Live From New York, It's Lena Sharpe. Courtney Litz

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СКАЧАТЬ this point, I could distill only two coherent thoughts: Can a regular Bic pen puncture skin? And should I get these two a cigarette?

      “Why don’t you two switch research now, so we can get the ball rolling.” Any further discussion was clearly over as far as she was concerned.

      Chase handed me a hardcover book and a manila folder.

      I was still confused. “What do you mean switch research?”

      “You’re going to be working on the project that Chase was doing.” She looked down at her notes. “Colin Bates.”

      Now, I’d been to every agonizing editorial meeting under Nadine’s regime and not once had I heard mention of such a thing.

      “I don’t understand. Who’s Colin Bates?”

      “Well, he is a…” Nadine stalled.

      “Writer,” Chase pronounced triumphantly.

      “Yes!” Nadine nodded. “He is a writer.”

      “I haven’t even heard of this segment. When is it supposed to run?”

      Nadine drummed her fingers on the table like she always did when she was dreaming up her next fib. She clasped her hands together decidedly. “Well, that hasn’t been determined yet. It’s really sort of a favor to one of the board members, I think. He’s the author’s uncle or some sort of thing.” Which was another way of saying, it was a back-end segment that would be chopped to pieces and used to fill up the hour when the lead stories (like the Sienna Skye story!) left a few minutes of dead air.

      “But don’t worry, Chase has been working on this for some time. I’m sure it’s practically finished, anyway.” Nadine blushed. Chase beamed. I scowled.

      chapter 3

      Many New Yorkers viewed brunch as a shrewd social maneuver. They saw it as a neutral date to be offered in lieu of a more time-consuming commitment. It served as an agreeable meeting ground for sort-of friends, old acquaintances, out-of-towners, or new alliances—essentially, anyone who didn’t quite clear the “let’s go out Saturday night” bar.

      For my friend Tess and me, however, Sunday brunch was now a tradition—a breach of its standing would be a first-degree offense to our friendship. Of course, we talked on the phone nearly every day, but nothing could replace our once-a-week heart-to-heart over scrambled eggs and strong coffee at Café Colonial.

      I walked past the swirling line that had already begun to snake around the corner of Elizabeth Street and winked at Alberto (whose undying affection for Tess had won us a specially reserved table) as he stacked coffee cups behind the bar. Others may value their stock tips, their summer shares, or their courtside Knicks tickets, but I had come to cherish our table at Café Colonial to an unhealthy degree. I could not count how many perplexing guy issues, frustrating work fiascoes, and general I-feel-like-my-life-is-overwhelming-mehow-do-I-get-out-of-this-funk conversations I’d had at this very table. I suppose it’s probably sacrilege to ascribe the wondrous catharsis of a religious experience to a vinyl seat and a plate of pancakes, but there you go—how else is an agnostic/lapsed protestant supposed to find enlightenment?

      Tess was already seated. She looked immaculate as usual—her pale blond hair was gathered in a neat, low ponytail and her sea-green eyes gazed out the window. Tess always reminds me of a beautiful cat: serene, impeccably groomed and a little mysterious. She is the type of girl who uses words like “handsome” to describe men, can wear a string of pearls without a trace of irony, and hasn’t owned a TV since she left home for boarding school. She has no problem sitting through the endless card games and executive dinners at the Metropolitan club with her current companion, Stanley. In fact, she has no problem with the name Stanley. Don’t get me wrong, Tess is not a prude, far from it. She could sling one-liners and swill cocktails with the best of them. She just approaches her life from a different perspective than most (myself included). Sometimes, I can’t help but think she understands me and my life so well because she is on a different plane altogether.

      Tess is a two-kiss greeter. She has dated so many Europeans it has become second nature. I am strictly a one-cheek girl, but I leaned down and indulged her all the same. I slid into my spot next to the window and felt my body relax instantly.

      “Sweetie, you look exhausted. I’m getting you a drink.” Such endearments would normally annoy me—hon, honey, sweetheart—coming from anyone except my mother or my amore, but as with all things Tess—normal rules simply didn’t apply.

      She held up one delicate hand and I could almost hear Alberto snap to attention. Two bellinis appeared instantaneously.

      “So, what matters of business do we need to cover this morning, my dear?” Tess was only half kidding. I knew she took these sessions as seriously as I did.

      “Hey guys, sorry I’m late.” Parker had appeared at our table, seemingly out of nowhere. “Had to get one last fight in with Brad while I was trying to get a cab,” she said, struggling with her coat.

      Tess gave me a look that, if expressed in words, would have said something like Oh, I see that Parker has joined us for another cycle. I responded in kind.

      It had been at least three months since either Tess or I had heard from Parker (aside from the occasional group e-mail updating us on our bridesmaids’ responsibilities—yes, she was marrying Brad) and much longer since she had made it to Sunday brunch. Of course, this kind of separation was not all that unusual after a certain age, when couples seemed to drift off into their own private biospheres. It’s something a single girl must learn to accept in the way that she must accept painful blind dates, anxious mothers, and the sole responsibility of killing bugs and constructing bookshelves.

      “Brad, I will talk about you if I damn well please…fuck you, too!”

      Tess and I shared a confused look and then Tess remembered. “I always forget you wear that phone headset wherever you go. Good thing I didn’t start laying into that no-good Brad like I usually do,” Tess said mischievously. We could hear the muffled strains of an irate Brad through the earpiece. Parker smiled as she turned off her phone and removed her sunglasses. Her eyes were red and swollen.

      I’d known Parker since college, but it seemed like she had been at least three different people since then. When we first met, she was deep in the throes of her party-girl persona— I think the first conversation we had took place as we both got sick in side-by-side stalls in a beer-soaked frat-house bathroom. Soon after, she gave up her hard-living ways and began her passionate quest to single-handedly launch the second women’s lib movement. She grew out her hair, threw out her makeup, and even tried to adopt unisex pronouns in her speech. Then she met Brad.

      Despite the transient nature of our friendship, she was the most direct link to my past life. She witnessed firsthand the Greg saga, in its glory and its tortured defeat. In fact, Parker, Brad, Greg and I had spent the better part of our undergraduate career in tandem. This shared history would perhaps be a source of comfort had it not meant that I would soon have to see Greg again at Parker and Brad’s upcoming nuptials. Anyway, now she’s a publicist and the professional world seems to suit her. She has a closet full of Gucci suits, wears dark-rimmed glasses without a prescription, and has cut her dark hair into a sleek pageboy. Even better, she can easily work herself up into a genuine tizzy over anything from the newest line of lip glosses to the latest PalmPilot upgrade.

      “Well, I think we better start with you, Parker. What’s going on?” Tess said, observing СКАЧАТЬ