Baby Proof by Emily Giffin
“I know that, Mother,” I say.
She never tried to hide the fact—it was something I knew at a very young age. She’d tell people right in front of me, “I thought I was done. But Claudia here was an ‘accident.’” She’d whisper the word accident, but of course I heard it every time. And even if I hadn’t heard all the whispers, I certainly heard her when she shouted the word at me after I told her I was boycotting her lavish wedding to Dwight and that she could shove my lavender bridesmaid dress where the sun don’t shine. (My favorite expression involving the sky.)
“Please,” she says now. “Let me finish.”
I shrug, thinking that she sure has a hell of a way of apologizing.
“So you weren’t planned,” she continues. Then she raises one finger in the air as if poised to make a grand proclamation. “But just the other day, I was reading the acknowledgments in one of your novels. The one about the guy with the harelip?”
“Cleft palate,” I say. She is referring to John Skvarla’s memoir. John’s birth defect was such a miniscule part of his life story that I wonder if she ever made it past the first page. My mother postures herself as well read and buys hardcover books all the time, but they typically go straight to her living room shelves, unopened. All for show.
“Whatever,” she says. “The book isn’t the point. The point is—I was reading his acknowledgments, the part where he thanked you for being his editor and friend. And I was filled with this profound sense of pride that you are my daughter.”
I know that my mother basks in any form of public attention. She loves telling her friends that she raised a successful editor at a prestigious New York publishing house, and pointing out her daughter’s name in the front of a book is just icing on the cake. Still, I am surprised by her words. This is not the language my mother normally speaks in.
“I am so proud of you, Claudia,” she continues. “Not just for how smart you are and for all you’ve accomplished. But because you’re the kind of person that people want to thank in the front of a book. People love you and respect you. You are special that way,” she says quietly. She looks down at her feet and slides her orange driving moccasins together. Her hands are folded in her lap. She looks contrite and shy and sincere.
“You are the very best thing I’ve ever done in my life,” she finishes.
I don’t want to feel moved or grateful, but I am. So much so that I am on the verge of tears again. I wonder how one woman can create such a tsunami of emotion in me—and in such a short span of time? I tell myself to get a grip. I remind myself that my mother is, in a sense, taking credit for the way I’ve turned out, when she deserves relatively little credit. She used to tell me to get my nose out of my book and go get some fresh air. She was devastated when I was sixteen and applied to work at the library instead of lifeguarding at the country club. I am who I am in spite of my mother. But I can’t help it—I know I will not forget what she has just told me. I know I will replay her words a hundred times or more. I know that, as much as I don’t want to admit it, my mother is important to me.
“Why are you telling me this?” I say.
“Because of the recent choices you’ve made in your life.”
“What about them?” I ask. I know she is talking about Ben and babies, but I am not sure how it all ties in with her out-of-the-blue compliment.
She looks contemplative, as if carefully considering her wording. “I’m not the best mother in the world…I never have been,” she says slowly. “But always remember, Claudia, you are not me. You are a lot of things to a lot of people. But you are absolutely nothing like me.”
Twelve
I never did think I was anything like my mother, nor did I peg her as the main reason I didn’t want children. So, despite her intent, my mother’s speech did nothing to reverse my position on motherhood.
But there was still something about my mother’s words that felt like a revelation to me. Perhaps because it was the first time my mother had ever apologized to me for anything. Perhaps because everyone wants her mother to be proud—and, to some extent, we can’t help seeing ourselves as our mother sees us. Perhaps because it was a reminder of all that I still have in my life. I have my career, of course. But more important, I have rich relationships that I cherish. I am a good sister, daughter, and friend. My life has meaning—and will continue to have meaning—without Ben.
So it was my mother, albeit unwittingly, who helped me get to the next level of emotional recovery. Achieve that postdisaster glimmer that life goes on. I even began to think about dating again. Not so much because I wanted to but because dating is always the best inward and outward sign that you’ve moved on after a big breakup. In some ways, I think it might be the only way to move on.
So when Michael strolls into my office one day and says, “Guess who has you in his number two spot?” I feel a bit excited. I know exactly what he means by “two spot.” Whether you’re an insurance adjuster in Iowa, a schoolteacher in Florida, or an editor in Manhattan, you are familiar with the practice of gathering around the water cooler (or in our case, the automated Euro-coffee machine) and discussing who among your esteemed colleagues is most attractive. It’s an exercise largely born out of boredom or long hours at the office, but it is nonetheless approached with tremendous gravity. (And is only rivaled by the list compiled by couples: “Celebrities I Am Allowed to Cheat on My Significant Other With.” Obviously my cheating list is null and void—I can do what I want now without an exemption—which, unfortunately, brings me no closer to sharing a bed with (1) Sting, (2) Colin Firth, (3) Johnny Depp, (4) Tom Brady, or (5) Ed Harris.)
Of course, the problem with playing this ranking game at most publishing houses is that there are slim pickings for a woman. First, the general breakdown of women to men in publishing is about 3 to 1. And of the men, about 70 percent are gay. So you’re talking a 10 to 1 female-to-heterosexual-male ratio. On top of that, aside from a few more high-profile departments like publicity, publishing is filled with a high percentage of former nerds (myself included) who spent the majority of their childhood indoors, reading books. My friend Jacqueline, for example, was featured in her local newspaper in North Carolina for reading over five hundred books in one year; she was five at the time. Not that I should talk—my greatest accomplishment as a kid was making it to the state tournament spelling bee, losing in the final round on the word precipice. This is not to say that all former nerds are unattractive. To the contrary, I think we’re a great breed—quirky, smart, and far more interesting than your average former cheerleader or ex-jock. Still, the list is not about being quirky and smart or appealing in an offbeat way; the list is about being sexy.
Anyway, one of the perks of being close to Michael is that I’m always privy to the male lists floating around, which is particularly interesting on the few occasions when I’ve been mentioned. It works like this: Michael tells me I’m on someone’s list whereupon I pretend to be some combination of embarrassed, nonplussed, or annoyed, all the while feeling secretly flattered. Who wouldn’t be? Even when chosen by a downright geek, it’s nice to know you rank.
But I still say, “Two spot?” because the last thing I want to appear is desperate or eager.
“You know. He thinks you’re the second-hottest girl at work,” Michael says.
“Who?” I say, rolling my eyes. “Gerald from the IT department?”
“Nope.”
“I give.”
“Richard Margo,” Michael says smugly.
He now has my full attention. Richard Margo is our executive vice president and director of publicity and is very well-known at our house, as much for his prestigious position as his reputation for pitching in the minors for one season and for being a bit of a womanizer—not the sleazy kind, but the “never been married smooth intellect who wines and dines beautiful women” kind. He’s in his late forties but, unlike many men his age who are lucky to fetch descriptions like “handsome” or “attractive,” Richard can fairly be cal
Richard has not only been on my list since I arrived at Elgin Press, but he has consistently occupied my top slot, a fact that I’ve only admitted to Michael and a few other close friends (with others, I hem and haw, pretend to never have considered the subject, and then issue the preamble, “Please know that they are in no particular order,” which somehow makes the exercise seem less serious). In fact, Richard not only consistently tops my workplace list, but when Jude Law was caught in bed with his nanny, all his appeal went out the window, and a spot became available on my celebrity list. A spot I gave to Richard. At the time, Ben insisted that I couldn’t commingle my lists, whereupon I argued that he was “famous” at work. The point did not go over so well (Ben insisted that the whole theory behind the celeb list was their unattainable nature). So I bumped Richard, replacing him with Ed Harris—who, incidentally, could pass for Richard’s brother.
“Where’d you hear that?” I ask Michael, feeling somewhat shamed by my racing pulse. But in my defense, I haven’t had sex in months.
“From the horse’s mouth,” Michael says, proudly cracking his knuckles.
“You asked your boss that question?” I say, marveling over Michael’s ability to elicit illicit information from people, including higher-ups.
He shrugs. “Yeah, so what. Guys over lunch, you know. Phil Loomis and Jack Hannigan were with us, and incidentally, Hannigan had you on his list, too.”
“Damn Phil screwed me out of the hat trick?” I say.
Michael laughs as I casually return to the subject of Richard. “So who is Margo’s number one? Stacy Eubanks?”
Stacy Eubanks, a secretary in sales, is Beyoncé’s blonde, blue-eyed twin and word has it that she moonlights as a porn star. (Michael claims to have spotted her in a video called Lezzie Maguire.)
“Nope. Stacy didn’t make his cut.”
“Imagine that,” I say, giving Richard’s list even more credence.
“I know. Shocked the hell out of me, too.”
“So who is his number one?” I say nonchalantly.
“That new French chick in sub rights.”
“Oh, yeah. Marina LeCroy. She’s very…French.”
“Uh-huh. But apparently Richard’s got a thing for redheads because Naomi Rubenstein is in his mix, too.”
“I’d hardly call that a thing for redheads.”
“Two redheads out of five definitely qualifies as ‘a thing.’ I mean, you all don’t exactly make up forty percent of the general population.”
“Fair enough,” I say, wondering who the other two non-French, nonredheads on his list are.
“So what are you going to do about this?” Michael asks.
“Nothing,” I say, laughing.
“Nothing? Why not?”
“Because…I’m a professional,” I say in a jokingly prim tone.
“There’s no antifraternizing policy here. And you don’t work for the guy,” Michael says. “You’re not even in publicity. What’s the conflict?”
“I don’t know. It might show an air of favoritism. Somehow discredit my books.”
“C’mon. That’s a reach,” Michael says.
Technically he is right. Richard runs the publicity department, and as such, has responsibility for all titles in the house. But many different publicists cover my books, and there are other checks and balances in sales and marketing, so it would be virtually impossible for Richard to make much of a single-handed impact on my career or the success of my books. Still, publicity has a huge say in book proposals and they can easily quash a book, so there could be an inference of favoritism coloring my success. Bottom line, I’ve never dated anyone at work, and I have no intention of doing so now. I tell Michael this and then say, “The whole discussion is moot anyway because Richard Margo is not interested in me. He was only humoring you by playing your little game.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Michael says. “Besides, I totally teed you up.”
“How so?” I ask nervously.
“I told him about your divorce,” Michael says. “He had no idea.”
“Michael!” I say. I know it’s ridiculous to keep hiding the fact from everyone, but I can’t help it—I don’t like my personal affairs being discussed at work. And there’s something about divorce that is equated with failure, which is never a perception you want to parade around in the workplace.
“It’s no big deal,” Michael says.
“What did he say?” I ask.
“That he was sorry to hear it…But I think you should know that he didn’t look one bit sorry to hear it. If you catch my drift.”
Michael leaves my office after giving me a final, dramatic brow raise and a skilled drumroll on my desk.
As much as I try to downplay my interest in Richard’s list, I report the news back to Jess that evening. She has never met Richard, but has heard me speak of him over the years and relishes the mere scent of an intraoffice romance. So instead of taking the story for what it is—a juicy, self-esteem-boosting bit of trivia—she becomes wildly animated, saying that he is perfect for me.
“He’s way too old to want kids,” she says.
I shake my head and tell her not to be ridiculous.
But a week later when Richard calls me out of the blue, saying he wants to discuss some matters over lunch, I can’t help wondering about his intentions. I’ve sat with him in numerous meetings, but have never had a one-on-one meeting with him. And certainly not over lunch.
“Sure,” I say, reminding myself that, our work lists notwithstanding, I have no interest in Richard (or vice versa). I’m sure that he only wants to discuss business. After all, I am becoming more senior all the time, and maybe an occasional lunch with Richard just reflects my status in the house. Perhaps he wants to go over publicity plans for my upcoming Amy Dickerson novel. Or maybe he wants to formulate a strategy to handle my most difficult author, Jenna Coblentz. Jenna’s been a huge commercial success for over a decade, but she is so demanding with publicity that her behavior borders on abusive, and it’s an editor’s responsibility to act as a buffer for the publicists.
“How does Thursday look?” Richard asks me in his rich, radio-DJ voice.
“Thursday’s perfect,” I say, without consulting my calendar.
“Bolo at one?” he says. Bolo is a popular spot with people from work and the publishing scene generally. He’d never choose Bolo if his intentions were at all impure.
“That works for me,” I say, all business.
On Thursday, I wear my most flattering pair of jeans and green seersucker jacket to work. I look casual, but stylish. Then I spend about ten minutes touching up my makeup at my desk before leaving for lunch. I stand by my claim that I have no interest in Richard, but figure that it never hurts in life to look nice, particularly when you’re going to be in the company of a hot man.
Richard e-mailed me earlier to tell me he was coming from a dentist appointment and would meet me at the restaurant. I walk briskly the few blocks to Bolo, but still arrive five minutes late. I spot Richard right away at a corner table wearing a sport coat and tie. A glass of red wine and a bowl of olives sit on the table before him. He is talking on his cell phone, looking somewhat agitated as he glances down at a small notepad, the old-school kind reporters carry. He has an air of importance. Then again, maybe I just know that he is important.
When he looks up and sees me, his face brightens and he waves me over. I give him a signal, as if to say, “Finish your call. I’ll wait here.” He shakes his head, says good-bye quickly, and snaps his phone shut, sliding it into his jacket pocket along with the pad. As I approach him, he gives me the half-stand and says, “Hello, Claudia.”
“Hi, Richard,” I say as I inhale his aftershave, something I first noticed on him during a shared ele
“Not a one,” he says.
“You’re a flosser?” I say.
“Nope,” he says, looking sheepish. “Just good genes, I guess.”
Our waiter, a young, blond kid with so much exuberance that I peg him as a Broadway performer, stops by, introduces himself as Tad, and asks what I’d like to drink. I don’t usually have wine at lunch during the week, but because Richard is drinking, I order a glass of chardonnay.
“Good. I don’t like to drink alone,” Richard says after Tad departs. “Unless I’m alone, that is.”
I laugh.
He laughs.
Then, as if to offset our beverage selection, Richard skips further small talk and immediately launches into business. Our summer list generally. A new author I just signed on board. A recent, mixed review of the Skvarla memoir in the Times. (Not that publicity ever cares too much about the content. Even bad publicity is good publicity.)
“And the big news is,” Richard says, as if signaling the reason for our lunch, “I’m this close to getting Amy Dickerson on The Today Show.” His index finger and thumb are a millimeter apart.
“You’re kidding me?” I say, even though I had already heard this news from Michael. It is a huge deal for any book, but particularly a novel. Still, it’s usually not the sort of thing that necessitates a one-on-one lunch with the head of publicity.
Richard nods. “Apparently Katie really digs the book,” he says.
I smile at his use of the word digs. Richard frequently uses jargon from the seventies. Most people sound washed-up or silly when they drop slang from a prior generation, but with Richard, it’s endearing. I guess if you’re handsome and successful enough, you can pull off just about anything.
I resist the urge to say, “Groovy,” and instead cross my fingers in the air.