Part 17 (1/2)
Claire's brain was racing now, but not in any discernible direction. She knew the right answer was ”next week” or even the week after that, but that, of course, was impossible. ”Um, I'm not sure how long it'll be until I have something that's ready to be looked at,” she finally said. ”I'm, um, waiting for a few things to gel in my mind.”
There was a silence, but it, too, was quick and efficient. Stephanie Rostan needed nowhere near as long as Claire did to regroup.
”Why don't you send me what you've got and I'll take a look at it?” Stephanie said.
This was an unprecedented offer. Rostan had been an editor before becoming an agent so her feedback would be valuable. If, in fact, there were anything to offer feedback on.
Claire began to pace her apartment, the phone pressed to her ear, her thoughts jumbled and uncertain. This was the opportunity she'd been waiting for. Somehow all of the publis.h.i.+ng stars had miraculously aligned. And she was nowhere near ready to take advantage of it.
Should she tell Stephanie what was going on? Or rather what was not going on?
What would Nora do? The question caused a knot to form in the pit of her stomach. Nora would not be in this mess. Nora would have been writing her twenty pages a day every single day and would be only too happy to send off whatever her agent or editor wanted to look at.
No. Claire stifled the admission of writer's block and panic that threatened to spill out. Admitting what was going on would not be the relief she coveted. It would be a mistake.
Her agent was not her friend. To be too honest about her lack of progress would be a fatal error; one her career might never recover from.
The silence spooled out between them. Too much silence could be just as d.a.m.ning as too many words.
”I want to read over what I've got and play with it a bit,” Claire finally said, feeling out and weighing each word. ”I'll let you know when I'm ready to send it.”
It took an immense act of will not to allow this last statement to turn into a question. And an even greater one to hang up without adding an apology or an attempted clarification.
In real life as on the page, there were times when less was, in fact, more.
NOT A SINGLE PERSON SKIPPED THAT SUNDAY NIGHT'S screening of the final episode of Downton Abbey's first season. Samantha arrived ten minutes early and found the clubroom already abuzz with excitement. Everyone from Mimi Davenport to Callan and Logan Ritchie were already huddled around the drinks and hors d'oeuvres, fortifying themselves for the occasion, debating which story threads might be tied up and which would be left hanging to lure them back in.
”I can't wait to see what's going to happen to Anna and Bates,” Melinda Greene said.
”And what comes after that kiss Mary gave Matthew,” her partner Diana added.
There was laughter as drinks slid down throats. Plates were emptied and refilled.
”What is this?” Claire sniffed her drink tentatively. ”That's not lemonade I smell in there, is it?” She eyed the bellman in his livery.
”No,” James replied. He shook his head. ”Absolutely not.” He looked to the concierge for backup.
”It's Pimm's Number 1,” Edward said. ”It's a mixture of dry gin, liqueur, fruit juices, and spices. It was created in 1859 and to this day the recipe is so secret that only six people know exactly how it's made.” He'd dropped his voice to ill.u.s.trate just how hush-hush a thing the recipe was. ”We also have Buck's Fizz-champagne mixed with orange juice-what you would call a mimosa.” He smiled at Claire. ”I've made a vow that lemonade will never again darken a Sunday evening screening. So you may drink a.s.sured that there is not a shandy in sight.”
”Why, thank you, Edward. That's very civilized of you,” Claire teased.
”My pleasure, madam.”
”Cheers then!” Claire raised her highball gla.s.s and clinked it against Edward's, Brooke's, and Samantha's. Isabella came up to them with a tray of English cheeses and water crackers. The other hors d'oeuvres were less easily identifiable.
Samantha peered more closely at what looked like sausage bites and . . . ”Is that mashed potato?”
”It's that all right.” Isabella curtsied smartly and bobbed her head. ”If you're feeling a bit f.e.c.kless it'll be bound to 'it the spot.”
”That's 'peckish,'” Edward sighed. ”Meaning a bit hungry, as opposed to worthless.” His tone was beleaguered, but his lips twitched. They had discovered that Edward Parker's formality ran bone deep, but his marrow was warm and soft and infused with a decided naughtiness. ”Isabella's accents are evolving and developing nicely,” he continued. ”Sometimes her word choice is a bit . . . dicey.”
”This is a version of bangers and mash,” the concierge explained. ”A miniature version. I do hope I won't be struck dead for playing around with such a traditional dish. Normally you'd be served a heaping plate of it. Tonight all you have to do is dip the sausage bit into the mashed potato and . . .” The concierge popped the potato-covered sausage into his mouth and chewed it with polite relish.
Samantha and the others did the same.
”Yum,” Brooke said.
”Ditto,” Samantha said as she savored the appetizer's combination of warm gooiness and firm chewiness. ”I've always been a closet meat and potatoes junkie. This. .h.i.ts all my favorite food groups.”
”I've never met a food group I didn't like,” Brooke admitted as she chewed the mini banger and mash. ”But at the moment I choose to believe that this delicious meat-and-potato moment is going to be too brief to do real damage.”
”Well, if it does, we'll just have to burn it off on the elliptical,” Samantha replied though, in fact, she had no idea whether Brooke had been on the machine since their first encounter. Nor did she know how Brooke was dealing with having her ex-husband and his girlfriend in the building.
”You'll most likely burn it off shopping,” Edward said to Brooke. ”I understand you've scheduled a shopping expedition with Marissa Dalton.”
Brooke blushed. ”Yes. We're going on Wednesday.” Her voice held both enthusiasm and embarra.s.sment; it was hard to separate them out. Samantha promised herself she'd take the time to reach out to Brooke. At the moment she would have liked to reach out to Edward and ask whether he'd heard from Hunter, but she was afraid that the answer was no.
”Was your publisher pleased with your signing event?” Edward asked Claire, pulling her into the conversation. He really was a master at making everyone feel included.
”Yes,” Claire said. ”Thanks to you all, I seem to be a somewhat larger blip on the radar screen up in New York.” She smiled, but her tone sounded far more worried than satisfied.
”Isn't that a good thing?” Brooke asked.
”Yes. It's supposed to be.” Claire nodded and flashed another smile. But something didn't quite jibe.
Looking up, Samantha noticed that people had begun to move toward their seats. Claire and Brooke went to the bar for refills while Samantha stayed with Edward, debating once again whether to come out and ask about Hunter.
”Your brother came by Friday to discuss Private Butler,” Edward Parker said, ending her internal debate.
Unable to trust her voice, she watched his face. When it came to her siblings, she'd learned to hope for good news but brace for the bad.
Edward gave her a white-toothed smile. ”It went well. Better, I think, than either of us expected,” he said, putting her out of her misery.
”That's great,” she said, trying to mask her sigh of relief. ”I hope that something mutually beneficial will come of it.”
”That would be nice,” the concierge said in an equally casual tone. But there was something in Edward Parker's eyes that made her suspect he could see right through her to the embarra.s.singly frantic happy dance that was taking place inside her.
THEY WATCHED THE LAST EPISODE OF SEASON ONE in a delicious silence as one after another of the elegant soap opera's story lines played out. Lady Mary came back from the London season no longer the desirable debutante she'd once been. In a move that owed much to Margaret Mitch.e.l.l's Scarlett O'Hara, Lady Mary ruined her sister Edith's marriage prospects while dampening Matthew's affections. Mrs. Patmore's eyes were worse, which made cooking for both family and staff at Downton a serious problem, and a new-fangled device called a telephone was installed.
There were gasps as the bitter and ever-nasty O'Brien ended any hopes of an heir that might supplant Matthew Crawley. There were sighs as what began as a garden party ended with Britain at war with Germany.
They sat quietly, barely moving, through the closing credits and the very last note of music. Edward Parker turned off the screen and gently raised the lights. He smiled at them, patiently waiting as they drifted slowly back to the present.
”I've enjoyed our first season together,” he said with real warmth. ”I hope you'll stay for a bit. We've got sticky toffee pudding and brandy for 'afters.' And I think we'll take just one week off before we begin season two.”