The Bestseller

by Olivia Goldsmith

  “That’s my job,” she told him flatly. She reached her hand out and paused over several piles of forms. “What kind of account? Checking? Money market?”

  “Checking, I think.” She wasn’t looking at him. He wanted her to. He needed to make a friend of her. He paused, waiting until she did look up. “Look,” he said with a bit of a frown, “I’m not very good at business. I need some expert advice.” He paused again, and she waited, raising one brow. But at least she kept looking at him. “Let me explain my situation. You see, I’m a professor here. And I’m also a writer.”

  Ms. Josephson nodded and looked at him expectantly. Did her eyes flick to his ring finger? He’d taken off the band before he came in. He’d have to bring up the subject now, but he was so goddamned nervous. Why? There was nothing wrong with this, he told himself. Absolutely nothing. But Ms. Josephson wasn’t very responsive. She didn’t seem to like him. Well, what did he expect from an overweight über-teller woman in a cheap poly-blend suit?

  “Here’s the thing,” he explained. “I have a pen name. I mean, I’ve written this book and I’ve just sold it to Davis & Dash, the publishers.”

  “Oh. Congratulations. What kind of book? A textbook?”

  It was only feigned interest, but at least he’d gotten a rise out of her. Still, he felt insulted. Did he look like the kind of guy who could only write a textbook? “Not at all,” he said. “That’s the problem. It’s a novel, and they think—well, they hope—that it’s going to be a big hit. My agent is sending it out to Hollywood. There might even be a movie.” Byron had told him it was a long shot, but it wasn’t a complete lie. “April Irons, the producer, is looking at it.” Lie or not, it worked. The woman’s eyes seemed to come alive. Sure, everyone loved show biz.

  “Really?” she asked. Now the interest wasn’t feigned. “What’s it about?”

  “It’s a story of a woman pushed beyond her limits.”

  Ms. Josephson actually laughed. “Aren’t we all?” She looked at him straight in the face for the first time and smiled.

  He’d better play to his strength, Daniel thought. “Tell you what,” he said, “I’ll give you a copy as soon as it rolls off the press.”

  “Oh. That would be lovely.”

  “Well, wait until you read it before you decide that,” he told her. “The problem is it has a lot of—well…” he paused for effect. “It’s not an academic book at all.” He raised his brows.

  She laughed. “Hot stuff, huh? Well, that’s what sells.”

  “I certainly hope so. Anyway, it’s sold for quite a bit of money. And I’ll be getting a first check soon. So what kind of account do I need?”

  She launched into a long, boring harangue about the benefit of money markets versus some other bullshit. Was it his imagination, or was she actually getting flirtatious? “This is great of you, to help,” he said. “Maybe I could thank you by taking you out for a drink sometime.”

  Ms. Josephson smiled but shook her head. “I don’t think my husband would like that,” she giggled.

  Thank God. Off the hook. But contact had been established. “Maybe you could just sign the book for me?” she suggested.

  The perfect opening. “Well, if I did sign it with my legal name, I think it would ruin it. See, I have a pen name.” He felt like rushing through this, but he forced himself not to. “My contract and all the rest acknowledges that I am writing under another name. It’s perfectly legal,” he assured her.

  “Of course,” she said, “it’s a pka.”

  “What?”

  “A pka.” She wrote it on a form. “Professionally known as. We have a few actors and voice-over people with pka’s. It’s no problem.” She pointed out the place on the form. “You’re Daniel Gross, pka what?” She had started to write. Daniel took a calming breath. Mrs. Josephson continued briskly. “I’ll have to ask for your Social Security number and some other form of identification. Can I see your driver’s license or your passport?”

  He handed her both, because he had brought them, just in case, along with the Davis & Dash contract. He spread the contract in front of her and saw her eyes flicker over the amount. “I don’t have the check yet,” he told her, “but you can see it’s going to be a nice one, and I want to be ready for it.”

  She looked at the contract again, then smiled at him. “Congratulations,” she said. She filled in more information boxes. “Anybody else on the account?” Ms. Josephson asked. “Is it in trust for anyone, or a joint account?”

  “No,” he said. Was this where the trouble started? His heart sped up again.

  But it was over. And it was all just that simple. She merely filled out a few more forms, then asked him for an initial deposit to open the account. He checked his wallet. He only had three twenties and two fives, and he needed to hold on to most of it to take Judith out to dinner tonight and break the news. His MasterCard and Visa were maxed out. Could he get away with Chinese? No. He was determined to do this in a very public place, where there couldn’t be a major scene. That meant Villa JoJo’s, though he hated the idea of running into anyone from the faculty there. He’d have to keep at least fifty bucks for dinner. Could he open an account with only twenty dollars? Would Ms. Josephson laugh at him, after his big talk of movies and foreign rights? Daniel tried not to show his embarrassment. How could a grown man be living so hand-to-mouth?

  His stomach tightened at the thought of his upcoming dinner with Judith. Even at a public place, could he count on her not making a fuss? Lately, she seemed to be unraveling. No wonder he had been so easily comforted by Cheryl. Judith looked like hell, and so did their place. Why was everything so messy? It wasn’t as if she had anything else to do all day. Daniel thought back to Cheryl’s neat apartment and fragrant bed with regret and longing. He shouldn’t have done it. He knew that. And maybe he shouldn’t be doing this. But he had to. He had to survive and move on and make some sense out of his life. He’d make Judith understand. And, before he made any permanent arrangement, he’d move the two of them into an apartment in the townhouse complex Cheryl lived in. They’d spend a little—a very little—of the book money on that. Maybe Judith could keep a new apartment clean.

  Daniel fished a twenty-dollar bill out and of his wallet and handed it to the banker without comment. It was all he could spare. She made no comment, and Daniel felt great relief. He was getting organized. He was doing everything he had to, step by step. He’d opened the account, and now he would have to tell Judith. He had put it off too long already. But he looked down at the fifty bucks left. What a waste. The thought of his wife, stringy-haired, puffy, and depressed, filled him with a lethal combination of distaste and guilt.

  Ms. Josephson bustled back from a teller with a deposit slip and smiled at him one last time. “Okay, we’re almost all set,” she said. “You merely have to sign these and we’ll be ready for your ill-gotten gains.” Alarmed, he glanced up from the signature card at her face, then realized it was just a mild joke.

  “No problem,” he told her, and neatly signed “Jude Daniel” at the bottom of the two cards.

  Daniel had been late to meet Judith at the student union and greeted her without an apology or a kiss. But as he walked her in the direction of Villa JoJo, things had improved. Judith looked around at the noise and bustle of the restaurant. Daniel had gotten them a booth at the side, which always made Judith feel protected, yet also part of the scene. Across the room she could see Don, the head of Daniel’s department, who was just finishing dinner with his family. A student of Daniel’s, here with his parents, had stopped by the table to say hello. Daniel had even introduced her. Then Daniel had ordered wine, and now Judith was on her second glass. She felt better than she had for weeks; this special treat pleased her so much. She thought the new skirt looked good on her, and her hair felt light and soft on her shoulders. Daniel had even insisted that she order the antipasto appetizer, though he usually dispensed with a first course to save money. Now she was finishing the last olive—her favorit
e part. She always saved her favorite part for last.

  It was all so nice. Daniel was really attentive. Whenever she said anything—anything at all—he’d look at her in a searching way. She should make more of an effort for him. For a moment, Judith felt a stab of guilt. Perhaps it was because she looked good, and he had seen her looking that way so rarely lately. Daniel lifted the Chianti bottle and refilled her glass. Then he took her hand. “I have some good news for you,” he said.

  Judith looked up from the empty antipasto plate and smiled. Was it the wine, or the food, or the setting that made her feel so happy? Or was it Daniel’s hand on hers? She looked at him expectantly.

  “The book’s been accepted,” he said.

  For a moment, his words didn’t register. What book? Her head felt muddled by the wine. Their book? Did he mean their book? Accepted? “Accepted by whom?” was all she could manage to say.

  “By Davis & Dash,” Daniel said, and he held her hand tighter.

  She felt a flush begin to rise from her belly to her chest and on to her throat. She opened her mouth, but for a moment the flood of feeling left her speechless. “You mean for publication?” she asked, her voice coming out as nothing more than a whisper. “It’s accepted for publication?” She asked again, and Daniel nodded.

  “Oh, my God! “You’re kidding! I can’t believe it!” She paused for a moment, trying to collect her thoughts. “I didn’t even know you’d retyped it. Or finished editing.” Her head felt as if it was spinning. How much wine had she had? “God! I can’t believe it.” She began to laugh with pleasure and relief. It was all going to be all right! He was so wonderful. No wonder he’d been ignoring her, busy with his own work. He’d done this, just as he said he would. And she’d done nothing but sleep and mope. She had to stop being so paranoid, so depressed. “How did you do it, Daniel?”

  Daniel explained about Alfred Byron and the submission to Gerald Ochs Davis. Judith listened, enraptured. It was the best story she had ever heard. Like a child, she wanted him to tell it all over again. She still couldn’t believe it. She laughed again, her delight making her feel lightheaded.

  “But it’s been so fast. It’s all so fast.” How could she ever have doubted him? She’d been afraid that she’d wasted her time, that he might not be able to deliver, and in reality he’d sold the book already! “Oh, Daniel! I’ve been miserable and depressed and thinking I’d failed, while you’ve been doing this! I love you!” She leaned across the table to kiss him, but he didn’t lean in to meet her. Well, he wasn’t affectionate in public. “They liked it? Tell me what they said again. They weren’t just being polite?”

  “I don’t think they bother to pay money to be polite,” Daniel said dryly. Money! Of course. Now there would be money. Before Judith even had a chance to ask about the money, Daniel said, “There are a couple of problems, though.”

  That was him all over! Always worrying. Judith laughed. “Daniel, what problems can there be? I can’t believe it. They’re going to publish In Full Knowledge. Elthea will be read by thousands of people. And we’ll be famous! Oh, Daniel, this is such an outrageous surprise! Thank you!” She leaned across the table again, this time all the way, and kissed him wetly on the mouth.

  Daniel looked around the room. “Shh,” he cautioned. “Let’s not spread it around. Not till it’s signed, sealed, and delivered.” He smiled at her.

  When was the last time she’d felt this good? Maybe when he’d said that he’d marry her. All of those long, dark winter days alone in her makeshift office working on the manuscript seemed to take on a clear golden light. It hadn’t been wasted effort. She wasn’t talentless or deluded. Other people, professionals—Gerald Ochs Davis, for God’s sake—liked her work. She could write. She should never, ever doubt herself again. Remember that, she thought, and she felt flooded with energy. She would clean up the apartment, lose weight, and get back to writing her real one. She looked over at Daniel, and tears of gratitude and joy rose along the bottom of her eyelids. “You said I could do it. You said I could do it, and you were right.”

  The waiter came and put their plates on the table. Judith felt as if she would never have to eat again. The wine, the soft lighting, the good news all converged and, for a moment, Judith felt as if her life was perfect, specially blessed. Everyone in the room must envy her, with her handsome husband and her writing talent.

  But Daniel had stopped smiling and patted her hand. “Judith. Listen. There are a couple of changes they want made to the manuscript. Big changes. It will be a lot of work. But we have to do it. And the money isn’t as much as we’d hoped. Getting it sold wasn’t as easy as I thought. It takes a lot to make a new novel into a bestseller. A lot of money and a lot of time. We’re not going to get much now, and you’ll have to do a lot of rewrites.”

  “Oh, Daniel. It doesn’t matter. It’s a start. It proves we can do anything. We can do anything together.” She looked at his worried face. Misery in victory. That was Daniel all over. She almost laughed again. He worried when things went badly, and he worried when things went well. She, on the other hand, knew how to celebrate. She picked up her glass of wine, but he reached over to stop her.

  “Eat something,” he said. “Before it gets cold.”

  She looked across at him as he picked up his knife and sliced into the veal. She hadn’t really focused on how very subdued he was. It wasn’t just victory worry. Why, he hadn’t even made a toast. What was wrong? Something was definitely wrong. Despite the haze from the wine, Judith suddenly went into sharp focus. The lipstick smudge on her wineglass, the sweat on Don’s forehead across the room, the burned-out lightbulb in the wall sconce. It was all clearly visible. “What is it?” she asked.

  Daniel had his head bent over his order. He’d cut several pieces of meat, but he’d only moved them around on his plate. Judith noticed a speck of tomato sauce where his mustache joined his beard. He looked up at her. “They think I wrote it, Judith. It was an accident. They just assumed Jude Daniel was a man. That it was me. And they loved the idea of a book so clearly from a woman’s perspective that was written by a man. That’s what sold it, more than anything. I was afraid to tell them. I was afraid to lose our chance.” He looked directly into her eyes. “It’s harder than I thought, to get published. Alf Byron owed me favors, but he didn’t even want to read it. And if he hadn’t, no one would.” Daniel looked away, across the room, but his eyes were unseeing. “And it’s not just about getting published, but then, afterward, its about getting advertising and exposure, enthusiasm and support from the publishers. I was afraid, Judith. I was afraid that we’d wind up rejected, or that they’d print five thousand copies and we’d go nowhere.” He stopped to wipe his already clean mouth with the napkin. “These guys wanted me and the book. They’ve promised to push it. I was afraid to queer the deal. These people are savvy. They can make it happen for us.” He paused. “Did I do the wrong thing?”

  She wasn’t sure that she had gotten it. “You mean they don’t know about me at all?” Judith asked. “Not at all?”

  Daniel shook his head.

  “But I wrote the book,” Judith cried, and this time tears actually rolled over her lids and began to run down her face. “Daniel, I wrote the book.”

  Daniel stiffened. “It was my idea, Judith. We did it together,” he said, his voice lowered.

  “But my name. Jude. It’s my name, too.”

  “They thought it was me. That’s all. They just assumed it would be me.” He didn’t look at her. He looked from his plate to his glass and back, then all around the room. “Please lower your voice,” he told her. The restaurant was beginning to clear out, but Judith didn’t care who heard or saw her. How could this be happening?

  “It was my work. I worked so hard.” Her voice was a childish wail.

  “Judith. Please. You have to be quiet.”

  “I won’t,” Judith said. “I won’t be quiet.”

  Daniel looked around the restaurant, then reached across the table an
d put a hand on each of her shoulders. “Listen,” he said, “we did this for the money. And eventually there will be money. Alf Byron talked about a TV movie or maybe a miniseries. He’s talking to April Irons out in Hollywood. A really big producer. There might be foreign-rights sales. Let’s get the money, Judith. We can tell them all later, once we’re in. You’ll do the book tours, you’ll be recognized then, once it’s safe. And, in the meantime, we’ll have enough to get a nicer place. To live better. We can go on a vacation. Maybe go to Cape Cod.” He was talking fast now, so fast that his tongue left little bits of saliva at the sides of his mouth. Where was his napkin when he needed it? “Cape Cod. You like that. Who knows, maybe we can even rent a house there for the summer. And we could both write. You could write what you want.” He smiled at her, an attentive, apologetic small smile. But the saliva was still there. He placed the palm of his hand against her face, brushing her cheek and her temple. “We’ll have some money, we’ll be together, and we can write seriously. What’s so terrible about that?”

  Judith looked across the table at her husband. “I don’t know,” she said.

  40

  I am true love, I fill

  the hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame.

  Have the will

  I am the Love that dare not speak its name.

  —Lord Alfred Douglas

  Emma opened her eyes. The light that filtered through the backyard tree branches was playing on the ceiling of her sleeping alcove. The light was beautiful, and she watched the dancing movement lazily until she realized both that it was Saturday morning and that she had spent the night with Alex. Carefully, superstitiously, she turned her head to the left. It hadn’t been a dream. Alex’s short blond curls lay on the pillow next to hers. Sleeping, Alex was even more attractive than Emma had remembered. When she was awake there was something tense, almost nervous, about Alex’s flashing, always moving, eyes and tight jaw. Now Alex in profile was a Burne-Jones painting, all translucent skin, long eyelashes, and glorious ringlets.