The guy mocked it mercilessly, encouraging other men to try the same trick. Vy had to shut down the inner sanctum sooner than planned because dudes kept showing up at the door, demanding to be let in.
But there was a story in the New York Post, a month or so later, about how the guy had woken up one morning to find his house in New Jersey covered as if it had been TP’d, but not with toilet paper. With tampons and menstrual pads, all heavily used. The police hadn’t been able to prove who had left them there.
Now I made my way over to Vy. “Seeing anything interesting?” I asked her. She looked down at me—I was tall, but she seemed somehow much taller—and didn’t say anything. “You know, from watching the party?”
“No,” she said. “But I am smelling things.”
Okay, I thought. “Mm, yeah,” I said. “Love smelling stuff. Flowers . . . tuna fish. Underrated sense, I always say.”
She looked at me, her face inscrutable, then closed her eyes and took a deep breath in through her nose. “You’re a very nervous person, aren’t you?”
“What? No, I—”
She opened her eyes again and locked them on mine. “Yes, like a seagull gliding along the surface of the waves, afraid to plunge into the depths.”
“Well,” I said. “If a seagull flew into the depths of the ocean, it would drown.”
“Hmm,” she said, still staring at me. One pale eyebrow inched up her forehead, then back down. Abruptly she turned and walked away. I certainly hoped she wasn’t a member of the club.
I downed my glass of champagne and got started on a second. The idea of inserting myself into one of the groups of people I didn’t know felt more and more impossible with each passing minute. I spotted Raf sitting on a couch next to Margot, talking animatedly to her as she twirled her hair around her finger. Dammit, he was totally going to fall in love with her. There was one part of the plan ruined.
Who was I kidding, though? How the hell were a fake relationship and a fake novel supposed to get any of these women interested in someone like me? I didn’t belong in a club with them, and they could smell it. (In Vy’s case, apparently, literally.) I drained my second glass of champagne. I needed to get out of the pulsing swirl of laughter and meaningless talk before it suffocated me. I ducked into a hallway, then leaned against the wall and closed my eyes. I could just go home. I could get into my bed, and eat a pint of ice cream, and hate myself in the comfort of my childhood bedroom.
A woman’s voice, high and reedy, intruded on my thoughts, coming down the hallway toward me. “Well, you think about it,” the voice said, efficient. “Because you would be incredible.”
I opened my eyes to see Caroline Thompson pacing back and forth, talking into her phone. She shot me an apologetic look for intruding on my privacy. I waved it off. “Okay, get some sleep. I promise you it will all seem clearer in the morning.” She hung up and let out a sigh. “The work never ends, does it?”
“I know what you mean,” I said, my heart starting to boom at this potential stroke of luck. “Sometimes you’ve just got to sneak off into a hallway and get it done. Truly any space can become your office if you have the right mind-set.”
She let out a polite laugh. “Totally. I’m Caroline.” Up close, her face—her reddish coloring, her small nose against her full cheeks—made me think of a chipmunk.
“Jillian,” I said, and shook her tiny, outstretched hand. Her nails were painted a sensible pale pink. Surprising that she could lift her arm at all, given the size of her engagement ring.
“What do you sneak into hallways for?” she asked me.
“I’m a novelist,” I said. “So really, at the most random moments I’ll have a flash of inspiration—or what feels like a flash of inspiration—and have to go think it over.”
“Wow, novels,” she said. “I admire people who can do that so much. I need a schedule, coworkers. And calendars! Don’t get me started on how much I love calendars.” She spoke like someone who had been the star of her high school debate team, quick and clear.
“Oh yeah,” I said. “I have to force myself to a coffee shop every morning to work, and pretend the baristas are holding me accountable.”
“What’s your coffee shop of choice?” She focused on me as if she were making her way down a line of voters, determined to spend one to two quality minutes with each one. And yet somehow she gave me the feeling that she was asking these questions only because she was supposed to, and as soon as she had checked off Interact Pleasantly with This Person from her to-do list, she would move on without a second thought. Maybe it was the almost imperceptible drumming of her fingers against her thigh, the studied brightness of her smile.
“Well, if you’re ever in Park Slope, it’s called BitterSweet, and it’s the best. I milk that free Wi-Fi all day.” Back when I lived in Park Slope, like a normal twentysomething with roommates, it had been my favorite place to stop each morning on my way to work. And ever since Quill shut down, I’d been spending a lot of time there. It got me out of the house, gave me a commute so that I could trick myself into feeling like I still had my job.
“BitterSweet,” she repeated. “I’ll have to check it out.” Her eyes flitted back in the direction of the party. I couldn’t lose her, not yet.
“What’s your current work emergency?” I blurted.
“Mine?” she asked, a bit surprised by my interest. “I’m trying to convince this woman to run for office, and she keeps waffling. She’s a perfect candidate—great credentials, fantastic ideas, incredible backstory—but she’s afraid of . . .” She paused. “She’s afraid to
