Chasing Harry Winston

Leigh could make it from West Midtown to the Upper East Side by one. Didn’t these people ever get sick of hearing themselves talk? Didn’t they get hungry? Her stomach rumbled audibly as if to remind the room that it was lunch hour, but no one seemed to notice. They were discussing the upcoming publication of The Life and Leadership of Pope John Paul II with an intensity worthy of a presidential debate.

“Summer is a tough time for a religious biography-we knew that going in,” one of the associate editors commented with some trepidation, still unaccustomed to speaking at meetings.

Someone from the sales team, a sweet-faced woman who looked far younger than her thirty-some years and whose name Leigh could never remember, addressed the table. “Of course summer isn’t ideal for anything other than beach reads, but the season alone doesn’t account for these disappointing numbers. Orders from everyone-B &N, Borders, the independents-are all significantly lower than forecasted. Perhaps if we could generate a little more buzz…”

“Buzz?” Patrick, the queeny head of publicity, sneered. “Just how do you propose generating ‘buzz’ for a book about the pope? Give us something even remotely appealing and maybe we could work something out. But Britney Spears could tattoo the entire contents of this book on her bare breasts and people still wouldn’t talk about it.”

Jason, the only other editor who had been promoted as quickly as Leigh and whose existence at Brook Harris was the only thing that kept her sane, sighed and looked at his watch. Leigh caught his eye and nodded. She couldn’t wait any longer.

“Please excuse me,” Leigh interrupted. “But I have a lunch appointment I can’t miss. A business lunch, of course,” she added quickly, although of course no one cared. She quietly gathered her papers and shoved everything into the monogrammed leather folder that accompanied her everywhere and tiptoed out of the conference room.

She had just swung by her office to grab her purse when her phone rang and she saw her publisher’s extension on her caller ID. Leigh had just decided to screen him when she heard her assistant’s voice call out, “Henry, line one. He says it’s urgent.”

“He always says it’s urgent,” Leigh muttered to herself. She took a calming breath and picked up the receiver.

“Henry! Are you calling to apologize for missing the sales meeting?” she joked. “I’m willing to overlook it this time, but don’t let it happen again.”

“Ha-ha, I’m cracking up on the inside, I promise,” he said. “I’m not keeping you from a lunchtime manicure or a quick jaunt to Barneys, am I?”

Leigh forced a laugh. It was positively eerie how well he knew her. Although technically it was a blowout and a quick jaunt to Barneys. She couldn’t particularly afford either one right now, but her flakiness in both the personal hygiene and gift departments today had mandated that she splurge. “Of course not. What can I do for you?”

“There’s someone in my office I’d like you to meet. Come on over here for a minute.”

Goddammit! The man had a gift for intuitively sensing the most inconvenient moments of her day and then asking for something. It was uncanny and she wondered, for the umpteenth time, if he bugged her office.

She took another calming breath and glanced at the clock. Her appointment was in fifteen minutes and the salon was a ten-minute walk away. “I’ll be right there,” she said with enough cheer to fell a sequoia.

She speed-walked through the cubicles and winding hallways that separated her office from Henry’s. He obviously wanted her to meet a potential author or someone new they’d just signed, since he was a big believer in demonstrating how Brook Harris was run like a family and insisted on personally introducing all the editors to all the new authors. It was one of the qualities that had most impressed her when she’d first started out-and one of the main reasons so many authors signed with Brook Harris and stayed for their entire careers-but today it was really fucking annoying. Anyone less than Tom Wolfe and she wasn’t interested. She ran calculations as she rounded the corner and passed the elevator bank. Her congrats-on-joining-the-family-we’re-so-happy-to-have-you or some similar we’d-be-thrilled-and-honored-to-have-you-join-the-family speech would take only a couple of minutes. Another minute or two to feign interest in the new/potential author’s current work, plus one more to congratulate him on the success of his previous publication, and there was a chance she’d be out in under five. At least she’d better be.

She’d been up so late the night before trying to finish her notes on the last chapter of her newest memoir acquistion that she had slept straight through her alarm and had to race, unshowered, to make the sales meeting on time. It wasn’t until Leigh found a toweringly tall pale purple orchid on her desk with a note that read, “I love you and can’t wait to see you tonight. Happy First Year!” that she even remembered that Russell had made reservations at Daniel to celebrate their one-year anniversary. Typical. It was the single day in her entire career-possibly her entire life-that she’d overslept and left the house looking like a homeless person, and it was the only time it mattered. Thankfully Gilles had agreed to fit her in for a last-minute blowout (“You can have Adriana’s appointment at one if she doesn’t mind,” he’d offered. “She doesn’t mind!” Leigh had screamed into the phone. “I take full responsibility!”) and she planned to swing by Barneys and pick up a bottle of cologne or a tie or a dopp kit-really, whatever was closest to the register and came prewrapped-on her way back to the office. There was absolutely no time for dawdling.

“You can go right on in,” Henry’s perky new assistant drawled. Her spiky, pink-streaked hair didn’t fit with the Southern accent-or the conservative corporate culture-but she seemed able to spell and didn’t appear overtly hostile, so it was overlooked.

Leigh nodded her thanks and barreled through the open door. “Hello!” she sang to Henry. She guessed the man sitting opposite him, facing away from her, was in his early forties. Despite the early summer weather, he wore a light blue shirt and an olive corduroy blazer with patches over the elbows. His dirty-blond hair-light brown, really, now that she looked more carefully-was the perfect amount of shaggy, just grazing the top of his collar and falling slightly over the tops of his ears. Before he even turned to look at her, she knew, intuited, that he would be attractive. Perhaps even gorgeous. Which was partly why she was so taken aback when their eyes finally met.

The surprise was twofold. Her first thought was that he wasn’t nearly as good-looking as she had predicted. His eyes were not the piercing shade of blue or green she’d expected, but an unremarkable grayish hazel, and his nose managed to appear flattened and protuberant at the same time. But he did have flawless teeth, straight, white, gorgeous teeth, teeth that could star in their very own Crest commercial, and it was these teeth that captured her attention. It wasn’t until the man smiled, revealing deeply engraved but somehow still very appealing laugh lines, that she realized she recognized him. Sitting here, gazing at her with an easy smile and a welcoming expression, was Jesse Chapman, a man whose talents had been compared to Updike, Roth, and Bellow; McInerney, Ford, and Franzen. Disenchantment, the first novel he’d published, at age twenty-three, had been one of those impossibly rare books that was both a commercial and literary success, and Jesse’s reputation as a bad-boy genius had only increased with every additional party attended, model dated, and book written. He had disappeared six or seven years ago, after a rumored stint in rehab and spate of brutal reviews, but no one expected him to stay hidden forever. The fact that he was here, in their offices, could mean only one thing.

“Leigh, may I introduce you to Jesse Chapman? You’re familiar with his work, of course. And Jesse, this is Leigh Eisner, my most promising editor, and my favorite, were I forced to choose.”

Jesse stood to face Leigh, and although his eyes remained fixed on hers, she could feel him appraising her. She wondered if he liked girls with stringy ponytails and no makeup. She prayed he did.

“He says that about everyone,” Leigh said graciously, extending her hand to meet Jesse’s.

“Of course he does,” Jesse said smoothly, standing to envelop her right hand between both of his. “And that’s why we all adore him. Please, will you join us?” He waved his hand toward the empty space beside him on the love seat and looked at her.

“Oh, well, actually, I was just-”

“She’d love to,” Henry said.

Leigh resisted the urge to glare at him while she settled into the ancient couch. Bye-bye, blowout, she thought. Bye-bye, Barneys. It would be a miracle if Russell ever spoke to her again after the disaster that tonight would surely be.

Henry cleared his throat. “Jesse and I were just discussing his last novel. I was saying how we all-really, the entire publishing industry-thought the Times’ attack was inexcusable. Embarrassing for