Fly Me to the Moon (13 page)

“What’s it about?” he asked, smiling as though he really was interested.

“Um, it’s about this girl . . . and . . . well . . . it’s fiction,” I said, unwilling to divulge the plot since he’d already had his chance to read it.

“Ah.” He nodded. “Is this your first, or do you have others?”

I glanced around at all the other hacks and felt like the ultimate wannabe. “Um, first.” I shrugged.

“Well, good luck,” he said, smiling and heading for the counter.

I watched as he got in line to order his coffee, and then tried to get back to my story. But all I could think about was what a great smile he had . . . and how nice he seemed . . . and how cute he was. . . .

Get a grip,
I thought, shaking my head.
If he was into you, he wouldn’t have left you hanging in reception lilte some common courier.

But then again, he did stop to say hello. And it’s not like he had to, since I hadn’t even seen him. He probably still feels guilty for evicting me to coach. I bet that’s it.

I looked up, sneaking a quick peek as he paid for his coffee, then quickly looked away before he could catch me. And as my eyes settled back on my screen, it occurred to me that for someone who’d just spent the last four years shacking up with a guy, I still didn’t understand a single thing about them.

Going over the page I’d just written, I was at the part where my protagonist confronts her mother when I heard, “Hi again. I promise this is the last time I’ll interrupt, but there’s this party I thought you might be interested in.”

I just sat there, fingers resting on the keyboard, thinking,
Is he asking me out?

“Well, it’s actually a book launch.”

I nodded and smiled encouragingly, waiting for him to pop the question.

“It’s for Harrison Mann’s latest. Are you familiar with him?”

Am I familiar? Uh, didn’t he have a couple Pulitzers under his belt? Hadn’t I worshiped practically every word he’d ever written?
“Yeah, I’ve heard of him.” I nodded, trying to appear cool and casual like these kinds of parties were de rigueur
pour moi.

“Great, well it’s this Friday at the Kasbah, starts at eight.”

“I think I can make that,” I told him. Knowing full well that this Friday, like all my Fridays, was wide open, and wondering if I should risk having him pick me up at my place. It’d been so long since I’d had a date I felt completely out of practice. But with Lisette home all the time, it was probably better to just meet him there, I decided.

“Great! So I’ll put you on the list, plus one if you want. I’ve got another engagement, but I’m gonna try to pop in for a quick hello.” He smiled.

“Oh. Well. That’d be great! Maybe I’ll see you there,” I said, trying to act casual, like I never, ever, not even for a second, thought he was asking me out. And I stayed like that, smiling and red-faced, until he was gone.

Then I reached for my cell and called Clay.

I was waiting outside the Kasbah, watching as one chic New Yorker after another stepped out of a cab, limo, or town car and made their slinky, black-clad way to the door. Then I gazed down at my colorful, sequined, boho skirt, gold wedge sandals, and tight white tank top and sighed. No matter how long I lived in this city I could never manage to shake my California look. Then I glanced at my watch and rolled my eyes. Clay was now more than fifteen minutes late, and I was just about to call him when he called me.

“Hailey, thank God,” he said, sounding out of breath.

“Where are you?” I asked, watching as a slim, gorgeous, perfectly
turned-out
Vogue
magazine protege who’d recently written the chick lit book of the season snaked her way toward the entrance.

“Listen, I’m really sorry, but I’m not gonna make it.”

“What? Why?”
This had better he good.

“I’m in the middle of something, and it’s taking a little longer than planned,” he said cryptically.

“Why are you whispering?” I whispered, turning my back on the door and giving the phone my full attention.

“I’m observing Peter,” he said. “And I can’t risk being seen.”

“Please tell me you’re joking,” I said.

“This is not a joke. Oh my God, I knew it! Carson just walked in, kissed Peter on the cheek, and took the seat across from him!”

“Where are you?”

“I’m outside Canteen, but don’t worry; he can’t tell it’s me.”

“Why? Are you in drag?” I laughed.

“Hailey, this is so not funny,” he said ominously.

“Clay, really. Don’t you think you’re being a little unfair? I mean, you flirt with everyone!”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s
me,
and this is
him.”

“Gotcha,” I said, shaking my head.

“Oh my God, Peter just got up and headed for the bathroom. Listen, I gotta go,” he whispered urgently, ending the call before I could even respond.

I shook my head and dropped the phone in my purse, thinking that of all the crazy behavior I’d witnessed since I’d known Clay, I’d never seen anything quite like this. But then again, he’d never been in love before either. And now that he’d jumped the shark, I knew there was no going back.

I turned toward the door and watched as a stunning, blond, bestselling novelist and her equally gorgeous husband went inside. Then I took a deep breath, ran my hands through my hair, and tried to psych myself up about going in alone.

After getting over the initial relief that I really was on the guest list, the first thing I did when I stepped inside was scan for Dane. But not seeing him anywhere, I headed straight for the bar and grabbed some champagne, thinking that even though I had no one to talk to, at least my hands would stay busy holding on to something.

And as I wandered around the room, checking out all the faces I recognized from book jackets, magazine articles, and TV interviews, I tried to look approachable and interesting too. But after completing two full laps without so much as a single hello, I knew I’d be better off just finding a nice cozy corner to lean in before cutting my losses and heading home.

I sipped my champagne and gazed down at my outfit, wishing I’d worn my Atlas uniform instead of this loud gypsy getup. I probably wouldn’t have stood out any worse than I already did, and there was something about being in my flight attendant garb that erased all shyness. It was like, the second I put on that navy blue suit I became this authoritative person who could direct a planeload of passengers to shut off their electronic devices, stow their baggage completely underneath the seat in front of them, and raise their seatbacks to the full and upright locked position. It was almost as though that poly-blend suit afforded me special powers, like Superman and his cape, Popeye and his spinach, Dr. Jekyll and his potion.

But this was ridiculous. Everyone around me was laughing, talking, making the most of the free booze and food, while I just stood there, chugging my drink and staring longingly at the door, wondering if I should make a run for it.

“If you go, I go.”

I looked up to see this craggy, yet ruggedly handsome older man smiling at me. “Oh!” I stared at him, feeling my face go all warm. “You’re Harrison Mann!” I said, as though he didn’t already know that.
Real smooth, Hailey.

“I am?’ His face curved into a warm smile. “Well, now that we know who I am, who might you be?”

I looked into his eyes, which were dark blue, deepset, and surrounded by crow’s-feet, thinking how unfair it was that wrinkles make some men sexy and most women panic. “I’m Hailey.” I smiled nervously, extending my hot, trembling hand for him to shake, and feeling ridiculous about how nervous I felt considering the countless rock stars, movie stars, supermodels, newscasters, ambassadors, royalty, world leaders, CEOs, artists, heiresses—just your everyday assortment of
Vanity Fair
cover models—I’d served during my six years of flying.

Releasing my hand, he took a hearty sip of his scotch, gazed around, and said, “So what do you think of my party?”

“It’s great!” I smiled enthusiastically.

“Then why were you staring at the door, debating whether you should run toward it?”

“I guess because I don’t really know anyone here,” I admitted, shrugging with embarrassment.

“Are you a crasher?” he asked, eyeing me with renewed interest.

“No! It’s strictly legit,” I said, taking a nervous sip of champagne.

“Well, that’s a relief. I’d hate to have to evict you. You’re the only one here with any color. You caught my eye immediately,” he said, motioning to my skirt and winking.

Oh my God! Was Harrison Mann flirting? With me?

I just laughed, feeling completely flustered, and way out of my league.

“So, what do you do?” He moved toward me. “Are you in publishing? A writer, perhaps?”

“No and yes. I mean, I’m working on something right now, but . . .” I trailed off. Oh who was I kidding? I was talking to a critically acclaimed, Pulitzer-winning, literary god! There was no way he wanted to hear about my small-time scribbling.

“And when you’re not writing?” he asked.

“Well, in my other life I’m a flight attendant for Atlas Airlines,”
I said, feeling ashamed for being embarrassed by that. But over the years I’d been made painfully aware of how more than a few well-schooled New Yorkers were surprised by the fact that we could even read, much less write. Which was pretty uninformed when you consider that nearly everyone I flew with had college degrees and managed to maintain separate lives outside the airport, where they worked as lawyers, CPAs, authors, psychologists, opera singers, actors, models, photographers, artists, teachers, brokers, financial analysts, personal trainers, small-business owners—you name it. I mean, being a flight attendant was a lifestyle choice,
not
an act of desperation.

“You’re a stewardess:
1
” he asked, eyes lighting up.

“Well, yeah,” I said, inwardly cringing at his use of the word “stewardess.” But then again, he was kind of old. Not to mention much celebrated for his word choices. So who was I to judge?

“Let me get you a refill; then I want to hear all about it,” he said, grabbing my glass and heading for the bar.

I watched as he walked away; then I glanced around the room, noticing how a number of people were suddenly looking at me with renewed interest. It was amazing how in such a short amount of time I’d gone from being embarrassed about not blending in, to hobnobbing with the guest of honor because of it. And if Harrison and I could actually become friends, then maybe, somewhere down the line, he’d be willing to read my work and share some of his wisdom.
Just imagine, Harrison and
J
meeting at the local Starbucks, sharing broken biscotti and talking about books. . . .

“Hailey!” I looked up to see Dane with this completely stunning woman hanging on his arm.

“Glad to see you could make it.” He smiled. “This is Cadence,” he said, nodding toward the exquisite being with the long, straight black hair, smooth olive skin, large innocent doe eyes, infinite legs, and abundant breasts that in her current braless state seemed to fall naturally into the fully upright and locked position.

“Hi.” I smiled, feeling suddenly frumpy and frizzy while wondering if that was her real name or stage name.

“We’re just dropping by for a bit. We’re meeting with Cadence’s agent soon,” he said.

Agent? Would that he model or escort? In call or out?
Okay, I know it was bitchy, immature, and envy-based—but it’s not like I said it out loud. I just smiled and glanced around nervously, wondering what was taking Harrison so long. Seeing Dane with his dream girl was making me anxious for a little social validation of my own.

“Are you alone?” he asked, giving me a concerned look.

“No!” I said, eyes searching frantically for Harrison. “I mean, yes. But I’ve met someone, and he’s just gone off to fetch me a drink.” I nodded, wondering what was worse: The fact that I’d just sounded incredibly insecure? Or that I’d unwittingly used a British accent?

We stood there looking at each other, awkward and silent, and just as I was about to say something, anything, Harrison appeared. “I see you’ve met my stewardess friend,” he said, handing me a flute.

“You’re a flight attendant?” Dane asked, his features arranging into an expression I couldn’t quite read.

Well, at least he used the modem, more politically correct term,
I thought, shrugging and running my free hand through my long, unruly, anti-Cadence hair.

“How’s the book coming?” Harrison asked Cadence while sliding his arm around me.

Book? What hook?
I watched her closely.
Please let it be a how-to hook. Please let it be a beauty tips hook. Please don’t let life be so unfair as to give her genuine talent and a great mind in addition to all of her other obvious gifts.

“Advance reviews are starting to come in, and so far it’s being really well received,’ she said, smiling modestly with perfect white Chielet teeth.

“Cadence wrote a book of short stories,” Dane explained. “She’s being touted as the next Jhumpa Lahiri.”