Playing for Julia Read Free Page B

Mark Andreson.  I do freelance work for Rolling Stone —well, I hope to do freelance for them.”
    He’s still smiling at me.  People are still walking around us.
    I hesitate.  He looks like a nice guy. He has flirty hazel eyes, brown hair and his clothes are relatively ordinary. Nothing obviously scary or weird about him.
    “Okay,” I say and stop glaring.  “But you better be nice or I will start yelling at you again and create a horrible scene in public.”  Then my shoulder s slump.  “My day has been awful.”
    “It’ll get better, Julia.  Come on.  Let’s go.”
    Same waitress.  Same little white cups of espresso.  This must be everyone’s favorite coffeehouse.
    “I was pitching some story ideas to one of the editors, but I don’t know whether they are going to buy them,” Mark explains.  “An article in Rolling Stone would look great on my resume.  It would sure make other editors more willing to listen to me.”
    “I guess everyone has problems getting work these days,” I sigh.  “At least here in San Francisco.”
    I look up and suddenly see him.  Mr. Austen Honey-Voice-and-Black-Hair Raneley is sitting at a table against the far wall by himself, looking at me. No honey smile on his face now. For a fraction of a second our eyes lock, then instantly I look back at Mark.
    “Have you talked with anyone over at San Francisco Voices ?”  Mark asks.
    “I’ve never heard of it.”  I am trying to concentrate but it’s difficult. I won’t look over there again.  I have to pretend I didn’t recognize him.  Didn’t see him. That my eyes just slid across him. But my pulse is beating faster and I feel flushed.  I have to force myself to listen to Mark.
    “It’s a relatively new weekly ; it has only been around for a few months,” Mark continues with a serious look on his face.  “They cover local news and events—happenings, art exhibitions, city politics, the folk and rock music scene here in the city.  Not as much about rock musicians and music as Rolling Stone .  They see themselves as a local alternative to the Chronicle and Examiner .  I’ve done some stories and reviews for them already.”
    “That sounds interesting.”  I take another sip of the espresso.  I don’t know if it is the espresso or the conversation with Mark or seeing Mr. Honey-Voice, but I am definitely feeling better.
    “I can call someone I know there and find out who you should talk to.  It’s be tter if you have the name of someone rather than calling in cold.”
    I smile at Mark.  A sweet smile.  A happy smile.  “That would be great.  I’d really appreciate it.”  Now I feel even better.
    “But I don’t have your phone number so I don’t know how to get in touch with you.”  His twinkl ing flirty eyes are back.
    I narrow my eyes at him again.  “Is this another pick-up line?”  Then I smile.
    When we leave, I see that Austen Raneley is gone.  If I hadn’t been with Mark I would have walked into the coffeehouse alone and run right into him. I might have had to talk to him. I don’t think I could have handled that on a day like today.  But it didn’t happen, I say to myself.  Part of me wishes—no, I can’t let myself think about him. I can’t think about my reaction to seeing him again. He’s gone and Mark is going to help me get a job—I hope.
     
    * * *
     
    A week later I am sitting in the offices of San Francisco Voices , discussing the position of assistant to the Art Director.  Dan, the A.D. is tall, dark-haired, in his late 30s and very handsome.  He likes my background.  He apologetically explains the pay is barely more than a pittance.  I don’t care. I get the job!
    O n the way home I buy a bottle of not-too-expensive champagne, then call Mark and invite him over for dinner the next evening.  He absolutely has to be part of this celebration.
    Before he arrives I put the new Crosby, Stills and Nash album on the record player.  I love it, especially