Entertaining Welsey Shaw

Entertaining Welsey Shaw - A Novel (first three chapters)

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I came into town dreading my meeting today. I always dread meetings with Brooke, my editor, twenty-nine, round faced, whip smart, neurotic, and gorgeous. An auburn bob, plump lips, and killer legs in a plaid above-the-knee skirt.

That is not why I dread seeing her.

I dread seeing her, and hate getting her emails and phone calls late at night with UTMOST IMPORTANCE attached, because Brooke has been in her current job exactly three months tomorrow. Thus her emails are of UTMOST IMPORTANCE because they come from her. She recently moved up the ladder, and like all first-timers—especially all young first timers—she is terrified about holding on. They were taking a chance on her, they said. That always does it. Their reward was someone who promised to give up her personal life for significantly less than Harvey Swanson, my previous editor, who, at 50, had three college-bound kids and a house in Chappaqua. At least he did until last year.

I am lucky not to have such worries. I enjoy the fact that I can generally work without leaving my home or my bathrobe. Brooke's office is two hours from my one-story ranch house back in Sullivan County, which is just far enough to be inconvenient. So meetings are infrequent. I hate meetings.

This morning I rose at 8:30 and caught the train that dropped me at Penn Station. A brisk walk through frigid November air down 33rd and then up Park Avenue got me to Brooke's offices early. Nearby: warm yellow lighting on the bottom floor of an office tower, the sight of many people hunched over steamy paper cups of coffee, almost as if in prayer. No advertising could persuade better. I understand that the mermaid originally had breasts and a navel. When they decided to go corporate, these were eliminated, which confuses me. Isn't sex supposed to sell more product? The Starbucks at 48th and Park is larger and perhaps fancier than most, with seating along two walls and the counter against the far wall. On this day the line is out the door and onto the patio. The building itself takes up the entire block on the west side of Park, 1.2 million square feet filled with Deutsche Bank, General Electric, Credit Suisse, and other prestigious names of commerce. Around its perimeter huddle the smokers, looking miserable. The patio is set above and away from the street by about 20 feet and six cement steps. Never in my years coming here have I seen a line this long, but it moves fast, and with hands in pockets I wait. My meeting is mere blocks away, with Brooke and a 25 year old woman named Absinthe. Just Absinthe. I will be writing a book for her, putting words in her mouth and on paper that the world will be told are hers but which are really mine.

And here's something else I've never seen before: the blonde, the uber-blonde, hair between platinum and honey, almost lighting up the day. The blonde dressed in clothes that expensively have been made to look inexpensive, huge shoulder bag, large wrap around sunglasses, and a small dog. The woman is suddenly behind me and on the phone, her small, nervous animal turning spirals at my leg, jumping on me to paw my crotch. I take a step forward. I feel the nip again. "Sorry," the woman says, not really sounding it. The dog is on a long leash, and the blonde is not doing a good job keeping him reined in or reining in her conversation. I hate hearing halves of phone calls, because I start trying to figure out the other half. I'm doing it right now, so the blonde turns away from me and her pet.

I'm about to turn back when something stabs at the corner of my brain. I look at her again. She's in a hot argument with whoever's on the other end of the phone.

And I remember where I've seen her.

Celebrities don't interest me much. I know them primarily from TV and glancing at tabloid headlines as I stand in line at the supermarket. Celebrities are shallow, self-centered, and spoiled. Pretty, that's about it. And I'm not a big movie-goer, preferring a five-day rental long after the hype has faded. I don't keep track of each new "it" girl, and I could put a name to the face less than 50 percent of the time on a good day.