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“Shit,” Charlotte murmured, diving back into her wine. “No, but you’re right. I shouldn’t allow myself any kind of quitting. Quentin was rock bottom, before. He was a rock star with every kind of addiction, and he had to fight to be in the position he’s in. And who knows what kind of uncomfortable positions he was in, before this. Not that I want to know…” She trailed off, biting her tongue, thinking about his sexual deviance, his addictions. “Anyway, if he can rise from the ashes, I can certainly rise up from this. It’s been, what, just a few days?”
The bartender answered with only a smile. He pointed up the road, past several skyscrapers, toward a single, glittering, silver one on the corner. “You know, I used to work there.”
“What?” Charlotte murmured. “No. Are you serious?” She glanced at it, unable to link up this bearded, balding bartender with that professional-looking, piercing skyscraper.
“Sure did. But I gave up. And now, I’m here,” he told her. “Now, I’m not much for teaching people lessons, not when they have a drink in their hand. But I think you already know what you should do.”
Charlotte nodded slowly, sliding her half-empty second glass across the bar top. She swiped the back of her hand across her bright pink lips, feeling suddenly embarrassed for going to a bar in the middle of the day. Who did she think she was?
“Thank you for this,” she murmured, rising up onto her heels. “I think I should be getting back.”
Once standing, she felt oddly certain of her decision, sensing that she’d crossed over some kind of boundary. Her brain simmered with knowledge, with insight.
“What was your name, sir?” she asked the balding bartender, her eyes Bambie-like, big.
“I’m Hank,” the bartender said. “And I want you to forget about me immediately and head back to work. You deserve it.”
Charlotte’s lips pressed into a smile. How much time had she missed from work? As she pounded onto the sidewalk, she lifted her cell, noting that it was still ten minutes before everyone corralled back inside after lunch. Nobody would notice she’d been gone. Stabbing a piece of gum into her mouth, she chomped furiously, hoping the stench of the wine would fall from her lips.
Luckily, or perhaps not so, the wine had reduced her anxiety as she entered the office. She walked with powerful steps toward her desk and then sat primly on the edge of her seat, making momentary eye contact with Randy, who’d nibbled on a salad at his desk. Charlotte’s stomach growled angrily, conscious it had only had alcohol the entire day. Randy handed her a crouton, looking at her curiously. “Didn’t you just go to lunch?”
“Trying to drop weight,” Charlotte lied, crunching on the crouton. “But, damn, aren’t these good.”
“You shouldn’t deprive yourself. Not with that figure,” Randy said, his voice flamboyant. He shot his notebook toward her desk, showing her the features he was planning to pitch at the next writer’s meeting. “Check out what I’ve been brewing up?”
Charlotte snuck the notebook toward her, nodding almost imperceptibly at the half-thought-through items on his list. The ideas showed that Randy had a semi-thorough understanding of the current music climate, yet it also alerted her that he had a great deal to learn, as he was planning to pitch features regarding bands that were brewing the previous few years and certainly not this spring.
“I think these need a little bit of help,” she began, her voice a whisper. “I mean, they’re great. I just think if we put our heads together…“
Randy nodded enthusiastically, glomming onto her. “Whatever you think. You’ve got the brains here.”
“Ha,” Charlotte murmured, rolling her eyes. She began to jot down several ideas, linking his with greater musical comprehension. As she did, she dove deeper into her personal world of thought, almost blacking out.
Perhaps that’s why she didn’t hear the door open. Not immediately, anyway.
She felt the silence, first. It was heavy against her shoulders, causing her spine to curve. Glancing up, she spotted Maggie in front of the interns, her arms crossed over her chest. “Charlotte? I don’t suppose you’re going to join us?”
“Oh, shit,” Charlotte said, dropping her notebook. “I’m sorry. What is it?”
“Quentin would like to discuss the recent interview he had with Thick Soled with all of you. Wants to demonstrate how he forms an idea, then applies that idea to an interview, and then turns that into a story. Sorry if that sounds too boring for you.”
Charlotte’s mouth had turned downward with fright. She burst from her seat, trying to imitate excitement. “No, no. That sounds wonderful. I just got caught up in my note-taking, is all…”
Why on earth would Quentin call them in for this post-interview process? Was this Maggie’s idea, for teaching the interns? She shuddered, knowing Quentin wanted to see her about as much as she wanted to see him. Zero. Nada.
