“You’re not exotic in any way. You’re not a model,” Gertrude is peering at me. “You’re nothing like any of the girls the gossip magazines like to link with my son. What’s your attraction?”
“Mother…”
“Like you said, I’m only the buffer,” I reply pleasantly, wondering inside if I had just willingly walked into the definition of dysfunctional.
“I did say that.” She arches her brow at me. “So you work at Gilt?”
“Yes, Gilt Traveler.”
She nods. A man comes in with drinks on a tray. Four large black tumblers with green veggie straws sticking out of them.
Gertrude sighs. “I don’t do dinner anymore. I hope you don’t mind smoothies. They’re very healthy.”
We each take a tumbler, and the man disappears. Jack glares at his glass like he’d rather die than taste the contents.
“So you’re a travel writer?” Curtis asks, he’s talking to me.
“I write for a travel magazine.”
“I’ve never liked travel writing,” Gertrude says. “Anybody can write about climbing mountains and jumping out of airplanes.” She gives Jack a meaningful look. “Real Fiction demands imagination.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t inherit your imagination gene,” he mutters.
“You’ve tried very hard to make up for it. I labored for fourteen hours to bring your body into the world, but every time I open your magazine or take a look at those damn TV shows, I have to watch you throw that body around and risk breaking it into pieces.” Her voice doesn’t rise as she says this, but I watch Jack retreat into himself. He looks miserable, and it’s hard not to pity him.
“Jack’s a brilliant writer,” I say, facing Gertrude.
She sighs. “We’re saying the same thing.”
There’s a short awkward silence.
“I subscribe to the Gilt Review,” Curtis says. “The short stories are brilliant.”
“You think so?” Gertrude is smiling, like she knows a secret. She looks at me. “Do you read it?”
I nod. “Every issue.” I’d initially applied to work at the Review and ended up as an assistant at Traveler. I still hoped to one day make the move to the Gilt Review.
“What do you think about it?” She leans forward, her eyes bright, like she really needs to know my opinion. At that moment I see the similarity with her son, they both share the charm that can make their audience forget everything else.
“I think it’s fair to call it the modern voice of literature. However, I’d include less work from established authors and more from unknown, fledgling writers. After all, it’s the job of a magazine like the Gilt Review to widen the reader’s scope.”
Gertrude considers me for a moment, still smiling. “That’s an informed opinion,” she observes.
“Rachel always wanted to work at the Review,” Jack offers. “She applied there, but they sent her to us.”
“Is that right?” His mother smiles at me. “Why don’t you apply again?” She gives me an encouraging smile and I’m reminded of Jessica Layner, my boss. “You might be surprised.” She pauses. “You haven’t touched your drink,” she observes.
I steel myself and take a sip. It’s surprisingly delicious. “What’s in this?”
“Fruits and vegetables,” she grins and it’s exactly the same as Jack’s grin. “I’ll bet you thought it’d be awful.”
“I did,” I confess.
“Not everything about me is awful,” she says. “My relationships with the men in my life, maybe.” She looks at Jack. “Stop sulking, dear. Tell us about your work. I’m sure you haven’t outgrown talking about yourself.”
Jack is braving the smoothie, then with a pained expression in his mother’s direction he starts to tell us about his trip to South America and falling ill. Gertrude listens intently as he tries to impress her with his narration and his experiences. She asks questions about his safety, health risks he took, places he stayed. She’s genuinely worried
about him, regardless of how unimpressed she is with what he does. He, on the other hand, wants her to appreciate his work, while being very unconcerned about his own personal safety.