Envy(11)

As Maris and Noah crossed the elegant lobby of the Palace Hotel, she sighed, “At last. I can’t wait to get into my jammies.”

“One drink and we’ll say our good nights.”

“Drink?”

“At LeCirque.”

“Now?”

“I told you.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I’m sure I did, Maris. Between the main course and dessert, I whispered to you that Nadia had invited us to join her and one of the award recipients for a drink.”

“I didn’t know you meant tonight.”

Maris groaned with dread. She disliked Nadia Schuller intensely and for this very reason. The book critic was meddlesome and pushy, always roping Noah and her into a commitment from which there was no graceful way out.

Nadia Schuller’s “Book Chat” column was syndicated in major newspapers and carried a lot of weight—in Maris’s opinion simply because Nadia had ramrodded herself into being the country’s only book critic whose name was recognized by the general public. Maris held her in low regard both professionally and personally.

She was adroit at making it seem as though this sort of arranged meeting were for the benefit of the parties she was bringing together, but Maris suspected that Nadia’s matchmaking was strictly self-serving. She was a self-promoter without equal and refused to take no for an answer. Whatever her request, she extended it assuming that it would be granted without a quibble. Noncompliance to her wishes was met with a veiled threat of consequences. Maris was wise to her manipulations, but Noah seemed blind to them.

“Please, Noah, can’t we decline? Just this once?”

“We’re already here.”

“Not tonight,” she implored.

“Tell you what. Let’s compromise.” He pulled her around to face him and smiled affectionately. “I think this might be an important meeting.”

“Nadia always makes it sound not just important but imperative.”

“Granted. But this time I don’t think she’s exaggerating.”

“What’s the compromise?”

“I’ll make your excuses. I’ll tell Nadia that you have a headache or an early breakfast appointment tomorrow morning. Have the driver take you home. After one drink, I’ll follow you. Half an hour, max. I promise.”

She slid her hand inside his tuxedo jacket and stroked his chest through the stiffly starched shirt. “I have a better compromise, Mr. Reed. I’ll tell Nadia to take a flying leap into the East River. Then let’s go home together. Those jammies I mentioned? They can be dispensed with.”

“You ended your sentence with a preposition,” he noted.

“You’re the writer. I’m a mere editor.”

“I’m a former writer.”

“There’s no such thing.” She took a step closer and aligned her thighs with his. “What do you say? About the jammies.”

“Noah? We’re waiting.”

Nadia Schuller approached with the bearing of a military general about to address the troops, except that she was better dressed and had her phony smile in place. She was skilled at turning on the charm at will—to intrude, disarm, and promote herself. Many fell for it. She was a frequent and popular guest on talk shows. Letterman loved her, and he was just one of her celebrity friends. She made it her business to be photographed with actors, musicians, supermodels, and politicians whenever possible.

She had elevated herself to heights that Maris felt were undeserved. She was a self-appointed, self-ordained authority with no meaningful credentials to support her opinions on either writing or the business of publishing. But authors and publishers couldn’t afford to offend her or they risked their next book being slammed in her column.

Tonight her arm was linked with that of a bestselling novelist who looked a little dazed. Or stoned, if the gossip about him was true. Or maybe he was only dizzy from being propelled through the evening by the turbo engines of Nadia’s personality.

“They won’t hold our table forever, Noah. Coming?”

“Well…” He hesitated and glanced down at Maris.

“What’s the matter?” Nadia asked in a voice as piercing as a dentist’s drill. She addressed the question to Maris, automatically assuming that she was the source of the problem.

“Nothing’s the matter, Nadia. Noah and I were having a private conversation.”

“Oh, my. Have I interrupted one of those husband/wife things?”

The critic could have been pretty if not for her edge, which manifested itself in the brittleness of her smile and the calculation in her eyes, which seemed to miss nothing. She was always impeccably dressed, groomed, and accessorized in the best of taste, but even arrayed in fine silk and finer jewelry there was nothing feminine about her.

It was rumored that she went through men like a box of Godivas, chewing up and spitting out the ones who didn’t challenge her or who could do nothing to further her career—in other words, the ones with soft centers. Maris had no problem believing the gossip about Nadia’s promiscuity. What surprised her was the number of men who found her sexually appealing.

“Yes, we were having a husband and wife thing. I was telling Noah that the last thing I want to do is join you for a round of drinks,” Maris said, smiling sweetly.