One Fifth Avenue by Candace Bushnell Read Free Book Online

to literary publisher with his own company that published Pulitzer Prize–winning authors, like Philip Oakland, and National Book Award winners, and authors who wrote for The Atlantic and Harper’s and Salon, who were members of PEN, who did events at the public library, who lived in Brooklyn, and most of all, who cared —cared O N E F I F T H AV E N U E
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    about words, words, words!—had had to sell his company to an entertainment conglomorate. Called, unimaginatively, EC.
    Jerry Bockman wasn’t the head of EC. That position was held by one of Jerry’s friends. Jerry was the head of a division, maybe second in command, maybe next in line. Inevitably, someone would get fired, and Jerry would take his place. He’d get fired someday, too, but by then none of it would matter because he would have reached every goal he’d ever aspired to in life and would probably have half a billion dollars in the bank, or stock options, or something equivalent. Meanwhile, Redmon hadn’t been able to make his important literary publishing house work and had had no choice but to be absorbed. Like an amoeba. Two years ago, when Redmon had informed James of the impeding “merger” (he’d called it a merger, but it was an absorption, like all mergers), Redmon said that it wouldn’t make any difference. He wouldn’t let Jerry Bockman or EC affect his books or his authors or his quality.
    “Then why sell?” James had asked.
    “Have to,” Redmon said. “If I want to get married and have children and live in this city, I have to.”
    “Since when do you want to get married and have kids?” James asked.
    “Since now. Life gets boring when you’re middle-aged. You can’t keep doing the same thing. You look like an asshole. You ever notice that?”
    Redmon had asked.
    “Yeah,” James had said. And now Jerry was coming to lunch.
    “You saw the piece about the ayatollah and his nephew in The Atlantic ?” Redmon asked. James nodded, knowing that a piece about Iran or Iraq or anything that had to do with the Middle East was of vast importance here on the little twelve-mile island known as Manhattan, and normally, James would have been able to concentrate on it. He had quite a few informed opinions on the subject, but all he could think about now was Jerry. Jerry coming to lunch? And Jerry loved him?
    What was that about? Mindy would be thrilled. But it put an unpleasant pressure on him. Now he was going to have to perform. For Jerry.
    You couldn’t just sit there with a Jerry. You had to engage. Make yourself appear worthwhile.
    “I’ve been thinking a lot about Updike lately,” James said, to ease his tension.

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    “Yeah?” Redmon said, unimpressed. “He’s overrated. Hasn’t stood the test of time. Not like Roth.”
    “I just picked up A Month of Sundays . I thought the writing was pretty great,” James said. “In any case, it was an event, that book. When it came out in 1975. A book coming out was an event. Now it’s just like . . .”
    “Britney Spears showing her vagina?” Redmon said.
    James cringed as Jerry Bockman came in. Jerry wasn’t wearing a suit, James noted; suits were for bankers only these days. Instead, Jerry wore khakis and a short-sleeved T-shirt. With a vest. And not just any old vest.
    A fishing vest. Jesus, James thought.
    “Can’t stay long,” Jerry announced, shaking James’s hand. “There’s a thing going on in L.A.”
    “Right. That thing,” Redmon said. “What’s going on with that?”
    “The usual,” Jerry said. “Corky Pollack is an asshole. But he’s my best friend. So what am I supposed to say?”
    “Last man standing. That’s what I always aim to be,” Redmon said.
    “The last man standing on his yacht. Except now it’s got to be a mega-yacht. You ever seen one of those things?” Jerry asked James.
    “No,” James said primly.
    “You tell James what I thought about his book?” Jerry asked Redmon.
    “Not yet. I thought I’d let you do the