clippings laid in front of him. His nearly full cigarette case sat opened on the end table nearby.
“You said you were out!”
He stood up and came to me. “That was just a ruse, so that you’d stop trying to straighten the story. I didn’t want you to dampen Ellis’s interest. Did you see how he looked at you? To him, you were Rosalind. In the future, if anyone should bring up the subject of Rosalind being like you, don’t split hairs; play it up. Be Rosalind. That’s what they’re hoping for.”
I took a cigarette and lit it from his, dragged on it, then exhaled slowly. “But I’m not her. To start with, she’s not Southern, not even a little bit. She’s New York society, and I sure am not that.”
He waved away the protest. “Artistic license.”
“And she’s a prissy snob, wouldn’t you say?”
“What, for following her family’s wishes and choosing a wealthy man over Amory? She’s practical. Chill-minded, we might call her. These aren’t bad traits necessarily. It’s all about the context, all about how the traits are put to use.”
“You want people to see me like that? Selfish? ‘Chill-minded’?”
“Anyone who knows the real you knows you’re warm and generous and smart. ‘Most Popular’ girl at Sidney Lanier High School—that’s indisputable. For the papers and magazines, what difference does it make who you really are—or who I really am, for that matter? It’s like in advertising: give the public what it thinks it wants, and they’ll lay down their cash.”
“Thinking they’re getting some sob-sister confessional about us, sure. I’d think you’d want the book judged on merit.”
“It’s been judged—by most everyone who counts; look at these.” He indicated the newspaper clippings. “The latest reviews from the weekend. My agent sent them, and they’re good .” His voice broke; he cleared his throat and added, “Max Perkins was a visionary, this proves him out.”
“It proves you out,” I said, softening. “You knew what you were talking about all along. It’s a smart, funny, wise book, Scott, and you deserve all this.”
“ We deserve it. A lot of the dialogue in there came straight out of your diary.”
“The way you gave my words to somebody I would never be is pretty keen. Sort of a magic trick, isn’t it? It sure did work, though.”
“It worked, and here we are.”
I went to the window. “I never woulda thought it. Not like this.” I turned back toward him. “You’re sorta impressive.”
He shrugged away the compliment, but his smile said he was pleased. “The thing now is sales . Popularity means we get to keep doing things like drinking champagne,” he said, popping the cork from a bottle, “and wearing diamond wristwatches, and ”—he tapped an envelope that lay on the table—“going to parties like the one next Friday night at George Jean Nathan’s place.”
“Another young Princetonian heir?”
“God no. He’s one of this city’s finest fixtures—editor of The Smart Set, plus he’s a writer and a true theater critic of the first order. He knows everyone. Ev-ree-one. And he wants us.”
I remembered The Smart Set, first of the prominent magazines to publish Scott’s short stories. I hadn’t realized at the time of the sale what a big deal it was; selling that story hadn’t seemed to boost him much—he’d been focused on selling his novel, and on finding a better job. But that first gust had turned into a strong breeze bringing him all the things he had now: reviews from papers around the country. Books selling out of stores. New stories sold in new places. Steady money coming in. A wedding at St. Patrick’s. A luxurious Biltmore suite. Reporters wanting to interview him—
“It’s you this Nathan fella wants,” I said.
“The invitation is for Mr. and Mrs. Scott Fitzgerald . And I think the occasion’s going to call for a new dress.”
“A dress for your Rosalind, you mean,” I said, stepping up onto
“You said you were out!”
He stood up and came to me. “That was just a ruse, so that you’d stop trying to straighten the story. I didn’t want you to dampen Ellis’s interest. Did you see how he looked at you? To him, you were Rosalind. In the future, if anyone should bring up the subject of Rosalind being like you, don’t split hairs; play it up. Be Rosalind. That’s what they’re hoping for.”
I took a cigarette and lit it from his, dragged on it, then exhaled slowly. “But I’m not her. To start with, she’s not Southern, not even a little bit. She’s New York society, and I sure am not that.”
He waved away the protest. “Artistic license.”
“And she’s a prissy snob, wouldn’t you say?”
“What, for following her family’s wishes and choosing a wealthy man over Amory? She’s practical. Chill-minded, we might call her. These aren’t bad traits necessarily. It’s all about the context, all about how the traits are put to use.”
“You want people to see me like that? Selfish? ‘Chill-minded’?”
“Anyone who knows the real you knows you’re warm and generous and smart. ‘Most Popular’ girl at Sidney Lanier High School—that’s indisputable. For the papers and magazines, what difference does it make who you really are—or who I really am, for that matter? It’s like in advertising: give the public what it thinks it wants, and they’ll lay down their cash.”
“Thinking they’re getting some sob-sister confessional about us, sure. I’d think you’d want the book judged on merit.”
“It’s been judged—by most everyone who counts; look at these.” He indicated the newspaper clippings. “The latest reviews from the weekend. My agent sent them, and they’re good .” His voice broke; he cleared his throat and added, “Max Perkins was a visionary, this proves him out.”
“It proves you out,” I said, softening. “You knew what you were talking about all along. It’s a smart, funny, wise book, Scott, and you deserve all this.”
“ We deserve it. A lot of the dialogue in there came straight out of your diary.”
“The way you gave my words to somebody I would never be is pretty keen. Sort of a magic trick, isn’t it? It sure did work, though.”
“It worked, and here we are.”
I went to the window. “I never woulda thought it. Not like this.” I turned back toward him. “You’re sorta impressive.”
He shrugged away the compliment, but his smile said he was pleased. “The thing now is sales . Popularity means we get to keep doing things like drinking champagne,” he said, popping the cork from a bottle, “and wearing diamond wristwatches, and ”—he tapped an envelope that lay on the table—“going to parties like the one next Friday night at George Jean Nathan’s place.”
“Another young Princetonian heir?”
“God no. He’s one of this city’s finest fixtures—editor of The Smart Set, plus he’s a writer and a true theater critic of the first order. He knows everyone. Ev-ree-one. And he wants us.”
I remembered The Smart Set, first of the prominent magazines to publish Scott’s short stories. I hadn’t realized at the time of the sale what a big deal it was; selling that story hadn’t seemed to boost him much—he’d been focused on selling his novel, and on finding a better job. But that first gust had turned into a strong breeze bringing him all the things he had now: reviews from papers around the country. Books selling out of stores. New stories sold in new places. Steady money coming in. A wedding at St. Patrick’s. A luxurious Biltmore suite. Reporters wanting to interview him—
“It’s you this Nathan fella wants,” I said.
“The invitation is for Mr. and Mrs. Scott Fitzgerald . And I think the occasion’s going to call for a new dress.”
“A dress for your Rosalind, you mean,” I said, stepping up onto
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