Sebastian Stuart - The Mentor

“You know, I’m about to go through my closets-a little fall sweep-out. There might be some things that would fit you.”

“You wear such beautiful clothes.”

“I’m sure there’ll be some things you’ll like.”

“Thank you.”

Anne takes an apple from the bowl, looks at it, and then puts it back. “Well, I hope you and Charles have a productive day.”

“Likewise.”

Emma walks down to her office and pours herself a cup of coffee. The fact is, she had just arrived for work. She was stopped by Anne’s voice coming from the study. She crept close to the door and listened. Except for “heartless monster,” she couldn’t make out the words-just the tone. Sounded like a fight with a lover. When she heard Anne hang up, she rushed into the kitchen, tossed her bag in the broom closet, and quickly grabbed the apple.

Emma sips her coffee with satisfaction. So rich bitch is having a little fling of her own. That changes everything. What’s right for the goose is right for Emma.

Emma turns to the stack of papers on her desk, her previous day’s output, gone over and carefully edited by Charles. He seems to understand Zack, the boy, and Sally, his mother, almost better than Emma herself does. He knows just how to change a word here, a description there, to make a scene come alive.

“Good morning.”

Emma looks up. Charles is leaning against the old oak filing cabinet, wearing his faded work shirt open at the collar. He looks forlorn, and especially handsome.

“Good morning, Charles. You don’t look like you got much sleep.”

“I was working on your pages.”

“Thank you. You know, Charles, I’m worried…” she says, and then lets her voice trail off.

“Worried?”

She nods. “I’m worried you’ve been neglecting your writing, paying too much attention to mine.”

“I’m a big boy, Emma. You let me worry about my work.”

“So you have been working on a new book?”

“No, it’s an epic poem.”

“Please don’t be sarcastic, Charles. I’m just-”

He slams his fist on the filing cabinet and a stack of books on its edge crashes to the floor. He doesn’t look sad anymore, but angry, a strange miserable anger that contorts his features. “Goddammit, Emma! Don’t you think I know how to pace myself? Don’t you think I’ve been doing this long enough to know when to sprint and when to hang back for a lap? Do I look like a rank amateur to you?”

“I only meant-”

“You only meant what? What? Spit it out, girl, you’ll be a bigger man for it!”

“Please…” she gets out.

“Please what?” he hisses in a voice dripping with condescension and contempt.

“Please don’t treat me like this.” She stands and takes a step backward.

“Why not, Emma?”

“I can’t-I can’t take it. I’m sorry. I was just worried about you. Your work.”

“You’re not worried, Emma.” He starts to come toward her, those bitter eyes staring her down.

“I’m afraid of you, Charles.” She turns away from him, away from his rage. “I’m afraid of you.”

“That’s not really it, Emma, is it? Is it?”

And he takes her by the arms and spins her around. His hands are squeezing her hard, and she can smell his breath, clean and bitter, and his pine soap, and then she doesn’t care anymore, doesn’t care if he knows.

“No,” she says. “No, no.”

“Tell me!” he whispers.

And then the words pour out, acrid and defiant. “I love you,” she says. “I love you.”

Charles pulls her hair back and looks into her eyes. All the rage drains from his face and his eyes fill with longing. He leans down and kisses her, presses his body against hers.

Emma holds on to Charles, holds on as tight as she can, pulling him down with her, or lifting herself up, she isn’t sure which. Does it matter anymore?

Later, at the end of the day, Charles goes out for a walk and Emma is alone in the office. She lies down on the floor and smokes a cigarette, feeling both exhausted and exhilarated. It’s been a good day. She gets up, puts her coat on, and gathers up her day’s work. She walks into Charles’s office and puts the pages on his desk. Where is his work? She looks through the haphazard collection of papers on his desk: pages and pages of notes about her book, a phone bill, a take-out menu from a nearby Thai restaurant. That’s it. She starts to open his desk drawers, searching for the spiral notebooks he uses for his early drafts. In the bottom left drawer she finds a pile of them and she lifts the top one out. She flips through it. The pages are blank. She takes out another and then another and then the last one. They’re all blank.

“Sprinkle on the cilantro at the absolute last second before you bring it out to the table,” Anne says, standing over the pot of potato soup. The caterers are two young women with scrubbed faces. They come recommended, but she’s never used them before. She dictated the menu, but didn’t get home until the absolute last second herself, barely had time to change and greet her guests, and she has to take it on faith that they’ve followed her instructions. Anne hates to take things on faith. Especially lately.

“Where are the limes?”

The two young women look at her with blank expressions.

“The limes? To squeeze on the sorbet?” Anne says.

“You never mentioned limes,” one says.

Anne sighs in exasperation. Of course she mentioned limes. She curses that idiotic photographer who took three hours to set up the afternoon’s breakfast-in-bed shoot, throwing her whole schedule out of whack. She could have sworn she smelled pot on him. Anne reaches into the cabinet and breaks off half a peanut butter cookie.

“I didn’t mention fresh limes to squeeze on the lime sorbet?” Anne remembers reading that Martha Graham swept the stage herself before every performance. Smart woman.

One of the caterers hands her a piece of paper.

“What’s this?” Anne asks in a tight voice.

“Your fax.”

Anne scans down the page to dessert: lime sorbet with ginger wafers. No mention of fresh limes. “You’re absolutely right. Apologies.” She runs her tongue over her back teeth; she’s been grinding them again, in her sleep. “There’s a deli on the corner. You’ll have plenty of time to run down and buy limes after the soup is served.”

Anne turns suddenly, sensing something behind her. The doorway leading to Charles’s offices is open.

“Was that door open before?” she asks.

The caterers look at each other and shrug. “I didn’t notice,” one says.

“You haven’t seen anyone go in or out?”

“No.”

Anne steps into the hallway-down at the end the offices are dark.

“Is anyone down there?” she calls.

No answer. She closes the door.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Anne turns to see Nina standing in the kitchen doorway, cradling a glass of wine.

“I think everything’s under control,” Anne says, reaching for her own glass of wine and taking a sip. “How are you?”

“ Plus ca change…” Nina says. “And you?”

“Hanging in.”

“That’s quite a tony crowd you’ve got out there. They’re all new to me.”

It’s true, everyone at the party except Nina is a friend of Anne’s. In the early years of their marriage, Charles was the draw. Anne puts a hand on Nina’s arm and discreetly leads her over to the far corner of the kitchen. Lowering her voice, she says, “I’m worried about Charles.”

Nina is silent for a moment. She takes another sip of wine.

“He’s taking the paperback sale very hard,” Nina says finally.

“Kill the messenger?”

Nina nods ruefully. “It’s difficult. We all know how much is riding on his next book.” Anne feels a tingle of foreboding at the back of her neck. Nina sets her wineglass on the counter and leans in to Anne. “He gave me a chapter and it’s sensational. But I can’t get him to send any more or even to discuss it with me.”