Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection

  The Australian, appearing pleased, trotted off to the bar in search of a pen. The moment he left, Adriana made a deliberate decision to kick it into high gear. She tried to suppress this ever-increasing panic that men no longer found her attractive and swallowed her critical thoughts of the Aussie – who was, upon further observation, quite short … not to mention that dirty-looking stubble; wasn’t she too old for guys who didn’t bother to take care of themselves? – and instead concentrated on smiling as broadly as she could manage. Leaning in conspiratorially, she whispered to her friends. ‘Emmy, darling, that boy has your name written all over him. Paris was Amateur Hour. You, my friend, are with the expert now. Consider yourself warned …’ And while Emmy blushed and Leigh gave an approving wink, Adriana focused on keeping the tears at bay.

  Leigh dug around inside her purse, searching for something, anything, that she could busy herself with until Jesse arrived. She couldn’t just sit there, for chrissake, staring off into space, nor did she want to be that girl, the one who was hunched over herself, frantically thumbing her BlackBerry. There was a hundred-page excerpt of a manuscript that her assistant had handed her as she walked out of the office, but she discarded this idea as well; pulling out a manuscript at Michael’s during the lunch hour was like reading a screenplay at The Coffee Bean in Beverly Hills. Just don’t. What she really wanted to do was put on her beloved noise-cancellation headphones and block out the shrill, grating voice of the man sitting behind her, screaming into his cell phone. Were she alone or with friends, she would have simply asked to move tables, but Jesse was due any second and she didn’t want to be seen making a big fuss. The anxiety over the lunch combined with her upstairs neighbor’s late-night clomp to the kitchen had resulted in a very deficient night’s sleep, and she yearned to sneak in an earphone – just one was all she needed! – and let her trusty iPod (filled with only the most relaxing classical and mood music) soothe her jangled nerves. She was just untangling the cords when the maître d’ appeared tableside, Jesse in tow.

  ‘Good to see you again,’ she said smoothly, deliberately not standing to greet him but instead holding out her hand.

  He leaned over to kiss her cheek. It was instinctive and totally impersonal, but Leigh nonetheless felt a little frisson of excitement. Just nerves, she thought.

  Jesse stood next to the chair that had been pulled out for him and surveyed the scene. ‘Leigh, darling, could I trouble you to switch tables with me?’ He stared at the two men in suits sitting behind her, one of whom was still on his cell phone, and Jesse said none-too-quietly, ‘I can’t fucking stand people uncivilized enough to scream into their cell phones in a restaurant.’

  His reprimand went unnoticed by the offender, but Leigh nearly jumped from her seat and into his arms. ‘I loathe that guy,’ she said, gathering her things with great haste, but Jesse was already preoccupied with flagging down the maître d’. It wasn’t until they were seated once again – this time at a perfectly situated table for two in a quiet back corner – that Leigh allowed herself to sneak a glance at Jesse.

  He was wearing jeans and a blazer – perhaps the very same one he’d been wearing that day in Henry’s office – and his hair was mussed. He looked well scrubbed but casually rumpled, as though he’d given not a second’s thought to his appearance, and this made Leigh acutely aware of just how much time she had spent preparing.

  It had been a while since she’d devoted so much time to her morning routine. She’d been so busy and sleep-deprived lately that her hour-long beauty regimen had been reduced to the basics: a quick rinse; a once-over with the hairdryer, just long enough to get the wet out; a touch of mascara; and lipstick on the go. But this morning had been different. She climbed out of bed without snoozing the alarm, carefully so as not to wake Russell, and from there her body moved through elaborate preparations as though on autopilot.

  She had debated endlessly what to wear for her first official meeting with Jesse. His whole aura was informal, that much was sure, but she wanted to appear professional. Her father had never failed to remind her that older male authors would forever see her as a woman before an editor, and that if she stood any chance of gaining their respect, she should deemphasize her femininity. Or at the very least, not play it up. Leigh had always followed this prescription carefully, but today – when it should have counted most – she just couldn’t bear the usual black pantsuit. Or the charcoal gray one. Or navy. Nor did her usual cotton bikinis seem sufficient; instead, she climbed into a stretchy hot pink thong and a matching mesh bra that supported little and concealed nothing. Why not? she thought. They were more cute than sexy, and what was wrong with changing it up a little? Over this she tied her favorite Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress, a knee-length number with three-quarter sleeves, a low neckline, and a bright yellow, white, and black abstract pattern. She blew her hair dry and applied her makeup barefoot before adding a pair of strappy sandals, going for the three-inchers instead of her more practical work kitten heels. Russell had whistled sleepily when she kissed his forehead good-bye, but the moment she stepped on the subway, she started to wonder if she was overdressed and by the time she was seated at the restaurant, she was convinced she looked more like a high-paid escort than a stylish yet serious professional.

  To his credit or his obliviousness – Leigh wasn’t quite sure which – Jesse kept his eyes locked firmly on her face as he said, ‘Where did my mousy editor go? I hope you didn’t go to all this trouble on my behalf.’

  Leigh watched as he settled into the chair opposite hers and immediately regretted her outfit choice. She was prepared for Jesse’s sexist comments – Henry had warned her of those – and judging from his literary-rock-star status, she assumed he’d be a pompous jerk, but despite all that, she wasn’t ready for such a blatant insult. If she didn’t set the precedent right now, their entire working relationship would be doomed. He might be a famous writer, but he was her famous writer now, and she had to make damn sure he understood that.

  ‘For you?’ Leigh made a show of looking herself over and laughed gaily. ‘Jesse, how sweet of you to notice, but it’s actually for a party later.’ She paused, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. ‘Am I to infer now that you went to all that trouble for me?’

  His hands immediately went to his hair and brushed it back off his face. ‘Yeah, I do look like shit, don’t I?’ he said a bit sheepishly. ‘I missed the earlier train and then the schedule was all fucked up. It was a bit of a nightmare.’

  ‘The train? I thought you lived in the city?’

  ‘I do, but I can’t concentrate here, so I’ve been writing in the Hamptons.’

  ‘Oh, that’s—’

  He interrupted with a rueful laugh. ‘Really fucking original, I know. Bought the place last November, just as it was starting to get cold. I was always appropriately anti-Hamptons, you won’t be shocked to hear, but this was different: It was gray, isolated, the perfect place to lock down with a computer and not much else. Didn’t see another soul for days at a stretch and then – poof! – the sun comes out for a split second in May, and the whole of the Upper East Side arrives en masse.’

  ‘So why’d you stay? It’s hell on earth there in July,’ Leigh said.

  ‘Sheer laziness.’

  ‘Oh, please. I don’t believe that for a second.’

  ‘Believe it. I’m all set up. I just can’t bring myself to leave. Besides, they’re doing construction on the apartment above mine in the city and the noise is intolerable.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Leigh said, accepting a menu from the waiter.

  Jesse shook his head and sat back in his seat with an exhale. ‘How do you endure so many hours with self-obsessed shits like myself?’

  Leigh laughed despite herself. ‘Just a part of the job description,’ she said.

  ‘Speaking of which, I’m sure you’re curious what—’

  ‘Jesse,’ she said sweetly, stopping him midsentence. ‘We’re going to have plenty of time for work, so I th
ought it might be nice if we just got acquainted and saved the editorial discussion for next time.’

  He stared at her. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Quite. If that’s all right with you.’

  He cocked his head. ‘You are a strange one, aren’t you? An editor who doesn’t want to talk about my book. Well, well, well. What do you want to talk about, Ms. Eisner?’

  Leigh was pleased. Her trip to Curaçao with the girls hadn’t felt like much of an engagement celebration, but it had given her plenty of time to think through her strategy with Jesse. She knew she needed to set the tone with him early and firmly. Dictating both the pacing and the content of their conversations was the only way to do this. He had come to this lunch expecting that his new editor at his new publishing house would be salivating to hear about his new book and so she had feigned indifference.

  By the time they’d finished their entrées (the hanger steak salad for him and the herb-roasted striped bass for her), they’d talked about everything but writing. Leigh learned that Jesse grew up in Seattle but thought it was depressing and he spent his twenties working odd jobs around Southeast Asia but thought that was depressing, too. He told her how shocked he’d been when Disenchantment first hit the bestseller list and how surreal it was to make millions from what he thought of as little more than a travel diary and how crazy the party scene in New York City is when you’re young, accomplished, and suddenly very, very rich. It had been a little over an hour, but Leigh felt like they were beginning to forge a connection that was unusual for them both – not romantic, of course, but somehow intimate. In passing and without the least bit of emphasis or interest, Jesse mentioned his wife.

  ‘You have a wife?’ Leigh asked.

  He nodded.

  ‘As in, you’re married?’

  ‘That is generally how people define it, yes. Are you surprised?’

  ‘No. Well, yes. Not surprised that you would be married, just … uh … surprised that … well, that I didn’t read it in the papers.’

  Jesse grinned and she thought how much better-looking he was when he smiled. Younger, somehow, and not quite as damaged. He glanced at her left hand and raised his eyebrows. ‘I see you, too, plan to join our married ranks.’

  She didn’t know why, but she was suddenly flustered. Flustered and quite uncomfortable.

  ‘Dessert?’ she asked, picking up the menu and pretending to peruse it.

  Jesse ordered espressos for both of them. Without asking. Which, naturally, Leigh found equally irritating and appealing. She would have preferred herbal mint tea had she been permitted to choose, but it was oddly nice not to make the decision.

  ‘So tell me, Ms. Eisner. What was the last great book you edited? Before mine, of course.’

  ‘Well, I needn’t remind you, Mr. Chapman, that your book’s greatness remains to be seen. We’re all very curious.’

  ‘As am I, about the woman who will be editing me.’

  ‘What, exactly, would you like to know?’

  ‘Who are your other authors? Your favorites? Which of their books have pleased you?’

  A bit flustered, Leigh said, ‘I think you probably know the answer to your own questions.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  Leigh paused for a moment and considered the ramifications of complete honesty. She certainly didn’t feel any moral compulsion to tell the whole truth; it just felt silly at this point to keep up the charade, so she looked him in the eye and said, ‘Meaning that I have no doubt you’ve done your homework, and you know full well that you will be my most-selling author to date – and admittedly, by a great deal – and you also must know that my boss, my colleagues, and probably the entire publishing community think I’m much too inexperienced to handle your book.’

  Jesse downed his espresso. ‘And what do you think, dear Leigh?’ he asked, a half-smile playing at his mouth.

  ‘I think that you’re sick of all the bullshit. I don’t know why you vanished the last six years, but I suspect it was something more than too much partying, or whatever else the gossip hounds claim. I think you’re looking for a fresh start and an editor who has nothing to lose. Someone young and hungry and willing to take a few risks.’ She paused. ‘How am I doing?’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She felt almost high with adrenaline, anxious and on edge, but in a good way.

  ‘And at the risk of sounding like a patronizing asshole,’ he said, ‘I am quite certain I made the right decision.’

  ‘You have,’ she nodded.

  Jesse motioned to the waiter for their check and handed it directly to Leigh when it arrived. ‘This is on Brook Harris, I assume?’

  ‘Of course.’ She placed her brand-new American Express Corporate Card in the little folder and sat back. ‘So, Jesse,’ she said, pulling her red leather planner from her bag, ‘when are we going to see each other again? I’m free for lunch Tuesday and Friday of next week, although Tuesday’s probably better. Of course, you’re welcome to come into the office and meet—’

  ‘Next week isn’t good for me.’

  ‘Oh. Okay, then. The week after that. How about you—’

  ‘No, that won’t work, either.’

  Her company had just spent three million dollars to purchase what was little more than a name and a promise, and he didn’t think it enough of a priority to make himself available for a proper editorial conversation? ‘You didn’t even let me finish,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said with a barely suppressed smile. ‘It’s just that I’ve no plans to come to the city again for the next few weeks. This morning’s train debacle guaranteed that. Now, we can either wait until I do return, or if you’re inclined, I’d be happy to host you in the Hamptons.’

  ‘Well, I’ll have to check my schedule and get back to you,’ she said coolly.

  ‘He’ll tell you to come,’ Jesse said.

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Henry. He’ll tell you to come. Don’t worry, Leigh, it’s not so very far away, and I promise to take good care of you. There’s even a Starbucks.’

  The waiter returned her card and receipt. She carefully placed each in its own compartment in her wallet and gathered her things.

  ‘I haven’t upset you, have I?’ Jesse asked.

  Leigh got the distinct feeling that he couldn’t care less.

  ‘Of course not. I’m just late for another appointment. I’ll call you later today or tomorrow and set up our next meeting.’

  He grinned and stepped aside so she could walk ahead of him. ‘Sounds good to me. And Leigh? Try not to panic, okay? We’re going to work just fine together.’

  It was raining when they stepped outside, and as Leigh fumbled in her gigantic tote for an umbrella, Jesse began jogging toward Sixth Avenue. ‘Talk later,’ he called without turning around.

  Leigh seethed. He really was a conceited, pompous prick. He hadn’t even bothered to ask if she needed a cab or offered to walk her back to the office – he hadn’t even thanked her for lunch! She didn’t know how she was going to coddle a man with such a mammoth-sized ego. She could be diplomatic and lead with the carrot, but the gentle, wide-eyed, I’m-so-impressed-with-your-brilliance – Mr. Bestseller approach just wasn’t her. Not now, not ever, and certainly not for someone as obnoxious as Jesse Chapman. Hell, Adriana could probably do a better job with him, never having edited – or possibly even read – a single book in her entire life. This thought plagued her for the eight-block walk back to the office, a walk made even more miserable by her now-soaking-wet three-inch heels. By the time she stepped into her building, she was ready to call the entire thing off – a fact that she didn’t exactly hide from Henry.

  ‘Eisner, get in here,’ he called to her as she walked by his door. There was no way to get from the elevator to her office without passing Henry’s, a maddening design he’d no doubt orchestrated deliberately.

  Leigh would have liked a few minutes to compose herself and, truth be told, maybe tone
down her outfit by adding a cardigan or a pair of flip-flops, but she knew Henry had cleared his entire afternoon in anticipation of her return.

  ‘Hello,’ she said brightly and arranged herself as modestly as possible on his love seat.

  ‘Well?’ he asked. Henry looked her up and down but, blessedly, remained expressionless.

  ‘Well, he certainly is a handful,’ she said before realizing how positively asinine that sounded.

  ‘A handful?’

  ‘He’s arrogant – just like you warned – but I’m sure it’s nothing we won’t be able to work through. When I tried to set up our next meeting, he blatantly refused to come back to Manhattan.’

  Henry looked up. ‘Doesn’t he live in the West Village?’

  ‘Yes, but he claims he can’t concentrate here, so he bought a place in the Hamptons. He just assumed that I’d go there …’ Leigh trailed off with a laugh.

  ‘Of course you will,’ Henry snapped, something he didn’t do often.

  ‘I will?’ Leigh asked, surprised more at Henry’s vehemence than anything else.

  ‘Yes. I’ll reassign your other projects if necessary. From now until his pub date, you’ll make this your only priority. If that means meeting at the Bronx Zoo because he’s inspired by baby lion cubs, so be it. So long as that manuscript is in by deadline and it’s publishable, I don’t care if you spend the next six months in Tanzania. Just make it happen.’

  ‘I understand, Henry. I really do. You can count on me. And reassigning my authors isn’t necessary,’ Leigh said, thinking of the memoirist with chronic fatigue, the novelist whose book was out for endorsements, and the stand-up comedian turned writer who called with new jokes no fewer than three times a week.

  Henry’s phone rang and a moment later his assistant announced over the intercom that it was his wife. ‘Think about what I said, Leigh,’ he said, his hand over the mouthpiece.

  She nodded and scurried out of his office, barely even noticing the searing pain she felt in both heels. Her own assistant, clutching a fistful of messages and memos, pounced on Leigh the moment she collapsed into her desk chair.