Hot Desk: A Novel - 7

Rebecca splurged and took a cab home from the office. Her debriefing with Ami had gone as well as could be expected. She had left three messages for her mom, who was clearly still ghosting her. She kept thinking about Rose and Jane, the discovery of the unpublished novel, and, most importantly, how her mom (a writer?!) was a piece of the puzzle. Jane’s interest in and—let’s face it—her sometimes unrealistic expectations for Rebecca’s career had always seemed centered on Rebecca, but clearly there was something else going on. Ami had barely restrained her excitement at the possibility of Avenue’s landing the Lion’s estate. Rose had asked Rebecca not to say anything to anyone about the novel, so Rebecca played up the unpublished stories instead. As the cab lurched up Central Park West, she texted Gabe.

Rebecca:

SO MUCH TO TELL

Gabe:

ami told me WHAT. THE. FUCK. jane!

Rebecca:

of course mom MIA now totally ducking me

Gabe:

we know where she lives

Rebecca:

but her secret life

Gabe:

housewife spins web of lies to camouflage glam misspent youth

housewife in shocking celebrity throuple

housewife ID’d as elena ferrante

Max:

Hey, Rebecca

Rebecca:

hold on max texting me

Gabe:

Rebecca:

rude

just a sec

Max:

Hey Rebecca, I’m not going to make it to dinner tonight. I’ve been thinking about this and I feel I only want to be dating in a more serious way right now and I don’t think I’m in a place where I am ready to do that with you right now I know that isn’t how I’ve been treating this and I apologize for giving you the wrong impression. You are a lot and great but maybe too much for me right now. Although I have had a lot of fun with you the past few months; hoping things went well for you today. Have a good time tonight. Again I am sorry to be dramatic. I wish you all the best

Rebecca’s thumb hovered over her phone. Furious and hurt tears sprang up, and she rubbed her eyes with all the vigor she had been holding back the entire day. Suddenly, Max was composing a text novel? He was ditching her tonight and blowing her off forever and he couldn’t bring himself to call? To break it off in person? She was “a lot”?? A lot of what?? He wanted to be dating in a more serious way? But not with her? The semicolon was tragic. HAD HE LEARNED NOTHING? Rebecca knew she couldn’t text Stella, who would be muddling mint for the rhubarb spritzers and baking the shortcakes. She would have to stiff-upper-lip-it through dinner because it was Stella’s night and Rebecca could not make it all about herself, even though objectively she did have a few major reasons for needing attention.

Gabe:

hellllooo? jane called: admitted she and marlowe wrote all of shakespeare’s plays. not merchant tho

Rebecca forwarded Max’s text to Gabe.

Gabe:

oh honey

I’m so sorry what a dick

so many questions

did you respond

Rebecca:

fuck no

Gabe:

please in the name of all that is holy delete and block

DELETE AND BLOCK

Rebecca:

i know

Gabe:

WAIT SCREENSHOT TEXT

Rebecca:

obviously

Gabe:

cool shower wear that black dress with the pockets and i will come early

Rebecca:

thank you

ugh

Gabe:

tonight we drink 1000 rhubarb spritzers

Rebecca:

“again i am sorry to be dramatic”???????????

Gabe:

max! who knew she had all that drama in her

hang in there, kitten

Rebecca:

ok see you soon

When Rebecca got home, there was enough happy mayhem that she was able to follow Gabe’s instructions without even laying eyes on Stella or Mimi. Only Scout, Stella’s assistant, who was meticulously winding tiny white lights down the center of the dining table, looked up as Rebecca called out that she was heading to the shower. Once she was clean and cool and had collapsed on the bed in her black dress, Rebecca was finally able to breathe. She knew she should go help, but she needed to find a calm, neutral expression so that Stella wouldn’t know something was amiss. Was her mom never going to call her back? Fine. She would show up at her nephews’ birthday party in Philadelphia this weekend and confront Jane face-to-face. Now she had to go convince Stella and Mimi that she was fine, it was fine, she was perfectly fine. You are a lot and great , she thought. That’s right, motherfucker, she was. Boosting herself up off the bed, Rebecca took a quick look in the mirror, tamped her hair down, patted gently under her eyes, squared her shoulders, practiced a giant grin. Perfect.

“Hey, baby! Grab a drink and slice the asparagus on the bias—like, one-inch pieces?” Stella was a whirl of brown curls, freckles, silver nails, a thrifted blue taffeta dress under one of Mimi’s splattered aprons, colorful tattoos up and down each arm: bouquets of carrots and radishes, oysters, pomegranates, peaches, one spectacular artichoke, a gleaming chef’s knife, and the one that matched Rebecca’s—a silver olive branch with green leaves and black olives encircling her upper arm.

“Sure!” Rebecca grinned.

“What’s wrong? What happened? Are you okay? ” Stella wiped her hands on the dish towel slung over her shoulder and threw herself at Rebecca in a crushing hug. She smelled of mint and shrimp. Rebecca remembered moving into her first-year dorm room at Barnard and her new roommate Stella’s welcome hug. Stella’s dad, Stanley Miller (Dr. Stan), had dropped Stella’s suitcases to the floor. Her mom, Lissa Marino, an artist whose medium was entirely wire hangers, followed close behind, entrusted with Stella’s French press. Stella had gone immediately to Rebecca’s mouse pad with its Julia Child quote, “People who love to eat are always the best people,” and hugged her again, saying, “Oh, thank god! We’re going to be best friends!” Stella Marino-Miller was right, Rebecca thought. As the daughter of a Black man from Georgia and an Italian mom from Rome, Stella had grown up in LA and now found herself in New York City. She had inherited a passion for food and cooking that followed no rules but that Rebecca knew from the beginning would lead to fame and fortune.

“I’m okay.” Rebecca gave Stella a squeeze. “But you need to give me the waitlist: I can start making calls for a last-minute place at the table. Max isn’t coming.”

“You finally ended things?!” Stella said gleefully, then caught herself and tried unsuccessfully to arrange her face more seriously.

“Well, let’s put it this way: things are ended…”

“ Whaaat?! That loser dumped you ?”

“Sounds comforting when you put it that way.” Stella saw Mimi in the kitchen snipping basil. “Also, keep it down. Give me the waitlist; we can discuss later.”

“Okay, but only because I have to poach the shrimp.” Stella snapped the dish towel in Rebecca’s direction. “Gabe’s coming, right? Miles is still doing that residency in New Haven.” Rebecca had met Miles at her first and last frat party at Columbia, where they’d huddled miserably together until she’d suggested they go meet up with her roommate Stella. “Here, start with the starred names.” Stella handed Rebecca her phone.

“Holy shit, Stella, there are, like, fifty names on this!” Rebecca scrolled down. “Ever since that article… I think it’s time to find a pop-up opportunity. You’re ready for an underground supper club of more than twelve. You’re growing out of this place. The people have spoken!”

“You think so?” Stella poured a drink from one of Mimi’s silver pitchers and garnished it with a sprig of mint. She handed it to Rebecca. “I’m in! But I can’t do it without you, you know.” Rebecca was already managing Stella’s social media. In fact, she found that she was often working on expanding Stella’s reach when she should have been editing.

“Obviously.” Rebecca lifted the tiny glass. “To your future career as a foodie influencer, viral recipe maven, supper club hostess extraordinaire, cookbook writer, and person eating clams on the Amalfi coast for money!”

“I’ll drink to that!” Stella lifted an imaginary glass. “Eating clams with my newly single smokin’-hot best friend! Sponsored by Gastronomica and Pucci.”

Rebecca knew better than to bring up her encounter with Rose Adams, since Stella had her hands full with guests arriving in less than an hour. She finished her drink (refreshingly tart!) and headed into the kitchen to say hello to Mimi. By the time Gabe showed, Max’s seat had been snatched up by a grateful stranger, the asparagus had been sliced on the bias, Mimi had admitted to never thinking Max was good enough for Rebecca—Mimi believed this to have been top secret information—and Rebecca had downed five rhubarb spritzers and been gently redirected by Stella to the wine in the back of the fridge. Gabe had spirited her away into her bedroom and presented a thorough editing of Max’s text that cheered her immensely:

Hey Rebecca (Too informal for the occasion), I’m not going to make it tonight. (Rude!) I’ve been thinking about this (vague) and I feel (cut) I only want to be dating in a more serious way right now (More serious than meeting Grandma, you dick?) and I don’t think I’m in a place where I am ready to do that with you right now (repetitive). I know that isn’t how I’ve been treating this (comma) and I apologize for giving you the wrong impression (You apologize for wasting her time or for living a lie? Be specific). You are a lot (a lot of what? Brains, beauty, and body, you milquetoast bore?) and great (obviously) but maybe (100%) too much for me right now (repetitive and obvious). Although I have had a lot of fun with you (you don’t know what fun is) the past few months; (This is an incorrect use of a semicolon in which you have jammed together an incomplete sentence with a gerund phrase even though you were recently taught that semicolons must join two complete and RELATED sentences. Did you actually graduate from Swarthmore? I am truly sorry for your clients and may all judges hold you in as much contempt as I do) hoping things went well for you today. (You made sure that they would not) Have a good time tonight. (Seriously?) Again I am sorry to be dramatic . (Girl, please) I wish you all the best (Where is the final period in your Hallmark sign-off? Are you James fucking Joyce?)

Rebecca gave Gabe a grateful hug. “I could never be with a guy who was incapable of absorbing my semicolon lesson.”

“Here, drink this water.” Gabe gave her a glass and smoothed her hair behind her ears. “And I never want to hear any bullshit about how you’re ‘too much’ or ‘a lot’ or anything like that. If you weren’t too much for him, that would be the tragedy. Now let’s go eat some poached shrimp with pickled ramps.”

As always, the dining room had been transformed with little white lights, candles, mismatched glasses, and Mimi’s blue-and-white wedding china. Stella kept popping in from the kitchen to uncover dishes, while Scout made herself invaluable clearing and cleaning. It was Rebecca’s job to keep the conversation flowing and to take photos to upload later while Mimi presided over the table, in her element. Gabe sat between a delighted Swedish tourist and a well-dressed couple who were repeat diners. Rebecca entertained a food writer she had been working to entice to the dinner for the past few months and three giddy roommates from Gowanus who had been trying to get seats at the table for over a year. People talked about the food they were served, food in general, and whatever Rebecca steered them toward. She noticed the conversations had split into separate exchanges and decided to conduct the room back into one harmonious whole before Stella served dessert. “Henry James said the two most beautiful words in the English language are ‘summer afternoon,’ ” she announced, continuing a well-trod and infinite discussion she and Stella had begun in a first-year writing seminar. “Agree? Disagree? Submissions?”

“Lace doily,” Mimi started, having already played this game. “Crimson velvet.”

“Did the summer streets of Washington Square smell of urine and desperation when Henry James lived here?” opined the obviously literary last-minute guest, a portly man with dreadlocks wearing a wildly flowered shirt and blindingly white sneakers.

“ ‘Urine and desperation’ are three words,” said one of the Gowanus roommates.

“ Ciao, bella! ” the Swede called out enthusiastically, which wasn’t, Rebecca noted, technically the English language but still a melodious pairing.

“Pickled ramps,” Gabe said loyally as Stella came into the dining room with trays of strawberry shortcakes laden with whipped cream and garnished with lemon zest and mint. Rebecca rolled her eyes at him, having heard him answer both “erect cock” and “cowboy sashay” in the past.

“Passed hors d’oeuvres!” Stella cried, as she always did, even though, one: basically four words, and two: mostly French.

“Artichoke heart,” the food critic murmured. “Silvery elixir.”

Rebecca laid her hand lovingly on the food critic’s forearm. “Exactly,” she whispered loudly. She retrieved her phone and snapped a few photos of the strawberry shortcake, the table with its dripping candles, the relaxed and laughing guests, Mimi and Stella clinking shots of Amaro. She tried to imagine Max here among her people. Honestly, his two most beautiful words might have been “Apple watch.” Or “pickleball league.” She knew he wasn’t right for her, and after the clarifying insight of many rhubarb spritzers and glasses of wine, she knew he had done her a favor, and in the unexplored recesses of her mind—where it would stay unexplored, if she could help it—she even knew that his stupid text, flawed as it was, was an attempt to explain himself without completely ghosting her. If only she had done it first. But now, as decreed by Stella’s highly curated playlist, it was Erykah Badu time.

Later, finally in bed, Rebecca texted Jane again, imagining she would be asleep but wanting to let her know that she had some explaining to do.

Rebecca:

mom i really wish you would tell me what’s going on

why did you let me walk in there knowing nothing

rose seems really nice

Jane:

Does she?

Rebecca:

mom! wtf??? where have you been?

Jane:

This is a lot to process, sweetheart. I’m sorry I haven’t been completely candid with you.

Rebecca:

i would say not candid at all like the opposite of candid

Jane:

It’s such a long time ago. Water under the bridge.

Rebecca:

water under the bridge?? MOM

MOOOMMMMMMMMMM

Jane:

How was Rose?

Rebecca:

beautiful. mysterious. sad.

Jane:

Her husband just died.

Rebecca:

honestly not so sad about that imo more sad about YOU

are you going to tell me what’s going on? i have to go back and see her again she wants you to come

Rebecca watched the three dots come and go, signifying her mother’s typing and erasing, typing and erasing.

Rebecca:

so will you come with me???????

Jane:

She was my best friend.

Rebecca:

she said that too

Jane:

Good night, honey.

Rebecca:

wait what

but to be continued, right?

you’ll go to the town house?

MOM

Jane:

Rebecca:

Ok so talk tomorrow

Rebecca spent the next twenty minutes googling the masthead for the East River Review and found her mother, listed as Jane Kinloch, and Rose, listed as Rose Bergesen, both interns in the early 1980s. After that, Rose was listed as an assistant editor. After a few years her name disappeared. The Lion was founder, editor, then eventually editor emeritus. The list of advisory editors was an impressive collection of well-known writers, including the present associate editor, a mildly successful novelist whom Rebecca recognized as the man in the fedora. Rebecca’s deep dive also uncovered a few of Rose’s short stories in The New Yorker in the mid-’80s that she was a little too drunk to read. She found an article in last week’s New York Times about the East River Review ’s sixtieth anniversary and speculation about what would happen to the East End town house and the magazine office now that the Lion had died.

There was only one place to learn the real gossip, however. Rebecca pulled up Instagram and checked BLURB, the anonymous account that was a mix of clever memes, complaints about publishing, rumors, and the many moods of Ben Affleck. Rebecca was chagrined to read the most recent posts:

BLURB more layoffs announced at harpercollins—deets please

Anon, please can confirm. jobs not being replaced but consolidated

BLURB [meme of two girls reading books by the pool in White Lotus juxtaposed with Connie Britton and a giant glass of wine] Me when I loved reading books vs Me after working in publishing

BLURB mid-level avenue editor swoops in on EDA widow—deets please

Anon, please can confirm. [meme of fat baby clenching fist]

juleswolf0910 eyes on atticus adams

BLURB [meme of sad Ben Affleck on the beach] Me when I realize publishing execs don’t believe cost of living increase is a thing

Rebecca reread the pertinent post. Was she, in this scenario, the fat baby clenching his fist? Really? “Mid-level” sounded, somehow, more insulting than low-level. It had to have been Fedora or more likely Satchel Girl snitching on her. Did they have nothing better to do? Rebecca did a quick search for Atticus Adams. Very handsome, sort of dissolute, always in a suit with gorgeous women draped over him. Had recently “parted ways” with an investment banking job according to Page Six, the gossip page of the Post . He was tangentially involved in some sort of vague scandal involving a tech start-up. Rebecca was caught by one photo of Atticus as a child wearing what looked like a sailor suit, gazing up at his father, whose admittedly leonine head was turned away. Whether the photographer was Atticus’s young mother or paparazzi stalking them, it was impossible to tell. It was strange to think of the Lion (Teddy!) as a real man with a wife (a few wives) and a child. How much could Atticus complicate things? Rose hadn’t even mentioned him.

Sleepily, Rebecca checked her email one last time. Mrs. Singh had sent another reminder for the first Cooperative Committee Group Meeting about desk sharing on Monday. Positively Orwellian. Note to self , Rebecca thought as she turned her phone to do not disturb: cactus, apples, someone unmask Office Life Anon, fedora, UGH MAX, rhubarb spritzer, sailor suit, Jane and Rose, Rose and Jane, sad Ben Affleck, Ben with cactus, cactus… She was fast asleep.