A Good Man Is Hard To Find : Part 2

Because She Can: A Novel
By Bridie Clark

(Page 2 of 6)

I lit up my eighth cigarette of the evening and tried to focus my attention on Kiefer-but it was uncharacteristically difficult.

The thing was, I already had a tough time lining up meetings with Gordon-meaning it was hard to get his approval and financial support to bid on books. How could I get promoted to editor if I couldn't show my ability to make good buys and edit well? I knew there were many of us on the junior staff who grappled with this catch-22. With so many talented senior editors laying claim to Gordon's attention and budget, it seemed nearly impossible to break into the starting lineup as a junior staffer-even with Jackson pushing for me.

During the past few months, I'd watched several promising books fly out of my fingers because I'd been unable to get an answer in time from Gordon. I couldn't fault him for the bottleneck-not only was he a nice, well-intentioned guy, but he was clearly working at full capacity and trying his best to get to everyone.

Still, it was frustrating. I was hungry for more responsibility. I'd entered the business because I was drawn to the conceptual, collaborative, creative work of an editor-not because I loved to photocopy manuscripts for five hours a day.

And this is where I was one year before my wedding day: no romantic prospects and a career that seemed stuck in a holding pattern. I was in a rut roughly the size of the Grand Canyon.

As soon as I'd dug into my second pizza, the phone rang: Beatrice, asking if I'd meet her for the opening of some new art gallery.

Not a chance, I thought-and, come to think of it, might have said out loud. I could guess the kind of party it'd be. A sea of laughing, reaching, swilling, flirting, posing New Yorkers. Socialites who'd spent the entire afternoon choosing their outfits. Slick-haired men who scanned the room while you answered their questions. Young fogies with farcically WASPy first names and platinum blond girlfriends. Trustafarians who'd been born on third base but bragged as though they'd hit a triple. The flashing bulbs of society rag photographers. Cheap chardonnay. Watered-down conversation. Small talk was the only language spoken, and even the most interesting characters went bland after spending too much time on the circuit.

I was cynical, yes. But also pretty well-informed. I'd been a peripheral part of the scene for five years-mainly because Bea, an interior designer, worked these parties to expand her clientele-and I knew what to expect from it by now.

Recently, for example, she'd dragged me to a cocktail party at Soho House for a budding young writer who'd just published her first collection of short stories. I watched as a cluster of A-list party girls, all clad head to toe in white (the season's new gray, which was last season's new black), positioned themselves in a corner by some bookshelves. Society shutterbug Patrick McMullan hovered nearby; the girls coyly pretended not to be aware of the enormous camera hanging from his neck. And then Patrick began to click away. One of the girls, an ex-model, pulled a book at random from the shelf and pretended to read it. Another followed suit. One by one, the girls each adopted expressions of academic seriousness, their eyes narrowed as if absorbing some deep point, their ever-so-slightly furrowed brows a caricature of scholarly intensity. Patrick loved it. One of the girls held her book upside down, but nobody cared. It was a completely harmless photo op, I knew that, but it still made me put down my drink and say my good-byes.

Anyway, I just wasn't in the mood. Not tonight. My mind was stuck on my work situation, plus I still had a solid week of moping over James left in me. (Who doesn't secretly relish a breakup-or at least the guiltless freedom it provides to smoke way too many cigarettes, eat buckets of ice cream, not move from the couch, and indulge in every other possible cliché? I wasn't about to cut this short.)

I explained to Bea that my sweatpants had developed a terrible case of separation anxiety, but she persisted. Then she begged.

Still I wasn't budging. And so she moved on: "I wonder if James is sulking on his couch right now."

"I'll meet you in an hour," I muttered, getting up. Had to give her credit, she'd played her hand well. As we both knew, odds were high that James was at that moment chatting up some indie-rock chick who'd been throwing herself at him during his opening set. His weakness for these types had been a precipitating factor in our breakup.

"You won't regret it, Claire," Bea said excitedly. "And wear your red dress, okay?"

My red dress? She hung up before I could renege, having caught the unmistakable whiff of a setup.

Walking into the crowded gallery at 8:20, I spotted Bea by the bar and made a straight shot for her. "All right, where is he?" I smiled wearily, kissing her hello and snagging a miniquiche from a meandering cater-waiter.

Harry ambled up behind me, smoking an illicit cigar that only he could get away with. He laid his hand affectionately on Bea's shoulder and gave me a wolf whistle. "Watch out, men of New York"-he leaned in for a kiss-"Miss Truman is back in circulation."

Side note: I love, love, love Harry. He's one of the most self-effacing, smart, funny human beings I've ever known, one of those men who make you grin by sheer proximity. He's also a bad-ass assistant district attorney, always full of real-life Sopranos stories, and he's been a steady part of my life since Bea finally agreed to go on a date with him during our sophomore year of college. Thank God she saw the light, because you've never seen a college boy work so hard. And that's what it is, really-apart from his considerable charms, what I really love about Harry is how much he loves my best friend. Bea's a goddess among women in his eyes, a perspective I agree with wholeheartedly.

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.