The Bestseller

by Olivia Goldsmith

  She’d have to focus on what was coming up for the all-important fall list. There were a few Pinks, two Spooks that might do all right, a guaranteed Dick, but other than that, nada. The big goose egg. Pam shook her head. She saw Gerald’s new one listed, and the dreary sales of his last book made her close her eyes. She could depend on Gerald for another book, but she could almost count on it not selling. Then she smiled. He might collect on his contract, but if she were Gerald, she wouldn’t count on collecting his pension.

  Anyway, what she needed were some new Hots—something quick and dirty that she could make a killing on. But Hots were so unpredictable; nothing was guaranteed. She thought SchizoBoy was one, but there were no sure things. When the artsy writer A. M. Holmes had tried a slice and dice, she’d been excoriated by The New Yorker, which had called the book “This rotten novel.” So Pam went back to combing the list for guaranteed successes. She thought of her pal Judith Regan’s formula for picking winners: When she read the manuscript, her nipples got hard. Pam smiled, despite the furious pain in her head. Yeah, Lincoln’s Doctor’s Dog.

  Mrs. Trawley and Burt Schuloff, her lawyer, sat in the conference room with Jim Meyer. Pam, as usual, was late, but she didn’t give a shit. As far as she was concerned, Jim could handle this himself. Pam almost grinned when she looked at Edina Trawley: The stupid drama queen was not only swathed completely in black, but she was wearing a black patent-leather hat with a veil.

  Who the fuck would have thought you could buy a patent-leather hat? Well, Pam admitted to herself, at least it was practical. Edina Trawley could wipe it off with a rag and use it again the next time a husband died. And somehow Pam didn’t think it would be long before there was another husband—perhaps Burt Schuloff, by the look of it.

  The fat lawyer stroked the widow’s hand. Mrs. Trawley looked up at Pam. “Oh! Excuse me if I don’t get up,” she said.

  “She’s very weak,” Schuloff told Pam.

  Pam just took a seat, crossing her legs, hoping that Schuloff got a flash of beaver. Fuck him, the bloodsucker. Fuck both of them.

  The widow was scrabbling in her black patent-leather purse. She took out a handkerchief—Pam couldn’t believe that it, too, was black—and a tissue-wrapped lump. She handed it to Pam. “I know Peet would have wanted you to have this,” she said.

  Pam grabbed it. Jewelry? The antique obscene netsuke Pam had always admired? She tore off the paper. It was a disk—a three-and-a-half-inch Memorex disk. Pam looked at it blankly.

  “His last disk,” Schuloff explained.

  “What a beautiful gesture,” Pam said and threw the disk flatly onto the conference table where it skittered like a Frisbee to the corner, teetered, then fell to the carpet. “Oops,” Pam said.

  Jim retrieved the disk and served the widow coffee from a tray brought in by a secretary. He didn’t offer Pam any, so she poured herself a cup. “Pam,” Jim said, “we have something that Mrs. Trawley would like to discuss with you. Something they want from you.”

  Pam waited. Perhaps Edina wanted a receipt for the disk.

  “No one knew Peet’s work the way you did,” the black widow said. “It was loved. He was loved. His work should continue.”

  Pam looked at her. She wasn’t just greedy and stupid. She was crazy.

  “What Mrs. Trawley means is that she’d like you to finish Peet’s book,” Schuloff said. “To, um…edit it to completion.”

  “Edit it to completion?” Pam asked. “Last I saw, there were only a few chapters—twenty pages or so.”

  “Well, you always said you wrote his books,” Mrs. Trawley said. “So…write ’em.”

  Her lawyer jumped up. “No. No. That’s not exactly what we had in mind,” Schuloff said. “Not writing. Well, there’s this one, with some of it outlined and some fleshed out. And then the two remaining books on the contract—”

  “The contract is invalid,” Jim Meyer was quick to point out. “The obligation is with Peet Trawley, who is deceased.”

  Mrs. Trawley began to cry. “But his books don’t have to be.”

  Pam snorted. It had all become clear. Well, she’d always rewritten Peet. Now she’d just get paid for it. David Morton, Edina Trawley. All in all, a good day.

  “A quarter of a million dollars,” Pam said.

  24

  I’m not a jealous woman, but I can’t see what he sees in her, I can’t see what he sees in her, I can’t see what he sees in her!

  —Sir Alan Patrick Herbert

  Susann stood by the window, looking out at New York’s Central Park. Her Central Park West apartment was small—really just a pied-à-terre, but she’d been spending more and more time in New York. Maybe she needed a bigger place, Susann thought. She certainly needed something.

  What, exactly, was wrong? What was missing? What she really needed was for her new book to be a smash. It was the success of her books that had changed her life, that had given her this apartment, the house in France, Alf, Edith’s help, the wonderful clothes, the television appearances, even the looks she had bought through surgery.

  But her success had also given her excitement. Nothing could match the feeling of opening the newspaper and seeing her book at the top of the list, or strolling into a bookstore in any airport, any mall in the country, and finding her books—sometimes a whole wall or a window full—proudly displayed. She never tired of the thrill of seeing her name on the side of a bus in New York or on a giant poster in the London underground. She loved going to book signings, being ushered by the store manager to the table laid specially for her. Most of all, she loved looking up at the long line of fans, each waiting for her signature, each waiting to tell her how important her books had been to them.

  That’s what was missing! Not the fans or the interviews or the ads but the feeling that she was important. At Davis & Dash they acted as if she were just anyone. How she wished she’d never left Peterson! They had treated her with dignity. They had also known how to sell her. And she’d always earned out. Only since she’d taken on this big contract had she felt not only such dreadful, almost unbearable, pressure but also the dislike or disappointment of her publisher and editor. The truth was, she didn’t like them much, either, and sorely missed Imogen Clark, her editor at Peterson, who always knew how to tactfully coach her through the painful editing process. And Archibald Roget, the publisher, had always been so charming to her. At Davis & Dash she was afraid of Pam Mantiss and knew that to Gerald Ochs Davis she might only represent a bad investment.

  Susann turned and looked at the ormolu-and-marble mantel clock. Alf was late. Though he had recently given her the clock, it seemed that she got less and less of his time. He always used to come see her in France or London. But in the last year or two he traveled to her less and less. Was it his age? Alf, after all, was no spring chicken. Whatever the reason, that was why she spent so much time in this pokey little apartment. To be with Alf. Who was late. Susann smoothed her finger nervously along the silk curtain. The place had been done by Duarto, the fabulously expensive society designer known as the “Sultan of Silk.” The fabric was Scalamandre, $192 a yard. Susann had to smile. Why was she being so dark, so depressed? Things had changed, and they’d stay changed. This wasn’t as pokey an apartment as the one she used to wait for Alf in, back in Cincinnati. No; this apartment was a palace compared to that hole. She looked around in satisfaction at the beautifully furnished, spotlessly clean living room. This apartment was four very luxe rooms overlooking the park. For a moment she felt calmer, but then the dissatisfaction rose again. The location and decor had changed, as had her bank account, but why was she still alone and waiting?

  Of course, there was Edith, upstairs. The apartment had come with a tiny maid’s room and hall toilet up in the attic of the building. Most other people used the rooms for storage, but Susann had the place painted, and Edith stayed there when they were in New York. If Edith minded, she didn’t say anything. And it was a relief for Susann. Although she didn’t like being alone, she h
ated being stuck with depressing Edith, who seemed only to get fatter and more boring with age. And her endless knitting! Sometimes Susann thought she’d go bonkers if she heard one more click of those needles.

  Edith was the only one, though, that Susann had dared to tell about her daughter’s latest caper. “Typical,” was all Edith had said, and though it was, Susann resented her for saying it. This afternoon Edith had shown her a tiny item in Publishers Weekly that mentioned “a first novel by Kim Baker Edmonds” to be published by Citron Press. It was only a question of time before Alf and the Davis & Dash lawyers knew about it. What would happen then?

  Well, Susann thought, things could be worse. There was Patti Davis, first betraying her family in her tell-all novels and then forgiving them in her “loving” memoir. And now she was writing yet another paean to her father—for Knopf, for goodness’ sake. If the Reagans could survive, Susann supposed she could, too. But with her sales slipping, would yet another “Baker Edmonds” book steal part of her market share?

  Susann had to tell Alf about the situation Kim had created. Imagine, her own daughter stealing Susann’s name! She sighed. If she told Alf tonight, he’d begin yelling and calling lawyers—even though it was past ten o’clock. And Susann would—in the end—have to calm him down. She knew she had to tell him eventually, but now she needed some affection, some calm and loving care.

  She heard Alf’s key in the door. She moved quickly to the sofa and snatched up a magazine. She didn’t want him to think she had been despondent. Alf hated what he called her “moping.” There was no point in spoiling the time they would have together.

  “You still up?” Alf asked. He looked tired, and when he came close and brushed his lips against her cheeks, Susann could smell both brandy and cigars on his breath, two things he’d been told by his doctors to quit. His eyes looked a little bloodshot, too. As always, his suit was crumpled and his tie askew. Susann had to smile. Her Alf.

  “Well, if you’re tired, let’s go to bed,” she murmured, and ruffled his white hair.

  “I wouldn’t mind lying down,” Alf agreed. Susann took a breath of happiness. “I have tons of reading,” he added, and Susann’s smile faded. She watched Alf pull his jacket off and throw it across the chair. Then he sat and tugged off his Belgian loafers. He had dropped his trench coat over one end of the sofa when he came in, and now he pulled over his briefcase, opened it, and began disgorging stacks of papers, contracts, and manuscripts. Susann was always amazed at how quickly Alf could mess things up, whether it was one of her rooms or one of his suits. But she smiled indulgently. It was nice to have him here with her, rather like having a child to clean up after. And better a messy room than the emptiness of its earlier neat perfection. Alf knew how to fill a room with life. He was like a child in that respect.

  Susann definitely wouldn’t bring up Kim tonight. It could wait until breakfast.

  When Alf shuffled off to the bedroom clutching a manuscript, Susann followed. She was wearing a turquoise silk nightgown and a peignoir to match. The silk dragged a little along the carpet, and Susann tripped, falling against Alf. But he didn’t seem to notice. He was already reading a memo at the top of his pile.

  They got into bed. Susann pulled up the plump coverlet. One of her many splurges had been on linens—she could afford the very best, and Anichini was what she bought. Sinking into the white comfort was pure pleasure. It cost almost a hundred dollars a week just to have the sheets and pillowcases laundered and ironed at Madame Paulette’s. Susann sighed with satisfaction.

  Alf, sitting on the other side of the bed, had stripped down to his underwear. He pulled off his socks and rolled onto the sheets, oblivious to their quality. She felt his back against her side. This is what she waited for and wanted, Susann told herself. A little comfort, a little animal warmth. The white lilies in the gold-rimmed crystal vase scented the room. Everything was first-class. There was nothing to worry about, she told herself. Nothing was missing. She curved up against Alf’s side. Absently, he patted her shoulder and turned his back as he reached for his pile of papers.

  Was that it, then? A few quick pats and back to work? Was that what she had waited all night for? Angrily, pointedly, Susann reached across to the night table and shut off her light. “This won’t take long,” Alf mumbled. “I probably won’t read more than a few pages.” Susann said nothing, merely snatching the downy duvet up over her head.

  But after a little while she got too hot under the covers. Anyway, she was ruining her hair. She poked her head out and looked over Alf’s shoulder. It was a manuscript that he was looking at now, and she could just see the title: In Full Knowledge. It sounded like another one of those lawyer novels. He represented dozens of those, none of which had gone anywhere. She sighed.

  In ten days he’d be off to the Frankfurt Book Fair to sell foreign rights to her books and try to palm off a few of his losers on the Dutch, the Danish, or the Italians. He’d leave her alone for almost two weeks, since he’d stop in London on the way over and rest up in her house in France before he came back. She wished he wouldn’t go, but he loved the schmoozing—dinners with Adrian Bourne and Eddie Bell, appointments with attractive editors like Helen Fraser of Heinemann or Imogen Taylor of Little, Brown.

  Susann didn’t know why he bothered. She was making plenty of money for both of them, and if he’d only focus a little more of his energy on her, she could perform even better. Why must he persist with this idea that he could find other bestsellers? He’d never had another writer whose book even made the lists, though, to be fair, he had managed a few big advances. Alf was always wheeling and dealing, but he put more time and effort into all his little deals than they were worth. She was the only real moneymaker in his stable. She knew it and so did he. Yet he refused to give up his other clients, just as he refused to marry her.

  Susann thought of her daughter and shivered, despite the beautiful comforter. Should she interrupt Alf’s reading with her bombshell? That would get his attention. She lay in bed, Alf’s weight and bulk at her back, and waited for him to put down the manuscript. She heard the mantel clock in the living room chime eleven, and still she waited. Finally, when it seemed as if he had been at it for close to an hour, she turned to him. “Don’t you think it’s time to turn off the light?” she asked, using the sweetest voice she could.

  Alf looked over at her. For a moment his bloodshot eyes behind his reading glasses were unfocused, as if he had been a million miles away. Then he came back to her. “This is good,” he said, tapping the manuscript. “I mean, it’s really good. This could be a blockbuster.”

  For some reason, his statement filled her with rage. But she wouldn’t let him see that. Wordlessly, she snatched up the front pages of the manuscript. In Full Knowledge, by Jude Daniel. Who was Jude Daniel? she wondered. Was she attractive? Was Alf interested in her? The way he had been in her? His eyes, though red-rimmed, were alive with excitement.

  “I’m telling you,” he said, “you can’t put this down. It’s a real page-turner. Take a peek.”

  When was the last time she had seen that look? Certainly not when he read her last manuscript or even the one before. It was that look that in the early days had motivated her to keep on writing. She missed that look, more than the sex, more than the little gifts and small attentions Alf used to pay her.

  “Who is she?” Susann asked.

  “She?” Alf repeated. Then he looked at the title page. “Oh, you mean Jude Daniel? It’s not a she. It’s a he. That professor kid from the upstate school, the one I did the panel for. I tell you, I’m surprised. The little son of a bitch can write.”

  Susann knew she should have felt relief, but somehow she didn’t. She looked at Alf’s excited face. “I could make something happen with this,” Alf was saying. “I could definitely make something happen.” With a pang, Susann realized that what she felt for Jude Daniel—male or female—was pure jealousy.

  25

  Beginning writers must appreciate the pre
requisites if they hope to become writers. You pay your dues—which takes years.

  —Alex Haley

  Camilla stood beside Frederick at the tabacca-store counter. Oddly enough, to mail a parcel tied with string required a visit to the state-run tobacco and salt shop—both, along with matches, an Italian-government monopoly. Camilla lifted the brown paper—wrapped parcel and opened the edge so that Frederick could insert his cover letter to his sister. She wondered, briefly, what he had written. Here’s a manuscript that had been read to him by a woman he didn’t really know but might (possibly) want to sleep with? Camilla suppressed a smile.

  Their visit to Assisi had been wonderful. She’d shown him the frescoes in the basilica, and each evening she’d read to him. Then they’d sat at the small café by the central fountain and eaten in the mediocre restaurant above it. Frederick had told her that he loved her book. And she had believed him. Nothing else had happened, but to Camilla it seemed a lot.

  She’d returned to a grueling five-day tour and hadn’t seen Frederick—except he’d popped up twice: at the Bargello museum one afternoon and then at the Boboli Gardens. She’d been touched, though she hadn’t had time to exchange more than a word or two. Today was her first half day off, her first chance to see him alone. And they didn’t have much time before she took the group to see the view from the top of the Duomo this afternoon.

  She smiled at Frederick as she wrapped up the manuscript in brown paper again and handed it to the disheveled old man behind the counter. “This is very kind of you, Frederick, especially considering you’re a man who prefers Guardi to Canaletto.”

  “And proud of it,” Frederick said as he secured the ends of the string with sealing wax, supposedly ensuring that nobody would pry into the package. “Only a man of discernment would recognize the merits of this manuscript.”

  Together she and Frederick stepped out into the sunshine of the square, about to walk along the north arcade to the post office. But Frederick stumbled over the step down from the tabacca shop, and just in time Camilla caught his arm. He Was both extremely generous and extremely physically graceless. He tripped, he knocked over glasses, he bumped into things all the time. For a moment Camilla couldn’t help but remember Gianfranco’s incredible physical grace. She sighed and took Frederick’s arm. What would happen to her manuscript? Would mailing this change her life, or was it merely another dead end, as Firenze and Gianfranco had been? After all, who did she think she was? “Shall I just drop it in the post?” she asked Frederick.