Spin A Novel

CHAPTER 2

Redemption Song





When I finally pick myself up off the floor, I slink out of the building and somehow make it back to my apartment and my bed.

And that’s where I stay for the next two days. I don’t answer my phone. I ignore all texts. The only email I open is the formal “Thanks, but no thanks” I receive from The Line.

When I can’t stand to be in bed anymore, I move to the living room couch and watch television twenty out of every twenty-four hours in a depressed wine haze.

There’s a lot to watch. After the escape-from-rehab-high-speed-chase fiasco, TGND disappeared. The speculation is that she’s holed up somewhere with her on-again, off-again boyfriend, Connor Parks, an actor eight years her senior.

Connor’s career exploded when he made the first Young James Bond movie four years ago, and he now makes ten million dollars a picture. He’s living like it too, having apparently rented (some sources say bought) an island in the South Pacific, and this is where the press speculates endlessly that TGND is hiding.

“How can you watch that shit all day?” Joanne asks in her twenty-seven-going-on-forty voice when she finds me in a nest of blankets on the couch for the fifth morning running.

I kick an empty wine bottle under the couch. “What do you care?”

“I don’t. But it might be nice to be able to watch my own TV once in a while.”

Ah, crap. Who knew Joanne had feelings?

“I’m sorry, Joanne. I don’t mean to be such a bitch.”

She gives me a thin smile. “Apology accepted on one condition.”

“What?”

“You take a shower, get dressed, and go outside.”

“That sounds like a lot of conditions.”

“Do we have a deal?”

“Deal.”

And because Joanne is right, I take a shower and go outside for the first time in a week. The air is clean and mild in the way it only is in spring. The first buds are on the trees, and everyone on the street is smiling, or at least it seems that way.

For the first time in a week, I’m smiling too. It’s hard to wallow in self-pity with warm sunlight on your face and the scent of cherry blossoms in the air.

I walk through my neighborhood, thinking about the state I’m in. Where my life is going. How I’ve been chasing a dream for eight long years without really getting anywhere. Something has to give, and I have a feeling I know what it is.

So, when I get back to the apartment, I call my best friend, Rory. We come from the same small town a few hours north and have been friends since kindergarten.

I fill her in on why she hasn’t heard from me in so long.

“And then she said I should go to rehab, can you believe it?”

“Um, what time did you want to meet?”

Rory’s an investment banker on the verge of a major promotion. We meet for lunch in her office building—the only place I know where she won’t cancel on me at the last minute. There’s this fifties-style diner in a corner of the lobby, and I wait for her nervously at the chrome counter.

“Katie!”

“Rory!”

I give her a quick hug, being careful not to wrinkle her navy banker’s suit. Her olive skin rarely needs any makeup, but today she looks pale and drawn. She’s even thinner than usual, and her cobalt blue eyes have circles under them that make her look more heroin-chic than city bigwig.

“Don’t they ever let you outside?”

She makes a face. “I’ll go outside when I make director.”

“You could at least go to a tanning booth. Or, they have these moisturizers now that have self-tanner in them. They look pretty realistic.”

“You’re one to talk. Haven’t you just spent the last week holed up in your apartment?”

“True enough.”

The waitress takes our orders, and we catch up on the small details of our lives.

“So, why’d you want to meet, anyway?” Rory asks as she picks at the plate of food in front of her.

“I need an excuse to see my best friend?”

“I thought that other girl, Greer, was your best friend.”

“Don’t be silly. She’s just someone to party with.”

“If you say so.”

“Rory, you know you’re irreplaceable, even if you become a big, snooty director-person who never has time for her friends.”

Her eyes narrow. “If I become?”

“I meant when, of course.”

“I hope so. Anyway, don’t worry. I’ll still have time for you.”

“And I promise not to mind if you’re too embarrassed to tell people what I do for a living.”

“What do you do for a living?”

I start ripping my napkin into tiny little squares. “Yeah, well, that’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“What’s up?”

“I was, um, hoping you could get me a job. I’d be willing to do anything, like start in the mailroom or be your secretary. Whatever it takes.”

She looks surprised. “You want to work at the bank?”

“Sure, why not?”

“But what about becoming a writer?”

Ouch. I thought I was a writer. Unsuccessful maybe, but still . . .

“I’m sick of eating ramen noodles,” I say, trying to laugh it off.

“You can do some awesome things with ramen noodles.”

“Yeah, I should write a cookbook or something. So, what do you say?”

She takes a small bite from her sandwich, thinking it over. “You sure you want to do this?”

“Yes.”

“OK, let me see what I can do.”

“You’re the best, Rory.”

“Don’t you forget it.”

“Like you’d ever let me.”

Two weeks later, after more interviews than it should take to become president of a bank, I’m officially hired as the second assistant to the head of the Mergers and Acquisitions department. I’m assigned a small interior office next to assistant number one and told I’ll be making $50,000 a year.

As I take it all in, I feel both excited at the prospect of solvency and sick to my stomach at the prospect of working ten hours a day in a room with no windows. But beggars can’t be choosers, and I’m grateful Rory came through for me.

Besides the money, the most exciting thing about the job is seeing Rory on a semi-regular basis. When my office tour is done, we spread our lunch out on the small worktable in her incredibly cluttered office.

“I know you’re going to tell me you have a system, or something, but how the hell do you find anything in here?” I say, crunching on one of the tart pickles Rory discards from her sandwich.

“It’s camouflage,” she replies, picking up a napkin and tucking it into the collar of her dress shirt.

“Busy office, busy woman?”

“Precisely.”

“You’re pretty crafty.”

Her lips curve into a smile. “Why, thank you.”

“And thank you for the job.”

“You’re welcome.”

“We should totally go out tonight and celebrate.”

“I can’t. I haven’t seen Dave in a week. I need to remind him what I look like.”

Dave and Rory have been together since our second year of university, and he’s the only person I know who works harder than she does. They’re scarily alike, and even resemble each other enough to sometimes be mistaken for brother and sister. On paper they make you want to puke, but in person, they’re just Rory and Dave: best friends and lovers. We should all be so lucky.

“Oh, I think he’ll remember you.”

“Well, I’m not taking any chances.”

She takes a small bite from the corner of her sandwich. The amount she eats every day wouldn’t get me to eleven o’clock in the morning.

“So, I’m on my own?”

She frowns. “Should you even be going out?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“It’s just . . . sometimes you can’t handle your alcohol.”

“What?”

She puts down her sandwich. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but why are you working here in the first place? Because you got drunk when you shouldn’t have, right?”

Excuse me?

“It was my birthday.”

“It was the day before your birthday.”

“Don’t wordsmith me, Rory.”

“That’s not really the point, is it?”

“What is your point?”

She hesitates. “That maybe you should cut down. Especially if you want to succeed here.”

I ball up my sandwich wrapper and stand up. “I’ll see you Monday.”

“Katie, I’m only trying to help.”

“Well, you’re not, OK? I know I f*cked up. I made a stupid mistake. But you’re talking like I can’t have a beer with my friends . . . like I should be in . . . rehab or something . . .”

“Isn’t that what that woman at The Line suggested?”

“She doesn’t even know me.”

Her mouth forms into a line. “Right . . . all she knows is that you came to an interview at nine in the morning still hammered from the night before. Silly her to think you might need some professional help.”

My blood is boiling. “Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come on, Ror. What do you weigh now? Ninety pounds? When’s the last time you ate even half a meal?”

She stares at me so intensely I think she might hit me. Then she picks up the remainder of her sandwich and shoves the entire thing into her mouth, chewing aggressively.

“That make you happy?” she says through a mouthful of food.

We stare at one another, equally furious.

I’m not sure which of us cracks first, but, suddenly, we’re both laughing uncontrollably.

Rory covers her mouth with her hand to keep from spitting out bits of her sandwich. “You know, I think that was our first fight.”

“Had to happen sometime.”

“Truce?”

“Truce.”

Despite, and maybe because of, the fight with Rory, I arrange to meet Greer at the pub. When I get there, she’s sitting at her usual stool being plied with free drinks by Steve.

Steve smirks as he hands me a beer. “Hey, birthday girl.”

“What was that all about?” I ask Greer when he leaves.

“You don’t remember?”

I get a flash of standing on a bar stool yelling, “Who’s the birthday girl? That’s me! I’m the birthday girl!”

“No . . . wait . . . don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

“It’s a good story, lass.”

“Again with the stereotypical Scottish terms.”

“What’s wrong with being a stereotype?”

Steve brings me a shot and a beer back, waving me off when I try to pay him.

“You don’t have to buy me drinks anymore, Steve. I’ve got a real job now.”

“He’s not buying you drinks—he’s trying to get in my pants.”

Steve colors and pretends he needs to wipe the counter further down the bar.

“You’re totally taking advantage of him.”

Greer tosses her hair over her shoulder and gives Steve a lascivious look. “Do you really think I could?”

“Please.”

“Interesting.”

I spin my stool toward Greer. “So, what’s new? I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“It was your own self-imposed exile, remember?”

“I prefer to think of it as taking a moment. A knee if you will.”

“A knee ?”

“Yeah, you know, in football, when the coach wants to tell the team something, he says, ‘Take a knee.’ It means, literally, get down on one knee, but also, ‘Listen up, I need your attention.’ ”

She frowns. “Why would you go down on one knee to listen to someone?”

“I guess it is kind of strange.”

“And football players do this?”

“Yes, and I mean American football, not soccer.”

“Yes, yes.”

“Anyway, I was taking a time out to process the state of my life.”

“And?”

“And, it turns out my life was extremely shitty.”

“Was?”

I bring the shot to my nose, breathing in the sweet, hard fumes. “It’s on the mend.”

She raises her glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

“Let’s.”

I pour the shot down my throat and chase it with half my beer. As the alcohol spreads through my bloodstream I feel lighter than I have since my disastrous day at The Line.

It’s good to be back.

What with one drink and another, I stumble out of bed the next day sometime after noon. I follow a trail of delicious smells to the kitchen, where Joanne is standing at the stove in her weekend uniform of roomy flannel pajamas, making a sauce.

“What is that? It smells great.” I pick up a spoon and try to help myself.

She swats my hand away. “It’s not for people who don’t answer their phones or return messages.”

“What’s up your butt?”

“I’m not your answering service.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Some girl named Elizabeth called for you a million times yesterday.”

My heart thuds to a stop. “Elizabeth from The Line ?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“You must be joking.”

But Joanne doesn’t joke.

She stirs the sauce vigorously a few times and puts the lid on. “What’s wrong with you? Elizabeth called. She wants you to call her back. Urgently.”

I still don’t completely believe her.

“What does Elizabeth sound like?”

Joanne rolls her eyes. “She sounds like this? Like she’s asking questions? All the f*cking time?”

Oh. My. God! It is Elizabeth! She called. She wants me to call her back. Yes, yes, yes!

I’m so overcome with joy I actually hug Joanne. She stands there like a board while I jump her up and down, but I don’t care. Elizabeth from The Line called, and all is right in the world.

I spend the rest of the day in a nervous tizzy. Even though it’s Saturday, I keep checking my voice mail every fifteen minutes to see if Elizabeth’s returned my call. When the sun sets and she still hasn’t called, I help myself to several large glasses of Joanne’s never-to-be-touched-by-her wine in a futile attempt to sleep. When that doesn’t work, I flip on the E! network and watch the latest TGND coverage unfold.

TGND’s been busy since I stopped watching TV all day. She broke up with Connor Parks again and went on a woe-is-me bender. Then a video of her sucking on a crack pipe surfaced. A few days ago, her parents took her to a rugged, lockdown rehab facility up north, where she has to stay for a minimum of thirty days. The footage of her entering a succession of clubs, holding a flame to a pipe, and being dropped off at rehab is played and repeated until even the anchors look bored.

I finally drift off around four in the morning, only to be awakened at eight by Joanne looking pissed and holding the phone out to me with a straight arm.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” I say groggily.

“It’s Elizabeth? From The Line ?”

I grab the phone. “Hello?”

“Is that Kate?”

“Yes, this is Kate.”

“This is Elizabeth from The Line? We met a few weeks ago?”

“Yes, hi. I remember you.”

“We were wondering if you could come in for a meeting about a position that’s come up? Maybe this morning at ten? I know it’s Sunday?”

“Of course I can come in for a meeting! Ten is great.”

“Perfect. Come to the same place as last time?”

We say goodbye, and I spring toward the bathroom to start getting ready. The sudden movement makes my stomach turn over, but I shake it off and leap into the shower singing, for some reason, “I am, I am Superman!” over and over at the top of my lungs as I lather my hair.

Whoever said there are no second chances in life was a moron.

I arrive at The Line’s offices twenty minutes early with my hair brushed, my makeup done, and my clothes pressed. (I pick the suit this time, hoping some of its respectability will rub off on me.) My stomach still feels jumpy, but I chalk that up to nerves. At least I know I don’t smell like alcohol, having loofahed every square inch of myself just in case.

At ten on the dot, Elizabeth appears in the Sunday-quiet lobby wearing an extremely short gray skirt and a tight blue sweater.

“Hi, Kate. How are you?”

“I’m great. Thank you so much for giving me another chance.”

“Sure. So, you’ll be meeting Bob? You remember him from a few weeks ago?”

I think back to the sea of faces sitting around the boardroom table. Try as I might, I can’t remember Bob.

“Right, of course. Looking forward to it.”

“Good. His office is two floors down?”

I take the elevator to a floor where the decor hasn’t been updated in at least twenty years. It’s Miami Vice chic, and there’s something kind of seedy about the atmosphere.

Seeing no one, I push the doorbell that’s recessed into the wall next to a solid wood door. A few seconds later, the door buzzes open, revealing a squat, blond man who resembles Philip Seymour Hoffman, which is ironic when you think about it because PSH played a music magazine guy in Almost Famous and . . . Focus, Katie, focus!

“Hi, Bob. Thank you so much for asking me back after . . . well, you know. Anyway, I’m really excited to be here.”

He gives me a tight smile. “Yes, well, when this assignment came up we thought of you . . . for obvious reasons. Why don’t we go to my office?”

OK, so it’s an assignment, not a full-time gig, but everyone has to start somewhere, right?

I follow him along a dark hall to another nondescript brown door. He swipes a key card. The room behind the door has a long row of unoccupied fabric-divided cubicles full of abandoned coffee cups.

“Is this some kind of call center?”

“You might say that. This way.”

He cuts to the right along a narrow passage through the cubicles. As I turn to follow him, I notice a paper banner hanging on the far wall. It reads: GOSSIP CENTRAL: IF YOU CAN’T FIND ANYTHING MEAN TO SAY, YOU CAN FIND THE DOOR.

What the hell?

I realize Bob’s striding away from me, and I hurry to catch up with him. At the end of the passage is another brown door. Bob swipes his key card once again and pushes it open.

“Sorry about all the security. But given the nature of the information we deal with, we have to take every precaution.”

Since when did album reviews become top-secret information?

“Of course.”

Bob points to the chair in front of his cheap-looking desk. “Have a seat.”

I sit down gingerly. When is this guy going to put me out of my misery and tell me what my assignment is?

“So . . . I assume Elizabeth filled you in?”

“Actually, not really.”

“Well, you’ll have to leave immediately because there’s no telling how long she’s going to be in there. Everything’s all arranged, and the staff’s expecting you. It’ll be a minimum thirty-day assignment if all goes well, but I’m warning you, it might be longer. We’ll be covering your expenses and paying the usual per-word rate. We’d like five thousand words, but we’ll discuss the final length once we know what you’ve got.”

He picks up a bulky envelope from his desk and hands it to me. “Here’s the background information we’ve been able to put together. It’s pretty extensive and will hopefully give you a place to start. Of course, you can’t drink or do anything else that’ll jeopardize your stay. If you get thrown out, the contract will be forfeit. Do you have any questions?”

What the f*ck is this guy talking about?

“I’m sorry, but I really don’t understand. What’s the assignment? Where am I going?”

Bob gives me another tight smile, but this time there’s an undercurrent of glee in it.

“You’re going to rehab.”