“Ironic, huh?” Jamie tilted his head. “Violet Trapp, always rejecting her roots. But isn’t Faulkner the one who said that the past isn’t dead, it isn’t even—”
“Hey, look at that!” I said, as a waiter walked by with a tray of pigs in a blanket. “Excuse me, sir? Could we please try those?”
“Nice save,” Jamie said.
“Can’t talk,” I mumbled through the crumbs. “Mouth full.”
A while later, I was ordering a drink at the bar when Rebecca appeared next to me. She was dressed like an off-duty Jackie Kennedy or Audrey Hepburn, barefoot in slim black pants and an oversized white sweater, hair pulled back in a bun. It was a power move. In a room of people wearing their best dresses and high heels, suits and ties, Rebecca’s unadorned beauty stood out.
“Your first holiday party,” she said, squeezing my arm. “Are you having a good time?”
“Yes! Thank you. Your apartment is beautiful.”
“I can’t bring myself to care about interior decorating. Eric did most of it. Where is he?” Rebecca started scanning the room, but then she stopped and frowned. “I hate the jazz trio. I truly hate them. We’ve hired them five years in a row, mostly out of pity. I think they’re getting worse. Do you like jazz?”
“I…I don’t really know.”
“Eric is always dragging me to these awful places in the West Village. He loves it and I have no idea why. Where is he?” She stood on her tiptoes, which wasn’t much help for a petite woman in a room full of high heels. “Eric! Come here.”
The man who appeared from the crowd was tall and lanky, with thick dark hair and matching eyebrows. Eric was a novelist, a literary man-about-town, often appearing on panels and giving talks at the 92nd Street Y. He and Rebecca had met as undergrads at Harvard and had been together ever since.
“This is Violet,” Rebecca said. “She’s new. She’s a star.”
I felt a flush of pride, an electric sense of self-possession. Although, just as quickly, it faded: Rebecca probably said this to everyone. Compliments were cheap. Why not toss a few bread crumbs from your balcony? Rebecca liked the reciprocal adoration that came with making other people feel good.
“Lovely to meet you, Violet,” Eric said, shaking my hand.
Rebecca touched my arm. “Excuse me. See that guy? He’s in charge of our budget for next year and he needs a little sweet-talking.”
Across the apartment, one of the KCN executives was about to leave when Rebecca blocked him from the door, prying his coat away and handing him a freshly procured drink. He obeyed, looking nervous, as she pushed him into a quiet corner of the dining room.
“The poor man,” Eric said. “He doesn’t stand a chance.”
I nodded, confused, and made some general noise of agreement.
“Apparently your corporate overlords want to keep a tighter leash on travel expenses,” Eric said. “But it’s hard to say no to Rebecca Carter. You must know that by now.”
“She’s very talented,” I said. “Well, obviously, yes, I don’t need to be telling you that. I meant—”
“They really ought to give them training,” Eric continued, ignoring me. “The way the CIA trains their officers to resist interrogation. Those poor men need some mental toughness. Otherwise it’s not a fair fight. She’ll get her way, and he’ll run tuck-tail back to the fortieth floor. Then they’ll have to fire him, and hire someone new. On and on the orchestra plays.”
“Um,” I said. “Yeah.”
We struggled through small talk for several minutes. I kept thinking Eric would find an excuse to end this painful conversation—didn’t he have other people he wanted to talk to? Finally, as a last resort, I said, “I read your piece in the Times last week. It was great. I thought it was such a brave stand to take.”
He smiled. No, he beamed. The op-ed had been completely forgettable. An argument for preserving the freedom of the novelist, as if there was some campaign being waged against it. But it worked. Eric lit up as he told me about the high-minded reason he had written it. Then, with growing animation, he started on the rumors and gossip of the literary world. By the time I finished my drink, Eric was laughing so hard he was wiping tears from his eyes. Rebecca returned, raising an eyebrow. “Are we having fun?” she said.
“Oh, Becky, this one’s a keeper,” Eric said, as if I was the source of his uproarious laughter for the last twenty minutes.
“Right,” she said. “I’m just going to borrow her for a minute, okay?”
Rebecca steered me toward the bar. “You’re a trouper,” she said. “Thanks for babysitting him. Pretty dress, by the way.”
“It wasn’t—he was so nice, it just—”
“Of course. He’s wonderful. I do love that man. But Jesus, can he talk. Have you read any of his books?”
“Well…no.” My cheeks reddened.
“Most people your age haven’t. He’s a little, let’s say, vintage. Had his only big hit over fifteen years ago. But his is the kind of business where you can dine out on one hit for a long time.” She laughed. “If only we had it so easy, right? We have to reinvent the wheel every single goddamn night.” Rebecca clinked her glass against mine. “Enjoy the rest of the party, Violet.”
Jamie and Eliza were across the room, near the windows. “I see you met Eric,” Eliza said. Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “And you’re still standing?”
“Remember last year?” Jamie said. “When he buttonholed that assistant?”
“His mistake,” Eliza said. “That kid should have known better.”
“What happened?” I said.
“He told Eric that realism in the novel was dead,” Jamie said. “Whatever that means.”
“And Eric spent the rest of the party jabbing his finger into this kid’s chest, telling him that unless you’ve actually done it yourself, you don’t get to comment upon the form.” Eliza smirked. “That’s what he said, right? Comment upon the form.”
Jamie rolled his eyes. “Which is rich, because you know who considers himself the real executive producer of Rebecca’s show?”
“It’s like clockwork,” Eliza said. “We do a segment on the latest celebrity divorce and within thirty seconds, he’s e-mailed Rebecca and copied me. Eric likes to remind his wife that this tawdry stuff is beneath her dignity. That she should overrule her producers. Because Rebecca is in charge of her own show, not me.”
“Wow,” I said.
Eliza laughed. “Have you seen this apartment? That Brioni suit he was wearing? Like he doesn’t love the life that Rebecca’s ratings pay for.”
It was 1 a.m. by the time the party died down. When a subway finally arrived at the Lexington Avenue station, it was nearly deserted. Jamie, who was splitting a cab back to Park Slope with a colleague, was worried about me getting home by myself.
“I’m a big girl,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”
“But you’re still new around here,” he said. “Text me when you get home.”