Chasing Harry Winston (23 page)

“Like shit,” Leigh said without a moment’s hesitation.

Jesse laughed and pushed the door open. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

Leigh looked around. She took in the creaky floors and the gigantic, well-worn farmhouse table and the crocheted blanket flung haphazardly across the sofa and, although she had already fallen in love with the whole house based on this first room, sighed loudly for effect and said, “Jesse, Jesse, Jesse…did you really spend
all
your earnings on cocaine and hookers, like the tabloids claim?”

He shook his head. “Cocaine,
booze
, and hookers.”

“I stand corrected.”

“Okay, then, should we get started? I mostly work out back, through the living room, so why don’t you get set up there and I’ll bring drinks.” He pulled open the fridge and bent sideways to look inside. “Let’s see, I’ve got beer, some shitty white wine, some not-so-shitty rosé, and Bloody Mary mix. I think it’s a bit early for red, don’t you?”

“I think it’s a bit early for any of it. I’ll take a Diet Coke.”

Jesse snapped his fingers and pulled a half-full bottle of Ketel from the freezer. “Excellent choice. One Bloody Mary, coming right up.”

She already knew there was no point in arguing with him, and besides, he looked like he needed a drink to take the edge off last night’s hangover. Leigh vaguely remembered what that was like. Back in her postcollege years in the city, when her body allowed her to drink until three and still be at work by nine, she’d occasionally had a few sips of wine with breakfast to ease the pain. She remembered all the nights out with Emmy and Adriana, traipsing across the city, from happy hour to birthday party, drinking too much, smoking too much, and kissing too many nameless, faceless boys. God, that seemed like forever ago…the seven, eight years felt like a lifetime. Now the heels were never quite so high (how had she ever worn something so uncomfortable?) and the packed bars had given way to more civilized restaurants (thank god) and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d stayed up all night for any reason other than work or insomnia. But, Leigh reminded herself, some of those happy memories must have been revisionist history. How could they not have been? Back then there was no prestigious job, no independently owned and operated apartment, and certainly no doting fiancé.

Leigh wandered through the skylight-lit living room and opened the sliding glass door to reveal one of the most welcoming outdoor spaces she’d ever seen. It wasn’t a backyard so much as an oasis in the middle of the forest. Huge towering oaks and maples created an enclosed area that was covered with inviting, but not overly manicured, green grass. A small gunite pool—so small that perhaps it was only a plunge pool or a hot tub—was flanked by two chaises, a table, and chairs, and seemed to blend into the background, allowing one’s attention to focus on the real draw: a perfect little pond, maybe twenty feet by thirty, with a floating, cushioned sun dock and the simplest of wooden rowboats tethered to the shore. Behind the pond, at the very edge of the property, tucked under a cluster of leafy trees, was a Balinese-style teak daybed, the kind that easily fits two people and provides shade from a roof atop its four posts. It was all Leigh could do not to walk directly to the daybed and collapse; she wondered how, with so beautiful and relaxing a place, Jesse ever got anything done.

“Not bad, huh?” he asked, stepping onto the stone patio and handing her a Bloody Mary complete with celery stalk and lime.

“My god, this place doesn’t look like much from the front—or the inside, really—but this…
this
is gorgeous.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“No, really, have you thought about having this photographed? I can so picture it in one of those design magazines, what are they called?
Dwell
. It’s perfect for
Dwell
.”

He ran his hands through his hair and swigged from his bottle of Budweiser. “Unlikely.”

“No, really, I think it could be—”

“No reporters or photographers in my home,
ever
.”

“I hear that,” Leigh agreed, although she couldn’t help but remember the spread of Russell’s apartment she’d seen in
Elle Décor
before they’d ever even met. It was included in an article on the city’s best bachelor pads and featured Russell’s ultramodern TriBeCa loft as its pièce de résistance. At the time Leigh had pored over the pictures of the kitchen, which looked industrial enough to serve as a catering hall; the wenge platform bed, which was so low it may as well have been a mattress on the floor; and the bathroom, which looked like it was pulled directly from a W Hotel and plunked down in the middle of the apartment. She’d read that the place was twenty-two hundred square feet of completely open space, huge windows, and hardwood floors lacquered black, but it wasn’t until their third date that Leigh saw it for herself. Since then, she’d spent as little time there as humanly possible; all that steel and black lacquer and all those sharp corners made her even more nervous than usual.

Jesse took a seat at the table and motioned for Leigh to claim the one opposite him. After another slow, deliberate pull on his beer, he took a deep breath, undid the clasp on a tatty canvas messenger bag, and pulled a phonebook-sized sheaf of paper from its center. He presented this to Leigh with both hands, the way an Asian waiter might present a check or a business card. “Be gentle,” he said quietly.

“I thought you wanted honesty, not gentleness?” She took the manuscript and placed it in front of her, not sure how she could resist tearing into it for another moment. “‘No one’s straight with me, I’m coddled and yessed and I just want an editor who’s going to tell it like it is.’” She imitated the speech she was told he’d made in their first meeting in Henry’s office.

Jesse lit a cigarette and said, “That was all bravado. Bullshit. I’m a complete baby who can barely handle constructive criticism, much less a thorough slashing.”

Leigh pressed her palms into the table and smiled. “Well, that, Jesse Chapman, makes you exactly like every other author I know. I haven’t had any God complexes yet, but a debilitating lack of self-confidence coupled with constant self-doubt and self-flagellation?
That
I can handle.”

Jesse held up his cigarette in a “stop” motion. “Whoa, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. That”—he pointed to the manuscript—“is this year’s, if not this
decade’s
, finest contribution to literature—of that much I’m sure. I was just requesting a little sensitivity on the off-chance you should run across a paragraph or two that’s not to your liking.”

“Ah, yes, of course. A paragraph or two. I’m sure there won’t even be that much.” Leigh nodded in mock seriousness.

“Excellent. I’m glad we’re on the same page.” He paused and peered at her and then said, “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you going to read it?”

“I will once you leave me alone.”

Jesse’s eyes widened. “Alone? I didn’t know that was standard procedure.”

Leigh laughed. “You know as well as I do that nothing about this is standard procedure.”

Jesse feigned a look of innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Standard would be my boss editing your book, not me. Standard would be me having read your manuscript—or even just an outline and a sample chapter—before driving two and a half hours to meet with you. Standard would—”

Jesse held up his hands as though to block himself from the onslaught and stood up. “I’m bored,” he announced. “Holler if you need anything. I’ll be upstairs taking a nap.” Without another word, he disappeared inside the house.

It was a moment or two before Leigh realized her fingernails were digging into her palms. Did he try to irritate her, or was it something that just came naturally for him? Was he kidding about being oversensitive to criticism, or thinking this book—whatever it was about—really was the second coming, or was that all just a facade? He could be so charming and irreverent and witty, and then—
bam!
—a switch flipped and he reverted right back to the cocky asshole everyone reported him to be.

She checked her watch and saw that she had another hour to kill until she could check into the hotel, so with a sip of Bloody Mary and a lustful eye toward the pack of cigarettes Jesse had left behind, she began to read. The novel began at the Foreign Correspondents’ Club in Phnom Penh and included a displaced, hard-drinking American narrator that Leigh couldn’t help thinking felt very familiar. Not plagiarism familiar, just a bit hackneyed:
The End of the Affair, The Quiet American
, and
Acts of Faith
came immediately to mind. This alone didn’t much worry her—it was easy enough to change—but as she read the next few pages, and then the pages after those, her concern increased. The story itself—about a twentysomething kid who stumbles into best-sellerdom with his very first book—was compelling in a wonderfully voyeuristic way; not surprising, considering the author’s firsthand knowledge. It was the actual writing that worried her: It was flat, unoriginal, even droning at times. Totally un-Jesse-like. She took a deep breath and reminded herself it could have been far worse. Had the story itself been a disaster, she wouldn’t have even known where to start.

By the time Jesse shuffled back an hour later, bleary-eyed but having traded in his beer for a bottle of water, Leigh was beginning to realize how very out of her league she was. How on earth was
she
, Leigh Eisner, junior editor and until now virgin editor of any bestselling author, supposed to tell one of the most literarily and commercially successful authors of his generation that, in its current incarnation, his newest effort wasn’t going to top any bestseller lists? The answer, she realized, was simple: She wouldn’t.

Jesse lit a cigarette and slid the pack to her across the table. “Live a little. You’ve been eyeing them all day.”

“I have?”

He nodded.

So she did. Without another second’s consideration and only a fleeting thought of how disappointed Russell would be if he knew, she plucked one from the pack, placed it between her lips, and leaned eagerly into the match Jesse held out. She was surprised that the first inhale burned her lungs and tasted so harsh, but the second and third were much smoother.

“A whole year down the drain,” she said ruefully before inhaling again.

Jesse shrugged. “You don’t strike me as someone who overindulges in booze or drugs or food or…anything, really. If smoking a cigarette every now and then is going to make you happy, why not just enjoy it?”

“If I could only smoke one every now and then, I would,” Leigh said. “The problem is that I have one and ten minutes later I’m working my way through a pack.”

“Ah, so Ms. Put Together has a weakness after all.” Jesse smiled.

“Great, I’m happy my addiction struggles amuse you.”

“I don’t find it so much amusing as endearing.” He paused and appeared to think for a moment. “But yes, I suppose it’s amusing, too.”

“Thanks.”

Jesse motioned toward the manuscript and said, “Any thoughts so far, or is it not
standard procedure
to discuss it until you’re finished?” He swigged from his water bottle.

Relieved he’d given her an out when she hadn’t yet thought of one herself, Leigh said vaguely, “I’m only seventy pages in, so I’d rather wait until I’ve finished.” She coughed.

Jesse peered at her with an intensity Leigh found discomfiting. He seemed to be studying her face for clues, and after nearly a full minute, she could feel herself start to blush. Still, he didn’t say anything.

“So, I should, uh, probably get checked into the hotel,” Leigh said, dropping her cigarette into the makeshift ashtray Jesse had made from his Poland Spring bottle.

“Yes.”

“Should I come back here afterward, or would you rather meet somewhere else? The hotel lobby? A cafe? How does four, four-thirty sound?” The tension was palpable and unnerving; Leigh had to remind herself to stop talking.

“Come back here, but not until you’ve finished the manuscript.”

Leigh laughed but quickly saw that Jesse wasn’t kidding. “It’ll take me another five, six hours minimum to read it all the way through. We could get started talking about timing, at least.” When Leigh realized she sounded like she was asking his permission, she mustered up her most authoritative voice and said, “Henry made it very clear that this deadline is nonnegotiable.”

“Leigh, Leigh, Leigh,” he said, sounding somehow disappointed. “Every deadline is negotiable. Please read the manuscript. Come back whenever you’re finished. As you may imagine, I am not early to bed.”

She shrugged in a halfhearted attempt to convey casualness and gathered her things. “If you want to be up until all hours, it’s fine with me.”

He lit another cigarette and leaned back in his chair. “Don’t be cross, Leigh. It’s going to take us a little while to find our process. Be patient with it.”

Leigh snorted and, without thinking, said, “‘Find our process’? ‘Be patient with it’? What, did you learn that at one of your ashrams, post-rehab? Wait, are you still recovering?”

For a fleeting moment he looked as though he’d been slapped, but he recovered quickly and grinned. “Glad to hear at least you’ve read up on me,” he said with a smoky exhale.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to—”

“Please, Leigh, run along now.” He waved his cigarette toward the door. “I haven’t had an editor in many years, so forgive me if I’m a bit unwieldy at first, will you?”

Leigh nodded.

“Excellent. I look forward to seeing you later. No need to call first; just come whenever. Happy reading.”

As she navigated her rental down Jesse’s unpaved driveway, Leigh realized that she had no real idea if their first meeting had been a decent jumping-off point or an unmitigated disaster. But she suspected, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, it was probably the latter.