The Dirty Book Club(71)

“It is.”

“My God, M.J., what have those bohemians done to you?” She leaned forward, hands clasped on her empty plate. “Forgive me, darling, but are you saying that the cute little musing about your summer vacation was actually—”

“My submission? Yes,” M.J. said, trying to remain upbeat. “The first of many.”

“I’m not a magazine editor anymore, I’m the CEO of Pique Publishing Group. But allow me to spare you the humiliation of a rejection letter. City won’t run that. It’s too—”

M.J.’s phone buzzed. It was Dan. She sent him to voice mail. “Then, I’ll submit something else. I’ve been working on a piece about the differences between the coasts. Like, have you ever noticed that New York looks like film and Los Angeles more like video?”

“M.J.—”

“Seriously. It has something to do with the position of the sun and light saturation. And then there’s the psychological differences: work ethics for example. New Yorkers are fiercely driven, and Californians are laid-back. Why? Because everything you see in Manhattan was built by humans, whereas Californians are surrounded by nature: the ocean, the desert, mountains . . . Everywhere they look, they’re reminded of a power greater than themselves. So they’re more, to use your term, woo-woo.”

“M.J.—”

“It sounds out-there, but I’ll write it in a way that works for City. I know the tone of that magazine better than anyone else and—”

“M.J.!” Gayle’s palm came down on the table. “You can’t pitch these California-stoner stories to a magazine about New York.”

“City has a global section.”

“And Pearl Beach isn’t global, it’s in Orange County, which by the way, is the only nod to color in that entire region. Colleges hand out affirmative-action scholarships to tanned people because they can’t find anyone darker.”

“So it’s a race thing?”

“Show me one black person who isn’t there because of a wrong turn and we’ll talk.”

M.J.’s phone started to buzz: Dan, again. She let it ring. “What about Central Africa? Is that black enough for you?”

Gayle, reaching for her breadstick, paused.

“Picture me in a refugee camp 186 miles west of the capital Bangui with a team of rescue workers from the Red Cross.”

“This conversation is over.”

M.J. pushed back her chair. “Why?”

“Because I no longer believe this is you.”

“It’s me. And I’m going to be me on this trip, that’s the point. It will be a real fish-out-of-water story. I’ll roll tampons in my hair instead of curlers and sleep in my Louis Vuitton steamer trunk,” she enthused, grateful that Dan wasn’t there to witness the salacious tabloid-sized crap she was about to take on his benevolent mission. “Imagine the opportunities for product placement. Energy bars, Evian water, fitness apparel. Advertisers could sponsor food drops, and if I photograph it all with my iPhone, maybe we can get Apple on board.”

Gayle tapped her cheek imagining the possibilities. Had she always worn this much foundation? “I still don’t see it for City, maybe Travel Bug, but that said, I really don’t understand why you’d want to do this.”

“Dan really cares about these missions and he wants me to go,” she said, like a dedicated girlfriend and not the determined writer who would say anything to get herself published. “I guess it’s what you married people call compromise.”

“Darling, a compromise is, ‘I’ll do Indian tonight if you’ll do Japanese tomorrow.’ Not, ‘Give up your career, follow me to a refugee camp.’?”

M.J. realized it did sound ridiculous when put that way. “My therapist thinks it’s good for the relationship and it will help me fill a void.”

“What do you think?”

“I think . . .” She paused while the waiter topped off their wine. “I think I’m not giving up my career, because I don’t have a career. You took my career and you gave it to Liz, remember?”

“And now . . .” Gayle placed the contract on the table, slid it toward her. “I’m giving it back.”

“I can’t work with her.”

“What if I let her go?”

Something like an elastic band snapped behind M.J.’s chest. “You would do that?”

Gayle flicked her chin at the pages lying between them, inviting M.J. to see for herself.

Dan was calling. Still, M.J. pulled the contract closer and flipped to the final signature page. The only name at the bottom was hers.

Shock waves, warm and tingly, rippled throughout her body. There was too much to consider, too much at stake, too much sludge churning inside of her. What was she supposed to say? What did she want to say? She had to stop drinking wine and think. She had to pee.

Her phone dinged. It was Dan again, only this time he sent a text: ADDIE IS IN THE HOSPITAL.

He used words like blood, hemorrhaging, and head wound. Though weak in the knees, M.J. stood. “I’m sorry, Gayle, I have to go. It’s an emergency.”

“So now what?”

“Give me a chance to write the Africa piece. Let me prove I can do this.”

“And if it doesn’t fly?”