Lauren Weisberger - Chasing Harry Winston

“Russell, would you please decant the wine? Use the stemless glasses from the bar, if you will. Carol, the salad needs to be tossed with the vinaigrette. Everything else is finished, but I didn’t want that to get soggy while we waited. Leigh, dear, you may just be seated and relax. After all, tonight is your special night.”

She told herself it was paranoid and neurotic to interpret this as anything other than a compliment, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that it felt like a small attack. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll be the official relaxer.”

They discussed her parents’ trip over the arugula and goat cheese salad and told about their own engagement during the filet with asparagus and rosemary potatoes. Russell entertained the table with anecdotes of ring-shopping and planning the proposal, and Leigh’s parents smiled and laughed far more than was usual for either of them, and everything was quite civilized, almost even enjoyable, until Leigh’s cell phone rang in the middle of dessert.

She pulled her bag up from under the table and removed her phone.

“Leigh!” her mother chided. “We’re eating .”

“Yes, Mother, I know, but it’s Henry. Excuse me for a minute.” She took her phone and headed toward the living room but, realizing that everyone would be able to hear her, she ducked out back to the deck and heard her father say, “No publisher I ever worked with would call one of his editors at nine o’clock on a Friday night unless something was very, very wrong,” right before she pulled the door closed behind her.

“Hello?” she answered, convinced her father was right and that Henry was calling to fire her. It had been ten days since the whole Jesse Chapman debacle, and although Leigh had apologized numerous times, Henry still seemed distant and distracted.

“Leigh? Henry. Sorry for the late call, but it couldn’t wait until tomorrow.”

Here it comes , she thought, bracing for the news. It was bad enough to get fired from the publishing house where you were on track to be the youngest senior editor in history, but having to walk inside and tell her father was going to make it unbearable.

“It’s no problem. I’m at my parents’ and we just finished dinner, so it’s a perfect time. Is everything okay?”

Henry sighed. Shit. This could be worse than she thought. “You’re with Charles? That’s just perfect. He’s going to love this.”

Leigh took a deep breath and forced herself to speak. “Yes?” It sounded more like a squeak than a word.

“Are you sitting down? You’re not going to believe this. God knows I barely do.”

“Henry,” she said quietly. “Please.”

“I just hung up with Jesse Chapman…”

Oh, thank god , Leigh thought, her hands finally unclenching. He’s just calling to tell me that Jesse has chosen a publisher. She knew she should probably care whether or not he chose Brook Harris, but her relief was too all-encompassing.

“…and he has decided that he would like us to publish his next novel.”

“Henry, that’s wonderful! I couldn’t be more thrilled. And of course you know I’ll personally apologize to him again when-”

He interrupted. “I’m not finished, Leigh. He wants us to publish him, but he has a condition: He wants you to edit him.”

Leigh was just about to say “you’re kidding” when Henry spoke again.

“And this is not a joke.”

Leigh tried to swallow but her mouth felt like cotton. The combination of excitement, relief, and terror was too much to endure. “Henry, please.”

“Please what? Are you listening? Did you hear me? Number one New York Times bestselling author, winner of the Pultizer, seller of five million copies worldwide, and, up until this very moment, a complete and total vanishing act, has requested-no, excuse me, demanded -that you, Leigh Eisner, edit him.”

“No.”

“Leigh, pull it together. I don’t know how else to say this. He wants you and only you. He said that once he really made it, no one would be straight with him anymore. Everyone just coddled and indulged him and told him he was brilliant, but no one-not his editor or publisher or agent-would ever give it to him straight. And apparently he loved that you weren’t afraid to be honest with him. I think his exact words were ‘That girl has zero bullshit tolerance and so do I. I want to work with her.’”

“‘Zero bullshit tolerance’? Henry, my entire job description is based on telling authors only what they want to hear. Hell, my whole life is. Sometimes I slip up, but-”

“Slip up?”

“Okay, so that’s a slight understatement. So I’ve been known to talk without thinking, occasionally. But I don’t think I’m capable of honesty on demand. It just sort of comes out when I’m least expecting it.”

“Well, I certainly know that, but our friend Jesse does not. Nor will he.” He paused. “Leigh, I have to say I was every bit as shocked as you are, probably more, but I want you to listen very carefully. You have what it takes. I wouldn’t have agreed to this if I weren’t absolutely certain that you could handle it. And not just handle it-make it work. You certainly don’t need me to tell you how significant this will be to your career. Take some time this weekend, think this over, and come to my office when you get in Monday, okay? I’m behind you on this one, Leigh. It’s going to be great.”

Her family was discussing the wisdom of an engagement party when she returned to the table and quietly announced that she would be editing Jesse Chapman’s new book.

“Oh, he has a new book coming out?” her mother asked while pouring herself more coffee. “How lovely. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Russell was slightly more clued in, but not much. He was supportive, of course, and always seemed proud to tell his friends and colleagues about her job, and he knew that Leigh had most likely offended Jesse Chapman that day in Henry’s office, but authors like Jesse Chapman weren’t at the top of his personal reading list.

It didn’t really matter, though. The only person who understood the significance of the situation had heard her loud and clear: Her father looked as though someone had used his gut as a punching bag. “Jesse Chapman? The Jesse Chapman?”

Leigh just nodded, unable to trust herself to keep from gloating if she opened her mouth.

He recovered quickly and held aloft his wineglass for a toast, but Leigh could see the doubt and disbelief in his eyes. She knew he was thinking that there must be some mistake, that his daughter, so inexperienced when compared to his own illustrious career, would be editing an author bigger than any he had ever worked with. Leigh almost felt sympathetic-almost-when she saw that for the very first time in her life, her father the wordsmith, the great guru, the judge and jury extraordinaire, was speechless.

While the rest of America spent the long holiday weekend watching fireworks and attending poolside barbecues, Emmy slumped with her friends on the pavement at the Curaçao airport and tried to figure out when their vacation had gone so terribly awry. She didn’t even feel the sunglasses being stolen off her head. The thieves-two long-haired, pimply teenagers in a crumbling pickup truck-stopped a few hundred yards away, hung out the windows, and waved them at her while shouting gleefully in a language she didn’t recognize. Still unsure, Emmy touched her head to confirm they were gone.

“Why are those kids screaming at us?” Adriana asked, looking puzzled. “Are they trying to sell us those sunglasses?”

Answering felt like an overwhelming task. Emmy’s tongue was thick, unresponsive. It seemed like it should be quite simple to explain that those were her sunglasses, but no amount of effort on her part produced any actual sound.