Blind Submission

by Debra Ginsberg

  I rolled on top of him and stared down into his wine-brown eyes. They were alive with desire. For me. “I think I can help you with that,” I said, and placed my hands on either side of his head, feeling the bristly ends of his hair under my fingertips. “But first tell me, how did you know I was here? Why are you in New York?” I wanted—no, I needed—him to tell me that he couldn’t stop thinking about me, that his desire for me had driven him to search me out, to drop everything and cross the country to find me.

  “I spoke to Luciana,” he said. “She told me the hotel.”

  “Lucy?”

  “Sì. What’s the matter?”

  I slid off him and sat up. Out of some belated and now-unnecessary sense of modesty, I drew the sheets up around my waist. “Why would Lucy tell you where I was?”

  “She told me where she was going to be. But I knew you were with her, Angel. I was there at the famous dinner party, remember?” Damiano was looking up at me with a bemused expression, as if he couldn’t understand why any of this would be of concern to me. He lifted a strand of my hair and stroked it between his thumb and forefinger. “That was the first time I saw this beautiful hair all free like fire.”

  “I still don’t really understand, Damiano. You called Lucy to ask her where we were staying in New York? Didn’t she wonder why you wanted to know?”

  “Bella,” he said patiently, and raised himself so that we were sitting side by side on the bed. “I didn’t call Lucia—Lucy. She called me a week…maybe two weeks ago. She told me she was coming to New York. She said it would be a good idea for me to come as well. She said for me to meet my editor? Capisce, no? I thought you would know about this. She ask if I can get a ticket to New York and of course I can. We made a meeting with my editor for the day after tomorrow and today I am here with you.”

  The day after tomorrow—Lucy’s extra day in New York. Without me. I’d wondered why Damiano’s editor hadn’t been on Lucy’s list of appointments when I’d scheduled this trip for her, and I’d even asked Lucy about it. “No need,” she’d said at the time, and now it made sense.

  “I’m going home tomorrow,” I said.

  “Yes, I know,” he said, “that’s why I came early.” He shrugged as if all of this should be totally obvious to me and started pulling me gently toward him, his eyes sparkling with undisguised lust. “Ècco. Vieni qua, Angel. Come here, amore.”

  “Wait,” I said, instinctively moving away from him until I was on the far corner of the bed. There was something about this scenario that was starting to feel frighteningly wrong, some sense that I’d been expertly manipulated into being the butt of an elaborate and cruel practical joke. “How did you know what room I was in? Did Lucy tell you that, too?”

  “No, no, of course not. I spoke to Anna. She was very sweet. She told me where you were.”

  “Anna knows?”

  He missed the alarm in my voice and went on, a smile curving the corners of his mouth. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I came in very quiet,” he said, and chuckled. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial stage whisper. “Nobody saw me, I promise. I wore dark glasses.” He laughed again. “Like a rock star.”

  “Like Vaughn Blue,” I said. My voice sounded distant and hollow, as if it were coming from across the room.

  “Che?” A worried and ever so slightly annoyed expression passed across Damiano’s face and was replaced by renewed desire. He moved over to my side of the bed. “Ahh,” he breathed, “so beautiful.” He cupped my breasts in both of his hands, leaned over, and formed a kiss on my angel-wing tattoo.

  I leaped off the bed, pulling the sheet with me and wrapping it tightly around my nakedness. I backed up as far from him as I could get until I was pressed against the window.

  “Why are you over there, Angel? What are you doing?”

  I stared at him and tried with all the powers of reasoning I had left to convince myself that I was in the middle of a bad dream. Who was this man? He’d become a complete stranger in a matter of seconds. No, he’d been a stranger all along. I knew his words on a page—I didn’t know him at all. But he knew me, didn’t he? Knew just what I’d do, how I’d be, what I wanted, and he had kissed my tattoo. He knew everything. It was worse than a bad dream, I decided—it was a bad dream that belonged to someone else.

  “Angel?”

  “I think you should go.” I sounded weak and slightly hysterical. In the remote corner of my brain that wasn’t full of frightened confusion, it occurred to me that I’d just delivered one of those lines that only works in the movies.

  “What? Why? Che cosa c’é?”

  “I…my…” I raised my hand to my right breast, instinctively covering my tattoo. “You knew about this. How did you know?”

  “Know? I don’t understand. Excuse me…Angel?”

  “Can you just—Can you please leave?” The note of hysteria in my voice had sharpened.

  Damiano searched my eyes with his. His face went from light to dark with surprise, confusion, disbelief, and finally something that looked like a kind of sad acceptance. He shook his head slightly and started to speak again, but caught himself and closed his mouth, compressing it into a tight line. He got up, more gracefully than I would have expected under the circumstances, picked up his clothes from the floor, and put them on in less than a minute.

  He was at the door, one hand on the handle, before he turned to me again. “Angel?” I shook my head, tightening my grip on the sheet, and looked away. “Mi dispiace,” he said, and then he was gone.

  I waited, suspended, for what could have been seconds or minutes and listened to the sounds of voices and traffic coming from outside the window. The room had gone cold and I was shivering. It was suddenly essential that I be clothed. I didn’t want to look at my own naked, traitorous body for another second. I walked over to my suitcase, dragging the sheet with me, and saw that I had an e-mail message waiting on my computer. I was going to wait—to get dressed and read it afterward—but then I saw who had sent it.

  To: angel.robinson@fiammalit.com

  From: ganovelist@heya.com

  Subject: Alice

  My dear Ms. Robinson,

  A quick question for you.

  I’ve just realized that since Alice’s steamy encounter with Vaughn early on, we haven’t seen much of the two of them together in the flesh as it were. I’m wondering if I shouldn’t write in a quick scene of Alice and her stud getting down and dirty in their favorite hotel (which, incidentally, is the Whitman on East 54th Street—is it a problem if I use the real name of the hotel in my manuscript? I thought it had a nice literary feel to it). What do you think? Personally, I believe it would add a little heat. Sex sells, doesn’t it? And the two of them could be very, very hot together, no? But you’re the boss—I’ll only add it in if you think it would be a good idea.

  Looking forward,

  G.

  I looked from my laptop to the small hotel pad and pen next to it. The curling script on each said Whitman Hotel. He knew where I was.

  He was watching me.

  I stood over the computer, my body paralyzed by fear but my mind alive and swarming with wild thoughts. I had been such a fool to believe, even for a second, that Damiano was involved in Blind Submission in any way. My paranoia was justified—the e-mail was hard evidence of that—but I’d made the terrible mistake of directing it at the wrong person. I’d kicked Damiano out, a move as cold as anything Alice could have come up with, after he’d given me so much, and now he was gone. I’d become so unbalanced by this novel that I could no longer tell what was real and what was fiction. I was Alice, all right, and I’d gone right through the looking glass. But my feelings for Damiano had to be genuine. I hadn’t dreamed what had happened between us. I’d had him and lost him in the space of an hour and now I didn’t know if I’d ever get him back. He was probably thinking about what a mistake he’d made at this very moment. And all of this was because of a book—Malcolm’s book. Of course Malcolm would know where I was
. Anna had seen fit to share all those details with Damiano, hadn’t she? It would make perfect sense that she’d shared them with Malcolm as well. Like me, Damiano had just been a pawn in the game Malcolm was playing. The game he’d been playing with Anna’s help. Anna, who had been sitting at my desk, going through my things, talking to someone named Malcolm on the phone…

  Was it possible that Malcolm and Anna were working on this thing together?

  I looked at the clock and subtracted three hours. It was only five o’clock on the West Coast. Everyone should still be in the office.

  To: jackson.stark@fiammalit.com

  From: angel.robinson@fiammalit.com

  Subject:

  J—

  Are you still in the office? Is Anna? What is she doing? Need to know.

  A.

  While I waited for Jackson’s answer, I tried to figure out what I should write back to G. It was clear that I was supposed to respond in some way, but I didn’t want to risk playing into whatever scenario G was setting up for me next. I didn’t have time to get very far, though, because Jackson’s response came over within minutes.

  To: angel.robinson@fiammalit.com

  From: jackson.stark@fiammalit.com

  Subject: Re:

  Hi A—

  I’m here, but Anna’s gone. She left work early (a couple of hours ago, maybe?)—said she was feeling sick. Why? What’s up? What do you need?

  J.

  Anna hadn’t missed a day of work since I’d started and had never taken off early. Feeling sick, was she? If my not-so-far-fetched suspicions were true, she really was sick. I didn’t take the time to write back to Jackson, reaching instead for my cell phone and dialing the office number.

  “Lucy Fiamma Agency, this is Jackson.”

  “Jackson, hi, it’s Angel. Just act like I’m calling about a submission, okay?”

  “I’m sorry, she’s unavailable at the moment. May I help you with something?” He was good. I felt a small twinge of relief that I hadn’t dismissed his intelligence before it was too late.

  “I need Damiano Vero’s cell-phone number. Can you get that for me?”

  “Yes, we’d be happy to look at it,” he said. “Anything else I can help you with?”

  “That’s it for now. Thanks, Jackson.”

  “No problem,” he said.

  “I’ll fill you in later,” I said. “I know you’re wondering…. Anyway, I’ll be back in the office soon and we can talk then.”

  “Well, we’ll look forward to reading that,” he said, and as he spoke, an e-mail message from him containing Damiano’s phone number appeared on my computer screen.

  “Got it,” I said. “Thanks again.”

  As soon as I’d hung up with Jackson, I dialed Damiano’s number. I was desperate to find him. I needed to explain everything to him, which I should have done before I threw him out. I had to tell him how sorry I was and beg him to come back. My heart was beating so hard as I dialed the numbers that the phone vibrated in my hand. His name was on my lips, ready to fall, when an automated operator came on the line informing me that the wireless customer I was trying to reach was out of the area. Damiano was gone—just gone—and I was the one who had sent him away.

  For the second time that night, my eyes spilled over with tears. But this time the tears were angry ones. I’d been feeling so sorry for myself, as if I’d been the victim of some master manipulation. But what had really happened was that I’d allowed myself to become a character in somebody else’s story. The realization that I’d been facilitating it all along made me furious with myself. It might be too late to save what I could have had with Damiano, I thought, but this—I turned back to my computer—I could still control.

  It was time to smoke out the author of Blind Submission.

  To: ganovelist@heya.com

  From: angel.robinson@fiammalit.com

  Subject: Re: Alice

  G—

  I don’t want to play anymore. I’m done. I’ve discussed it with Lucy and she agrees. She’ll be in touch to let you know how we proceed from here.

  Angel

  I sat in front of my computer and waited. I didn’t know exactly who G was, it was true, but in a strange sense I knew G—the entity behind Blind Submission—quite well. I knew what kind of notes to give him and how he’d respond to them. Editorially, at least, I knew what he wanted from me—and that was for me to keep going. He liked our little arrangement very well. I sent the e-mail because I knew G would be quite disturbed by the thought that I was quitting Blind Submission and would quickly write back to me with some kind of concession or maybe an apology for going too far. Either way, my e-mail would get to him enough for him to reveal himself—I hoped. I was taking a risk, of course. It was possible that he’d contact Lucy himself and tell her and then I’d have to answer for it, but I didn’t think he would. G needed me.

  When there was no response after a half hour, I got up, put on a pair of pants and a sweater, and sat back down again. After another half hour of staring at the screen, I picked up the hotel phone and ordered a sandwich from room service. It took forty-five minutes to be delivered and twenty for me to eat it and place the tray outside my door. Still there was no response from G. I sat, and then lay down on the bed. I could smell Damiano on the sheets and I buried my face in the pillow to breathe what might be the last of him into my body. I wasn’t even aware of falling asleep until the hotel phone rang at midnight, jolting me out of unconsciousness. I was still half in a dream when I picked it up.

  “He-hello?”

  “Angel! Are you awake?” Lucy’s voice shredded the remnants of my sleep and pulled me into full, glaring alertness.

  “Um, I am now.”

  “Good! What’s on tomorrow’s schedule?”

  “Well, you’ve got…um…” I couldn’t remember the details of her day, and I started to slide off the bed to pull out my copy of her schedule when she stopped me.

  “I need you to rearrange my morning, Angel. I want you to move all my appointments to the afternoon.”

  “But I can’t do that, Lucy. It’s too late to call—”

  “You’ll find a way, Angel—you’re a bright girl and this isn’t rocket science.”

  I sighed into the phone. It was senseless to argue with her. “Okay,” I said. “And is there something you’d like me to schedule instead?” Like a meeting with the mayor, I thought, or something equally impossible.

  “We’re taking a spa morning, Angel! Hair, nails, the works!”

  “What?”

  “It just occurred to me that tomorrow is your last day here in Gotham and I promised to get you made over when we arrived. So voilà, Angel, I’m true to my word.”

  I was sure that, like all of Lucy’s “generous” gestures, this one had a catch buried in it, but she sounded genuinely excited at the prospect of taking me with her to a salon and I was too unstrung to try to figure out why.

  “Okay,” I said. “Great. I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

  Lucy hung up without saying good-bye, something I’d gotten used to from her. It saved time and skipped over any finality. If she hadn’t said good-bye, she was still present in some form and one would have to stay at the ready, waiting for the next command. I placed the receiver back in its cradle and got out of bed. The wise thing to do now was to leave messages for the editors Lucy would now not be seeing in the morning, but instead of reaching for the schedule, I sat down once more in front of my laptop. It was still on and plugged into the phone line.

  There were no new e-mails waiting for me.

  FOURTEEN

  MY FLIGHT ARRIVED in San Francisco so late it went over into the next day. By the time I got out of the airport, through the city, and on the road to my apartment, it was close to five o’clock in the morning. I’d been able to sleep a little on the plane, but that only served to stave off total exhaustion. What I really needed was a long night in my own bed. I was so tired I didn’t know if I
could even stay awake for the long drive home. If you counted the time change, I was twenty-four hours into what had become an endless day.

  It had started, as so many of my days now did, with Lucy. After obsessively checking my e-mail only to find my in-box empty and G now apparently playing possum, I collected Lucy, who actually sprang for a taxi to take us to one of New York’s finest salons.

  “This is where I always come when I’m in the Big Apple,” Lucy told me. “They are beyond fabulous here. I’ve pulled quite a few strings to get you in as well. What they do here is better than plastic surgery. You won’t believe it. You’re going to be transformed, Angel Robinson!”

  “What am I transforming exactly, Lucy?” I softened my question with a bright smile, but I was starting to get a very uneasy feeling about Lucy’s plans for our spa day.

  “Well, among other things, your hair,” Lucy said.

  “What’s wrong with my hair?”

  “The color, for one thing. You shouldn’t be a redhead in the first place, Angel, that’s the problem right there. And the length is an entirely different issue. Mature women don’t have long hair, Angel, it’s a rule.”

  I had a painful flashback to Damiano and how he’d run his hands through my hair, how genuinely he’d admired it and how beautiful he’d made it seem. Lucy saw the memory reflected in my face and gave it an entirely different interpretation.

  “Don’t worry about how to style it, Angel. I’ve instructed them to cut your hair like mine. This is a brilliant cut and very versatile. And I think my color—well, maybe a shade or two darker—would be perfect for you.”

  That was when I decided that our bizarre girlfriend-bonding moment was over.

  “That’s extremely generous of you, Lucy,” I said, “but I’m kind of attached to my hair the way it is.”

  “You’re not serious?” she asked. “If it’s the cost you’re worried about, don’t—I’m buying. Now, let’s go, shall we?”