Baby proof

Just as I'm about to say good-bye, she says, 'Do you think this is his fault?'

'Fault? What do you mean?' I ask.

Clearly it's not Tony's fault that their clinic-the clinic Daphne researched and selected-keeps pornography on hand.

'You think it's his problem or mine? The reason we can't get pregnant?'

Surely Daphne must realize that I have no possible way of knowing an answer that requires extensive diagnostic testing, but this sort of thing never stops her from asking the question; she is a big believer in random speculation and blind guesswork.

I humor her and say, 'I think it's probably his issue. But I also predict that it will be a fixable issue… Listen, Daph. I really gotta run. I'll call you after my meeting. Okay?'

'Okay. But cross your fingers that you're right… and that it is his fault,' she says before we say good-bye.

Her last comment about fault disturbs me so much that I frown at the phone as I hang up, something that people usually only do on badly written television shows. I'm not sure what about it bothers me, but I tell myself I can analyze it later.

For now, I must get in my saleswoman frame of mind. The purpose of the weekly editorial meeting is for editors to pitch manuscripts to the editorial director and heads of other departments who have the opportunity to shoot the proposal down for any number of reasons: this won't sell; this book is too much like another book released last year; or just a plain old, this manuscript blows. Obviously a lot is at stake for editors so the meetings tend to have a Darwinian feel with plenty of office politics coming into play. Emotions run high, and it's not uncommon for junior editors, who are desperate to make a name for themselves, to leave the conference room in tears. I have had my share of traumatic meetings as I came through the ranks, but I'm actually six for six for novels pitched this year (which could be a house record), and I'd like nothing better than to keep my perfect track record alive. I also want to impress Richard. It would be a real shame for my streak to be broken on the heels of last night.

When I walk into the conference room, I can instantly sense Richard's presence. I hear his robust laugh and, out of the corner of my eye, can see him pouring coffee into a Styrofoam cup. I don't have the gumption to approach him or even look his way. Instead, I avoid all small talk and sit at the long, oblong table where I diligently scan my notes as Jacqueline Dody, my good friend and closest editorial ally, takes a seat next to me and asks if I want a doughnut. I say no, thanks, which might be the first time in my life I've declined a Krispy Kreme doughnut. But I'm too nervous to eat today. I've never had to speak professionally in front of someone I've just slept with-or slept with at all, for that matter.

That's when I hear Richard say, 'What the hell? Parr's turning down doughnuts?'

'No kidding!' Jacqueline says. 'What's up with that, you skinny bitch? You can afford the calories.'

'Yeah,' Richard says, 'don't you know that it is bad form to turn down sweets when you're model thin?'

I look at him, both surprised and impressed that he's managed to compliment my body inside five minutes.

'Hey. I'm trying to focus here,' I say as Richard takes a seat on the other side of me. I feel unnerved and even more so when I feel his foot against mine. I shake my head and move my foot, wondering how many times he's played footsy under this very table. I wonder if Richard has ever slept with any other editors, and hope that the answer is no.

When his foot moves back against mine, I shoot him a pretend look of warning.

He smirks and says, 'What?'

'Nothing,' I say, shaking my head again.

Our editorial director, Sam Hewlett, calls our meeting to order with his usual dry, no-nonsense tone, and then turns things over to Molly Harrington, an editor who is pitching a young adult historical novel set in Bruges. I try to focus on Molly, but can only think of what happened last night. At one point, Richard starts doodling squiggly lines on his pad, and I find myself transfixed by them-and by his hand. When he catches me watching, he writes the words I can still on his pad. Then he scratches them out, looks around to make sure nobody is paying attention, and writes taste. Then he flips his notebook to a fresh page and writes you. My heart starts pounding in my chest as I think of his mouth on me last night. I vow not to look at his pad again.

Two hours and six books later (four of which are rejected), it is my turn to present. Richard turns his chair toward me and smiles. I try to ignore him, but I still start out a little bit rocky as I introduce my novel and rave about how witty and charming I found it to be. Then I say, 'More specifically, the story is about a woman who is living in Chicago when, for various reasons, she decides to give up her wonderful, stable life to go live in the South of France. She faces a lot of obstacles and adversity, but in the end, she makes some surprising discoveries about herself… The book is incredibly heartwarming and engaging.'

Sam interrupts me and says, 'Who do you see as the audience?'

I say, 'I think it will appeal to anyone who likes Peter Mayle. But the story has a very down-to-earth quality to it, so I actually think it will have an even broader appeal than Mayle's books. I think women of all ages will love it. And honestly, men will enjoy this story, too.'

Another editor, Dawn Bolyn, leans forward with a smug expression. Dawn is one those sniping, ultracompetitive types who seems transparently jealous of anyone's success, particularly mine. So I'm not surprised when she says, 'It sounds like an Under the Tuscan Sun knockoff.'

'Well, Dawn,' I say with exaggerated patience. 'For starters, this is France, not Italy.'

To Dawn's obvious dismay, my comment earns a few chuckles. Then I say, 'And the books are actually nothing alike.'

And please use a toner on that greasy face of yours.

Jacqueline chimes in on my behalf. 'Well, I loved the writing. It was very vivid and descriptive without being overwritten… And the story was riveting. I had a vicious hangover all day on Sunday and I couldn't stop paging through it.'

Everyone laughs because Jacqueline is known to overindulge when we go out for drinks after work.

Sam says, 'Well, I agree with Jacqueline that the writing was descriptive and vivid… but there was something about the book that just felt… small.'

It feels pretty damning when Sam calls a book small so now I'm beginning to worry. As I'm grappling for a retort, Richard removes the pen cap from his mouth, and says, 'Claudia, tell us, did the author actually move to France?'

I shake my head. I know he is driving at review angles.

'So, unfortunately, we wouldn't be able to get nonfiction, feature coverage for her, but it still sounds good to me. I can picture a great cover on it… Besides, I think Claudia's track record speaks for itself. Close calls should go to her.'

All eyes are on Richard. He doesn't speak often in meetings, but his opinion carries great weight so I feel pretty sure he's tipped the balance in my favor. Sure enough, Sam calls a vote, and my proposal passes by a narrow margin.

I look at Richard who gives me a quick, surreptitious wink.

I think to myself, Omigod, did I just get ahead at work because of sex?

I'm not sure of the answer, but it suddenly strikes me that there is a mighty thin line between a wholesome life and a scandalous one.

I call Daphne as soon as I return to my office. She is in the car, alone, on her way to the grocery store.

'How did it go?' I say.

'It went. Apparently he delivered a few sperm,' she says caustically. 'With the help of coeds Shari and Shelli.'

'And the verdict?'

'The tests take a few days… But what's another few days when you've been waiting a decade to have a baby, right?'

I want to point out that she hasn't really been waiting a decade. You can't count