I went outside the arts building under the portico so I could get reception, and dialed David Charles’s cell phone number.
He picked up on the first ring. “Hi,” said a . . . female voice. I looked down at my phone, alarmed. Had I dialed the wrong number? Was David Charles a transvestite or something?
“Uh, hi,” I said. “Um. Is David Charles there?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“Well . . . can I talk to him?”
“Can you?”
“I believe so.”
She snickered. “Hold on.” There was a rustling sound, then a muffled scream: “DAVID!”
A male voice shouted something indistinct in reply.
“I DON’T KNOW,” said the woman.
The male voice said something else.
“I DIDN’T ASK,” the woman said.
The male voice spoke again.
The rustling sound returned, and then the woman sighed into my ear. “Here.”
“Th—” I said, but I was cut off by a crisp, “David Charles.”
“Uh,” I said. “Hi—”
“Hello” —flatly.
“I’m Lissy Kenway . . . I know India Burke—”
“INDIA!” he shouted. “I love India. How is she?”
I was startled. “She’s . . . fine.”
“Fantastic. Well, what can I do for you?”
“Well,” I said, feeling awkward and like I’d suddenly turned into a giant hand or sprouted a third ear or something. “I was told you’re looking for a new illustrator.”
“You were told correctly.”
“Good to know.”
“I assume India told you, yes?”
“You assume correctly.”
David Charles chuckled. “Smooth. So, tell me, Lizzy, can you draw?”
“It’s Lissy,” I corrected him.
“WHAT?” he shouted.
“Lissy,” I said. “With a sibilant s.”
“Okay, Leslie,” he said, pronouncing it with an “s” instead of a “z” sound. “What kind of an artist are you?”
I decided to let the Leslie thing slide for now. “I don’t understand.”
“Are you any good?”
“I . . . think so.”
“Are you being modest?”
It sounded like teasing, and that made me think of Jonah. “I’m the best,” I said.
“You’re the best, are you?” David Charles made a harrumphing sound. “I only work with the best.”
“Likewise,” I said.
He chuckled. “Splendid. Well, now, Leslie, the only thing left to do is set up an appointment.”
“Okay.”
“I need to meet you, you need to meet me and my editor . . . there’s going to be contracts and stuff, you know the drill.”
I didn’t actually know the drill. “Um . . .”
“Bring your portfolio.”
Okay, so I did know that much. “I know.”
“Right, right, you’re the best, I forgot.” He sighed. “Okay, look, I’m going to schedule an appointment. Let’s try to make it A.S.A.P. My editor is Max Sovanich. He’s going to contact you with the details.”
“Got it.”
“Fabulous. See you soon.” And then he hung up.
Labels: january brings few faces
