The Dirty Book Club(10)

Liz popped a Mentos.

“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?”

“In a nutshell?” Gayle was suddenly alight with corporate enthusiasm. “I’ve formed a coalition.”

Liz bobbleheaded in agreement.

“I still don’t . . .”

“You and Liz,” Gayle said, as if they’d discussed it hundreds of times. “Coeditors in chief.”

“Co?”

“Yes,” Gayle said, delighted by her own ingenuity. “You run City in here, and Liz runs it”—she rolled her wrist toward the windows—“out there.”

“I’m sorry, but what does that even mean?” M.J. glared straight into Gayle’s eyes, suspecting that maybe this wasn’t Gayle at all. The Gayle she knew wouldn’t gaslight her like that. That’s not how they worked. That’s not how they were. They were open and honest and collaborative. Gayle knew how hard M.J. worked. How capable she was. How she gave every ounce of her neglected self to this magazine. She knew!

“You look a little . . . ashen. Do you need a moment?”

M.J.’s heart began to pound like a fist at a protest march. “A moment? I’ll need more than a moment to understand why my new position has suddenly morphed into a . . .”

“Coalition,” Liz offered.

“Gayle, can I speak to you for a minute?” M.J. managed.

“Great idea,” Ann said. “Would anyone like coffee?”

“Depends where you’re going,” Liz said. “Sixbucks or the commissary?”

“We’re going to the commissary,” Ann insisted.

Liz stiffened. “Oh, right.” Then with a wine-scented whisper said, “Don’t worry, May-June, you got the better office.” Then she and Ann left the boardroom.

“This is insane,” M.J. hissed once they were alone. “You know that, right?”

Gayle extended her hand toward M.J. “I hate that it was sprung on you like this. I assumed you got the e-mail.”

“And what? You thought I loved the idea so much I forgot to mention it?”

“I’m trying to do what’s best for the magazine.”

“And this is how I find out? Here, in front of everyone?”

“It was stuck in drafts.” Gayle flashed her screen as proof. “I didn’t know.”

“Oh, I think you did. I think you knew exactly what you were doing.”

Gayle folded her arms and sat back in her chair. “Meaning?”

“Meaning, I think you knew I’d freak out and you were scared.”

“Scared?”

“Yes, scared. So you did that whole ‘break up in public so she doesn’t cause a scene’ thing. No, wait, what you did was worse. You broke up with me in public and invited your new lover to watch.”

“I’m hardly breaking up with you, M.J., I’m giving you my magazine.”

“You were giving me your magazine. Now you’re co-giving it to me and I have no idea why.” Tears, hot and sudden, blurred M.J.’s vision. She blinked them back.

“Fine. You want to know why I did it?”

M.J. nodded.

“You’re no fun.”

“Excuse me?”

“You get free tickets to every club, gallery opening, and concert in Manhattan and you never go. When’s the last time you took a client to dinner or came in late because you got the junior editors drunk?”

“When was the last time I left the office before midnight?”

“I get it,” Gayle continued. “I hate people, too. But Liz? She lives for that crap, and our advertisers can’t get enough of her.”

“I agree. She’s great. I’ll give her a raise and a promotion.”

“I considered that,” Gayle explained. “But—”

“But what? Liz has no idea how to run a magazine.”

“That’s why I need you.”

“I know, but why do you need her?”

“Liz has more cache as an editor in chief and more cache for Liz means more cash for us.”

M.J. recoiled. “So that’s what this is about? Money?”

“This is a business. You know that.”

“And I gave this business everything. Every holiday, every idea, every everything! And now you’re giving it to Liz!”

“She’s a strong spice, yes, but she’ll carry half the load and that will mean less pressure for you. You’ll have more time to see Dan and daylight and who knows? Maybe you’ll start writing again.”

“All I want is what you promised me.”

Gayle exhaled sharply. “Trust me, okay?”

“And if I don’t?”

“Meaning?”

“What if I refuse to share the position?”

“M.J., I know you’re disappointed but—”

“Disappointed?” This wasn’t disappointment—it was another death. Only this one wasn’t an accident. It was premeditated and carried out in cold blood.

“It’s not personal, honey.”

“Well, it’s sure as shit not professional,” M.J. said, as she pushed back her chair and began moving toward the door in strides that felt both swift and sluggish and not entirely her own. Scenes from a life not yet lived flashed before her—a life where she had no career, no reason to wake up, nowhere to hide from her pain. They came to her in fragments like flying shards of glass after an explosion.