Looking for a Love Story (3 page)

There is a bench directly across the street from my childhood apartment. I sat down and went back to thinking about the time—the insane, impossible, miraculous time—when my life had changed forever because of
Love, Max
. And Jake. Yes, I’m still getting to the part about Jake.

IT WAS SHERYL
who helped me sell the book. She’d been remarried for a year by the time I finished writing
Love, Max
and there was no way I could stay mad at her for that long. Besides, you’ve got to focus if you want to carry a grudge, and I was too excited about my book.

I’d already given the final draft of
Love, Max
to the woman who was teaching the Write Your Bestseller! class. She seemed a little stunned when she handed it back to me. “I’ve never said this to a student before,” she’d said in a hushed tone, “but this may actually be publishable.”

Secretly, I agreed with her. It was the kind of book I thought I’d like to read. But I knew in the real world people don’t take one bogus writing course and produce something that gets published. Real writers have to pay dues. They study the great classics of literature in college and attend prestigious writing seminars, where they grovel at the feet of world-famous mentors. They spend years teaching English 101 at small colleges in dreary New England towns, waking up at four in the morning to work on their masterpieces. I hadn’t done any of that. But every instinct I had told me I had a winner on my hands. So—even though my instincts were always wrong—I decided to get a second opinion. Not from Pete, who never read fiction, or from my mother, who was opposed personally
and professionally to girly literature—which
Love, Max
was. I sent the manuscript to Sheryl.

“I think you were angry when you wrote it,” she said, when she called me from the West Coast.

“So it’s no good?” I gulped.

“Oh, no, you’re very witty when you’re angry.”

“Then you liked it?” I told myself I wasn’t being pathetic.

“I read it in two days. I stayed up until three in the morning and I looked like such a wreck I had to get a deep-sea facial. Do you have an agent?”

“Uh … no,” I said, stunned. Sheryl was an airhead. Who knew she was even aware that there were such entities as agents?

“Well, do you remember my friend Sissy Gilbert?”

“She’s one of the Girls, right?” Sheryl had more friends than Bill and Hillary Clinton combined, but her inner circle was a posse of chums known as the Girls, who had been inseparable since high school.

“Yes. She was one of my bridesmaids when I married your father—the chubby one who wouldn’t wear yellow, so I went for pewter, which was much classier and I’ve always been grateful to her for that. Her husband’s daughter Nancy—she’s from Charlie’s first marriage; he’s ages older than Sissy—works for an agency in New York, and I know Sissy said they sell books; what was the name of it? Stiller … something.”

“The Stiller and William Agency?” I forced myself not to genuflect. “They’re the biggest and the best—”

“Good. I’ll put your manuscript in the mail to Nancy today.” A month later I was having lunch in an expensive Manhattan restaurant with Sissy’s stepdaughter.

Nancy Gilbert was the kind of woman I’d have wanted as a friend even if she hadn’t been one of the hottest young agents in
the city. She was my age, and we bonded when she asked if we could tell the waiter to take away the bread basket because she needed to lose ten pounds. Then she told me she was dying to be my agent.

“I know there are thousands of readers out there who are going to relate to your book the way I did,” she said. “I was eight when my parents divorced, and I swear the only thing that got me through it was my dachshund, Posey. With a fifty percent divorce rate in this country, marketing
Love, Max
is going to be a snap. Plus I don’t know of a woman in the civilized world who doesn’t have issues about her thighs.”

Nancy sold the book in two weeks to a small but prestigious house called Gramercy Publishing. I acquired an editor named Debbie, who took Nancy and me to lunch to discuss book covers and jacket copy, plans for a book tour, and a very few minor rewrites that Debbie suggested oh so gently, while telling me how gifted I was.

When I look back on that time, I wonder if it might have been better for me if it hadn’t all been so easy. I’m not complaining, I know what a miracle I was handed and I’m deeply grateful. But I never felt I earned it—you know? It never felt real. And then, to top it all off—there was Jake.

“THE ART DEPARTMENT
needs a picture of you for the back of your book jacket,” Nancy told me. We were six months away from my pub date—the insider’s term for the day when stores start to sell your book and you find out if you’ve written a dud or a winner. “Do you have any photos of yourself?” Nancy asked.

The choices were not terrific. There was my college graduation portrait, complete with cap and gown, and a few snaps that had
been taken during my high school Matriculation Wingding, so named because the progressive school I’d gone to was way too cool for a formal graduation ceremony. In all the shots taken of me since college, I was usually trying to wave the camera away. The truth was, I hated to be photographed. But my publisher needed a recent picture, one in which I was not wearing a cap and gown or sticking out my tongue.

“I know a great photographer named Jake Morris,” Nancy said. “Do you remember the model Nina Karsonava? She wrote a beauty book about the benefits of eating borscht—or maybe you were supposed to wash with it, I don’t remember. Anyway, it was awful and we all figured it was headed straight for the shredder until we saw the pictures of Nina. They sold that damn book. And Jake Morris is the genius who took them.”

I knew I should have been excited about being photographed by a genius. But it made me nervous. No, let’s be honest, it made me defensive. So when I called his studio to make my appointment, I had an industrial-sized chip on my shoulder.

THE MORRIS STUDIO
was in a former warehouse in what used to be New York’s meat-packing district before the city stopped packing its own meat. I paid off my cab, lugged my suitcase to the curb—I’d been instructed to bring at least three changes of clothes for my “shoot”—and looked around. Sometime during the 1990s the humble neighborhood had been reborn as the home of scarily glossy people and hot clubs and businesses. Just looking at the store windows on either side of the Morris Studio was intimidating. The shop on the right called itself a shoe store, which was accurate if you were prepared to spend a thousand bucks on footwear. The shop on the other side was a bakery whose name I
recognized as a place that provided designer cakes for celebrities. A garden of spookily real-looking sugar flowers filled the window. I sighed. This was going to be even worse than I had imagined. I rang the doorbell, and for the first time in my life I wished I knew how to pluck my eyebrows.

The waiting room was what I’d expected it would be: lots of chrome, glass, and chairs you can’t get out of once you sit. The walls were covered with pictures of famous people, and a ridiculously pretty girl sat behind the front desk Her hair fell to her shoulders in a glossy sheet, and as for her makeup … we’re talking flawless.

At first, I could tell she was shocked when I told her I’d come to have my picture taken by the master. My un-glam presence seemed to rock her universe. But then she checked her book. “Oh, okay,” she said, with a relieved smile, “you’re the writer.”

That mystery having been solved, she led me out of the waiting room to a large, dark space with high ceilings, a concrete floor, unfinished brick walls, and windows that had been covered with shutters. A white backdrop hung against one wall, surrounded by what looked like a forest of lights. I figured when they were turned on they would generate enough wattage to light up a small nation. From time to time, human figures bustled around in the gloom.

This entire space, my guide informed me, was
the shop
, meaning the area where Jake Morris took his pictures. On the opposite wall, there were three large, well-lit white cubicles.

“That’s Makeup and Hair.” My guide indicated the first one. “Next to it is Wardrobe, and the last one is Jake’s office. I’ll take you to see Leeland first.”

“Leeland?” I asked.

“Our makeup artist. He’ll be doing your face.”

For a second it sounded glamorous. But when you live with a mother who regularly gives lectures on the evils of the cosmetics
industry, you learn to suppress thoughts like that. “I’m not sure I want anyone doing my face,” I said. “I don’t wear makeup.”

The girl gasped. “Never?” she demanded.

“This is the way I look,” I said. “What you see is what you get.” But then I heard myself add wistfully, “I
have
used lip gloss.” Like I said, at my core I’m marshmallow fluff.

“You can hang your clothes in Wardrobe. I’ll tell them you’re here,” the girl said, and fled, in case whatever madness I suffered from was catching.

I went into the middle cubicle she’d pointed out. It was equipped with an ironing board and iron, a steamer, a sewing machine, a small stool you could stand on while someone pinned up your hem, and an ego-demolishing three-way mirror. Racks of brilliantly colored clothes stood three deep against one wall. Dodging the three-way mirror, I opened my suitcase and hung up my clothes; three mid-calf-length skirts, two crewneck sweaters, one blouse with French cuffs, and three semi-fitted blazers in shades of black, navy, and gray. It was my standard look, and I was determined to be me in this picture. But as I was straightening one of the jackets, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I was overdue for a haircut, so my frizz was truly impressive, and in the bright light, my complexion looked like I’d died recently. I was wearing a beige crewneck, a brown mid-calf skirt, and a darker brown blazer. I turned away from the mirror with a little shudder. Almost without knowing what I was doing, I walked over and started going through the racks of clothes owned by the Morris Studio. I pulled out a pink ball gown with a huge skirt and puffy sleeves and held it up to myself, as I turned back to the mirror.

“Yeah,” said a voice behind me. “That color would be great on you.” I whirled around and there he was: Jake. My Jake—although I didn’t know it yet. I’ve already described him, so you can understand why my brain froze.

“I’m Jake Morris,” he said. Still clutching the ball gown, I nodded. I couldn’t actually say anything because I was afraid if I tried to talk my teeth would start chattering.

Jake turned to the rack where I’d hung my clothes. “This is it?” he asked. “This is what you brought to wear?” I nodded again. “They did tell you the picture was going to be in color, didn’t they?”

“Yes,” I managed to whisper. “But I thought I should dress normally. You know, be real.”

He shook his head. “It’s always the smart ones,” he said. Then he went to the door of the cubicle. “Tommy, come here!” he commanded.

A man materialized out of the darkness. He was probably the thinnest person I’d ever seen and maybe the tallest, easily six-foot-seven without the cowboy boots he was wearing. He’d completed the Wild West motif by dressing in jeans, a plaid work shirt, and one of those little string ties held together with a silver ring.

“You bellowed?” he asked, as he entered the cubicle. His voice was soft and tinged with an accent that had originated south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

“This is Ms. Sewell; she brought the wrong clothes for her shoot. See if you and Elisa can find something for her to wear.”

The tall one moved to me and gently removed the gown from my grasp. “No, sugar,” he murmured. “Not without a tiara.”

“Yeah, but she liked the color,” said Jake. Then he stared at me. Something about me—maybe the fact that I was so totally out of my depth, or it could have been my snazzy beige-on-brown ensemble—seemed to fascinate him. Finally, he spoke: “Is your book good?” Then he said quickly, “That was a dumb thing to ask. Forget it.” He started to go.

But the question had penetrated the mists of lust that had addled
my brain. In spite of my libido, I had my pride. “Yes,” I called out after him. “It’s damn good.”

“Then don’t blow it by trying to look like your own grandmother. Even little TV stations in the middle of nowhere would rather book a girl who’s cute.” And he left.

What happened next is pretty much a blur. Tommy and his assistant, Elisa, went through the clothing racks and produced a pink silk wraparound dress that accentuated my cleavage and showed off my waist. The top of me, according to Tommy, was just fine, and I should never wear a baggy sweater again as long as I lived. Elisa stitched a couple of darts in the bodice that made my waistline look even smaller. The full skirt of the dress swished gracefully over my hips and thighs—which Tommy called “that little problem area down under.”

The hairdresser piled most of my wild-woman’s mane on top of my head, leaving just enough falling down around my face to make me look like I’d recently climbed out of bed. Then Leeland, the makeup artist, went to work with lip liners, false lashes, tweezers, brushes, and blushers to reveal a couple of cheekbones I’d never known were there, a pair of almond-shaped eyes, and a mouth that was still full, but now it was a good thing. In this new face my long nose looked … elegant. As a finishing touch, Tommy handed me a pair of high-heeled pumps to wear instead of my sensible shoes. I teetered on them for a minute or two and then, when I had the balance right, I swanned over to the white backdrop where Jake was waiting to take my picture. When he saw me, he clapped. Really. The guy applauded.

“You have a Henry Higgins/George Bernard Shaw/Pygmalion thing going on, don’t you?” I asked, because I was feeling shy all of a sudden and I wanted to be funny. But when he looked at me, I realized I’d hit home.

“Yeah, I’m afraid I do,” he said.

“Hey, that’s a good thing,” I said.

“You think?”

“Works for me.”

“But I prefer to think of myself as Svengali.”

I nodded. “Sounds more exotic.”