Pulse

42

T he Happy Noodle was within easy walking distance from where Neeve had been working on the Overbite manuscript in the park. Still, she was slightly late when she walked into the restaurant for lunch with her friends and former colleagues.

Melanie, who arranged these occasional lunches, had made the reservation and was sitting at the head of the white-clothed table. Rhonda and Lavella were on either side of her. Each woman had before her a drink along with folded paper napkins, twisted red plastic swizzle sticks, and a few squeezed lime wedges.

“Train delay,” Neeve said, by way of explaining why she was fifteen minutes late. The truth was that her purse, and the heavy computer case containing the Overbite manuscript, had slowed her down, and she’d felt faint. She’d found a doorway to stand in, where the swarms of people on their lunch hour wouldn’t buffet her and she could catch her breath. She figured she might be experiencing a sugar crash, after only a doughnut for breakfast.

She’d felt around in her purse, found what was left of a wrapped Tootsie Roll, and popped the chocolate morsel into her mouth.

It did seem to help, as she proceeded more slowly to the restaurant, feeling her energy level gradually rise.

She sat down next to Lavella and placed her purse and computer case on the floor, propped against her chair leg.

Lavella was a beautiful black woman who worked as an associate editor at one of the big publishing houses. She glanced at the computer case.

“If the food server steps on that stuff, you’re gonna need a new computer,” she said.

“No computer in the case,” Neeve said. “Manuscript.”

“New thriller?”

“Vampire novel.”

“Surprise, surprise. Any good?”

“It sucks.”

The server, who looked a lot like a young Susan Sarandon, arrived. She didn’t step on the computer case, and jotted down Neeve’s order for white wine, and a fresh round of drinks for the others at the table.

The four women fell into easy conversation. They talked about the fact that Rhonda and Neeve had been forced into the ranks of the self-employed by the shrinking and consolidation of major publishers. About the encroachment of e-books. About a new book Lavella’s publisher was bringing out that claimed there was a secret government plan to cause the bond market to crash. About a launch party at a mystery bookstore. About Melanie’s new boyfriend, who used to play in the NBA and whom the other three had never heard of but pretended they had. All four women decided they liked a new bestselling thriller about a serial killer in New York. They were smart, strong women who enjoyed a good vicarious scare.

Though Neeve was a drink behind the others, she still felt slightly tipsy as they finished their lunches of soup and salads and left the restaurant. Beneath a large sign that indeed depicted a happy noodle, they wished each other luck, hugged each other, and went their separate ways.

Neeve was in a much better mood and was pleased to notice she was easily walking a straight line, so must not have drunk too much. What? Three glasses of wine? Four? Well, she’d had pasta with her drinks. Rather, drinks with her pasta-an important distinction, in Neeve’s mind.

The afterglow of drink and food was making her sleepy. By the time she’d reached her building and stood before her apartment door, she knew her plans to work some more on Overbite were going to be put on hold. A short nap was in order.

Self-employment. It has its advantages.