But this Momofuku Ko was not designed for speedy dining, much to Gerry’s dismay. The only option available was a “tasting menu,” dreaded words to Gerry’s ears. Probably Thiru’s reason for choosing it. He had an agenda, one that would take time to lay out. And the service was oversolicitous, which Gerry hated. He preferred the gruff indifference of the city’s diners, places that were disappearing one by one. Where was the New York of the late 1980s, or even the one at the beginning of the twenty-first century? After the second or third course, he stopped the pretense of eating, regarding his food with arms folded, like a grumpy child.
But the woman who was insisting that he must try the uni was another patron. Tall, thin, stylish. Sexy, frankly. She didn’t linger or try to introduce herself, simply returned to her table, where she was dining with what Gerry assumed was a finance type, based on the pinstripes and the pocket square.
He didn’t realize he was still looking at her until Thiru snapped his fingers to get his attention. “Gerry.”
“What?”
“I was saying Rudin gets things made.” Thiru began ticking off the names of various film and television projects, most of which meant nothing to Gerry.
“He didn’t get The Corrections made,” he said. Although Gerry disdained most gossip, even literary gossip, there were certain writers whose careers he tracked. He didn’t consider Franzen the gold standard of his generation, but others did, so he kept tabs. And he was sincerely disappointed when the Corrections adaptation fell through. He had hoped the television series would highlight what Gerry considered the novel’s myriad flaws.
“No one bats a thousand,” Thiru said.
“Look, it’s not even a good option. It’s insultingly low.”
Dream Girl had been optioned three times so far. The book was like a trick wallet, tied to a string. Gerry and Thiru put it on the sidewalk and people kept chasing it. But he couldn’t tell Thiru that he would prefer just optioning it over and over. The film production of his first novel had been disappointing, in large part because no one seemed to care that much. Gerry had hoped for either an outstanding adaptation or a total botch that would lead to impassioned tributes to the source material. No one had anything to say about the movie, good or bad. They took his firstborn, in many ways his sweetest and most pliable child, and rendered it dull. Boring, polite, bloodless, with nothing really there in the end. So, no, he didn’t want to see Dream Girl produced. He wanted people to pay him for it over and over again.
Also, he was miffed that Rudin had bought Franzen’s book, not his, back in 2001. He didn’t want to be anyone’s second choice.
“Options have changed, Gerry. It’s hard to get that big money now. But an actress is attached, someone who wants to play Aubrey.” Thiru shared a name that meant nothing to Gerry, then showed him a photograph on his phone.
“Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. Too beautiful, in fact. Aubrey isn’t conventionally pretty. That’s central to the book.”
“Jesus Christ, Gerry, of course she’s going to be beautiful. Have you been to the movies?”
“Not recently, no. I do like that one television show.”
“Which one?”
“That one that people talk about.”
“You’re going to have to narrow it down, Gerry.”
“He sells drugs?”
“Breaking Bad?”
“That’s it.”
“Gerry, it’s not even on the air anymore.”
“I guess I’m watching it on iTunes.”
He sampled the uni. He had no idea what it was, but he had to admit, it was pretty good.
“What’s next?” Thiru asked.
“I want to take something low-culture and elevate it.”
“Like Zone One or Station Eleven?”
Gerry frowned. He always insisted he did not begrudge any talented writer his or her success, but he also considered himself an original, marching to the beat of his own drum. He was trying to be a good sport about the attention that Colson Whitehead was getting for The Underground Railroad right now, but it wasn’t always easy.
“Yes and no,” he said. “I’m not interested in zombies or pandemics. I’m interested in—don’t laugh—soap operas.”
Thiru’s chopsticks clattered to his plate and came dangerously close to sending up a flume of sauce onto his beautiful lapels. Today’s suit was plaid. Probably a precise kind of plaid, with a special name, but all Gerry knew was that it was gray with subtle crisscrosses of burgundy, gold, and green. Fashion bored Gerry even more than food did. He lived in khakis and oxford cloth shirts, cotton sweaters from the Gap.