The Bestseller

by Olivia Goldsmith

  His eyes opened wide. He’d never been paid more than twenty thousand for any of the books he’d done for her. Now for the clincher. “Plus I’ll pay you twenty-five thousand for your new book idea,” she said. “Just a one-book contract, but it’s a new start.” She could see he was reeling from his good fortune. “Still, the Trawley book has to come first,” she continued. “Ya gotta work fast, Stewie, and this has to be absolutely confidential. Otherwise, you’ll be in breach of contract. No one can know. Not even people at Davis & Dash.”

  “And you really think I can do it?” Stewart asked. Pam hid her smile. He was hooked.

  “I know you can do it,” Pam told him. She handed him a fortune cookie. “You don’t need to open this,” she said. “You’ve got a great future now.”

  34

  I’d like to have money. And I’d like to be a good writer. These two can come together, and I hope they will, but if that’s too adorable, I’d rather have money.

  —Dorothy Parker

  “A hundred and fifty thousand dollars?” Daniel repeated into the phone. “Is that all?” It was more money than Daniel had made in his entire teaching career, but he knew it was peanuts as an advance. He bit his lower lip with disappointment. What had all that talk in Gerald Ochs Davis’s office been about? Hadn’t Davis promised him he’d be rich? A hundred fifty thousand dollars was not rich.

  Since the meeting Daniel had found out that a Bentley Turbo R was a quarter-of-a-million-dollar car. Hadn’t Davis said he’d be in that class? Well, not with a hundred and fifty G’s, parceled out in three payments—one when he signed the contract, one when he finished the final edit, and one when it was published. And from that he had to deduct taxes and the 20 percent that Alf Byron was demanding as his agent’s fee. It must be a ridiculously low offer. And, to add insult to the injury, Alf was telling him to take it. Daniel could hardly believe his ears.

  “I thought you said this was a million-dollar book!” he said.

  “No. I said this was a potential million-dollar book,” Byron reminded him. “But someone—some publisher—is going to have to spend a lot to make a lot. And Pam loves the book. She’ll spend. They’re ready to promote it, advertise it, tour you. There is chemistry between you. That’s what’s important. It’s worth more than up-front money.”

  Nothing was worth more than money, Daniel thought. And the “chemistry” between him and Pam made him shiver. “Can’t you take it somewhere else?” Daniel asked, and he could hear the whine in his voice. “Couldn’t you auction it or something?”

  “This is where the expertise of a really good agent becomes so important,” Byron said in a soothing voice. But Daniel wasn’t soothed. “This was a careful match I made,” Byron went on. “It’s why I insist on twenty percent instead of ten or fifteen. Because I am going to be deeply involved. I guide careers. I build careers. I made Susann Baker Edmonds. You know, she’s dedicated four of her books to me. I virtually wrote them with her. And I’ll do that for you, Jude.”

  “Daniel. Not Jude: Daniel,” he snapped. Jesus, he thought, he didn’t need anyone else to write his books. He merely needed cash.

  Alf continued. “I thought of a lot of other options, other houses. I promise you that. I know everyone in the business. But this felt right. Trust me on this. I think Pam really gets your book. You know, the union of a writer and an editor is like a marriage. The right vision, the right temperament—”

  “We were talking about money, not marriage,” Daniel snapped in disappointment. “I didn’t write this book…” he paused for a moment, his own words guilty and loud in his ears. “I didn’t write this particular book for love,” he continued. “I wrote it to be commercial. I wrote it for the money. So that I could be free to write what I wanted—”

  “Yes. Yes, I know that,” Byron interrupted. “And the money and the freedom will come. That I promise you. But a writer’s career is like a building. It has to have a solid foundation. And your first book is the key to that. If it succeeds, you make all the rules. But if it fails…” Byron paused, and in the silence Daniel felt the fear rush in. He swallowed, though his mouth had gone dry. Yes, there was that. What if the book failed?

  “Is that the absolute most they’ll offer?” Daniel asked.

  “Remember it isn’t just the money. You’re going to be judged by the house you come from, and nothing is too good for you. You should go with the Cadillac, not the Buick of publishing. In the end, it’ll make more money for you anyway. Well, she seemed firm. But I have my ways,” Byron chuckled. “This is where you get the benefit of my leverage. Believe me, they don’t want to piss off Susann Baker Edmonds—or her agent. I carry a lot of weight at that house. You couldn’t be in better hands. I’ll see what I can do. We give them the paperback rights, that’s where the real money is anyway. Remember…there’s also the possibility of a movie sale, serialization. I’ll also be sure the contract includes bonuses for book-club sales. And extra money for making the bestseller list. Why, you’ll get five thousand bucks for each week you’re on the list. If you’re only on for a month, that’s twenty thousand right there. And if you’re on it for a year—”

  “I know how to multiply,” Daniel said dryly, but he felt a little better. He’d had no idea how complex these deals were. “All right, Alf. I’ll trust you. Let’s take the deal.”

  “You won’t be sorry,” Alf told him. “You’re going to be a giant. You’re no hack. You can really write, son.” Then, with a voice deep with portent, he said: “You’re going to be the next Sidney Sheldon.”

  “Come on, Pam. You can have him signed, sealed, and delivered for another twenty-five thousand. What’s twenty-five thousand to Davis & Dash?”

  “It’s twenty-five thousand, Alf,” Pam said coldly. Pam Mantiss wasn’t just a cold, smart bitch like everyone in the industry said. She was a cold, smart, cheap bitch, as far as Alf Byron was concerned. When it came to negotiating for manuscripts, she acted as if the money came from her own pocket. Alf knew he never would have gotten Susann’s contract out of Pam Mantiss. It was a funny thing: In his experience, men in publishing showed their power by spending huge amounts on acquisitions—the more they spent on an author, the more important they were. Women, on the other hand, tried to get things as cheaply as possible. Oh, well. Alf hunkered down, relishing the fight.

  “I know he’s going to go with us, Alf. He’ll take the one-fifty,” Pam said flatly. “And if he doesn’t, take him elsewhere.”

  Alf considered. “There was another option. You’re only talking hardcover. Look, why don’t you go to paperbacks and put together a hard/soft deal.”

  “Fuck that.” There was a lot of bad blood between Steve Weiss, head of Paperbacks, and Pam. While most of the risk was in hardcover, most of the profit came from paperback. Pam sold off paperback rights to the highest bidder, even if it was to a competitive house. “I tell you what I will do,” Pam said after a moment’s silence. “I’ll make it one seventy-five, but I own sixty percent of whatever we get for paperback rights.”

  “Oh, come on!” Alf whined. “If the book goes big, we could get an extra million for paperback. And if it sells to the movies, we could get more.”

  “And if my grandma had balls, she’d be my grandfather,” Pam told him.

  “It’s a rotten deal for the professor.”

  “Look, Jude wants the money now, not at an auction a year from now. Tempis fuckit, as they say in Latin. Make up your mind. And who knows. If the book flops, no one will want paperback rights. So I’ll give him this money now. If he makes money later, I get to keep some of it. It intensifies my commitment to making the hardcover a success.”

  “It intensifies your profits when the hardcover becomes a bestseller. It’s highway robbery, Pam.”

  She shrugged. There was another pause. “Tell you what, Alf,” Pam said, “I can’t go any higher on the advance, but I can sweeten the deal for you a little bit. I’ll add television advertising to Susann’s marketing campaign.”


  “Network or cable?” Alf asked. Needless to say, advertising for Susann wouldn’t do a goddamned thing for Daniel Gross, but then again, Daniel Gross wasn’t Alf’s major client. And Susann needed all the help she could get. This would give her a boost.

  “Forget network!” Pam snapped. “We can’t afford it. We go Lifetime. It’s a good women’s channel. We’ve been having luck with it.”

  “You should do the ads anyway,” Alf said. “It has nothing to do with Jude Daniel’s book. No deal.”

  “Okay,” Pam said, but she sounded sly. “One last thing.” He knew it. She had something up her sleeve. “I’ve spoken to Jim Meyer about this problem with Kim Baker. It could be a costly legal battle, Alf. Put another nail in Susann’s coffin and drain you dry. Legal fees. Money right out of your pocket. But I’d be willing to commit Davis & Dash to handle the legal costs. We can push them to the limit, stop Kim’s book,” she paused again. “Meanwhile, a hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars is not a bad advance for a first novel,” she reminded Alf. She waited. “Deal?” she asked.

  “Deal,” he told her.

  35

  It is more blessed to give than to receive.

  —Acts 20:35

  Emma was jubilant over the editorial-meeting results. The Duplicity of Men would be published! Emma had stood up for what she believed in, and it had paid off.

  Standing up to Pam had been the second brave act of her life; the first had been to come to New York after Wellesley and go from publishing house to publishing house, looking for work in a market where jobs just weren’t available. Both acts had made her more happy than anything ever had. Perhaps, Emma thought, she should be brave more often.

  Emma did admit that bravery had a price: She was tired from the meeting, the fight, and the long week. She’d have the weekend to recover, and—for a change—no work to take home. She’d sleep for two days! Light-headed, she walked down the messy hallway to her office and, where her phone began to ring. She hurried to reach it. “Emma Ashton,” she said.

  “Hi, Emma, it’s Alex.”

  Immediately her heart begin to thump almost painfully in her chest. She clutched the side of the desk. Alex was calling back! It was so rare, so very rare for Emma to like someone, in this way. She’d given up hope that Alex had felt the same. And now, after weeks of silence, Alex had called.

  “How are you?” Emma tried to sound friendly but cool. After all, Alex hadn’t called immediately. Emma told herself not to act berserk with joy, but somehow, inappropriate as it was, she did feel joyful.

  “I just got back from Los Angeles. I’m exhausted, that’s how I am. I know everyone puts down L.A. to be cool, but I’m different: I sincerely hate it.”

  Emma laughed. “What were you out there for?” So, Alex had been away. Was it true? Maybe there was a reason for the weeks of silence.

  “I had to meet with power agents out there. Book-to-movie guys. Todd Harris and Michael Siegel. You know. Anyway, I have a book that’s just been optioned by Warner Brothers. My first movie deal.”

  “Congratulations,” Emma said, and then she couldn’t resist bragging herself. “And I’ve just managed to get a really brilliant first novelist signed.”

  “Wow. Lots of firsts here. Congratulations. Does he have representation?”

  “The novelist?” Emma had to smile. “First of all, he’s a she.”

  “Oops.” Alex giggled. “My first mistake. Caught out in really inappropriate political incorrectness. Me, of all people. Well, can I represent her?”

  “Not unless you’re into seances,” Emma continued, trying to sound stern, though she was actually smiling. “She’s dead.”

  “A first novelist who’s dead?” Alex asked. “Doesn’t look good for the backlist. What’s up? Death before publication is not a good career move.”

  Emma explained the situation and told about meeting the mother in the reception area. “I know what a long shot it was, but the book is brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. And I made them see it. The editorial board has agreed to publish it.”

  Alex paused only a moment. “Well, just because she’s dead doesn’t mean she doesn’t need representation,” Alex laughed. “Maybe I could help the mother.”

  Emma laughed, too. And then, as natural as breathing, she said, “Why don’t we get together and celebrate? Have a drink. Talk it over.” God, she’d been brave again! And she was rewarded.

  “You took the words right out of my mouth,” Alex told her. “I’ve been thinking about you since we met.”

  Emma could hardly believe it. Could Alex really be as interested in her as that? When Alex suggested that they meet right after work that night at the Royalton, Emma agreed immediately. For a minute or two she felt almost too happy, but the feeling faded quickly. Within fifteen minutes Emma was second-guessing herself. Fear set in. Perhaps she should have played harder to get. Perhaps Alex’s story about being out of town was bullshit, and worst of all, perhaps Alex was more interested in cadging a new client than in Emma herself. Oh God, she thought, Frederick was right. He’d always warned her not to be so prone to second thoughts, self-doubt, and caution. Stop it! she told herself. Emma decided she would throw caution to the wind. She’d just go for what she wanted. She’d let herself be happy. What the hell.

  Emma smiled to herself. Life was holding new promise: an important novel and the chance at romance. She’d go for it. In fact, she wondered how she would be able to hold her impatience and manage to get through the rest of the day.

  Reluctantly, she sat down at her desk. She looked at the stack of new work in front of her and groaned inwardly. Even the pile of unopened mail was inches deep. No wonder all the Davis & Dash offices were always so jammed with paper. Emma began to sort. There were a few memos: one about filling in expenses more accurately and another about medical benefits. She threw both into the trash. There was the weekly printout of book sales and orders. Quickly Emma skimmed the list to see how some of her books were doing. Not particularly well. The phone rang, and she decided to let the automated system answer it. But what if it was Alex, calling again to change the time—or to cancel? Emma’s stomach lurched. Ridiculous, and if it was, she’d take the call later and call back.

  She ignored the phone and opened a small package: There was a handwritten note from Susann Baker Edmonds, and it included a gift—a really beautiful leather wallet. “I’m so delighted to finally get the chance to be working with you.” Yeah, right! Emma knew that Susann didn’t want to be edited by anyone. Susann and her agent had already made that very clear. Still, it was a nice gesture, if insincere. Well, actually the gesture was pretty lame, but the wallet was nice. She’d have to write a thank-you to Susann. Emma added that to her “to do” list.

  She opened a few more letters, filed a couple of memos from the sales department, and dealt with a set of galleys that had just come in and needed to be sent on to the author. Heather should have done this but seemed always to be busy on one of the other editors’ work. There was another package, and when Emma saw that it was from Italy, she smiled. Frederick. A gift! He was so good and generous about gifts. Even while he was having a romance—if that’s what he was having and if it was still on—he’d thought of her. Unless, of course, it wasn’t still on. Maybe he’d shopped for consolation.

  It wasn’t his handwriting on the brown paper. Well, he probably wouldn’t write it himself. But she bet it was a nice gift—Frederick had more money than she, along with a generous streak and good taste. Maybe the handwriting was his girlfriend’s. What could be nicer than a surprise gift from an indulgent brother? She felt terrific. She would have drinks and possibly dinner tonight with Alex, and the prospect of a weekend loomed before her now as an invitation to fun, not work. Emma snipped the string and tore off the paper. There was a white, tissue-wrapped something that looked suspiciously like a manuscript within. Oh, no! Surely Frederick had not secretly been writing a book! Emma lifted the folded cover note.

  It was difficult to
read, as it was in Frederick’s ever-more-illegible handwriting, and she felt her good mood begin to ebb. It was a manuscript, though not by him. It was written by “a good friend” of his, and he had underlined good. He was asking her to read it, and begging her—only if she thought it was good, of course—to do what she could for it. Emma threw the letter down. God! How could she handle this? Weren’t manuscripts from dead authors represented by their aging mothers enough to deal with? The chances of this thing being any good were minimal. And disappointing Frederick and his new friend would be such a drag.

  Lately, thinking about Frederick always made Emma feel guilty and anxious. The phone rang. Great! More trouble to finish off her anticipatory mood! She decided she would not answer the phone; she wouldn’t even take the messages until Monday. The hell with it. With a sigh Emma began to load up her backpack.

  Had she really wanted to be an editor? Emma asked herself. Had she really thought that it was the best of jobs, a tremendous privilege to get to spend her life reading? What drug had she been on? Tired, her good mood ebbing, she put the manuscript in her backpack. She hoped that Frederick, somewhere in Italy, was going to have a good weekend, even if she did not.

  36

  One of the oldest human needs is having someone wonder where you are when you don’t come home at night.

  —Margaret Mead