The Ghost of Greenwich Village: A Novel Read Free

nagged at her: What if he was actually brilliant? What if only his premature death, back in the seventies at just forty-three, had prevented him from advancing the short story to a new level and attaining worldwide fame? What if Donald belonged on the same shelves as the great New York authors, the ones whom her mother had so tenderly taught her to love at such an early age? Eve would never forgive herself if he did and she hadn’t helped put him there.
    And then there was the little matter of money. Donald assured her his stories would be worth more than she could spend in a lifetime. Hubristic, yes, but what if it was true?
    She looked at her watch, startled by the time. Donald always ate more of it than she realized. She was in real danger of being late now, and in this town they got very huffy if you were late. She’d found that out the hard way, when she turned up four minutes past nine on the first day of the party job and nearly wasn’t allowed in “as a matter of principle.” She hurried into the living room, where she gathered up her coat, which was draped over one of the black leather and chrome bar stools. She retrieved her bag from the love seat and tucked it under her arm.
    “Here goes nothing,” she said, swinging open the front door.
    “Wait,” said Donald. “One more thing.”
    “Yes?” said Eve, stepping back inside in case Mrs. Swan entered the hallway and thought she was talking to herself again.
    “If all else fails, look this interviewer in the eye and picture him—”
    “Her.”
    “All right. Picture her—”
    “Don’t tell me. In her underwear?”
    “I was hardly going to offer something so prosaic.”
    “What then?”
    “Picture her as a child.”
    “A child?” Eve shook her head. “Why?”
    “Because that’s who everybody is, inside.”
    “Right,” she said. “Well … thanks.” She stepped onto the landing and closed the door behind her. She was off to take on the children of New York, and soon—if she got this job and kept this apartment—she’d be one of them.
    As she made her way down the stairs, she felt Donald’s presence growing weaker and weaker inside her, before it disappeared neatly and quietly, like water swirling down a drain.

Chapter 2
    T he hunched, sloe-eyed girl behind the front desk put down the phone. “Have a seat,” she said. “It’ll be a couple.” She turned back to a list of some kind, which she attacked with a red pen.
    Eve nodded, tucked her hair behind her ears, and tried to make her breathing normal after running the three blocks from the subway. Beyond the desk, the office natives slid by on their errands and drummed on their keyboards, clad in clingy black and self-assurance. After about forty minutes, a young woman so slender that the loops of blond hair piled atop her head made her look like a dandelion, strode into the waiting area.
    “Let’s go,” she said, beckoning with fingers flapping against her palm. Eve sprang to her feet and followed the girl through large glass doors and a warren of cubicles and filing cabinets to their destination, a large, glass-fronted office belonging to Orla Knock, Managing Editor. The office lights were off, but the computer screen was emitting a dull glow from the far side of the room. The young woman sat down at an overflowing desk and nodded toward a seat, which Eve took.
    “So. I’m Tanya, Orla Knock’s assistant. Unfortunately, Orla had to leave for the day. She sends her apologies.”
    Eve felt a mix of disappointment and relief. She needed the job but her attack of nerves began to dissipate nicely the moment she realized the interview was off. “That’s completely fine. These things happen.” She asked, reaching into her purse for her appointment book, “Shall I come back another time?”
    “Actually, no. We need you to write a segment for tomorrow’s show.”
    Eve’s hand fell out of her bag, hanging limply at her side. “Excuse me?”
    “We’re, um, unexpectedly