The Frog Prince

Chapter Seven

C hapter S even

I had no idea that Josh was so interesting.

And I don’t just mean interesting because Josh gave me the name at the paper or promised not to say anything to Olivia, but interesting as in intriguing. The guy’s a poet. He’s had a collection of his poems published—he claims no one read it, but his friends say Josh is too modest.

His friends are all artsy types—there are three novelists (one Spanish, one American, and the other is Middle Eastern), a short story writer, a playwright, a sculptor, a photographer, a graphic artist, painters, and so on. They’re men and women. Diverse, international, and heavy smokers.

And I like the idea of them, the idea that I’m part of something intellectual, weighty, of substance, particularly because Jean-Marc used to say after we’d been married a couple months, Why don’t you read a real novel? Why don’t you do something with your mind? Or, if I was leafing through a magazine at night, You should read a real newspaper. A European paper. Your American newspapers are all so biased.

We’re at a Greek restaurant for drinks—we’re supposed to be going elsewhere for dinner later—and everyone’s loose, enjoying their beer and wine and taking turns going outside for a quick cigarette, cursing San Francisco’s ridiculous antismoking laws as they come and go.

Even though I’m sitting next to Josh, I spend most of the evening talking to an intense novelist named Paul Petersen, who could be any age between twenty-five and thirty-five. Paul doesn’t actually have a book published yet, but he gave up his day job two years ago and takes his work very seriously. He doesn’t write genre stuff, only “good fiction.”

I’ve nursed the same beer for over an hour because I want to keep my wits about me—I am starting to watch my weight a little more—and Paul is fiercely argumentative about what constitutes great writing. I think he thinks he’s an authority on great writing, and apparently he’s crafting something that’s very dark, serious, and relevant.

Although I’m not sure what that means.

I do know that critics and reviewers love novels filled with unhappy people searching for meaning. The search for meaning speaks of human nature. And suffering. But my problem is, I’ve lived suffering, and I’m just about suffered out.

I think it’s time to order another beer.

*

By the time I head home, I’ve had shish kebab and dolmades, fried cheese and pita bread. I grew up on Greek and Armenian food in Central California, and the kebabs and pita bread remind me of home. As I unlock the door to my apartment, the city feels a little smaller, a little friendlier, and I’ve even agreed to have dinner sometime with Paul so we can continue our discussion on the great American novel.

It’s probably not the smartest thing I’ve done, but surely it can’t be as bad as going out with Tom Lehman.

Speaking of Tom, he calls over the weekend. Twice on Saturday. Once on Sunday. And then when he fails to reach me on the phone, he drops by in person late Sunday afternoon.

Thank God I’m actually out when he stops by, and he’s forced to leave a note on the back of his business card, which he slid under the door.

I return from the Laundromat (Cindy has a washing machine and drier in the garage, but it’s hers, not her tenant’s) and find the business card, feel as if I’ve escaped the death penalty, and am about to close the door when Cindy’s footsteps echo on the stairs above me.

“Holly.”

It’s a command. I’m to wait. And shifting the laundry basket onto my other hip, I do.

She’s in khakis, a tight black top, and casual khaki Skechers, and her dark hair is in a trim, immaculate ponytail. “Your friend—I don’t know his name—stopped by.” She sounds disgusted.

He must have parked in the driveway.

“I told him you weren’t here, and Drew was trying to move his car.”

I was right. It is about the driveway.

“Drew had to wait for your friend to leave.”

Just how long did it take for Tom to write his note? It was only a business card, for Christ’s sake.

“You know the garage and driveway are reserved.”

For your use only. Yes, I know that. But I don’t say it. I don’t say anything. I’ve had a great day at the Laundromat, sorting my whites and folding my underwear while being watched by a group of freaks.

For a moment I wish the freaks had followed me home. I wish they’d come up the stairs, entered Cindy’s pristine hall, and I wish Cindy had seen them here, about to enter my apartment.

She would really love my friends then.

“I’ll apologize to Drew,” I say, and smile, a kind smile, the one I’d give Drew if he were here, and Cindy’s mouth tightens.

“I don’t want to be a jerk,” Cindy says.

“I know.” I smile more kindly. “It’s so not you.” And hitching my basket higher on my hip, I go into my apartment and gently, firmly close the door.

*

Monday morning, new week, which means the Leather schedule gym time now.”

“I will.”

“Do it now.” And she waits, giving me no alternative but to reach for my Day-Timer, and as I do so, I uncover my notepad.

Olivia’s eyes narrow; her gaze settles on the chunky notepad with the City Events logo on top.

She’s reading what I’ve written. “You’ve talked with Brian?”

“Trying to reach him,” I answer, as she can see the name Brian Fadden, “Features Editor,” written in big block letters, followed by a phone number.

“That’s not his direct line,” she says. “That’s the main switchboard number.”

“I’m hoping the switchboard will put me through.”

“They won’t. Not to Brian. They’ll send you to voice mail, or another journalist who will just screen you.” Olivia curves her finger, gestures for me to follow. “Come, I’ve got his direct line. He hates calls from us, but once he’s on the phone, he won’t hang up. At least not immediately.”

In her office she scribbles down a number and hands the sheet of paper to me. “You know, he’s single again.”

“That’s nice.”

“He’s attractive.”

“You said the same thing about Lehman.”

“I didn’t. That was Aimee, and she was drunk off her ass.”

“Still not interested.”

“You might change your mind if you actually met him.”

“I doubt it.” I glance at the paper, see the number, feel like a traitor. She doesn’t even know why I want to call Brian Fadden in the first place. “But thanks.”

“Now do me a favor.”

I look at her, and she’s serious. “Get yourself to the gym. Do twenty, thirty minutes solid cardio. Try the weights”—and she lifts a finger when it appears I’ll interrupt. “It’s not just good for the bod, girl. It’s good for the head.”

“Got it.”

She smiles, and I leave. But instead of returning immediately to my desk, I walk on shaky legs to the little kitchen we have at the back of the loft, make myself a cup of inoffensive herbal tea, and lean against a counter, still trembling, staring out at nothing.

Things are starting to get complicated. My personal life has always been confusing, but at least work was simple. Straightforward. Show up, do a good job, go home. But it’s not just about doing a good job anymore. It’s about putting myself out there, committing myself to something I shouldn’t have.

Olivia will be so angry…

Tessa won’t keep it a secret…

My stomach flip-flops, and I hate this feeling, hate the nerves and dread. I don’t know how to handle tension or confrontations. I do anything to avoid conflict, going so far as to stay married for a year to a man who doesn’t want me, won’t kiss or touch me, just to put off admitting failure publicly and filing for divorce.

Tessa, apparently in a Celtic Goth mood, enters the kitchen in her all-black ensemble consisting of leggings, long skirt, black knit top, and massive silver Celtic cross. She opens the mini fridge, pulls out her second can of Dr Pepper this morning even though it’s not even eleven. Tessa is one of those unfortunates who need caffeine but don’t like coffee. Actually, she likes hardly anything, but that’s neither here nor there.

“How is your intrepid leader?” she asks now, popping open the tab.

“Fine.” I don’t understand the bad blood between Tessa and Olivia. These are two smart, creative, ambitious women. They should be on the same team. They’d be so much stronger that way.

“Any progress on the publicity side of things?”

It’s been a week, and I’ve achieved next to nothing. “I’m hoping to meet Brian Fadden for coffee later.”

“Brian Fadden?”

She sounds dubious, and I take a sip of my tea, nod nonchalantly. “Why so surprised?” I ask, wanting more information and yet not wanting to sound as if I’m digging.

“No reason. Except he hates City Events, thanks to Olivia.”

“What did Olivia do?”

“What does she always do?”

I don’t know the answer to this. I haven’t been around long enough to see a pattern of behavior. My silence irritates Tessa, and she gives her head a short, impatient shake. “Forget it. You’re still in the naive, I-just-want-everybody-to-like-me stage.”

“I do want Olivia to like me.”

“Why?” The freckles on Tessa’s narrow nose stand out. She’s a lucky redhead; her freckles are few and pert and rather pretty, but she has a sharp temper and an even sharper tongue. You can hear the Long Island accent if you listen for it. “Why does it matter what anyone thinks of you? All that really matters is what you think of yourself.”

Again I don’t have an answer, and Tessa swears, something with an expletive and “stupid women,” before walking out.

Feeling sick, I return to my cubicle. As I fumble with paperwork, I become conscious of Tessa in her office at her desk and conscious of Olivia in her office at her desk, and I think it’s just a matter of time before I ruin everything.

Thankfully, both Olivia and Tessa have afternoon appointments, and the minute Olivia steps out, I reach for the phone.

I’m terrified of calling Brian Fadden, since it’s obvious that everyone at City Events knows him (and it sounds as if there’s history of sorts between him and Olivia), but I’m more terrified of failing, and I battle terrors. If I were someone else… someone like my brother, Jamie, I’d be fearless. If I were Jamie with his string of social and athletic successes, I could pick up the phone with impunity, dial Brian Fadden’s number, tell him what I want, why I’m calling, without suffering this enormity of fear.

But I’m not Jamie, and I only like calling people when I’m in a position of granting favors. I like to be in control, not dependent on others, and clearly, in this case I am dependent on others. I’m very dependent on the kindness—or at least civility—of strangers.

Think about David. Tony. All the people like them who’ve been helped by the Hospice Foundation.

I punch in the number before courage, and opportunity, fade.

“Fadden.”

My God. He answered, himself. First ring.

For a moment my jaw works, and I see him at his desk. I know the inner workings of newspapers (okay, the Fresno Bee , but a paper is a paper is a paper), and I realize that these guys’ desks are crammed together and they all have more work than money and, frankly, everyone calls in, bugging them. Wanting something. And I’m the one who wants something this time.

“My name’s Holly Bishop. I’m with City Events,” I plunge in, going for it before he can stop me. “We organize the Leather and Lace Ball—”

“Oh, that.”

Not an auspicious beginning. “Have you been?”

Snide sound. “No.”

“You should. It’s a great event—”

“Have you been?”

“Not yet, but I’m going to this year.”

He says nothing. I picture him tapping a pencil on his desk. He wants off the phone. I don’t blame him. “I’ve got to drop some artwork by your building later today,” I lie.

“I was hoping you’d have ten minutes free for coffee.”

“I’m sorry…” He pauses, searches; he doesn’t remember my name. “I’ve got a lot on my plate right now. We’re hiring a new editor; I’m covering for someone else—”

“Five minutes.”

I hear his sigh. I feel his irritation. He doesn’t want to talk to me, doesn’t have the energy to waste, but Olivia’s right, he’s not quite rude enough just to hang up on me.

Poor guy. He’s a nice guy.

“I know what you want,” he says, “but I can’t give you the editorial space. And we already have something about the event in the Calendar section.”

“Why wouldn’t you go to the ball?”

“What?”

“You’ve lived here how long?”

“Ten years, give or take a few.”

“In ten years, why didn’t you ever go to the Leather and Lace Ball?”

“Not my thing.”

“You don’t like costumes?”

“Don’t like costumes, don’t like yuppies, don’t like forking out a couple hundred bucks to be with a bunch of people I don’t know and won’t like.” “You’ve made some good points.” “Good. And, um…” He’s searching for my name, again. “I wish there was more I could do, but the economy’s hurting, people are being selective in how they spend their money, and frankly, I couldn’t endorse the ball if I tried—” “Not even though it helps hundreds of people who are dying?.

He splutters. Laughs. He must have been drinking something. “It’s not about dying.”

“It is. The ball benefits the Hospice Foundation.”

“Very little goes to the foundation. We ran an article a couple years ago, and the majority of black-tie fundraisers spend a dollar for every dollar they earn.”

“Eighty-two percent of every ticket sold to the ball goes straight to the Hospice Foundation—”

“That’s impossible.”

“David Burkheimer underwrites the ball.” Brian Fadden isn’t saying anything, and I’m not sure what he’s thinking, but I keep going. “I don’t think people know what the ball is for anymore. I think the event has been around long enough that people have lost sight of the need, of the suffering. AIDS isn’t gone. It’s still an epidemic, and it’s still taking the lives of young people—men, women; destroying families.”

“Okay.”

“Maybe the ball isn’t new and exciting, but it practically funds the foundation every year; and maybe the foundation will need to find alternative sources of funding, but they don’t have it yet, and they need the ball. San Francisco needs the ball. It’s not an event that should be dismissed.”

“Okay.”

“Nobody should have to be alone or in an institution at the end. People should be allowed to die with dignity—”

“Okay. Got it. Enough.” He’s finally silenced me. “Coffee. Ten minutes. But today’s no good. How about tomorrow?”

I’m grinning. I feel as if I had just won the Tour de France. I practically pump the air. He said coffee. And he said ten minutes. Not five. Ten. “Wonderful.”

“How’s three?”

“Great.”

“Have the front desk let me know you’ve arrived. I’ll warn them that I’m expecting you.” He pauses. “And who did you say you were?”

“Holly Bishop.” And I’m still smiling.

*

At home that night I have a message from Tom and a message from Paul Petersen. I delete Tom’s message and call Paul back.

He’s called to see if I’ve got time for dinner on Saturday night, and the words “dinner” and “Saturday night” are enough to make my blood run cold.

I like Paul. But I don’t want to date him, and I also don’t want to hurt him, because I don’t yet have enough friends to start alienating more than one a week. “How about Thursday?” I propose. Thursday night isn’t a date night, and it’s near enough the end of the week to sound better than a Tuesday night dinner, which always sounds rather like Shrove Tuesday regardless of the time of year.

He counters with Friday night. I counter with Wednesday. We settle on Thursday, and then we chat a while about a book he’s reading that was heralded as brilliant and groundbreaking but is really just crap. When I finally hang up, I see I was on the phone for nearly a half hour.

If we can talk for a half hour on the phone about nothing, dinner shouldn’t be a problem.

Morning arrives too soon, and with my venti Starbucks nonfat white chocolate mocha sans whipped cream in hand, I settle at my desk and get to work. I’m so immersed in what I’m doing that I forget to take lunch (which was meant to be spent at the gym), and am only roused by the ringing of the phone.’

It’s Brian Fadden. He’s called to cancel our meeting. “Okay,” I say, and I must sound very small and sad and pathetic, because he suddenly sighs.

“How about on Thursday? I’ll be in your vicinity late tomorrow morning. I could do a quick coffee then.”

Thursday, two days from now. Thursday, which is getting quite busy with my two engagements in one day—Brian Fadden in the morning, and dinner with Paul Petersen at night. “Sure.”

“Mr. J’s?” he suggests.

“Perfect.” It’s a funky coffeehouse not far from the office.

*

Before I know it, it’s Thursday, and I still haven’t been to the gym or produced the numbers Olivia needs for the Oracle proposal, but I’m at Mr. J’s, trying not to look anxious, trying not to look as though I’m looking for someone, although of course I’m looking, since I have no idea who Brian is or what to expect.

“Holly?”

I turn abruptly, look up. It’s a long look up. He’s tall, easily six three, possibly six four. “Brian?”

“You sound surprised.”

I do, because I am. Brian Fadden is the name of a short, wide writer, not a guy who looks as if he could have played basketball at Cal. Brian’s not handsome, but he’s also not at all unattractive. In fact, with that little smile he’s smiling now, he’s quite attractive. Wavy brown hair, light blue eyes, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, and a face that looks smart, literate, competent.

So he’s handsome.

I rise, stick out my hand, shake his. “Thanks for meeting me.”

His mouth quirks. “You don’t look like Olivia’s usual girl Friday.”

I didn’t know Olivia had girls Friday. “What’s the usual?”

“Hard, tight, I’m-going-to-nail-your-ass-to-the-wall.”

“So I do need to get back to the gym.”

He grins a broad, crooked grin, and his light brown hair kind of flops across his brow, and he’s looking more literate by the moment. “Coffee?”

I reach for my wallet. “My treat.”

“Not necessary—”

“Brian, if I thought a cup of java would buy you, I’d be sending coffee to your desk. I’m just being polite.”

His eyebrows lift, and we both order. I pay. He’s a cheap date. Seven dollars and fifty-eight cents total, and that includes tax.

We sit down with our coffees, and Brian leans back in his rattan chair, stretches his long legs out. He’s wearing jeans and a funky tweedy blazer over a T-shirt. He could be a college professor on a campus somewhere.

“Where did you go to school?” I ask, intrigued by his glasses, his height, the way he fills out the blazer. He doesn’t look muscular big, but his shoulders are wide and there’s no obvious gut.

“Yale.”

“Yale?”

“It’s on the East Coast, New Haven, Conn—”

“I know where Yale is,” I interrupt, thinking I like the way he speaks. It’s his delivery, his expressions. He has a dry, wry wit, and it’s been a long time since I talked with someone who made me feel like smiling. It’s been since…

Jean-Marc.

I don’t feel like smiling quite so much anymore.

“So you’re new in the city?” Brian asks.

I nod. “Been here three and a half months.”

“You’re still counting in terms of weeks, I see.”

“It’s been an adjustment.”

“Where are you from?”

“You’ll make fun of it.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

“I won’t.”

“People like you always do.”

He pushes his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “Now, that’s just offensive. You don’t even know me. You can’t categorize me yet.”

I hold my cup in two hands, blow on the steam. “I’ve moved up from Fresno.”

His lips twitch. He takes off his glasses, makes a show of polishing the lenses. “I’m sorry.”

“Fuck you.”

He laughs. Slides his glasses back on. “That’s terrible language, Miss Bishop—” He breaks off, looks at me. “It is Miss, isn’t it?”

“Ms.”

“Never been married?”

I look down at the table. “Going through a divorce.”

“How long were you married?”

“A little over a year.”

“I made it to ten. My divorce was final last week.”

I look up at him, see if he’s smiling but he’s not. His eyes are sober behind the wire-rimmed glasses, and he’s looking at me intently, as if trying to see whatever it is I won’t let him see. “It’s hard, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” And I can still see my wedding dress so clearly, see the pale ivory silk, the crystal beading, the snug skirt with the bustle at the back. It was like a turn-of-the-century evening gown, all Wharton-James style, so elegant, so foreign, so dreamy me.

What a mistake.

I can never pass that wedding gown on to a daughter, can’t ever do anything with it, can’t try it on again, remember it, love it.

It’s a dress I wore to nowhere, and stupid me, my eyes are burning.

I wish I’d never been a bride if it meant there’d be no marriage.

I wish I’d just shacked up with Jean-Marc and not worried what my family would think.

I wish… I wish… and looking up, I meet Brian Fadden’s gaze, and his expression is strangely compassionate. But this isn’t a social visit; this is business, and I have to pull myself together.

“I used to be the features editor at the Fresno Bee ,” he says, as if this is a peace offering.

I’m not sure, but I could have sworn he said the Fresno Bee , as in Fresno’s morning newspaper, as in Fresno’s only newspaper. “The Bee?”

“For nearly a year.”

“When?”

“A couple years ago.”

“How did that happen?”

We’re both kind of smiling, and he shrugs. “I’d been working at the Chronicle for a couple years as a staff writer, got a call from someone down in Fresno, did some interviews, was offered the job, took it.”

“And then realized you were trapped in a one-horse town?” But I mean this in the best sort of way because I was raised in one-horse towns, and I understand them, but then, I didn’t go to Yale, and I didn’t live in New Haven, and I’m not a senior editor at the Chronicle , either.

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“So why, then, did you only last a year?”

“Eleven months and one week. But that’s because the Chronicle brought me back. Lured me with a promotion.”

“I can’t imagine it took much luring.”

“Fresno was a little slow for my tastes.”

“I bet.”

His cell phone rings; he checks the number, apologizes to me, and takes the call. He’s only on the phone a moment, but when he hangs up, he looks ready to go.

“Problems?” I ask.

“Always.” He grimaces, and I think I really like his face. It’s a comfortable face, a good face, and I was right about him on the phone. He’s a nice guy.

“If you can bring me something new,” he says now, putting away his phone, “give me something to work with, I’ll see if I can’t get someone to do a little write-up, but there’s no way I can advocate editorial space if it’s not newsworthy.”

“Understood.” We both stand, and I extend my hand again. “Thanks so much for taking time to meet me.”

“My pleasure.”

I think he’s reaching for his keys, but instead it’s his business card. He hands it to me. It’s got his direct line on it, along with his e-mail address. “Stay in touch,” he says.

I quickly dig out a card of my own and give it to him. “I will. You, too.”

And we leave Mr. J’s. Brian turns right; I turn left, and as I walk the couple of blocks back to the office, I study his business card.

Brian Fadden.

Brian Fadden.

It’d be great if he called, invited me out sometime. But knowing how things work in my world, he probably won’t.