Sebastian Stuart - The Mentor

“Oh, I’m sorry. This is Charles. Sue and I went to high school together.”

“Hi. I just can’t get over how different you look,” Sue says.

Emma smiles, still biting her lip. “We’re not kids anymore.” She quickly changes the subject. “What are you doing in New York?”

“The tourist thing, while we still have a chance.” She pats her stomach and smiles. “What about you?”

“I live here. I have a job. I’m-”

Charles jumps in. “Emma works for me, she’s my very able assistant.”

“You look familiar,” Sue says.

“Charles Davis? The writer?” Emma says.

“Wow. I saw the miniseries Kings and Clowns. Didn’t you write that?”

“I wrote the book it was based on.”

“Cool,” Cliff says.

“God, Emma,” Sue says. “In Munsonville they’d-”

“I know. Charles has been great. He’s helping me.”

Charles takes Emma’s arm and firmly leads her off. “Enjoy New York,” he says.

“Good-bye, Emma. Take care,” Sue calls after them.

After the ferry docks, Charles and Emma walk along the Battery Park promenade. It’s late afternoon and the park is virtually empty. The clouds have crowded out the sun, turning the sky, the water, the world, gray-that singular Manhattan gray that seems to have tiny shards of reflective light scattered through it. They walk slowly, Emma absently nibbling on popcorn they bought at a little stand outside the ferry terminal.

“Were you close friends with that Sue?”

“No, not really.”

“Family friend?”

“No, we were in the same class, that’s all. She was nice, but we didn’t really have anything in common.”

“Did you have a lot of friends growing up?”

“What is this-Twenty Questions?”

A tugboat chugs by close to shore; its horn blasts.

“Emma?”

“Hmmm?”

“I don’t think we should discuss the book with anyone.”

Emma tosses a handful of popcorn to a squirrel and out of nowhere a blizzard of pigeons descends.

“Look, Charles, we have this whole park to ourselves, just us and the pigeons and squirrels.”

“You see, Emma, there are a lot of pitfalls for a young artist.”

“Are there, Charles?” Suddenly Emma runs ahead of him and jumps up on a bench. “I can’t believe Sue married that lug. Now she’s stuck in that town forever. And I got out! I got out!” Emma upends the rest of the popcorn, and is quickly surrounded by a sea of fluttering wings and bobbing tails.

As Charles approaches, Emma jumps down off the bench and puts her arm through his. “I really am a writer, aren’t I?” she says, trying on the identity like an expensive coat, one she lusts after but thought she could never afford.

“I would say so. Listen, I really think it’s crucial that we keep our work to ourselves for the time being. Talking about it diffuses the energy.”

“Who do I have to talk about it with? I don’t think my Chinese grocer has much of a literary bent, even if he could speak English. I suppose I could call the psychic hot line and ask them how the book is going to end.”

“Emma, I’m serious. Will you promise me you won’t discuss it with anyone?”

Emma smiles up at him. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Charles ducks into the damp dark of the midtown tavern. It’s eleven-thirty in the morning and the place is just gearing up for the lunch rush, waitresses getting their stations set up, the soft clink of glass and silverware, the comforting smell of simple food and decades of drinking. He orders a double Scotch and water. He needs a drink to steel himself for the job ahead. It’s really quite simple: Nina has to go. The paperback sale was a joke. And she hasn’t even sold the film rights. He needs a young agent, somebody hip, with a big L.A. presence. Someone who can make him a lot of money. Fast. And then there’s Nina’s gushing over Emma’s primitive prose. It’s damn good, sure- he’d been the first one to recognize that-but the way she goes on you’d think Emma was the second coming of Faulkner. The book is in much better shape now, thanks to him, but the last person he wants to give it to is some over-the-hill agent who would probably sell it for a fraction of its worth. Poor Nina.

The portly bartender comes out of the kitchen carrying a big plate of french fries, which he secretes under his bar, shoving two or three into his face at a time. Charles remembers a crazy midsummer day about fifteen years ago when he and Nina had cabbed out to Coney Island to satisfy a mutual craving for hots dogs and fries. They’d stuffed themselves like pigs at Nathan’s, giggling, celebratory, madly in love with each other’s success. And then they rode the Cyclone, Charles with his arm protectively around Nina, wanting the world to think they were lovers. They’d walked along the Boardwalk for miles, for hours, as the long day gave way to dusk and dusk to night. They were partners, and it was forever.

Well, forever is for fairy tales. This is a New York story.

As the elevator soars silently to the thirty-ninth floor of Nina’s office building, Charles sucks on his breath mint. He’s even worn a suit, a dark gray suit, to signify the solemnity of the occasion. He steps off the elevator and into the offices of the Nina Bradley Literary Agency. Esther-efficient, unflappable Esther, who’s worked for Nina since the early days-sits at the reception desk.

“Good morning, Mr. Davis.”

“Esther. Is Nina in her office?”

“She is. Shall I tell her you’re here?”

“I’ll just head down.”

Charles walks down the long, carpeted hallway, lined with publicity posters for books Nina represents, Charles’s prominent among them, past offices where well-dressed agents are working the phones. Jeffrey, Nina’s latest assistant, a stylish young man Charles assumes is gay, leaps up from his desk when he sees Charles approach.

“Mr. Davis. Good morning. Is Nina expecting you?”

“No.”

Jeffrey picks up his phone. “Nina, Charles Davis is here… Of course.”

Jeffrey hangs up and leads Charles across the hall.

Nina’s pale gray office is dominated by her Pollock, bought when he was still affordable. Every line cool and uncluttered, the room epitomizes a certain post-World War II vision of modernism, a Midtown soul mate of Philip Johnson’s New Canaan glass house. Guess what, Nina, the world’s moved on.

Nina rises from her desk and crosses to Charles, taking his hand in her own. He’s always loved the feel of Nina’s hands and in a rush of emotion he considers ditching his plan.

“Charles, what a surprise. Can Jeffrey get you a cup of coffee? Something to drink?”

Charles shakes his head and remains standing. Jeffrey disappears.

“Charles, I am on such a high about this new book. When will I get more? I want to send a chapter to the New Yorker.”

How can she do that? How can she think some unformed, uneducated kid from the outskirts of nowhere is a better writer than Charles Davis?

“Nina, please. This isn’t a courtesy call… This is difficult.”

Nina’s face grows grave. She sits behind her desk and waits for him to continue.

“For the first two decades of my career, I couldn’t have asked for a better agent, but the last two books have been a disappointment. I feel that you mishandled them.”

“You call the quarter-million advance I got you on Down for the Count mishandled?”

“I’m not talking about money. I need a fresh start, a rebirth. A resurrection.”

“You’re leaving me.”

“I’m leaving you.”

Nina looks down at her desk. Charles knows there won’t be any tears, any curses, a scene. Breaks like this are best accomplished quickly, cleanly. In the end, it’s all about the work. When she looks up at him all her polish and poise and sophistication are gone.