Sebastian Stuart - The Mentor

“Just like that, after twenty-four years?” she asks.

Charles meets her gaze; he owes her that.

“I’m hoping we can remain friends,” he says.

They look at each other for a long time, compatriots for whom things will never be the same. Nina runs her fingers lightly up the back of her neck and then, as if a switch has been flicked, her jaw tightens.

“I’ll call you next time I need a golf partner.” She stands, walks to the door, and opens it. “Let Jeffrey know what you want from your files.”

Charles knows how difficult she could have made this, could still make it, and he’s grateful.

“Good-bye, Nina.”

As he walks down the long hallway he feels guilty and exhilarated in equal measure. By the time he reaches the lobby the exhilaration has overwhelmed the guilt. Firing Nina is just the sort of bold move he needs to make a new beginning. Look at the work he’s been doing with Emma. Why, he’s practically writing her book, and doing it with a fervor and imagination that surprises even him.

Charles grabs an apple off the kitchen counter and takes a bite. He strides into his office and stops cold: Portia is sitting across from Emma, wearing black and smoking a Pall Mall. She looks tired and tiny, but fierce nonetheless.

“Jesus Christ, Charles, I know I’m a wrinkled old bag, but I don’t look that bad.”

Charles struggles to regain his bearings; as far as he knows, Portia hasn’t been to Manhattan for years. How jarring to see her here, in this apartment, in this room-with Emma.

“Portia…”

“Another of the old Dartmouth dinosaurs bought the farm, so I crawled out from under my rock to see the old bastard off.”

“Emma, why don’t you take a break, get some air.”

Emma stands up and puts on her coat.

“Don’t take any crap from this guy,” Portia says.

Emma laughs. “I’ll try not to.”

Charles watches as Emma walks down the hallway.

“Why, I’d love a drink,” Portia says, reaching for her cane. She follows Charles into his office and sits down with a sigh. He pours two shots of Scotch, fighting to control the slight trembling of his hands.

“Bright girl,” Portia says after taking a healthy swallow.

Charles notes the twinkle in her eye. “Oh, you two had a chance to talk?”

“No, I was too shy.”

Charles fidgets with a tiny iron sailor he uses as a paperweight. Even after all these years, Portia has the ability to reduce him to a rattled kid. She’s too fucking honest, like a moral flashlight aimed into his soul’s darkest corners. Charles is sure she can tell that he and Emma are sleeping together. What else can she tell?

“What did you discuss?”

“She was very tight-lipped. You have her well trained. She said how interesting it was to work for you, how much she was learning.”

Charles looks down into his drink. A pigeon coos on the window ledge.

“What’s her background?” Portia asks.

“She’s from some kind of broken home. I can’t get much out of her. Tight-lipped, as you say.”

Portia polishes off her drink and holds out her glass for a refill. “How are you, Charles?”

Charles wonders if he should tell her about firing Nina. They never talk career, only the work itself. Why bother her? Why get into all that explaining?

“I’m taking your advice, trying to stay in the game.”

“Good. When can I read something?”

“Why is everyone on me? You can all read it soon enough.” Charles immediately regrets his outburst. He stands up and walks over to the bookcase that’s filled with foreign language editions of his books. “This is the Japanese edition of Down for the Count. Some cover, huh?… Don’t look at me like that, Portia.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m going crazy or something.”

“Charles, you’ve never stooped to melodrama.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve been working too hard. But it’s good. I think I’m on to something.”

Portia knocks back her drink and stands. “Well, that’s what I came to hear. Now let me catch my plane out of this hellhole.”

Charles holds Portia’s arm as they wait for the doorman to hail a cab. He has rarely touched her before and he feels self-conscious; he can feel her small bones and can tell she doesn’t like being held. They don’t look at each other.

“Send me something soon, Charles. I need reasons to stick around.”

“It’s always good to see you,” he says.

“What’s left of me.”

At that, Portia smiles up at Charles. No, she beams, her whole face lighting up, embracing the absurdity, the futility, of the human condition, and suddenly it’s nearly thirty years ago and Charles is a young man sitting in a New England classroom being inspired by a lonely woman who burns with a ferocious passion for the written word.

“There’s lots left, Portia, lots.”

It must be the New York air pollution that’s making tears well up in Portia’s eyes. Mercifully, a cab pulls up. The doorman holds open the door and just as Portia is about to climb inside, she turns.

“And, Charles?”

“Yes?”

“Be nice to that girl.”

“I’ll try.”

Through the rear window, Charles sees Portia defiantly light up a cigarette. Woe be to that driver if he asks her to put it out. Then the cab disappears into the New York traffic.

Anne is walking down Sixth Avenue toward Le Bernardin to have lunch with her mother. It’s a cool sunny day and the air is deliciously dry. She’s decided to have the baby. If Farnsworth is the father, so be it. The child will still be hers. And if her marriage to Charles falls apart she won’t be alone. She’ll have Eliza, or Luke. She pulls her phone out of her purse.

“Kayla.”

“Anne.”

“I’m sorry I hung up on you.”

“No big deal. What’s up?”

“I’m going to have the baby.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Anne, that’s sensational.”

“You’re going to be a godmother.”

“Whatever the hell that is.”

“Think expensive presents, savings bonds, that kind of thing.”

“I’m going to come to New York and throw you a huge garish shower. We’ll invite all sorts of celebs, get lots of press. You can start a new catalog called Kids at Home.”

“It’s already being prototyped.”

“It’s a bitch being best friends with a genius.”

“Don’t I know it. I’m on my way to have lunch with Mom, tell her the news.”

“Oh, God, she’s going to be so thrilled her face-lifts will crack. Even rich right-wingers love grandchildren. Makes them feel almost human. How’s Charles taking impending fatherhood?”

“Haven’t told him yet. Tonight.”

Anne walks into the cool confines of Le Bernardin. Suddenly she’s famished, longing for something rich and slightly ghastly, like a baked stuffed lobster. The maitre d’ is expecting her and escorts her to the choice front table where her mother is sitting. There’s a man sitting with her, his back to Anne.

“Darling, there you are!” Frances exclaims.

The man turns. It’s John Farnsworth. Anne feels her mouth go dry, her stomach hollow out. She puts a hand on the back of a chair to steady herself.

“Anne, how splendid to see you,” Farnsworth says, standing and bowing slightly, a gentleman of the old school.

The maitre d’ pulls out Anne’s chair and she sits.

“Anne, you look pale.”

“I’m fine, Mother. Hello, John.”

“I’m on my way out, I just popped over to flirt with your mother,” Farnsworth says. “Of course she’s much too young for me.”

Frances laughs at the cheap flattery. She looks exquisite in a Barbara Sinatra-ish kind of way, her skin tight and luminous, her golden hair sweeping down to frame her face. She’s wearing a beige wool suit with pink velvet trim-a southern Californian’s idea of autumn style. She lays a hand on one of Anne’s.