Dream Girl

Also, he was miffed that Rudin had bought Franzen’s book, not his, back in 2001. He didn’t want to be anyone’s second choice.

“Options have changed, Gerry. It’s hard to get that big money now. But an actress is attached, someone who wants to play Aubrey.” Thiru shared a name that meant nothing to Gerry, then showed him a photograph on his phone.

“Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. Too beautiful, in fact. Aubrey isn’t conventionally pretty. That’s central to the book.”

“Jesus Christ, Gerry, of course she’s going to be beautiful. Have you been to the movies?”

“Not recently, no. I do like that one television show.”

“Which one?”

“That one that people talk about.”

“You’re going to have to narrow it down, Gerry.”

“He sells drugs?”

“Breaking Bad?”

“That’s it.”

“Gerry, it’s not even on the air anymore.”

“I guess I’m watching it on iTunes.”

He sampled the uni. He had no idea what it was, but he had to admit, it was pretty good.

“What’s next?” Thiru asked.

“I want to take something low-culture and elevate it.”

“Like Zone One or Station Eleven?”

Gerry frowned. He always insisted he did not begrudge any talented writer his or her success, but he also considered himself an original, marching to the beat of his own drum. He was trying to be a good sport about the attention that Colson Whitehead was getting for The Underground Railroad right now, but it wasn’t always easy.

“Yes and no,” he said. “I’m not interested in zombies or pandemics. I’m interested in—don’t laugh—soap operas.”

Thiru’s chopsticks clattered to his plate and came dangerously close to sending up a flume of sauce onto his beautiful lapels. Today’s suit was plaid. Probably a precise kind of plaid, with a special name, but all Gerry knew was that it was gray with subtle crisscrosses of burgundy, gold, and green. Fashion bored Gerry even more than food did. He lived in khakis and oxford cloth shirts, cotton sweaters from the Gap.

“What?”

“My mother watched them and then, in the 1970s, when I was a teenager, inevitably I did, too. There was only one television in our house and she had one afternoon off, Thursdays. We watched the ABC shows together. All My Children, One Life to Live, General Hospital. And even though she could watch only once a week, she never really missed anything. It was amazing, how much happened and yet how slowly it happened.”

Yes, the horrible lighting, the strange slowness, the fact that it was done daily, that the writers and actors were chained to this vehicle that had to keep hurtling forward. Soap operas dared to take their fucking time even as everything else in culture rushed, pushed, competed. The soap opera, in its slowness, its comfort with redundancy and exposition, had its merits—and now it was dying. If he were a younger writer, one in need of attention, he would write an essay in its defense. As it was, he wanted to take what worked—the pace, the human scale, how huge it could feel to be inside a dying marriage, or an affair—not that he had any knowledge of the latter—and place those problems against the backdrop of something large. Not 9/11 or the 2008 economic collapse, but something truly epic.

“It sounds”—Thiru took a bite and chewed, making Gerry wait a long time for his adjective—“promising.”

“I hear the doubt in your voice. Trust me, Thiru. My instincts are good. You know that. I actually have a talent for the—” He did not want to say zeitgeist, a word he loathed. Gerry preferred to say he understood the present’s subtext. He saw the currents, what was going on underneath. His parents’ marriage had trained him to do that.

“How far along are you?”

“Writing every day, but I haven’t felt the quickening yet, the moment I know this book is the one.” Gerry had a high fail rate, starting at least three books for every one that came to fruition. It was part of the reason he no longer took advances, instead insisting on selling finished books. Not that there was ever any suspense about his longtime editor making an offer, or whether the offer would be a good one. Still, it made him feel less encumbered, not being under contract. And it gave Thiru the leverage of potential bidding wars, Gerry always being available.

“Maybe if the soap opera thing was part of a memoir—” Thiru began.

“No. Never.”

“Even with your father dead?”

“With him dead, when my mother is dead, when I am dead—there will never be a memoir.”

“I can see waiting until your mother is gone—”

“Wasn’t I right about the uni?”

The magnificent woman was back at their table, clearly on her way out, a striking coat of boiled red wool tossed over her arm. Gerry was doubly grateful for her reappearance. She not only derailed the conversation about the memoir, she was wonderful to behold, sexy yet classy, with long, praying mantis limbs. He had dated desultorily since he and Sarah split. He didn’t like dating. And the women he saw were disappointed in his preferences, which came down to long walks in Central Park, carryout or delivery from his favorite neighborhood places, watching the Orioles on cable.

“You were,” Gerry said. “It was quite good. I still don’t know what it is.”

“Sea urchin.” She laughed at the face he made. “Actually it’s even worse—they’re gonads. Not that I mind, but you might.”

Oh, wasn’t she a saucy one.

“Anyway, I don’t want to bore you—I’m a fan. We met briefly at that PEN benefit last year, although I doubt you remember. You were mobbed. And I was just another admirer.”

“I’m not bored. You’d be surprised how not boring it is.” He was sincere. If only all fans simply said this: I won’t bore you, I’m a fan. How lovely that would be. How lovely this woman was. “Remind me of your name?”

“Margot Chasseur,” she said. “Although it sounds as if I wrote Canterbury Tales, the spelling is French. C-H-A-S-S-E-U-R.” Her hedge fund date had approached and she tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow. “Enjoy.”

He watched her leave, taking note of the name, which was unusual enough to track down even in what the old television show had called the naked city, with eight million naked stories. From behind, she was practically naked above the waist and, despite the cold night, she kept the coat draped over her arm, so her shoulder blades remained visible. He could see almost to her coccyx, but it was the shoulder blades that caught his attention. They were sharp and beautiful. A man could impale himself on those shoulder blades. It would be worth it.

“Gerry?” Thiru prodded.

“No memoir. I’m still living, Thiru. I’m nowhere close to writing a memoir.”

“I just wanted to know if you were going to finish your gonads.”





March 15




“TGIF,” AILEEN SAYS cheerily when she brings him lunch. “With Victoria gone, I have three more days to put everything to rights.”

She has not left the apartment since Wednesday, except for errands. One of those involved fetching a small suitcase, as she says she needs to be here 24/7 to get everything done. He realizes he has no idea where she lives, or if there is anyone in her life—family, roommates, a partner.

“I’m sorry you have to, um, work this weekend.”

“It’s fine,” Aileen says. “I’ll put in for overtime. I’m going to assume no one has access to your checking accounts except you? You can just write me a check for overtime. Which is time and a half, by the way.”

Part of him wants to object that she is gouging him. But a larger part of him is so relieved that Aileen has taken over that he would gladly pay her anything. Money is for solving problems. Who told him that? Surely not his mother, who had worried constantly about her lack of money. And not his father.

Margot said that. “Money is for solving problems” was a Margot-ism. Said whenever she wanted Gerry’s money to solve her problems.

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