The day he’d presented the principal with his resignation letter had been the best day of his life.
And the day he had to slink back and ask to be rehired was going to be the worst.
It was almost three thirty by the time Jack was done with his coffee.
The mail consisted of two bills—internet and gym. He couldn’t live without the internet—alas—but it might be time to cancel his membership at the very expensive gym he’d joined when his first book took off and it seemed like he was going to be the subject of a lot of media attention. It wasn’t as if anyone could see his biceps under his clothing—he’d been posing for pictures inNewsweek,notMen’s Fitness—but it had been the principle of the thing. He’d wanted to look his best. Look the part. An intellectual, but not your father’s intellectual. Nothisfather’s intellectual, not to put too fine a point on it.
The gym in his building was decent. He could survive with—Oh.The New Yorkerwas here.The New Yorkerusually arrived on Thursdays, and today was only Wednesday. Well, he hoped today was Wednesday. If not, he was not going to have any friends left at the library.
He took himself back up to his place—3:43—and flipped open the magazine, but not before trying and failing to parse the cover image, which was an abstract jumble of dark blues and blacks with a fuzzy green dot off to one side.
Jack would have liked to be the kind of person who didn’t read press about himself. His dad always said that reviews were for readers and professed not to read his own. Maybe that attitude came with time, with the accumulation of an august backlist that was taught in college literature classes. For now, Jack was the kind of person who—secretly—read his reviews.
Not that this was a review.
There was nothing to review at the moment, his first book having come out more than a year and a half ago.Thosereviews had been stellar, beyond his wildest dreams.
Jack’s second book didn’t exist yet, because he’d had to ask for an extension on his deadline. He was originally supposed to turn it in this coming January 1. When he’d fessed up to his agent that he wasn’t sure if he was going to make it, a new date had been agreed on: March 15.Beware the ides of March, he’d thought jauntily, because at that point, March 15 had seemed doable.
At the rate he was going, there would be nothing to review again, ever.
Hence the “Talk of the Town” profile inThe New Yorker, arranged by his publisher. By his chipper but, he had to admit, competent and well-connected publicist.
He read it.
He read it again.
Well. If he’d had a heart, it might have sunk.
He called Lyn, the aforementioned competent and well-connected publicist.
“Have you seenThe New Yorker?”
He realized belatedly that he should have announced himself. He wasn’t Lyn’s only author. But she probably didn’t have more than one author in the current issue ofThe New Yorker. That sounded like self-flattery, but it was just a fact.
“I have seen it. It’s great.”
“Is it?”
“Is it not?”
“Do I come off as a jerk?”
The pause before she spoke answered his question. “Does it matter? ‘Jerk’ works for your brand.”
“I have a brand?”
“No, no,” she said soothingly, probably because she understood that he was the sort of jerk who would hate the idea of having a brand.
“But I already had that… thing with Blair Kellermoon. And now that line about her ‘little projects.’”Whyhad he taken the bait when that journalist asked about her? “I didn’t mean that as snidely as it reads.”
“You’re overthinking this. The piece is great. You show some personality. It will keep people interested until the next book.” Another pause. “How is it coming?” Pause. “You don’t have to answer that. I’m not editorial.”
She wasn’t, and he wasn’t going to tell her anything.
She must have taken his silence—he didn’t do platitudes—for the dismissal it was, for she eventually said, “Well, I can’t wait to read it!”
Jack couldn’t wait to read it, either.
