"You're one of us now," Winnie says (smoothly, so that Evie won't suspect how difficult it is for her to choke out those words). "And we are the media.”
II
Winnie has developed a bad habit and she can't help herself.
Every morning now, when she enters her office a large black building on Sixth Avenue that screams "I'm important"—she hurries through the lobby and into the elevator (she once calculated that she spends an hour a day waiting for elevators and riding in them, and wishes someone would invent a faster one), walks quickly along the beige-carpeted hallway and enters her office—a small, bland white room with a window, three sickly spider plants, and a small blue couch—and flips on her computer.
She types in her password. Takes off her coat. Types in "www.ama" and hits enter, at which point the computer goes immediately to Amazon.com. And then (she can't help herself, she can never help herself) she types in the name of the serious, important journalist.
She has been doing this every morning for the past two weeks.
She checks his book's sales ranking, then she scrolls down over the reader reviews.
Her favorite one is this: Boring and Utterly Pointless "Imagine if your most boring poly-sci professor wrote a book and forced everyone in the class to read it? You (sic) want to kill the guy, right? Read the ingredients on your cereal box instead. It's more interesting.”
As always, Winnie feels thrilled and terrified at the same time.
Ever since she discovered the site (she'd known about it before but didn't acknowledge it, as people like her still bought their books from actual bookstores), she hasn't known what to think. Part of her is outraged. These people shouldn't be buying books. They're too stupid to read. They have no imagination. No ability to read and comprehend. If a book doesn't conform to what they believe about the world in their own narrow, unsophisticated minds, they pan it. They're like the dumb kids in class who never understood what the teacher was talking about and got angry instead of understanding what everyone else in the class understood—that they were too dumb to understand. But part of her is (not even secretly) afraid that they might be right. The book is a little boring. Winnie read two chapters and skipped to the end and didn't pick it up again. But if s an important book. Why does some git in Seattle who's probably never written more than an e-mail have the right to pan it? To tell other people not to buy it?
The world is not right. (Or is it right, and she's not? Maybe she's like the dumb kid in the class. But she knows she isn't. Dumb. Sometimes she thinks there should be a test for dumbness while a baby is still in the womb, and all the dumb fetuses should be aborted. She knows what the argument against it would be: "Who will decide what dumb is?" She has the answer: She would. She'd be happy to decide.) Then she checks the sites of the ten or so other writers she and James know who have published books in the last year. She checks their sales ratings. If the ratings are very bad, like around 286,000, she can't help it. She feels good.
She has to stop doing this. But she can't. If s research. What will happen if James writes a book? She wants to be prepared. She will have to numb herself against the inevitable bad reader reviews. She knows she can't take them personally, but she will. She takes everything personally. Especially herself.
Maybe it would be better if James didn't write a book. (Maybe it would be better if they moved to Vermont and worked for a small local newspaper. After two months, it would be like they were dead everyone they knew would forget about them, and Winnie isn't ready to do that. Yet.) The phone rings. She picks it up. "Yes/' she says.
"If s me." (If s James.) "Hi," she says. She suddenly remembers that she has all these things to do. Like work.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
"I'm stressed. I've got a kazillion things to do." You've always got a kazillion things to do, and I wish you'd shut up about it, James thinks. Wondering: Why don't you pay attention to me? Why don't you make me feel good? Why is it always about you?
Aloud, he says, "I got a call this morning. From Clay. Tanner's coming to town.”
"Is he?" Winnie says. She isn't sure how she feels about this information yet.
"He has a movie premiere. On Thursday.”
"Ugh," Winnie says. For the first time in days, she knows that James is thinking the same thing she is. "Another—”
"Yup. Bang-'em-up, shoot-'em-up, big-budget movie, courtesy of Paramount Pictures.”
"I suppose we have to go," Winnie says, emitting a long sigh.
"You don't have to," James says. "But I'm going to.”
"If you're going, I'm going," Winnie says. "Fine," James says in a small voice. "Don't you want me to go?" Winnie says. Threatening.
(Why does she always become immediately threatening? James thinks. Even wasps let you swat them away before they sting you.) "I do want you to go," James says. "But you hate things like that.”
"I don't.”
“You do.”
"I don't hate them. I think they're boring. You know how I feel about celebrity worship.”
“Tanner wants me to be there," James says. "I'm sure he wants us both to be there. But that doesn't mean we have to do whatever Tanner wants.”
"He's only in town twice a year," James says. "I want to go.”
(I'm sure you do, Winnie thinks. So you can ogle dumb blondes.) "Fine," she says. She hangs up the phone.
Now she has to be "concerned" (a much better word, more accurate than "worried") about James for a week. Specifically about what he's going to do (how he's going to behave) when Tanner is in town. She will spend hours (time that should be spent doing something important, like thinking of ideas) reacting to James's as yet unenacted behavior. She will obsess over if/then scenarios. Such as: If James stays out all night with Tanner (again), then she will divorce him. If James flirts (pitifully, desperately) with the actresses in the film (again), then she will lock him out of the house. If James drinks too much and throws up out the cab window (again), then she will throw all his clothes out the window. (James does not understand that he is skating on thin ice. Very thin ice.) His black marks are mounting: She's known him for ten years and still can't trust him. He doesn't do exactly what he's supposed to do. He can't be relied upon (even to get the right groceries at the supermarket). He acts like a baby (he is a big grown-up baby).
He's turning out not to be important. (And he doesn't pay the bills.) She might (actually) be better off without him: It would mean one less person to take care of. Winnie hits a button on her computer and goes to her e-mails.
Her assistant comes into her office. Winnie looks up. The assistant's dark hair is messy. She is wearing sloppily applied red lipstick; a short black skirt with no stockings; a rumpled black V-neck sweater (at least she is wearing a bra); clunky black shoes. She looks like (pardon the expression) someone rode her hard and put her away wet.
The assistant flops down on the couch. "What’s up?" she says. (What's up? Like Winnie is the assistant and has just plopped into her office.) Winnie is never sure how to respond to this greeting.
"How are you?" she says. Briskly. Reminding the assistant that this is an office. And she is her boss.
The assistant picks at her manicure. Fingernails painted a mud brown. "I've got a urinary tract infection. I'm wondering if I can take the rest of the day off.”
Someone did ride her hard and put her away wet.
"No," Winnie says. "I've got that big Internet conference this afternoon and I need you here. To cover the office." (The magazine is expanding their Web site, and they want Winnie to be involved. Very involved. It could mean more money.) "It hurts," the assistant says.