Lies She Told(2)

“Right. What they want.” He faces me and nods. Trevor talks with his head the way Italians speak with hand gestures. The angle of his chin conveys his amusement or displeasure. “You must give your audience what they’re craving. Readers are done with love triangles and tortured consciences. Consider what Hollywood is buying: stories about pushing sexual taboos and psychological manipulation. People want to play mind games in the bedroom, eh?”

A forty-two-year-old guy is telling me, a thirty-five-year-old woman smack in the middle of my target audience demographic, what my peers want in the sack. Sad fact is, I should probably take notes. For the past year, David and I have only bothered with intercourse when my basal temp kicks up. Trevor is recently divorced and inarguably attractive: a Bronze Age Rodin of a man. Women must be, as he’d say, “queuing” up.

He snaps to an unknown rhythm. Suddenly, his eyes brighten like he’s figured out the step. “How about something with psychiatrists? Does he love her or is he messing with her mind?”

I could name four books involving twisted therapists that graced the bestseller lists in the past two years. But doing so would just support Trevor’s suggestion. He isn’t claiming that his idea is original, only that it’s “on trend.” Trends sell, whether writers like them or not.

Trevor mistakes my silence as serious consideration. “Think Hannibal Lecter without the horror. The sociopathic doctor meets a young Clarice, and she falls—”

“I don’t know, Trev. Transference? Is that—”

“Trans?” He wrinkles his nose, offended by my attempt to slip esoteric knowledge into our conversation. Trevor often laments this about me. He complains that I bog down my books with details: how a gun shoots, how police detect trace amounts of blood, DNA lingo fit for a biologist. For Accused Woman, I attended a week-long writer’s workshop at the police academy in Queens so I could get down every detail of the way a gun discharges and how detectives investigate. I even bought my own handgun: a Ruger SR22, touted by experts as the most affordable semiautomatic for women. My aim is horrible.

“Transference happens when a person projects unresolved feelings about their past onto people in their present, like a patient transferring romantic emotions onto their psychi—”

Trevor’s full lips press flat against his teeth.

“It’s not important. Forget it.” My voice sounds small. Somehow, I’ve neared forty without gaining the surety that’s supposed to come with middle age. I cough and try to add heft to my tone. The act clenches my stomach, intensifying the persistent queasiness that I’ve suffered for weeks. “What if, by the time the book comes out, interest in psychiatrists has waned?”

Trevor gives a What-you-gonna-do? shrug. “Well, think about it. And send me an outline before you go too deep into anything.”

The request spurs me from my seat quicker than a cattle prod. Not once in my career has Trevor demanded anything more than a rough idea and a finished draft. Now he needs a chapter-by-chapter breakdown? The suddenness of my movement topples the chair onto Trevor’s floor. I recoil at the spectacle of its four legs sticking in the air like a poisoned cockroach. I promised myself I’d stay calm.

I right the seat and stand behind it, head lowered. My temples throb their early warning alarm for a migraine. “That’s really not how I work. I let the characters dictate the action.” My tone is apologetic. Sorry, Trev. I’m not good enough to write an outline. That’s what he thinks I’m saying.

“Maybe it’s worth a try. New methods can lead to new results.”

“If I could just write through a draft—”

“Liza, come on. You’re a fast writer. An outline’s no big deal for you.”

“A draft barely takes longer. I’ll spend twelve hours a day writing. Fourteen—”

“You’ve got the MWO conference coming up.”

“I’m only staying through my panel.” Nerves add unnecessary vibrato to my voice. “Hey, if you like the story, then we’re both happy. If not, I’ll start over.” I force a laugh. “I’ll even throw in a psychiatrist.”

He runs his hand through his grown-out buzz cut. The longer hairstyle is new, postdivorce. It makes him look younger.

“Please, Trev.” I’m actually begging. “I think this idea could have legs. Let me run with it. Give me one month. Thirty days.”

Trevor reclaims his glasses and places them on his face. The spectacles magnify the teardrop shape of his eyes as he checks in with his computer clock. “All right.” His head shakes in disagreement with his words. “You have until September fifteenth. One month. I can’t give you any more than that.”

He crosses the room, passing his bookcase of edited award winners. The Wall of Fame. I have a novel on there, though it’s long been bumped from the center shelves. The door opens, inviting in the pattering of computer keys and one-sided phone conversations. Trevor smiles as he holds it. I try to mirror his expression, as though he’s being chivalrous rather than kicking me out.

As I pass him, he gives my shoulder a supportive squeeze, reminding me that we’re still friends, regardless of business. “Hey. I meant to ask, how’s the search going?”

His expression is appropriately pained. In the beginning, everyone inquired with overacted enthusiasm, as though it was possible that we’d find Nick unharmed, wandering the streets tripping on acid, too busy admiring the pretty colors of the New York City lights to realize that he’d been staring at them for days. Nick didn’t use hallucinogens to David’s knowledge, but there was always a first time. An offer in a club by someone cute. Younger. Nick wouldn’t have dared seem not “with it.” He prided himself on hanging out with models and misfits, the artsy types that applauded themselves for gentrifying the Brooklyn neighborhoods where even hipsters feared to tread.