Page 3 of The Shake Off

It was my favorite season.

We were all hugging goodbye as three black Range Rovers pulled up to the curb in front of us. Beulah hopped into one heading downtown, while the other two were taking Lowe and Kit back to their respective apartments on the Upper East and Upper West sides.

“Pay, get in. I’ll take you home!” Beulah called out, holding her door open. “We can go via Midtown.”

I smiled at her but shook my head. “No, thanks. I’m good. I’m going to walk for a bit.”

Kit peered down at my feet, clad in my new favorite bottle-green Jimmy Choos. “In those heels?”

“Yep. They were my birthday present to myself, and I’m going to wear them for as long as I can. I’ll jump in an Uber if I get tired.”

“Okay, love you.” She leaned in, pressing her lips to my cheek.

“Love you. Give a kiss to my goddaughter for me.”

“I will.” I slammed Kit’s door shut for her and stood there clasping my box of cake as the three cars were swept away into the evening traffic.

I waited until they were out of sight before I retrieved my headphones from the depths of my purse. It probably would have been easier to accept a ride from Beulah, but there was something about walking along the sidewalks surrounded by people, yet in your own private world as you blocked out the sound of chatter and car horns, and whenever I got the opportunity to do so, I snatched it up.

It gave me time to think; to ponder on my life and where I wanted to take it. To mull on my future.

Plus, there was something else I wanted to do.

Taking a left at the end of the street, I marched to the beat of the music as fast as my legs – and new shoes – would carry me. Just as I began to feel the pinch of new leather against my heels, I arrived at my destination; Greyschott Tower; the vast copper and brick building set back from the street on a wide plaza, and home to Simpson and Mather – the world’s largest publishing house.

My place of work.

I sat down on the concrete bench in front of it where I often took a mid-morning coffee, but now, nearly twelve hours later, it was a very different place. No one rushing out to grab coffee or a muffin before their next meeting; no one on a call, or sitting on the oversized deckchairs which lined the plaza during the day, and reading the latest book published.

It was quiet.

I craned my neck up and up. My eyes travelled past the thirtieth floor where the H.R. and finance teams sat, past the thirty-fifth floor where the Non-Fiction team sat, past the fortieth floor – my floor – where Children’s publishing sat, and stopped on the fiftieth floor; Adult Fiction. The department was actually split over the next five floors because that’s how big it was, but I only had eyes for the fiftieth.

My holy grail.

I opened the box containing my birthday cake; one candle had rolled into the frosting and gotten stuck. I pulled it free and licked the excess sugar off the end while I dug around in my purse for the book of matches I’d swiped from the valet desk as we’d left the restaurant. Breaking off a piece of cake, I stuck the candle in the top and lit it.

Taking one last glance up to the fiftieth floor, I closed my eyes and blew.

This was my real birthday wish; not boys or world peace or whatever people wished for. My real birthday wish was that I’d finally make it out of the children’s book floor where I currently worked, and up to the adult floor.

It had been my wish since I’d started at Simpson and Mather eight years ago, straight out of Columbia, where Kit and I had studied English together. While other girls dreamed of writing stories, I just wanted to read them. I wanted to be among the words and pages and worlds authors created. I wanted to live in the fantasy of happily ever afters, and love, and make believe that I’d devoured as a kid, and when I realized I could actually do that as a job, my mind was set.

I would work with authors to bring their stories to life, and send them out to live in the imaginations of readers who devoured their words as quickly as a kid with a bag of candy. Simpson and Mather wastheplace to do it.

It was the only place I’d ever wanted to work, and when a recruiter came to Columbia with the opportunity for an internship in the children’s department, I did everything I could to make sure I won it. Because as long as I was in the building, I’d be able to move departments, right?

Wrong.

Editor positions are few and far between. Editor positions at Simpson and Mather are even more scarce, because no one ever leaves.

The added problem I had? I’d become quite good at my current job; okay,verygood. The last three years, books I’ve edited have been shortlisted for The Children’s Book Awards, and my boss was incredibly reluctant to let me go because I made her look good.

But maybe, just maybe, this would be the year my wish would come true.

I stuffed the little piece of cake into my mouth, took a final glance up to my dream floor and stood. It was time to call an Uber.

I was waiting near the curb, clutching my coat around my shoulders and wondering if I should take my shoes off as I watched the little black car move along the road map. I was still thinking about the fiftieth floor, when a blacked-out G-Wagon pulled up.

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