behind her. Twice she opened her mouth as though to say something before closing it again. It wasn’t like her to leave silences in a conversation.
“Do you want me to try with Owen?” Sarah asked.
Dory looked almost as surprised by the offer as Sarah was to have made it. She straightened her glasses. “Oh, I didn’t mean to suggest you needed to—honestly, I’m not sure what you could do.”
“Yeah, of course.” Sarah let out a breath she’d been holding and watched as Dory paced the room. Then her boss stopped in front of her and crossed her arms.
“But it could be an amazing opportunity for you,” Dory said slowly, seeming to scrutinize her. “And it would really help me out.”
Sarah swallowed, wondering if Owen would even remember her. “Then I’m happy to do it.” Encouraged by Dory’s growing enthusiasm, she added, “And remember when you asked me about reading manuscripts? I think I’m finally ready.”
“Sarah! That was years ago.” Dory drew back, then returned to her seat and leaned forward across the table. “Look, part of the reason I called you up here was to brainstorm how to keep you on. They’re canning your current position.”
“Oh.” Somehow, in spite of her best intentions, Sarah always seemed to coast under the office radar, while everyone else was moving on, getting ahead. Glorified intern, she thought with a sudden clarity. And then, So what? Publishing wasn’t exactly a growth industry, although she’d thought that with the latest spike of infections in New Jersey, a few positions might have opened up.
“But you taking on Owen Grant’s publicity could solve everything,” said Dory. “As long as you watch yourself with him. Seriously, though. No more broken hearts allowed at Shillelagh.”
Sarah was already regretting her offer to help. “So what exactly am I supposed to do? Owen’s already been profiled everywhere.” She was sure she’d seen a think piece about How to Avoid the Plague and the tortuous relationship between fiction and reality in a recent issue of The New Yorker. “And I’ve been doing my part on the subway this month, wearing my kit.” Her transit gloves and face mask were among the thousands that Shillelagh Press had purchased and branded as promotional tie-ins for Owen Grant’s novel after the official federal advisory of the virus was announced in mid-August. A Shillelagh Precaution Kit, as they were marketed, came free with the purchase of every copy of Owen’s book, and sold separately for $4.99 on the company’s website, undercutting the drugstores. There had been the predictable social media backlash against the cynicism of the marketing plan, but Dory had insisted they weather it out and her gamble seemed to have paid off. These days, Sarah estimated three-quarters of the people on her morning train wore personal protective gear, and at least half of those were Shillelagh-branded. She’d even given Elliot a few sets last night as a get-out-of-quarantine present.
Dory sighed. “It’s only going this well while ARAMIS is making people nervous. And it would be better not to have the company’s fortunes tied irrevocably to a global pandemic, don’t you think? We don’t want every sale tied to the outbreak. We have to assume there will be some people left to buy books.”
“Dory,” said Sarah.
“Look, the problem is that Owen Grant has started bailing on his responsibilities. Everyone wants him, especially with that tie-in video game coming out, and now he’s stopped picking up the phone. At least when Colleen or I call. But this is his moment! You’ve got to get him back on board and make him take care of his book.”
“If he doesn’t listen to you, why—”
“He’d better listen to you, Sarah. Or, like I said, you’re out.”
* * *
—
All afternoon, Sarah tried and failed to call Owen from her cubicle. The truth was that she could think of no good reason why he ought to speak to her when he wouldn’t even talk to Dory. It was only once she was at home and Noah’s giggles had finally subsided into sleep that she felt the day’s failures recede. She registered a fleeting triumph in Noah’s long lashes curled against his soft cheek as she lowered a kiss onto his forehead. It was something, to be raising a son so joyous he could laugh himself to sleep. Then she sank into a corner of the couch, dialled Owen Grant’s number on her cell, and hit Call before she could change her mind.
“Hello?” A warm baritone.
“Mr. Grant?”
“Yes?” The word seemed inflected with