Mr. Love: A Romantic Comedy by Sally Mason Page B

skyward.

23
     
     
     
     
    By the time Bitsy has finished half a glass of wine, Jane can see the woman is wilting.
    The day has taken its toll, even though the transformation—externally, at least— is remarkable.
    The Ms. Rushworth who will face the media tomorrow will bear very little resemblance to the country mouse who arrived yesterday.
    Gordon, with two glasses of red wine under his belt, can’t take his eyes off his sister, and her metamorphosis seems to have left him uncharacteristically subdued.
    Jane stands.
    “Well, I should go. I was going to invite the two of you out for dinner but it looks to me like you’re done for the day,” she says to Bitsy.
    “Thanks, Jane, but I’ll just about manage room service. Thank you for everything. It was quite an experience.”
    “You were a Trojan. And you look gorgeous.”
    “Well, I don’t know about that, but I don’t look like me anymore, that’s for sure.”
    “I’ll be here at eight in the morning to do a final briefing on the interviews.”
    Jane sees the look of apprehension on Bitsy’s face.
    “Don’t worry, you’ll ace the media stuff.”
    Gordon stands.
    “I should go too. Jane, let me walk you out. Night, Bitsy.”
    “Night, Gordon.”
    They leave the suite and head toward the elevators.
    Gordon says, “Now that Meryl Streep is indisposed, I guess it’s out of the question to have dinner with Kathy Bates?”
    All Jane has in the refrigerator of her apartment is a bowl of dubious left overs .
    If she takes Gordon to dinner she can legitimately charge it to her expense account.
    And—what the hell?—it’ll be better than spending another lonely night.
    “I’m game,” Jane says , pressing for the elevator. “Just one proviso.”
    “What?”
    “No shop talk.”
    “We can’t talk about books?”
    “Oh, I think it would be very difficult for either of us not to talk about books. Just not Ivy or Too Long . . . ” She sees his face. “ . . . The Night .”
    The elevator arrives and Jane steps inside, laughing.
    Gordon follows her. “You have a deal.”
    “Any objections to going down to the Meat Packing District? It’s close to my apartment and I know a nice Italian place.”
    “I’m in your hands,” he says, as the elevator doors close.
     
     
    Forty-five minutes later they’re drinking Chianti and eating pasta at Luigi’s on Washington Street.
    Tom Bennett loathes Italian food and had refused to set foot in the trattoria, so the place has no unpleasant memories for Jane.
    Gordon, it seems, has no such reservations and he’s tucking into his gnocchi.
    “So, Jane, tell me about the authors you represent ,” he says, dabbing his chin with a  napkin.
    “Well, I’ve just made the step up from junior agent, so my list still has to grow. Until now I’ve been nurturing a memoir written by a doctor who worked with Médecins Sans Frontières in Africa and Asia.”
    “Sounds worthy,” he says.
    Jane sucks in a string of fettuccine with a little smack of her lips.
    “Don’t be so dismissive.”
    “Oh, I’m not. I imagine there’s an appetite for that kind of thing among the women who’re addicted to those awful agony aunt talk shows.”
    Jane shakes her head.
    “You ’re such a prig. The book is beautifully written and very inspirational.”
    “The author is a woman, I’m assuming?”
    “Yes, but why is that relevant?”
    He shrugs.
    “Women are drawn to writing about certain themes.”
    “Like what?”
    “Oh, the bleeding heart, ten-tissue weepy kind of stuff: love affairs and failed marriages and so on.”
    “So you’re dismissing all women writers?”
    “Oh, not at all. They have their place in the literary firmament.”
    “But they’re less important than men?”
    “Well, I don’t think it can be argued that the great writers are all men. Certainly, those who have strived to write the Great American Novel have always been male.”
    Jan e laughs.
    “God, Gordon, that is so Axis of Dick.”
    “I beg your