busy to return my call.”
“I’m in the middle of booking a tour. Every time I think I’ve got the schedule nailed down, the author changes it.”
“I’m just kidding, I know you’re busy. Is Sammy taking you to this party? It’s for a guy who plays with the band; one of the backup players I guess.” She and Sammy had been hot and heavy ever since they’d first gotten together. Vicky was blasé about it, saying she was just going to enjoy the sex, free pot, and booze while it lasted.
“Sammy said he wasn’t invited. I think the birthday boy has a beef with him over something. Probably a good thing for you to be alone with Jack.”
“I was stunned when he asked me. Especially after what I did.” The waitress finally took our orders, and I told Vicky about my beer-spilling episode.
“Geez, Julia. Way to arouse the guy.”
“I know. But he was a good sport about it. He seemed to think it was funny.”
“Sammy did say Jack likes your sense of humor. And the fact that you don’t act too impressed. So maybe you’re the woman of the moment,” she said as our food arrived.
“He must have women coming out of his ears—or whatever body part they’d be crawling out of. By the way, I’m not mentioning Jack to anyone. Saturday will probably be the last time I ever see him.”
She gave me a sarcastic glance. “I promise I won’t tell anyone a famous rock musician wants to take you out. I mean, Jesus, how embarrassing is that.” She shook the catsup bottle a few times to get it going, and the liquid erupted in a spreading puddle.
“That’s a lot of catsup,” I observed.
“It’s okay, our President says it’s a vegetable.”
We split the bill and went out onto the white-hot sidewalk. Vicky frowned at my second-hand suit. “You’ll need to wear something other than your usual gear. Come over Saturday and pick out one of my party dresses. I have an outfit that’ll remind him he wants to do you.”
Vicky’s story about Daphne made me dread becoming another unemployment statistic. The minute I got back to the office, I called the Chelsea Hotel and asked for Isabel Reed. A sleepy-sounding voice at the front desk told me he’d take a message. I repeated my number twice and spelled out the company’s name. Just as I was packing up to leave, the phone rang.
“Julia Nash?”
“Yes, this is Julia.”
“I’m Isabel Reed. Did you call me?”
I started to get excited. Her voice sounded vaguely like I remembered from the show.
“Yes! I did. I saw that you were writing a memoir. I wondered if you had a literary agent.”
Isabel sighed into the phone. “I barely have an acting agent, much less a literary one. Although maybe that will change if I get this part in the movie.”
That was good news; if she had an agent, he’d probably skip over me and send the manuscript straight to Harvey. “I was a huge fan of your show. I’d love to see whatever you’ve written. I work with the publisher here.” I figured I shouldn’t start off by saying I was just an assistant.
“Well, there isn’t much yet, but I can give you what I’ve got. I’m out of town next week for the audition, but I’ll call you when I get back.”
“That would be great! I look forward to meeting you.”
I hung up, my mind buzzing. Maybe I’d finally hit upon something that even Harvey couldn’t dismiss.
I had a lilt in my step as I walked home, excited about Isabel’s call and still pinching myself that I would see Jack on Saturday. He was much easier to talk to than I would have thought. And beneath the cool persona, he struck me as very intelligent. But my god, he was a rock star, and I was, well … a glorified typist. Or at least a work-in-progress. I’d puzzled over his interest in me until I gave myself a splitting headache. Surely there was a line of models and starlets waiting their turn—but could he be tired of those types? I guessed I’d just go with it and see where things led.
As I was
Sonya Sones
Jackie Barrett
T.J. Bennett
Peggy Moreland
J. W. v. Goethe
Sandra Robbins
Reforming the Viscount
Erlend Loe
Robert Sheckley
John C. McManus