“What?”
“My mother watched them and then, in the 1970s, when I was a teenager, inevitably I did, too. There was only one television in our house and she had one afternoon off, Thursdays. We watched the ABC shows together. All My Children, One Life to Live, General Hospital. And even though she could watch only once a week, she never really missed anything. It was amazing, how much happened and yet how slowly it happened.”
Yes, the horrible lighting, the strange slowness, the fact that it was done daily, that the writers and actors were chained to this vehicle that had to keep hurtling forward. Soap operas dared to take their fucking time even as everything else in culture rushed, pushed, competed. The soap opera, in its slowness, its comfort with redundancy and exposition, had its merits—and now it was dying. If he were a younger writer, one in need of attention, he would write an essay in its defense. As it was, he wanted to take what worked—the pace, the human scale, how huge it could feel to be inside a dying marriage, or an affair—not that he had any knowledge of the latter—and place those problems against the backdrop of something large. Not 9/11 or the 2008 economic collapse, but something truly epic.
“It sounds”—Thiru took a bite and chewed, making Gerry wait a long time for his adjective—“promising.”
“I hear the doubt in your voice. Trust me, Thiru. My instincts are good. You know that. I actually have a talent for the—” He did not want to say zeitgeist, a word he loathed. Gerry preferred to say he understood the present’s subtext. He saw the currents, what was going on underneath. His parents’ marriage had trained him to do that.
“How far along are you?”
“Writing every day, but I haven’t felt the quickening yet, the moment I know this book is the one.” Gerry had a high fail rate, starting at least three books for every one that came to fruition. It was part of the reason he no longer took advances, instead insisting on selling finished books. Not that there was ever any suspense about his longtime editor making an offer, or whether the offer would be a good one. Still, it made him feel less encumbered, not being under contract. And it gave Thiru the leverage of potential bidding wars, Gerry always being available.
“Maybe if the soap opera thing was part of a memoir—” Thiru began.
“No. Never.”
“Even with your father dead?”
“With him dead, when my mother is dead, when I am dead—there will never be a memoir.”
“I can see waiting until your mother is gone—”
“Wasn’t I right about the uni?”
The magnificent woman was back at their table, clearly on her way out, a striking coat of boiled red wool tossed over her arm. Gerry was doubly grateful for her reappearance. She not only derailed the conversation about the memoir, she was wonderful to behold, sexy yet classy, with long, praying mantis limbs. He had dated desultorily since he and Sarah split. He didn’t like dating. And the women he saw were disappointed in his preferences, which came down to long walks in Central Park, carryout or delivery from his favorite neighborhood places, watching the Orioles on cable.
“You were,” Gerry said. “It was quite good. I still don’t know what it is.”
“Sea urchin.” She laughed at the face he made. “Actually it’s even worse—they’re gonads. Not that I mind, but you might.”
Oh, wasn’t she a saucy one.
“Anyway, I don’t want to bore you—I’m a fan. We met briefly at that PEN benefit last year, although I doubt you remember. You were mobbed. And I was just another admirer.”
“I’m not bored. You’d be surprised how not boring it is.” He was sincere. If only all fans simply said this: I won’t bore you, I’m a fan. How lovely that would be. How lovely this woman was. “Remind me of your name?”
“Margot Chasseur,” she said. “Although it sounds as if I wrote Canterbury Tales, the spelling is French. C-H-A-S-S-E-U-R.” Her hedge fund date had approached and she tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow. “Enjoy.”
He watched her leave, taking note of the name, which was unusual enough to track down even in what the old television show had called the naked city, with eight million naked stories. From behind, she was practically naked above the waist and, despite the cold night, she kept the coat draped over her arm, so her shoulder blades remained visible. He could see almost to her coccyx, but it was the shoulder blades that caught his attention. They were sharp and beautiful. A man could impale himself on those shoulder blades. It would be worth it.