beginning。” I stuck out my hand and wondered what he wanted。
“Actually； I liked your way just fine。 Name’s Christian。 A pleasure
to meet you； Andy。” He pushed a brown curl out of his left eye and
took a swig from a bottle of Budweiser。 He looked vaguely familiar；
I decided； but I couldn’t place him。
“Bud； huh？” I asked； pointing to his hand。 “I didn’t think they
served something so lowbrow at a party like this。”
He laughed； a deep； hearty laugh instead of the chuckle I’d
expected。 “You sure do say what you think； don’t you？” I must’ve
looked mortified； because he smiled again and said； “No； no； that’s
a good thing。 And a rare thing； especially in this industry。 I
couldn’t bring myself to drink champagne from a straw out of a
minibottle； you know？ Something fairly emasculating about that。 So
the bartender dug one of these out of the kitchen somewhere。”
Another curl push； but it fell back in his eye the moment he took
his hand away。 He pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his
black sport coat and offered it to me。 I took one and proceeded to
drop it immediately； seizing the opportunity to examine him while I
reached down to retrieve it。
It landed a few inches from his shiny； square…toed loafers that
sported the irrefutable Gucci tassel； and on the way up I noticed
that his Diesel jeans were the perfect parts faded； long； and wide
enough at the bottom that they dragged a little behind the shiny
loafers； the ends frayed from repeated interaction with the soles。 A
black belt； probably Gucci but thankfully not recognizable； kept the
jeans riding in the perfect low spot below his waist； where he had
tucked in a plain white cotton T…shirt—one that even though it
easily could have been a Hanes was definitely an Armani or a Hugo
Boss and was put in place only to offset his beautiful plexion。
His black blazer looked just as expensive and well cut； perhaps even
custom…made to fit his average…size but inexplicably sexy frame； and
it was his green eyes that manded the most attention。 Seafoam； I
thought； remembering the old J。Crew colors we’d loved so much in
high school； or perhaps just a straightforward teal。 The height； the
build； the whole package looked vaguely like Alex； just with a whole
lot more Euro style and a whole lot less Abercrombie。 Slightly
cooler； slightly better looking。 Definitely older； right around
thirty。 And probably much too slick。
He immediately produced a flame and leaned in close to make sure my
cigarette had caught。 “So what brings you to a party like this；
Andrea？ Are you one of the lucky few who can call Marshall Madden
her own？”
“No； I’m afraid not。 At least not yet； although he wasn’t all that
subtle in telling me that I probably should be。” I laughed； noticing
for a brief moment that I wasdesperate to impress this stranger。 “I
work atRunway 。 One of the beauty guys dragged me here。”
“Ah；Runway magazine； huh？ Cool place to work； if you’re into S&M and
that sort of thing。 How do you like it？”
I wasn’t sure if he meant S&M or the job itself； but I considered
the possibility that he got it； that he was enough of an insider to
know that it wasn’t exactly how it appeared to those on the outside。
Perhaps I should charm him with the nightmare involved in dropping
off the Book earlier that night？ No； no； I had no idea who this guy
was 。 。 。 for all I knew he also worked atRunway in some far…flung
department I hadn’t even seen yet； or maybe for another Elias…Clark
magazine。 Or maybe； just maybe； he was one of those sneakyPage Six
reporters that Emily had so carefully warned me against。 “They just
appear；” she’d said ominously。 “They just appear and try to trick
you into saying something juicy about Miranda orRunway 。 Just be
aware。” Between that and the tracking ID cards； I was quite sure
thatRunway ’s surveillance put the mob to shame。 TheRunway Paranoid
Turnaround was back。
“Yeah；” I said； trying to sound casual and nonmittal。 “It’s a
strange place。 I’m not so into fashion—I’d actually rather be
writing； but I guess it’s not a bad start。 What do you do？”
“I’m a writer。”
“Oh； you are？ That must be nice。” I hoped I didn’t sound quite as
condescending as I felt； but it got to be really annoying when
anyone and everyone in New York anointed himself or herself a writer
or actor or poet or artist。I used to write for the paper in college；
I thought to myself；and hell； I even had an essay published in a
monthly magazine once in high school。 Did that make me a writer？
“What do you write？”
“Mostly literary fiction so far； but I’m actually working on my
first historical novel。” He took another swig and swatted yet again
at that pesky but adorable curl。
“First historical” implied that there other were nonhistorical
novels。 Interesting。 “What’s it about？”
He thought for a moment and then said； “It’s a story told from the
perspective of a young woman； about what it was like to live in this
country during World War Two。 I’m still finishing my research；
transcribing interviews and things like that； but the little writing
I’ve done so far has e along。 I think 。 。 。”
He continued talking； but I’d already tuned him out。 Holy shit。 I
recognized the book description immediately from aNew Yorker article
I’d just read。 It seemed the entire book world was eagerly
anticipating his next contribution and couldn’t shut up about the
realism with which he depicts his female heroine。 I was standing at
a party； casually chatting with Christian Collinsworth； the boy
genius who’d first been published at the ripe old age of twenty from
a Yale library cubicle。 The critics had gone crazy over his first
book； hailing it as one of the most significant literary
achievements of the twentieth century； and he’d followed it up with
two more since then； each spending more time on the bestseller list
than the one before it。The New Yorker piece had included an
interview in which the author had called Christian “not only a force
for years to e” in the book industry； but one with “a hell of a
look； a killer style； and enough natural charm that would ensure—in
the unlikely event that his literary success did not—a lifetime of
success with the ladies。”
“Wow； that’s really great；” I said； all of a sudden feeling too
tired to be witty or funny or cute。 This guy was some big…time
author—what the hell did he want with me； anyway？ Probably just
killing time before his girlfriend finished up her 10；000 per day
modeling assignment and made her way over。And what does it matter
either way； Andrea？ I asked myself harshly。In case you conveniently