“You asked your boss that question?” I say, marveling over Michael’s ability to elicit illicit information from people, including higher-ups.
He shrugs. “Yeah, so what. Guys over lunch, you know. Phil Loomis and Jack Hannigan were with us, and incidentally, Hannigan had you on his list, too.”
“Damn Phil screwed me out of the hat trick?” I say.
Michael laughs as I casually return to the subject of Richard. “So who is Margo’s number one? Stacy Eubanks?”
Stacy Eubanks, a secretary in sales, is Beyonce’s blonde, blue-eyed twin and word has it that she moonlights as a porn star. (Michael claims to have spotted her in a video called Lezzie Maguire.) “Nope. Stacy didn’t make his cut.”
“Imagine that,” I say, giving Richard’s list even more credence.
“I know. Shocked the hell out of me, too.”
“So who is his number one?” I say nonchalantly.
“That new French chick in sub rights.”
“Oh, yeah. Marina LeCroy. She’s very French.”
“Uh-huh. But apparently Richard’s got a thing for redheads because Naomi Rubenstein is in his mix, too.”
“I’d hardly call that a thing for redheads.”
“Two redheads out of five definitely qualifies as ‘a thing.’ I mean, you all don’t exactly make up forty percent of the general population.”
“Fair enough,” I say, wondering who the other two non-French, nonredheads on his list are.
“So what are you going to do about this?” Michael asks.
“Nothing,” I say, laughing.
“Nothing? Why not?”
“Because I’m a professional,” I say in a jokingly prim tone.
“There’s no antifraternizing policy here. And you don’t work for the guy,” Michael says. “You’re not even in publicity. What’s the conflict?”
“I don’t know. It might show an air of favoritism. Somehow discredit my books.”
“C’mon. That’s a reach,” Michael says.
Technically he is right. Richard runs the publicity department, and as such, has responsibility for all titles in the house. But many different publicists cover my books, and there are other checks and balances in sales and marketing, so it would be virtually impossible for Richard to make much of a single-handed impact on my career or the success of my books. Still, publicity has a huge say in book proposals and they can easily quash a book, so there could be an inference of favoritism coloring my success. Bottom line, I’ve never dated anyone at work, and I have no intention of doing so now. I tell Michael this and then say, “The whole discussion is moot anyway because Richard Margo is not interested in me. He was only humoring you by playing your little game.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Michael says. “Besides, I totally teed you up.”
“How so?” I ask nervously.
“I told him about your divorce,” Michael says. “He had no idea.”
“Michael!” I say. I know it’s ridiculous to keep hiding the fact from everyone, but I can’t help itI don’t like my personal affairs being discussed at work. And there’s something about divorce that is equated with failure, which is never a perception you want to parade around in the workplace.
“It’s no big deal,” Michael says.
“What did he say?” I ask.
“That he was sorry to hear it But I think you should know that he didn’t look one bit sorry to hear it. If you catch my drift.”
Michael leaves my office after giving me a final, dramatic brow raise and a skilled drumroll on my desk.
As much as I try to downplay my interest in Richard’s list, I report the news back to Jess that evening. She has never met Richard, but has heard me speak of him over the years and relishes the mere scent of an intra-office romance. So instead of taking the story for what it isa juicy, self-esteem-boosting bit of trivia, she becomes wildly animated, saying that he is perfect for me.
“He’s way too old to want kids,” she says.
I shake my head and tell her not to be ridiculous.
But a week later when Richard calls me out of the blue, saying he wants to discuss some matters over lunch, I can’t help wondering about his intentions. I’ve sat with him in numerous meetings, but have never had a one-on-one meeting with him. And certainly not over lunch.
“Sure,” I say, reminding myself that, our work lists notwithstanding, I have no interest in Richard (or vice versa). I’m sure that he only wants to discuss business. After all, I am becoming more senior all the time, and maybe an occasional lunch with Richard just reflects my status in the house. Perhaps he wants to go over publicity plans for my upcoming Amy Dickerson novel. Or maybe he wants to formulate a strategy to handle my most difficult author, Jenna Coblentz. Jenna’s been a huge commercial success for over a decade, but she is so demanding with publicity that her behavior borders on abusive, and it’s an editor’s responsibility to act as a buffer for the publicists.
“How does Thursday look?” Richard asks me in his rich, radio-DJ voice.