She could practically hear his eyes rolling.
“I’ll have one Jose Cuervo original, on the rocks, no salt with a pink umbrella ready for you upon arrival. I’ll be at our usual high top in the back corner,” Colby said in a satisfied tone.
Before she could respond, he continued. “Love you, mean it, bi-yee.”
Kenny shook her head and smiled. In their decade-long friendship, she couldn’t remember a conversation that didn’t end with this affectionate farewell. He even ended texts withLYMIB.
She knew that neither David Greene nor anyone else in the industry would care about Clinton White’s ankle monitor or dying father; NBC’s young, hot page whom Dr. Love gave the interview; the mess he made for the Locke brothers; or Judge O’Toole’s reaction to any of it, but she forwarded Luke Locke’s email to the network. The only thing worse than being scooped is cobbling together a rationalization for why it happened. She wasn’t sure if sharing this email would be perceived as a feeble attempt to defend herself or elicit some degree of pity, although that’s exactly what she was doing. But she figured the explanation was better coming straight from the horse’s mouth, leaving nothing open to interpretation or lost in translation. Without contemplating the pros and cons of distributing the message to the masses any further, Kenny hit theSendbutton and felt the tiniest bit of relief.
She was so focused on reeling from her crisis that it was 1:30 p.m. before she realized she hadn’t eaten a morsel of food all day and was still soaked from the sweat session and subsequent monsoon she waded through. Shivering and soaked, she trudged to the refrigerator. The fridge had the staples of any thirty-two-year-old single female living alone in New York. A carton of eggs, a quart of egg whites, a brick of muenster cheese, a bag of shredded mozzarella cheese, a bottle of Grey Poupon mustard, a half-eaten jar of expired salsa, a can of coffee, a sugar-free coffee creamer, lemons, two bottles of chardonnay and a twenty-five cup Brita dispenser. Everything in The Dollhouse was miniature, except the refrigerator. Ironically, the place she didn’t need space. Even the realtor who showed Kenny the micro studio ten years ago was surprised when he saw the normal size fridge. Groceries never took up more than one shelf; in fact, the Sunday night Zabar’s order could fit on one of the shelves on the inside of the door.
“Scrambled eggs it is,” Kenny sarcastically exclaimed.
She cracked two eggs into her one small frying pan that she stored on her one small burner. The oven and kitchen cabinets where most people kept cookware and appliances were stocked with shoes, towels, and offseason clothes. While her life may have resembled the lives of Carrie Bradshaw and Monica Greene from the outside, the reality of her living situation paled in comparison.
Kenny scarfed down her bland brunch and then turned on the water in the bathroom. The shower was tiny. Anyone over five-foot-six inches had to crouch to get under the shower head and complained that if they moved the wrong way, the curtain would stick to their naked body. But this tiny space was ideal for her. The water temperature was hot, and the pressure was hard. She could stay in the shower for hours.
She grabbed a plastic cutting board that barely fit between the vanity and the wall where she stored it, and placed the chopping block squarely across the sink, under the faucet. There wasn’t room for hand soap, much less a hairdryer or brush, on the small porcelain bowl, and Kenny’s grandmother had the grand idea during one visit to use the kitchen tool as a makeshift makeup and hair table. The cutting board never got much use in the kitchen. Kenny grabbed a bath towel from the cereal cabinet, lit her favorite white cherry merlot candle, and placed it on the makeup counter. Pandora was turned to the Billy Joel station, and Kenny slipped out of her robe and into the scorching water that shot down at her like a jet stream.
She pulled out a Tupperware bin from under the bathroom sink that contained a collection of unnecessary and overpriced bath products that she had accumulated over the last few months when Marilyn got on her case about the importance of self-care. Kenny didn’t know the exact meaning of the term “self-care” but somehow interpreted it to the practice of stocking her bathroom with expensive bottles of spa and beauty aids she’d never have time to use. During this shower event, she applied it all. She opened the washes, the scrubs, the masks, the lotions, the hydrators, the oils; and used the loofahs, the sponges, and textured washcloths. After all the potions she had lathered into her hair and over every inch of her body, a different person would emerge from the shower. Either a refreshed, rejuvenated, recharged version of herself or a pruned, lobster-red creature that looked like it boiled in scalding water too long.
She turned off the water, stepped out of the tub, wrapped her hair in a cotton towel turban, and patted herself dry. She unapologetically sang aloud to “Vienna,” her recently self-proclaimed theme song, like she was on stage at Madison Square Garden, while she smothered her limbs and torso with globs of raw coconut oil. Until one line jilted her back to reality and the events that erupted that morning. The lyrics were a reminder to slow down and breathe when life gets too loud. But Kenny was never good at that.
The notion of not being completely reachable at all hours of the day and night was a foreign concept. She hadn’t been on a vacation where she totally disconnected since Spring Break her junior year at Fordham, when she and her roommates did an all-inclusive deal in Cancun with a bunch of guys from Columbia who they had met at Brother Jimmy’s BBQ in Midtown on a random Thursday night.
Kenny blew out the candle, turned off the music, and got ready for the rest of her day. By now it was 3:00 p.m., but she still had a good two and a half hours to tend to her to-do list before meeting Colby for that one margarita.
Six
Kenny sprinted around the Upper West Side and completed her mundane errands by the time she reached the office to raid the supply closet and replace her loot of producer essentials. She dreaded the thought of having to deal with anyone face to face, but by the time she got to her desk there was news breaking about an orchestrated prison escape that spanned several high-security prisons across several different states. It was reported that multiple inmates from lockups in Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, and Florida had escaped at the same time. All the convicts had links to the Mexican drug cartel and were considered armed and dangerous. The situation seemed dire, but Kenny selfishly welcomed the scenario knowing that the newsroom would be distracted by the escape and the coverage would headline all the evening broadcasts. Meaning Clinton White would not. At least for tonight.
Trying to maintain a low profile, she slid into her fancy, ergonomic desk chair on wheels without making direct contact with anyone. She wanted to use the time to research illustrators for the cover ofArmchair Detective. Each month when Amsterdam Books announced a new Feature Author, Kenny filled with excitement and anticipation for when her own book would be on a poster in that window.
The publishing world was a tricky business, but Kenny was fortunate that Colby could help her navigate it. He had risen in the ranks at Bound Books as quickly as she’d climbed the ladder at WBS. He had a direct line to Muffin Evans, the head honcho at Bound. Muffin was unequivocally the most powerful woman, the single most influential person, in the publishing world.
Known inside and outside the industry as the Manuscript Eater, Muffin was revered, idolized, respected, feared, and hated by all who knew her. Or knew of her. She was the antagonist in the story of any aspiring or published author. Her name didn’t fit her personality, demeanor, or looks. There was nothing sweet or savory about Muffin. Which is likely why she embraced the name Manuscript Eater. She referred to herself only as M.E. If the role of Muffin were cast in a movie it would be handed to Meryl Streep a la Miranda Priestley inThe Devil Wears Prada. Shewasthe Anna Wintour of the literary world. Little was known about M.E.’s personal life, although she was rumored to have had a years-long fling with Donald Trump that spanned the Ivana and Marla years. She also made headlines when she sued the co-op board of her luxury apartment building on Billionaires Row after they rejected her proposal to knock down an interior wall and expand her kitchen.
Promptly at 6:00 p.m. every evening, Muffin had an extra dirty vodka martini—shaken not stirred—with three olives at the bar of the Mandarin Oriental at Columbus Circle. It was a widely held belief in the writing community that if an author was invited to join M.E. for a drink, his or her manuscript was going to be published. If an author was requested to dine with her at Per Se or Eleven Madison Park, the book was being made into a movie.
Muffin Evans expected manuscripts to be submitted at a level of perfection. SinceArmchair Detectivewas going to end up in M.E.’s French manicured hands, largely because of Colby’s access to her, Kenny went to great lengths to ensure the manuscript was stellar and worthy of the woman’s keen eye. She had no less than twenty people read the draft prior to nervously releasing it into the hands of the experts. She solicited critiques from her circle of family and friends to her network of coworkers and beta readers. Feedback across the board was overwhelmingly positive with the biggest criticism being that the novel didn’t end with a preview to the sequel.
The last piece to the publishing puzzle was designing a catchy and visually alluring illustration for the cover of the book. Colby said that having a vision for the cover and a few vetted illustrators who could bring the vision to life would score credibility with M.E. Kenny was determined to compile an impressive list of concepts and artists ready for presentation and was cautiously optimistic she’d be sharing that list while choking down a dirty martini at the Mandarin Oriental within the next two weeks. Shehatedolives.
It was approaching 5:00 p.m., and Kenny wanted to make a swift exit down the back steps of WBS before the producers who worked on the evening broadcast started to hustle around the newsroom and edit bays in their nightly race to deliver the most recent and current version of global events live at 6:30 p.m. The rush was as exhilarating as it was terrifying, but today she didn’t want to feel either of those things. She took one last look at her to-do list and inconspicuously slipped to the stairwell.
To-Do Wednesday, August 30
Book travel for CT trip- rental car and hotel (National @ Columbus Circle + Courtyard Marriott on Summer St.) NO NEED
Make reservation for dinner with White’s attorneys (Bartaco Tapas or Capital Grille) NO NEED
Raid supply closet at office (Post-its, pens, notebooks, highlighters)
Connect with crew to discuss meet-up plan at courthouse (Jim P camera operator + Sam S audio) NO NEED
Journal today’s tasks for therapist
Research illustrators forArmchair Detective
