Rafael Yglesias - Hot Properties

“Hi. I’m sorry.”

“Hi,” she said with genuine surprise and enthusiasm. “What for?”

“Tuesday night. I was a lousy date. I’m sorry. The office was in turmoil—”

“I know! Do you still have your job?” Patty asked with naive seriousness.

David laughed. “I guess so.”

“Do you like this guy Rounder? Who is he?”

“You’re really up on this.”

“I love page six! Read it every day.”

“Well, I haven’t met him. I don’t think anybody has. It was a real mess this week. I was writing the cover and there were all these rumors. I know I was grumpy.”

“You sure were.”

David laughed. “That’s right. Don’t spare my feelings.”

They both laughed. Patty remembered David had started to talk about the changes at Newstime when they met for dinner Tuesday, but she had assumed it meant little to him personally and hadn’t really let him talk. Maybe the stalling conversation and bad sex of the evening were due to her lack of attention. She had been very self-concerned lately.

“Let me take you out to dinner to apologize,” David said.

They met at a bar between her sublet and his loft. He was fun this time. He quickly ordered and put away three drinks while explaining his week. Patty found the names and various alliances confusing, but the general impression, that David was a dynamic force in the midst of a power struggle for control of one of America’s most important magazines, was exciting. She was glad she had her romance novel to discuss when he was done talking about his job. She suspected he thought she was flighty and at loose ends (I am, she thought), but having Shadow Books alleviated that worry.

Indeed, David was interested. He insisted on going back to her sublet — thank God I washed the dishes before leaving, she thought — to look at the guide sheet. He was charming about the whole thing, sufficiently irreverent to read the empty and gaudy prose aloud and yet not snobbish about her plan to write one. “It’s great money,” he said, “if you knock them out in three or four weeks.”

“And if they’re popular, you can be rich!” Patty said in a tone of absolute trust that life could have dramatic and happy changes of fortune.

“You mean it can be more than just a flat fee of five thousand?” David asked. They were on the bed, Patty sitting with her legs under her, David lying down, his head propped up by pillows, his legs stretched out behind her back. He seemed relaxed, friendly. There was little of the judgmental and therefore cautious atmosphere of a date. He behaved like an old friend or lover would. It seemed so long since she had felt this at ease. When she broke up with her college boyfriend five years ago, she had told him that she wanted romance and adventure: their quiet intimacy had become too fraternal. She believed, from their perfunctory and routine sex to their dull social life of seeing movies and going to dancing parties, that their life together was more teenage than adult, and their closeness more a fearful need for company than a desire to be intimate. But in the years since, the loss of that safety had become frightening. Patty often felt desired by men, but rarely loved in the way that her family of two brothers and a sister made her feel. David was prepared to share her fantasy of writing these romances and becoming rich. It was a simple exchange of trust and interest — but it had been a long time since a man had been willing to make the bargain.

“Yes!” Patty said, unafraid to expose her greedy scenario. “If the first two I write are popular, then I can negotiate for royalties. Elizabeth Reynolds makes over a million a year writing them.”

David picked up Dark Harvest. He had read aloud from it earlier, sarcastically intoning the puffed-up prose. He opened it to the middle and silently read a paragraph.

“Foul, isn’t it?” Patty said. “Can I stand doing it?”

“For a million dollars a year? You sure can.” He read another paragraph with a serious and studious air. When he was finished, he put the book down and looked at Patty. His eyes had a distant, thoughtful look. Then he laughed. “It’s not any different than what I do.”

“This junk?”

“Yeah. It’s a formula. Take the heroine to an exotic place so the frustrated housewife feels she’s taking the trips that she knows her husband will never be able to afford. Newstime and the Weekly create the feeling for their readers that they’re in the know. I write my stories about the President and the government in a confidential tone, like the reader is getting inside dope nobody else gets. And it’s bullshit. I’m taking bureau reports from reporters who, for the most part, get handed briefings. To be sure, sometimes some of our better reporters get a real story, but always because someone inside has decided to let the cat out of the bag, and our guy just happens to be there.”

Patty put her hand on his leg and stroked him soothingly. “No, David. Don’t be hard on yourself. What you do is really important.” She pointed to Dark Harvest. “This is trash.”

“Don’t worry. You don’t have to reassure me. I’m not depressed about my work. I just meant …” He stared off and didn’t continue.

Patty moved her hand up his leg, heading toward his groin. Her eyes were wide open and attentive, waiting for David to finish his sentence. But he said nothing. She reached his penis and rubbed.

His eyes focused on her.

“Yes?” she said with a smile, the knowing smile of a seductress.

He smiled. “You’re beautiful.”

She silently mouthed “thank you” and continued her massage of his erection.

“Mmmm,” David said, closing his eyes. When he opened them a moment later, he looked into Patty’s eyes. She watched her effect on him proudly.

“You like this?” she asked.

“Un-huh,” he said, feeling helpless. Happily, warmly helpless.

“What were you going to say?”

David laughed. “I don’t remember.”

“Good,” Patty said with a triumphant look.

“Good!” David laughed.

“That means,” she said, opening her mouth wide and leaning in to kiss him, “that I’m doing a good job.”

After his meeting with Bart and his purchase of several new Brooks Brothers shirts, Fred went home and called Marion at her office. He breathlessly told her the story.

She burst out laughing when he mentioned spilling the coffee.

“I’ve seen that white rug. Bart must have shit a brick.”

“No, no. It didn’t bother him. Anyway, listen! Stop laughing.”

“Sorry.”

“He’s given the outline to Bob Holder, who he says is already interested.”

“Holder’s already interested?”

“Well,” Fred said defensively. “Bart said that Holder thought it was a good premise. And he insisted that he get it exclusively.”

“Un-huh,” Marion said.

“What?” Fred said. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Oh, sure. It’s just that …” She hesitated.

“What?” Fred demanded.

“Don’t get your hopes up, okay, Freddy? Holder likes to make a fuss. He wants everything exclusive. Doesn’t mean he’s gonna buy it.”

“I know that,” he snapped. “You don’t have to tell me that. I was just telling you what Bart said. Of course I know it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Okay. I’m sorry. Listen. I’d better get back to work.”

“Sure. Look. Let’s go out tonight. To a movie or something?”

“Uh, I don’t know. The nouvelle cuisine book is due to—”

“We’ll go to an early movie. Come on.”

“Okay, Fred. Call me later. I got to go.”

And she hung up. He looked at the receiver in his hand as if it had spat in his face. She had no faith in him, he decided. She thinks I’ll never be a novelist. He thought back to her reaction when he announced that he was going to turn down American Sport magazine articles for a year and try to get a contract for a novel.