A Good Man Is Hard To Find : Part 1

Because She Can: A Novel
by Bridie Clark

Life is really looking up for Claire Truman. In a New York minute, she lands a plum job at a top publishing house, catapulting her out of editorial assistant status and tripling her salary. In the same stroke of good luck, Claire goes from loser magnet to girlfriend of her decade-long crush: the fabulously successful and gorgeous Randall Cox (who's a nice guy, to boot).

The perfect guy, the perfect job ... it seems like Claire's dreams are all falling neatly into place. Enter reality. It doesn't take long before Claire realizes she's working for the publishing world's most ruthless tyrant: the outrageously abusive Vivian Grant, a woman who churns out New York Times bestsellers with nearly the same frequency as she sends traumatized assistants flying out of her office in tears. Soon Claire is in staff meetings that feel more like war zones, at a book party thrown at a strip club, and watching Vivian run her employees into the ground and into therapy.

As Claire's job steals more and more of her time and soul, her relationship with Randall begins to feel the strain. It doesn't help that Claire's been spending overtime with Luke Mayville, a handsome, brilliant novelist whose career she's helping to launch.

With her love life at a crossroads and her work life driving her crazy, Claire can't help wondering if her future will have a happy ending. Her career may be on the fast track, but does she like where it's taking her ... and who she might turn into?

Chapter 1

Exactly one year before my June 26 wedding day, I was curled up on my couch with a large pepperoni pizza, a half-empty pack of Marlboro Lights, the world's most comfortable blanket, and several hours of TiVO ahead of me.

Under normal circumstances, this lineup would've thrilled me. On another night, my pack of cigarettes would have been half-full. But tonight, even the prospect of watching Kiefer Sutherland save the world for six straight hours was of little solace.

For starters, I was still fresh on the heels of an ugly breakup with my wannabe rock-star boyfriend, James. (In the interest of full disclosure, it was the final of four breakups, each one more obviously necessary than the last.) That had me down.

But what had me out was a crisis of a professional nature. Just that afternoon, I'd gotten the crushing news that Jackson Mayville, my beloved boss at Peters and Pomfret (the top-tier New York book publishing house), my professional mentor during the five years since I'd graduated from college, would be hanging up his cleats this summer. He and his wife were moving down to Virginia to be closer to their grandkids.

I probably should've guessed it was coming, but I've always been pretty bad at doing that. So, when Jackson gave me the news, I immediately misted up-embarrassing but very genuine tears.

"Aw, now. Don't do that. We'll still be in touch, my dear," Jackson had consoled me in his gentle Clintonian drawl, patting my head gently and offering me his handkerchief. He pulled me into an awkward half hug, his forehead wrinkling with paternal concern.

All of which, perhaps needless to say, did nothing to dry my tears. I tried to smile and act somewhat professional, but I couldn't pull it off. I was devastated. Jackson had been much more than a boss-he'd been a father figure for me since Dad passed away five years ago. Like Dad, Jackson radiated kindness and intelligence. Both men were tall, lanky, dashing (if not precisely handsome), with a thick shock of silver hair and a tendency to rail against the Way Things Were. Both had approached their work with unwavering devotion. Both were generous, emotional, sincere. Both adored their wives.

And both men made me feel ... well, loved. Many a Friday night, Jackson would find me working late and wave me into family dinners with his wife, Carie, and their teenage sons, Michael and Edward, the youngest of their brood of five. Sitting around the table in the kitchen-warm and toasty from the oven in which Carie had almost invariably burned the roast or the lasagna-made me feel I'd found a real home in New York City.

"I'll be okay," I gulped, my face still muffled by Jackson's Harris Tweed blazer.

Jackson and I first met at the tail end of my senior year of college. I'd stepped nervously into his office, crisp résumé in hand, and perched on the same worn leather couch that I'd cried on this afternoon. Graduation loomed just weeks away. I'd been able to nab a job offer from another big publisher-the result of many trips to New York City in Bea's beat-up station wagon-but when I managed to get a meeting with the legendary Jackson Mayville, I told the HR representative at the other company that I needed more time to consider my options. After all, it was Jackson Mayville. He'd edited some of the century's most important literary voices and was truly in a league of his own.

I'd known since girlhood that I wanted to be a book editor. By high school, I'd pore over the acknowledgments section of novels I loved, daydreaming that someday a brilliant talent might see me as the person who "made her book possible" or "enhanced every page with editorial wisdom and insight." Could I be the Maxwell Perkins to some future Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Wolfe? Learning the ropes from Jackson Mayville seemed like a great first step.

And, as it turned out, it had been. Five years with Jackson had flown by, and I'd learned more from him than I'd ever imagined I would.

Sure, it hadn't always been a bed of roses-professionally or personally. It'd been five years of struggling to make ends meet, weathering one failed relationship after another, watching friends settle into domestic bliss while I was still heating up Campbell's soup for one most nights of the week. But it'd also been five years of learning the ropes from a talented and generous mentor, kicking up my heels, savoring my independence. So it all evened out.

But now that balance was about to shift. No more Jackson.

And frankly, my heels were beginning to get tired from so much kicking. James had been an exhausting experience, but then so had most of my recent flings. Lately it seemed I was always trying to convince myself that the guy I was dating wasn't A) a moron (So what if he isn't into opera? Or museums ... or newspapers ... or reading without moving his lips?); B) a slacker (So what if he's been unemployed for a decade? He's nonmaterialistic. And so secure with his manhood that he lets me pay for everything); C) an inconsiderate prick (So what if he's left me waiting in this restaurant for nearly an hour? He's Latin).

I cued up another episode of 24. You know what? I thought. A day like this calls for a double pie. I called Mimi's for backup. Some people practice yoga, some people run to therapy-when life gets me down, I prefer to cope by eating my own weight in pepperoni pizza.

Of course, it wasn't just the emotional loss of not seeing Jackson every day that was upsetting me. I had my practical concerns, too. Jackson had gone to bat for me countless times-making sure that Gordon Haas, the publisher, paid attention to some of the proposals I brought to the table, fighting for my promotions, haggling with HR for a few much-needed bumps in salary. What would his retirement mean for my prospects at P and P? I'd still have my job, or so I'd been immediately reassured, but there was no doubt that the absence of a strong ally like Jackson would slow my trajectory. Not a cheering thought, given that it'd taken me five years to climb the editorial ladder to become an associate editor-a rate that the company considered fast.

Copyright © 2007 by Bridie Clark

About the Author

Bridie Clark is a former book and magazine editor who has worked for several major New York publishers. She lives in New York City with her husband. This is her first novel.