Freudian Slip (20 page)

H
ELEN AND
K
ATE SAT
in a restaurant in Tudor City, close to Helen's apartment, sipping champagne. Kate picked at her appetizer—rare tuna on a bed of mustard greens. Helen was eating a shrimp cocktail.

“I have to tell you, Kate,” Helen said, lifting her flute of bubbly. “I'm a sucker for a happy ending. Especially when it involves my publishing house.”

Kate smiled and lifted her glass to Helen. “We did it.”

“
The Jackal's Famine
sets the stage
perfectly
for the third book. It's in its third printing. We topped the
New York Times
list. And…the pièce de résistance?”

“What's that?”

“Leslie was fired for falsifying her academic credentials. I don't know how she slipped by our HR department.”

“I honestly thought she graduated.”

“Well…I would never wish misfortune on anyone, but I have to say, it sounds like karma to me.”

“Maybe.”

“And then there's the matter of your engagement. I know he hurt you, Kate, but David, at least as far as I can see, is doing everything and anything he can to prove he's worthy of your trust again. He turned down the other offer in order to re-sign with us. He doesn't even have writer's block anymore, thanks to his muse.”

Kate stared into her champagne as the bubbles danced to the surface. “Yes. The third book will be great, Helen.”

“So if we're here to celebrate our mutual good fortune, to your astounding success as an editor, to our big fat bonuses, to your engagement to a man who, thanks to your being his muse, will make you a very wealthy and powerful New York literary couple, tell me something—as your friend.”

“What's that, Helen?”

“Why do you seem so unhappy? You lack a certain…sparkle.”

“Have you been talking to Todd?”

Helen blushed slightly. “Well, if a woman needs to know the best inside scoop, there's no better source in that company than Todd. And he genuinely cares about you, Kate.”

“I know.” Kate looked across the restaurant. Each table was surrounded by a light muslinlike
cloth that floated down from the eighteen-foot ceilings and cocooned each set of diners, affording them privacy. Through the soft-white filmy drapes, she saw a couple eating together and staring into each other's eyes. Even from four tables away, Kate sensed a powerful connection between them.

“So what is it?” Helen asked.

Kate sighed. “I have no idea.”

“None? I know you, Kate. You're the most honest, self-aware woman I know. For a twenty-something, you have the wisdom of a…well, fiftysomething.”

Kate smiled. “And for a fiftysomething, you look like an early-fortysomething.”

Helen leaned in close. “A little Botox, hon.”

Kate sipped her champagne. Todd had guessed about the Botox months before.

“So you still didn't answer the question.”

“I wish I knew. Honest. I…guess I'm longing for something that I'm not sure ever really existed.”

“Does this have to do with David…Leslie?”

“No.” Kate shook her head. “It has to do with someone I once knew, or thought I did, anyway. The love of my life. And for complicated reasons, it didn't work out. And I guess I feel like I am going to spend the rest of my life comparing every
person, every event, every moment to what I had with him—and nothing measures up.”

“Let me tell you something, Kate…Have you ever wondered why I never married?”

“It's crossed my mind. But I know how important your career is to you. As you always say, books are your babies.”

“Well, that's not entirely true. I've had offers. But not the
right
offer.”

Their waiter came and cleared their appetizers. He poured them each more champagne. After he left, Helen continued. “When I was twenty-three, I fell madly in love with an artist. He was tremendously talented. Tremendously tortured.”

“I know the type.”

“But he was…I know it sounds so silly, but he was my soul mate. When I was around him, I could literally swoon. Literally get weak-kneed. Not just an expression, Kate. I couldn't stand. My legs would turn to jelly. I would hear his voice and get almost ill with desire for him.”

“
That's
love…. So what happened?”

“He rode a Harley. Died in a motorcycle crash. He was hit head-on by a drunk driver.”

Kate gasped. “I am so sorry, Helen. I had no idea.”

“No one does. I don't speak of him.”

“And so…?”

“So, every man who has ever come after Leo hasn't measured up. They're not as smart or as talented or as good in bed or as funny. But most of all, they don't seem to fit with me. It's like, I'm a whole person, and I'm a key, and I fit in someone's lock. I haven't found another lock that matches the way he did. And I'm not going to settle. And I'm not—and this is the most important part, Kate—I'm not going to file down my edges so I fit with someone else. I'm just not.”

Kate lifted her flute and took a big sip. “But Helen, what if there is no lock for me?”

“Then that's okay, too. It's all right—it's enough—to know you once had one. At least that's how I feel.”

Kate looked at her mentor with even more respect. “You know, Helen…you are the smartest woman I've ever met.”

“Well, don't sell yourself short. In any area of your life.”

The two of them continued their meal. Then Kate walked to the subway. At the street corner, she gave Helen a hug.

“Thanks. I'll figure it all out. I will.”

“I know.”

Kate waved goodbye and entered the bowels of
New York City. Usually the smell of the subway made her feel claustrophobic, the air so hot. With a whoosh, the train arrived and whisked her down to Greenwich Village. She entered her building and checked her mail in the vestibule. Zack strode through the doorway.

“Hi, Kate.”

“Hi, Zack.” Her eyes widened slightly. “Good to see you out.”

“Yeah.” He grinned sheepishly. “I keep having these weird dreams. My grandmother, who's been dead for ten years now, telling me to go play chess over in the park. I used to all the time.”

“You should.”

“I know. It's time for me to get out again, Kate.”

She smiled at him. “I'm glad.”

He nodded. “For some reason, last night it was like she wouldn't shut up. So I figure if I'm going to get any sleep at all, I better go and play. Then maybe she won't come to me in my dreams. I mean, I loved my grandmother, but…I need my sleep.”

“Well, good luck.”

“I'm rusty.”

“It's like riding a bicycle. You won't forget.”

Kate entered the building and climbed the stairs to her apartment door.

“Not again!” Her apartment was trashed. Furniture upended.

“Honey!” She called for her dog, who trotted out.

Kate righted the furniture again. She looked at the stereo—still there. The TV she had finally bought. There.

She picked up a bat she kept in an umbrella stand and walked to her bedroom door. Nothing in there was disturbed at all.

Suddenly, she smelled the strong scent of Armani. She turned around, but no one was there.

“The freezer!” she screamed.

She ran into the kitchen, dropping the bat and opening the freezer door. She pushed aside several Lean Cuisine dinners and some frozen vegetables. The coffee can was still there.

Relaxing slightly, she pulled it out and pulled off the lid. The velvet jewelry bag was still there. She pushed it aside.

“Where's the paper?” she screamed. She kept it in an envelope, inside a baggie. She put the can down and emptied every single item in the freezer, then her fridge, even though she knew it wasn't there.

Jules's dictation. That night. It was gone.

A sob escaped from somewhere deep inside her. She slid down to the floor, clutching her sides. It made no sense. Her apartment was broken into
again and all the thief took was her most prized possession. The one piece of proof she had that she wasn't crazy.

That Jules had existed.

J
ULIAN WALKED
—albeit with muscle-straining effort, two Percocets for breakfast, a cane and leaning on Frank—into the conference room high above Manhattan. The radio station's corporate digs overlooked Rockefeller Center. Prime New York real estate.

When he had entered the station, he'd gotten a standing ovation. Two of the interns he had once screwed in an amazing drunken threesome gave him a bouquet of roses and promises of massages.
Naked
massages. His boss had real Cuban cigars and Patron waiting for him.

Once in the conference room, after some applause, Julian sat down at the long cherrywood table. Thirty or so suits and skirts looked at him. The VP of the company had prepared a speech, which he managed to make sound off-the-cuff, a schmoozy technique Julian would have admired at one point.

“It's been a long road, ladies and gentlemen. And
it's taken tremendous courage on the part of Julian Shaw to reach this conference room table today. Tremendous courage.” He paused for more applause.

“When an assassin tried to strike down Julian, it frankly didn't look like radio's number-one DJ was going to make it. This is a man who revolutionized radio. He has made radio history.”

The suits around the conference room table applauded.

The VP continued, “I know there wasn't a person in our radio family who wasn't praying for Julian's recovery. And we have had our prayers answered. The raunchiest man on the air is
back!
He may need a cane for right now, but his mind is the same sharp, acid-tinged, biting work of genius it always was. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Julian Shaw.”

Julian stared around the table, nodding occasionally and acknowledging the applause. After a moment or two, everyone quieted.

“Well, thanks for the enthusiastic welcome home. I appreciate it. I really do. Getting shot, my recovery, it's been a humbling experience.”

He struggled to find the right words. But there weren't any. How could he explain to a room full of people what rehab had been like. It was as if he were a newborn, learning to do everything all over again.

“I have given this a lot of thought. My show. My listeners. My producer, Frank. The people who count on me for ratings. The company. But that little speech you just heard wasn't quite correct. I'm not the same evil genius.” He laughed a little to lighten the mood.

He glanced up. Everyone was staring at him intently. Expectantly. He exhaled. “You see, ever since I came out of the coma, I feel like something's missing. For the first time in my life, porn and tequila isn't enough.”

He saw some eyes widen.

“Yup. Two lesbians having sex on air just doesn't cut it for me anymore.”

Julian glanced at Frank who was giving him a thumbs-up. The guy was truly a friend. How had he spent a decade oblivious to that?

“I think life is some kind of strange, twisted journey. Being a radio shock jock was my Act I, and I can't do that for my second act. I wish I could explain it. But I can't. I can't tell you why, except it all feels rather empty.”

Julian stood up and faced the stunned silence. He turned to Frank. “I'm done here. Let's go get drunk.”

Leaning on Frank, he exited the room painfully slowly. Every step was still agony. He wondered how long he'd have that reminder from the shooting.

Several suits—including the company's lawyers—followed him. They surrounded him as he walked and were a veritable Greek chorus of “think about it.” Finally, the gauntlet was thrown.

“You have a contract, Julian. You just can't walk out on it.”

Julian decided he'd had enough.

“No? Find me a jury on the planet that will force a cripple back to work. I still can't pee without dribbling on my pants and down my leg. I can't sleep without painkillers. I have a disability—and an out. So fuck off. And for the record, not one of you suits ever came to the hospital, your flower arrangements wilted and you can all kiss my ass. Frank?”

Frank held out his arm for Julian to lean on, and they hobbled along to the elevator. When the doors opened and they were alone as the doors shut again, Frank looked at Julian.

“Very dramatic, pal.”

“I thought so.”

“Tossing in the pee dribbling was great. Brilliant, really. Who's gonna argue with a man who can't urinate properly?”

“Precisely.”

“So what's the second act?”

“Couldn't tell you.”

“No idea?”

“None.”

“Whatever it is, Julian, I'm in. Act II. I want to be part of it.”

“Christ, you know we gotta stop all this sentimental talk, Frank. I'm starting to feel like a homo.”

“I have nothing to worry about. You can't get it up without medicinal help.”

The two of them laughed, and they rode down to the lobby. Frank helped Julian slowly make his way across the marble floors. His limo was waiting outside, long, sleek and black. Frank helped him climb in, and then joined him in the back. The chauffeur, reeking of friggin' Aramis, asked Julian, “Where to?”

“We want to get good and drunk,” Julian said. “Find us a bar.”

“With tequila,” Frank added.

“Sure thing,” the chauffeur said. “How about the new strip club downtown? They have a couple of porn stars that dance there. Primo women, if you know what I mean. And the lap dances, my friends…mm-mmm.”

Frank looked at Julian. “You know, we're just looking to drink tequila and reminisce about old times.”

“Suit yourself. I've got just the place,” the driver said.

Julian looked out the window as the building faded from view.

Maybe he was crazy.

Maybe there was no such thing as a second act.