“Lucy will need an answer today,” Craig said. “Really, Angel, what’s to think about? She’s being absurdly generous here. And it’s almost like a guarantee of employment. You know what the job market is like these days. Especially in publishing.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, wanting to let Craig’s rumbling Barry White voice wash over me. Looking at him simply ruined the effect.
“Okay,” I said. “You’re right, of course. I’m…I couldn’t be happier.”
“Good. And there’s just one more thing.”
“Yes?” I said. Craig leaned forward, grimacing, and for a moment I thought he was going to tell me that the whole thing was a joke, ha-ha.
“Lucy would like to give you the first year’s raise in a lump sum.”
“So—”
“Yes, all at once. Also, although this is a raise, Lucy will pay it to you as if it were a bonus, so we won’t be taking any taxes out of it. Again, you’ll be responsible for those. I can have a check ready for you by the end of the week. And, of course, the same terms apply. Should you leave before—”
“I think I understand, Craig. I’d owe it all back. Got it.” I was actually counting it in my head, visualizing piles and piles of green dollars laid out on my bed.
“I’ll write it up, then?” Craig said.
“Yes, thank you. Thanks so much.”
“Don’t thank me,” he said. “It’s all her.”
There was an instant message and an e-mail waiting for me when I returned to my desk. The instant message, from Anna, read: Congratulations.
I didn’t stop to think about her bionic hearing or what were the implications of her knowing about my huge pay increase, because the e-mail message demanded my immediate attention.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: BLIND SUBMISSION
Dear Ms. Robinson,
I am indeed pleased that Ms. Fiamma would like to offer me representation. I assure you that when the time is right, I will happily sign on with her. Rest assured that I will not be submitting elsewhere. You have my word. I thank you for getting in touch and look forward to our correspondence.
I will be sending you more text shortly. I am, just now, putting a few finishing touches on a key scene.
With best wishes,
G.
The e-mail struck me as both pompous and cheesy, a dreadful combination. I found I was really beginning to dislike this author, which didn’t bode well for the manuscript. I mean, really, “ganovelist”? Great American Novelist? There was also something about the language of the e-mail that struck me as very familiar, but I couldn’t place it. The whole thing—the manuscript, the e-mails, and the secret identity—was really starting to grate on me. It occurred to me that I should have rejected the manuscript when I’d had the chance, before Lucy even saw it. But then I had the unnerving thought that even if I had rejected it, the author would have found a way to get back in. It had become very clear that this particular author knew a little too much about the way things worked at our agency.
“Peeuwww!” Jackson was going through the day’s mail. He held an envelope away from his face with one hand and made fanning motions with the other. “This one stinks!”
“What is it?” Anna asked.
“This manuscript smells terrible,” Jackson said. “It reeks.”
“Smokers,” Anna said, and I nodded in agreement. “Their work smells so bad you don’t even want to open it, let alone read it. You’d think they’d know that and open a window or something before they print it out.”
“Yes, but if they knew…” It was right there, edging into my mental field of vision. I reached for it—
“Knew what?” Jackson asked.
—and grabbed it. “Peter Johnson!” I exclaimed out loud.
“Smokers knew Peter Johnson?” Anna asked. “What are you talking about?”
“When’s the last time we heard from him?” I asked Anna.
“Who’s Peter Johnson?” Jackson asked.
“Yeah, it’s been awhile, huh?” Anna said. “He used to call every day, didn’t he? Did you finally chase him off, Angel? I haven’t seen one of his manuscripts for a long time. What was the last one? Wait, I remember, it was that awful one about the Russian spy who…”
I tuned her out as she went on. I knew exactly the last time we’d heard from Peter Johnson—it was the morning I’d given Lucy Malcolm’s novel and started that whole mess in motion. He’d hung up on me, but not before giving me his usual speech, which sounded exactly like the words I’d just read in that e-mail. The mystery author had Peter Johnson’s literary DNA all over him. And hadn’t he said, in that last conversation I’d had with him, that he was giving us another chance? It had to be him.
“Hey, Jackson, can you do me a favor?” I said when Anna’s breath ran out.
“Sure, what do you need?”
“Can you see if you can find an address or phone number for Peter Johnson in the submissions log? He’s submitted so many times, we must have a record of it somewhere. He practically has a log all to himself.”
“Why do you want to contact Peter Johnson?” Anna asked. But before I could answer her, my intercom vibrated with the sound of Lucy’s voice.
“Angel? Can we talk?” She sounded like a bad imitation of Joan Rivers. She knew Craig had talked to me about her “absurdly generous” raise and she was waiting for a response. I knew what she wanted. I punched the button on my intercom.
“On my way,” I said, and prepared to go fawn and grovel.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Edit notes
Dear Ms. Robinson,
Thank you for your speedy response to my work. I have already made some of the corrections you suggested in the opening chapters. Let me also say that I am pleased to be working with you, but I’d just like to make sure that Ms. Fiamma is, in fact, the person who will be representing this novel? Before I send you the next installment, I’d like to go over some of your notes for my own clarification. To wit, you say that there should be “more intrigue right up front.” Is it not intriguing enough to place a frustrated writer in a literary agency where she can only hope to usher in the works of other writers? Perhaps not. Perhaps you are suggesting that there needs to be a dead body? I need to kill someone off, as it were? If so, I can arrange that, but I may need a few more chapters to do it. Is this the direction you’d see as best for this novel?
You also say Alice needs more dimension and asked me to define what it is that Alice wants. The answer is: everything. At this point, her goal is to attain as much power as possible and she will be ruthless about obtaining it. She’s also a frustrated writer in search of the perfect novel. She wants a bestseller and she doesn’t care what she has to do to get one. Perhaps that aspect is not coming across as clearly as it should. (By the way, I appreciate your compliment about how I’ve gotten the details right where it comes to describing a literary agency. My research has paid off!)
As far as the Carol Moore character, I will try to “flesh her out,” as you say. She is a very powerful character. Indeed, she holds the power that Alice is looking for, and that should come across for the reader. In your notes, you didn’t mention whether or not you felt that Carol Moore was sympathetic or not. You did mention that it’s important to have the protagonist be somewhat likable, which takes care of Alice (I assume she’s not likable enough?), but I’m curious as to your take on Carol, the agent, since she’s a very important character as well.
I will look forward to your reply, Ms. Robinson. You can expect my next installment shortly, along with corrections on what I’ve already sent.
With best wishes,
G.
Blind Submission, p. 68
Carol Moore held a staff meeting every morning. In addition to conducting the business of the day, she also liked to get caught up on the manuscripts that her staff
was reading and allowed everyone the time to discuss whatever they thought was important. “Fresh ideas are crucial,” Carol said. “And I have hired all of you because you all have excellent ideas on how we can better serve our clients.” To make everyone feel comfortable and to encourage casual dialogue, Carol ordered muffins and coffee for every staff meeting. Alice noticed that Jewel ate at least three muffins every morning. It was starting to show, Alice thought. Those thighs of Jewel’s weren’t getting any slimmer.
Carol seemed especially excited for today’s staff meeting. “It’s easy to keep believing that this is just a business like any other,” Carol was saying, “but the truth is that this is art. What our authors do is incredibly important and influential. It means something and their books make a difference in the world. It’s so important for us to get them out there—to do what they can’t do themselves.”
Alice found herself drifting off as Carol spoke. Carol was right, of course, books were important, but it was too painful for Alice to listen to Carol’s adulation of other authors.
“Can you stay here for a moment please, Alice?”
Alice came to attention in time to notice that the meeting was breaking up.
“Of course, Carol,” Alice said, shutting the door behind Jewel and Ricardo.
“Vaughn Blue is very happy with the work you’ve been doing for him,” Carol said once Alice was sitting down again. Alice’s heart started beating a little faster and she searched Carol’s face for an indication that Carol might know the real nature of Alice’s “work” with Vaughn Blue. But Carol looked very happy and there was no sign that anything was amiss.
“For that matter,” Carol went on, “I’m very happy with the work you’ve been doing. You are a real asset to this agency, Alice.”
But not a good enough writer to be represented by you, Alice thought bitterly. What she said was, “Thank you, I appreciate that, Carol.”
“I’m giving you a raise,” Carol said, “and your own office. It’s the small one next to mine, but it will be your own office. I think you’ve earned it.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Alice said. “You’re too good to me, Carol.”
“Just carry on,” Carol said. “You’re doing a marvelous job.”
Alice left Carol’s office and prepared to move into her own. Yes, she was grateful to Carol, but not in the way Carol thought. And she would carry on, but not in the way Carol planned. She would carry on skimming the cream off the top of incoming proposals and manuscripts. She would carry on raping Carol’s files and slowly undermining the efforts of her staff. She would carry on sucking ideas from out of Carol’s clients’ heads and then convincing them that those very ideas were completely unmarketable. She would carry on playing Vaughn Blue as expertly as he played his own instrument. And she would carry on letting Carol think that her greatest ambition was to become just like Carol herself. Very soon, Alice’s careful planning would bear fruit. And Carol had just made it easier for Alice to do what she needed to do.
NINE
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Quick question
Dear Ms. Robinson,
I hate to bother you on the weekend, but I am wrestling with what may be an important decision, and since you have been so very helpful already, I was hoping you could help me resolve it.
It occurs to me that my novel might be—or become—a little claustrophobic. What I mean is that the setting rarely strays from the inside of Carol Moore’s agency. Do you think that this gets too confining? I was thinking that perhaps Alice could attend some kind of literary event outside the agency? Perhaps a book signing, for example. Or perhaps even a cocktail party honoring one of Carol’s authors? That would add a little color and then the reader would also get a chance to see what Alice is like outside the agency.
What do you think?
With best wishes,
G.
I tapped my fingernail on the edge of my computer keyboard, debating whether or not to return G’s message. I didn’t want this author to think I was available 24/7 for editorial advice. Clearly, G didn’t mind bothering me on the weekend—the e-mail was proof of that. On the other hand, G had known, somehow, that I’d check my e-mail on the weekend, so what was the point of pretending I hadn’t? Once again, mystery G had managed to unsettle and irritate me at the same time. I wondered if I had developed some kind of literary stalker. Or was I just being overly paranoid? No, this was an author who knew just a little too much—who’d submitted manuscripts one too many times. I was almost positive now that it was Peter Johnson, only I hadn’t yet been able to get in touch with him to confirm my hunch. The only twinge of doubt I had about my theory was that Peter Johnson wasn’t really a good enough writer to have produced Blind Submission. But who knew—maybe all those rejections had actually sparked some kind of latent talent. Whether it was Johnson or not, though, it would have to wait. I turned off my computer and snapped it shut. I had a dinner to prepare for.
I DECIDED TO LET MALCOLM DRIVE us to Lucy’s house for dinner. I didn’t know if Lucy was planning to serve anything alcoholic, but if she did, I knew I’d be partaking. I’d never been much of a drinker—anything harder than the occasional glass of wine in a restaurant tended to make me ill—but if ever there was an occasion that called for an altered state of consciousness, dinner at Lucy’s house was it. Malcolm was happy to be the designated driver for this soiree, and he laughed when I told him why.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drunk, Angel,” he said, and winked at me. “Might be fun.”
“I didn’t say I was planning to get drunk,” I told him, although I realized that I probably was.
Once we were in the car, I allowed myself a closer look at the clothes Malcolm had come up with for dinner. I’d never seen him dressed quite like it and didn’t even know he owned such attire. Given his heroine worship of Lucy, though, it was entirely possible that he’d sneaked off and bought something just for this evening. His outfit looked like a cross between something you’d see in the pages of Esquire and Cat Burglar Quarterly. He was wearing a tight-fitting black silk T-shirt tucked into equally form-fitting black pants, which were neither jeans nor slacks but a happy blend of the two. All this was finished with sleek black loafers and The Matrix–inspired sunglasses. Altogether, his garb was slightly ridiculous, but it worked in a big way. The long-sleeved T-shirt outlined and clung to every line of muscle of his arms and chest, and the pants were not tight enough to be vulgar, but not loose enough to disguise what was underneath them. His thick blond hair and naturally tan skin nicely set off all the black he was wearing, and the perfect amount of stubble decorated his jaw. He was hot—no question about it.
After discarding several outfits as unworthy (and flashing back to my first interview with Lucy), I’d finally settled on the only black dress I owned. It was on the short side, the hem coming to mid-thigh, and cut so low in front that the angel-wing tattoo on my breast was plain to see and impossible to cover. But it was an excellent combination of casual and elegant and the best I could hope for, so I threw a gauzy scarf around my neck, draped it over my décolletage, and called it even. I hadn’t gotten a haircut since I’d started working for Lucy, and had taken to wearing my hair in a sloppy twist in the office. It had gotten quite long and very curly, so rather than torturing it into some kind of fancy do, I just let it fall loose down the back of my dress.
Malcolm had purchased a big bouquet of red, yellow, and orange roses for us to give to Lucy and I held them on my lap as we drove into San Rafael. He was good with flowers and I couldn’t argue with his statement “You can’t show up empty-handed when someone invites you to dinner, can you?” but I felt somewhat put out, anyway. I should have remembered to get something, I thought, not to mention the fact that I was a more worthy recipient of those roses than Lucy.
“It’s like taking coals to Newcastle,” I told him as I buried my nose in the blooms. They w
ere exceptionally fragrant. “People send her flowers all the time.”
“Common courtesy,” Malcolm said. “And you’re welcome, by the way.”
“So what do you think she’ll serve?” I asked in a weak attempt to change the subject. I pulled down the passenger-side visor and checked out my reflection in the mirror. It was time to apply more lipstick.
“Who knows?” Malcolm said. “I’m sure it’ll be good, though.”
“Why are you so sure? God, I hope it’s not some Alaskan thing, like roasted caribou or whale ice cream.”
“Come on, you know she doesn’t eat that stuff in real life,” Malcolm said.
“What do you mean, ‘real life’? She’s all over the Cold! food. She tried to get Karanuk to write a cookbook once, did I tell you that?”
“Yes, you mentioned it,” he said. I couldn’t see his eyes behind his super-cool shades and that bothered me.
“I told you about his new book, right?”
“Yep.”
“Did I tell you that he’s going to call it Thaw? Like I suggested?”
“Really? That’s great, baby.”
“Lucy says she’s trying to talk him into coming up here for an appearance. Top secret. Like only half a million people will know about it. Can you imagine how many books that would sell? So far he’s not biting.”
“Maybe you could talk him into it,” Malcolm said. “He seems to really like you from what you’ve said. That would be some coup, huh?”
“Hmm.” I pondered the scenario for a moment. Karanuk showing his face for even the briefest of appearances would be a bigger media event than J. D. Salinger showing up on David Letterman. I hadn’t even thought of it as a possibility until Malcolm mentioned it, but planted now, the idea started to grow on me. It had weight, dimension, and infinite potential. At the very least, I could feel Karanuk out, see if he’d be amenable to the suggestion. It was worth a shot. I let myself drift into the daydream of a huge Karanuk book party. We could have ice sculptures that melted down during the event, signifying the “thaw” and the return to the unmolded shape of nature…. I bolted upright in my seat. I was thinking exactly like Lucy. It was as if she’d beamed the thoughts straight into my brain. I shook myself, literally, and looked ahead.
Blind Submission Page 18
