Free Charley's Web by Joy Fielding Page A

6
    S he called the lawyer’s office first thing the following morning, seeking an immediate appointment.
    “Mr. Prescott is in court until eleven o’clock,” his secretary informed her in crisp tones that declared I am an immaculately coiffed icy blonde, whose well-manicured nails match my perfectly glossed lips.
    Charley stared down at her brown blouse, its front stained by a wayward line of white toothpaste that must have dripped from her electric toothbrush while she was brushing her teeth. (“And you give me a hard time for not being able to manage a cell phone,” she could almost hear her mother tease.) “I don’t believe this,” Charley muttered, balancing the phone between her shoulder and her ear as she began unbuttoning her blouse.
    “Perhaps something later in the week, say Thursday…”
    “No. It has to be sooner.” Charley pulled her blouse off her shoulders and threw it on the floor. “He doesn’t have anything available today at all?”
    “I’m afraid not. He’s in court till eleven, then he has a lunch meeting at twelve, another meeting at two…”
    “Okay, fine. Never mind then.” Charley clicked off her cell phone, then tossed it on her unmade bed. Obviously this was a sign her collaboration with Jill Rohmer wasn’t meant to be. She walked to her closet and stared at her impressive collection of designer jeans and her less-than-impressive collection of everything else. “Who needs anything else?” she asked the empty house, the school bus having picked up Franny and James half an hour ago. Ultimately she settled on a rhinestone-studded, beige T-shirt, the bottom half of which was emblazoned with a skull and crossbones. Since she wouldn’t be visiting Alex Prescott this morning, there was no need for more formal attire. “It just wasn’t meant to be,” she said again, this time out loud.
    She was surprised, and somewhat dismayed, to realize how disappointed she was, especially since she’d more or less decided that she wanted nothing to do with Jill Rohmer or her sordid story. This, after a sleepless night spent tossing around in bed, weighing her options, figuring out how best to organize her schedule, and even drafting an outline in her head. I can’t do it, she’d told herself repeatedly throughout the night, all the while composing a list of questions to ask Alex Prescott, and a further list of conditions that had to be met with regard to any possible collaboration. You’d just be asking for trouble, she’d cautioned herself minutes before dawn, trying to imagine her first meeting with Jill Rohmer, how she’d react when she saw her, what she’d say. By the time her alarm clock went off at 7 A.M ., she’d gone so far as to visualize the book itself, her name in embossed silver letters below the title, or better still, above it. (A photograph of Jill Rohmer would undoubtedly fill the front cover, but her own far more glamorous picture would occupy the back. Maybe she’d even borrow her sister’s white lace pillows.) “No, I can’t do it,” she’d said aloud, as she stepped into the shower and began washing her hair. Still, by the time her hair was dry, she’d settled on the simple opening line for the preface: Yesterday I got a letter from a killer.
    Oh, well, she could always use that line to begin an upcoming column, she decided. She retrieved her cell phone from the bed and slipped it inside the back pocket of her jeans, then threw the bed’s plain white comforter across the plain white sheets, so that at least it looked as if it had been made. One day I’ll get my life in order, she was thinking as she scooped her purse off the uncarpeted hardwood floor and headed down the hall. I’ll get nice sheets, I’ll buy a rug, I’ll wear some grown-up clothes.
    Except what constituted grown-up clothes these days? Charley wondered. It seemed everybody wore the same things. There was no longer any dress code, no distinction between the generations. Three-year-olds wore