Charles tosses his bag on a bench in the foyer and walks through the kitchen and down the long hallway that leads to his two-room office. He’s brought up short by the sight of a young woman sitting at the desk in the outer office. Plain as toast, she’s wearing a gray flannel skirt, a cream blouse, and a navy sweater-vest. Her wavy brown hair is pulled back with a small band and she has on no makeup at all, as far as Charles can tell. She looks up from a copy of Bleak House, startled by his abrupt arrival. She stands quickly, flustered and awkward, smoothing out her skirt.
“That’s the one Dickens I’ve never read,” Charles says.
“I have this stupid rule about finishing every book I start,” the young woman says.
“I suppose that’s honorable. Let me guess-you’re that whiz of a temp who’s going to whip my office into shape and turn my life around.”
A furious blush flies up the girl’s pale neck and Charles feels a familiar surge of power. She’s so harmless, so hopeless, no doubt incredibly efficient. And she has a certain clumsy charm. It’s so like Anne to do this without getting his okay. For a moment, Charles considers sending the girl home.
“Your wife called my agency. She told me to wait for you to get home, that you’d arrive sometime this afternoon.”
Charles glances around him. The room is strewn with tottering piles of unanswered mail, unfiled contracts, unread manuscripts, newspapers and magazines filled with articles he never gotten around to clipping. “Well, as a matter of fact, I do want to get this mess organized,” he says.
“I think I could be of some help with that.”
“Would you like to see the rest of the operation?” he asks.
The young woman nods and Charles unlocks his inner office. He’s proud of this room, even in its current disheveled condition. There are the framed posters of his book jackets; the photographs of Charles with everyone from Jack Nicholson, who starred in the movie of Life and Liberty, to Francois Mitterrand, who made him a member of the French Legion of Honor; the Eames bookshelves filled with foreign-language editions of his work; the Frank Lloyd Wright desk. Two windows look out over the treetops of Central Park.
“What a beautiful place to write,” the young woman says with undisguised awe.
“I wrote my first book in a freezing trailer outside of Hanover, New Hampshire.”
“ Life and Liberty?”
“Yes.”
“I loved that book.”
“It must have seemed like ancient history to you.”
“No,” she says, suddenly very serious and resolute. “It seemed timeless.” And then, as if taken aback by the confidence in her own voice, she looks down, running a fingertip over her thumbnail, frowning. When she looks up she manages a wan, haunted smile. “I should start on the outer office. I don’t want to disturb you.”
Charles studies her a moment before answering. “I’m not a shrinking violet. If you’re disturbing me, I’ll let you know. Basically, I work from seven to four. Aside from that, I like my coffee black, when I smoke I smoke Marlboros, when I drink I drink Chivas, and when I’m on a roll I crave hot dogs and stacks of french fries slathered with mayonnaise. Come on, I’ll show you the filing system. Oh, by the way, I didn’t get your name.”
The young woman looks at Charles and he’s taken aback by her arresting eyes. Up close, he can see that they’re an iridescent green, lightly flecked with brown. They meet his gaze and hold it.
“It’s Emma. Emma Bowles.”