It’s so on-brand Noa Callaway that it seems like it should write itself. So what is going on with Noa that she can’t finish it?
I suddenly wonder whether Alix knew something was wrong with this next book. It was due before she went on maternity leave. Was part of her decision not to come back . . . her anticipation of a Noa Callaway catastrophe?
“When Alix left on maternity leave,” Sue says, “she told me she had faith in you, Lanie. I can understand that during her absence, you’ve been in a holding pattern with Noa. But now—”
I meet Sue’s eyes because this feels like the moment she’s going to lower the boom. I think of my favorite Noa Callaway line, from her third novel, Fifty Ways to Break Up Mom and Dad:
Life’s greatest mystery is whether we shall die bravely.
If my career is about to die, I’d like to meet its end bravely. But I don’t feel brave. I feel terrified, like I’m losing my balance at the end of a plank.
“I need you,” Sue says, “to take over.”
“Take over,” I say slowly. “Noa Callaway?”
Am I not fired? Apparently, I’m not fired.
Sue looks at the photos of her sons, at her ferns. Then at me, and she sighs.
“As you know, Noa is . . . difficult.”
I feel her waiting for me to agree. I haven’t met Noa personally, nor spoken to her by phone, but from the interactions we’ve had, I consider her eccentricities to be like those of any genius. She can be cryptic and occasionally short via email, but more frequently, there’s a sparkle to our correspondence that sets it apart.
When we worked together on her sixth book, Twenty-One Games with a Stranger—about two rival gamers who hate each other in their waking lives but slowly fall in love in their dreams—Alix wanted to cut a scene where the characters play chess at a gaming convention. She said it was out of step with the techie aesthetic that was working in the rest of the book.
I learned to play chess from BD the summer my mother died, and I sensed that the chess scene in Noa’s draft was a metaphor for the larger romantic relationship. The interplay of strategy and patience. In my notes to Alix, I spelled out how Noa might drive this point home with a few light edits. It was the first time Alix copied and pasted a paragraph of mine directly into one of her editorial letters. The day after Alix sent the letter off, I got an invitation to play online chess from Noa Callaway. She didn’t have to mention that she’d sensed my influence in the letter. We’ve been playing ever since.
“Given the circumstances,” Sue says, “it makes sense to promote you. Provisionally.”
I blink.
“Tomorrow you’ll become Peony’s youngest editorial director. Provisionally.”
“Sue,” I whisper. That’s a big promotion. “Thank you!”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Sue says. “This is only a trial. Three months. If you can’t get a number-one-New-York-Times-bestseller-worthy manuscript out of Noa by then, I’ll find someone who can.”
“I can do it,” I say without thinking. I have no idea how, but I’ll find a way.
If I can’t get Noa to deliver a great book, it’s not just our fiscal year that will suffer. It’s my whole career. It’s the Casablanca reboot. It’s the paranormal ballet romance written by the sweetest seventy-year-old former dancer with an unparalleled gift for hot sex scenes. It’s the #ownvoices imprint Aude and I dreamed of launching next year. “I won’t let you down, Sue.”
“Good.” Sue slides me the stack of papers. “Sign here.”
“What’s this?” I ask as I realize exactly what it is. A detailed non-disclosure agreement.
“Just a precaution,” Sue says.
“Oh my god,” I say as it hits me. “Wait, I’m not actually going to meet Noa Callaway? Noa never meets anyone in person.”
“Let’s keep it that way.” Sue’s smile is stiff and a little too wide. “Focus on the book, Lanie. Get Noa Callaway to deliver. And buckle your seat belt. You may be in for some turbulence.”
Chapter Four
At seven o’clock, at the tail end of the launch’s cocktail hour, I’m waiting in the greenroom at the Hotel Shivani, halfway recovered from my meeting with Sue. My speech is memorized. I had to write it a month ago so it could be vetted by Alix, by Terry, and, ostensibly by Noa—though she never remarked on it to me. All I have to change is the line about me standing in for Noa’s editor to say I am Noa’s editor. That should be easy enough.
Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today . . .
In wedding-style metaphors, my speech is meant to take the reader through the full journey of our work on the book. From the dramatic way Noa delivers manuscripts—via hard copy, in a metal briefcase, delivered by Brinks messenger—which can feel akin to a blind date. To the courtship phase of the editorial process—the bumps along the way being the best parts. I’ll pause for a laugh when I share Noa’s top contender for this book’s title: Twelve Divorce Filings. I swear, I thought she was going to die on that hill.
My phone buzzes.
HAVE FUN TONIGHT!!! Ryan texts.
I know he set an alarm reminder on his phone to write to me just when I’m about to take the stage, when my nerves are peaking and I can use encouragement. Then comes a follow-up: Can’t wait to see you after. And a third: Don’t be Bill Murray.
I roll my eyes, but I’m laughing. This is his way of saying Stay on script. From all the D.C. cocktail parties he’s dragged me to, Ryan has observed that I am either exceptionally articulate . . . or a total bumbling disaster. He says that I’m a land of extremes, just coasts, no middle ground.
Ready to rock, I text back, stepping out of the greenroom and into the candlelit party.
The hall is filled with the sound of women loving the same thing. These are my people, this is my crowd. I take the stage and stand beneath the altar, proud of Meg and her team and the stunning party they’ve brought to life. Proud of Noa and this dazzling book. And damn it, proud of myself. I reach for the mic, adjust it. Emotion swells in my chest. I wish my mom could see me.
I look out at these wonderful, passionate women, all two hundred and sixty-six of them, and am overcome by my new responsibility.
Then the feeling veers toward panic—that Noa Callaway will never write another book, that the disaster is unfolding on my watch—and suddenly I can’t see. The guests are a sea of red. There’s a droning in my ears. The speech has vanished from my brain.
I am either going to faint or throw up.
I fumble for my phone. I’ll simply open up the speech. But the facial recognition isn’t working, and I can’t hold the mic and the phone and my effing cake balloon and type in my password all at once. I’m going to have to abandon it.
And say what?
I open my mouth and a squeak emerges. My eyes fall on Meg in the front row, who is gaping at me, ferociously mouthing the words good evening.
“Good evening!” I belt out.
Meg palms her forehead and gives me a thumbs-up. At least my voice seems to have returned.
“I’m Lanie Bloom, and I’m Noa’s editor.”
The whispers throw me, and I remember that the rest of the office doesn’t know about my promotion. There’s true shock on Meg’s face, which she masks with a wild grin when we lock eyes. The words sound normal to our guests. Still, I shiver saying them.