later!”

“Yes—I’ll try not to talk business. But I’m impressed with how it’s all taking shape.”

“Thank you, Ben!” they both called out at the same time. After they disconnected, Ben sat for a minute in the soundproofed capsule. He felt a glow of pride. Even if nothing came of it—and he was almost positive something would come of it—he felt energized to be part of the process. Working with Rose and Jane gave him a tangible way to assuage the complex and mostly negative feelings about the Lion that he was still trying to process.

Ben was on a call with Marc Cooker, the former Google exec turned short story writer, when Rebecca texted him. His heart leaped, but he quickly discerned a negative tone. He averted his eyes and focused on Cooker. After the call ended, Ben took a few centering breaths. Maybe he had misinterpreted her intent in his swift glance?

Rebecca:

why are you talking with rose and jane about their book WTF

maybe you could lmk first

what’s your ndgurm

endgame

????????

Ben’s memory of Rebecca at Betty Jack’s had sustained him since Monday. Every time he let his thoughts drift from work, he had been inundated with images of her that made it impossible to focus until he wrenched his attention back to whatever task was at hand. Her mouth, her hair, how soft she was, her powerful presence. But, looking at his phone, Ben recalled the Rebecca Blume of snark, temper, and chocolate-covered almonds strewn all over. Just because someone was beautiful and fierce and sexy and smart and, he admitted, kind of funny, it didn’t mean they were a good person. Maybe he had fallen for a bad person. But he knew, on a bone-deep level, that she was a good person. An annoying good person who could be neater and learn better text etiquette.

Ben:

why are you freaking out? your vibe is uncool

Rebecca:

what are you in a sexy hippie costume right now? VIBE?

Ben:

?? are you saying i’m sexy?

Rebecca:

i’m saying what is your plan i don’t like it

Ben:

i didn’t know i needed your permission to pursue a good book idea

Rebecca:

so now you’re suddenly professional

Ben:

i am a professional

Rebecca:

emailing my mom

Ben:

it’s okay you didn’t think of it

Rebecca:

neither did you!! why are you involved? or calling trixie all the time??

Ben:

she’s an agent!

Rebecca:

and my friend

Ben:

was unaware that publishing is a minefield of your personal relationships

looking out for jane and rose

Rebecca:

paternalistic BS!!!!

i suppose you plan to edit this book

Ben:

let the best person win

would think you of all people might support a competing narrative to center women’s voices

if rose and jane disagree which i happen to know they don’t they can tell me

Rebecca:

wow so you’re centering women’s voices now

Ben:

your point?

Rebecca:

lion apologist five minutes ago

Ben:

you have a lot of misplaced anger

Rebecca:

oh it’s placed correctly

Ben:

i spoke to jane and rose more than once including this am and set up a mtg for them with trixie and no one at any point suggested i check with you just so you know

no doubt you’ll be busy shepherding lion’s estate

since you’re such a fan

you know it can be both/and not just either/or

Rebecca:

EDA both sexist AND cheater

bad husband AND bad father

shall i go on???

Ben:

so you never separate artist from art

how are you the person handling the estate

Rebecca:

avenue will put him in his place, you’ll see

Ben:

it’s more nuanced and complex

Rebecca:

nope

Ben:

nope? srsly? that’s all you have? nope?

Ben waited for a few minutes, but there were no more texts from Rebecca. He tossed his phone onto the desk. How was she the most frustrating person he had ever met? Texting was bullshit. He wanted to see her. Why? Because he couldn’t stop thinking about her and recalling every moment of their encounter three nights ago at the bar. It wasn’t just wanting her, although that was the most distracting part. It was also that he needed to talk to her, to argue with her, to learn more about her. Would he see her tonight? His phone buzzed and he practically dislocated his shoulder grabbing for it. It was not Rebecca.

Atticus:

hey man can you step outside for a minute

Ben:

?

Atticus:

i’m downstairs

Since escorting Atticus out of Betty Jack’s on Monday, depositing him in the waiting car, and collecting the manuscript so that it could be returned to Rose, Ben had heard nothing. Atticus was lucky Ben hadn’t decked him. He wasn’t a violent person and, as a bartender, he had to make sure not to lose his cool even as he was dealing with drunk assholes. But watching Atticus basically maul Rebecca was hard to take. When they first walked in, he had been so happy: it was as if he had manifested her. But when Atticus touched her, Ben thought for a painful moment that they were somehow a thing. Which made no sense, he knew. But nothing about Rebecca Blume made any sense. Except for how he knew that they needed to see each other again. Even just to figure out what it was between them.

Atticus:

you there?

Ben:

what

Atticus:

just come down

Was Atticus here to confront him about taking the book back? Would Ben have to kick his ass in front of his place of work?

Atticus:

please

Ben looked at his phone. Who knew what Atticus was up to? Did Ben owe him anything? Maybe a little, since he had been playing up their friendship to Caro and Rose and using it to gain access to the Lion—to what was left of the Lion, at least. And Rebecca had snatched the stolen manuscript out of his bag, which Ben was pretty sure he wouldn’t have had the balls to do.

Ben:

ok

When he got outside, Atticus was leaning against the wall of the building, smoking. He straightened up when he saw Ben and gave him a less bone-crushing handshake than last time.

“I want to apologize,” Atticus said, looking, Ben realized, exhausted but clear-eyed. “I know I’ve been a dick.”

Ben remembered the coaching Ava had given him about accepting apologies: Don’t say it’s okay unless it is. “I appreciate that,” he said instead.

“I know you were just trying to do what’s best for my dad. I’ve been pretty fucked-up since he died.”

Ben cocked his head. “Fine,” Atticus continued. “I was pretty fucked-up before that. But it didn’t help.”

“I’m sure,” Ben said. “I know it must be rough.”

“Rose sat me down last night. She promises my dad wasn’t trying to screw me over or control me. Well, he was trying to control me. But she did promise me he really had my best interests in mind.”

Ben examined Atticus for a hint that he was still manipulating, but if he was reading it right, Atticus was serious. “What made you listen this time?” he asked, thinking of the wink.

“Look.” Atticus took a deep drag. “I know the Lion wasn’t perfect. But he was a hero to me, you know? Everyone wanted something from him. And when he turned his focus on you, there was nothing like it.” Ben remembered the Lion’s heavy hand on his shoulder. He understood. “I guess I thought that maybe, because I was his son, he would have to give me something. I’ve been in therapy—shout-out to Dr. Cornell: that poor bastard has been analyzing me since I was eight—so I know what I wanted was attention, validation, something to prove that I mattered a little more to him than everyone else.” Ben thought with a pang of what he had wanted from the Lion: attention, validation… something to prove that Ben mattered a little more than all the other fans who were no doubt clamoring for his time. Atticus continued: “I guess Rose finally got it through to me that he wanted me to go to rehab because he cared. And she was pretty adamant that Sun Running was not a great look for the Adams brand. Not in this climate, if you know what I mean.”

“I do know what you mean,” Ben answered. They stood for a minute in companionable silence.

Atticus dropped his cigarette butt and immediately lit another one. “I’m in training for rehab. Saying my amends. And I hear they take it all away but the smokes.”

“You’re going to go? That’s good.” Ben knew that Atticus would have ended up at rehab, since his inheritance depended on it, but it seemed as though he might even show up sober. “When are you leaving?”

“Figured I’d head out tonight. An old friend is going to drive me to the airport to keep me honest.”

It was hard to know what to say. I’m proud of you? You’re doing the right thing? Good luck? Ben went with “I’m glad to hear it.”

“You coming to Southampton?” Atticus asked.

“Rose invited me,” Ben answered, catching sight of Howie out of the corner of his eye. Howie gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up, vape pen protruding from the side of his mouth. It was a regular smoking section out here. “I’m catching the Jitney at three.”

“Like hell you are.” Atticus perked up. “You can come with me.”

Ben wasn’t sure he could bear more than five minutes in a car with Atticus’s Ibiza playlist. “I’m good.”

“Benjamin. Don’t be a fool. Meet me at the Blade Lounge on West Thirtieth at five forty-five p.m. We’ll be at the party by seven.”

Ben wasn’t sure if Blade was a helicopter, a jet, or a seaplane. He spared a quick thought for his carbon footprint and did the calculations. Atticus would be flying anyway. “If you’re sure?”

“My man…” Atticus stepped on another cigarette, slapped Ben on the shoulder, and started toward the black car waiting at the curb. “See you there.”