Chasing Harry Winston

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.