The Bestseller

by Olivia Goldsmith

  Emma looked away, as if her enjoyment was an invasion of Alex’s privacy. She would have to watch herself. She couldn’t visibly dote on Alex. She shouldn’t move too fast. This was only a beginning and maybe just a one-night stand. Emma should take nothing for granted, expect nothing. It was the only way she’d have a chance with someone as mercurial, as attractive and entertaining as Alex. Emma lay quietly in her bed, Alex stretched beside her, and tried to simply live in this glorious moment.

  Emma knew she had always been too serious. It wasn’t that she was humorless; at least she hoped not. It was just that she took everything so much to heart. She had never been able to take an affair lightly. She’d had two in college, and both had ended badly, with Emma accused of jealousy, of suffocating her lovers. She’d sworn she’d never let that happen again.

  Instead, nothing had happened. Emma hadn’t had a date, much less an affair, since she’d come to New York. Work had kept her busy, but it hadn’t stopped her from aching with loneliness. Still, she wouldn’t jump into bed with just anyone. She’d waited a long time to find someone as interesting and as passionate as Alex.

  When Alex took her hand, Emma almost jumped. She turned her head and tried to keep a really loopy smile from washing over her face. Instead she forced herself to be light, and gave Alex a quick peck on the nose.

  “Is that the best you can do for a good-morning kiss?” Alex asked. Then Alex rose on one elbow, bent her face over Emma’s, and kissed her deeply. Emma put her hand up to Alex’s taut cheek and ran her fingers through her curls.

  “That’s more like it,” Alex said approvingly, and lay back down on the pillow. They lay in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Emma found it hard to catch her breath. “What are we going to do today?” Alex asked.

  Emma felt her heart jump in her chest. Alex had said “we.” Did she mean them to spend the whole day together? It was too good to be true. Better not assume anything, Emma thought. “I have a manuscript to read,” she said tentatively.

  “Oh, yes. Maybe a new client for me.” Alex smiled. She stretched, pushing her long, shapely arms high up over her head and arching her toes till they almost reached over the end of the bed. I need a bigger bed, Emma thought, then told herself sternly that she was being premature. “I’m starving,” Alex said. “Are you? Do you have anything to eat? Or should we go out?”

  Alex stood up, long and lean and beautiful in the early light. Though thin, she had surprisingly full breasts. Emma hadn’t seen her naked yet, not standing from a distance, and now she forced herself to tear her admiring eyes away, though she felt like devouring every bit of Alex. Nude, Alex walked to the window and looked out over the back gardens. Emma was free to look at her perfect back, the curve of her buttocks, and her long, long legs. “It looks like it’s going to be a nice day,” Alex said and turned from the window, catching Emma in the middle of her worshipful stare. Alex smiled and lifted one eyebrow. “Of course, if you’re hungry for other things…” She made it back to the bed in three long strides and jumped under the blanket. “I got cold,” she complained, pushing her now cool body up against Emma’s warm one. But Emma didn’t complain. She just clasped Alex to her and felt grateful.

  Alex lay on the sofa. From time to time Emma surreptitiously looked up. She loved seeing Alex’s long form stretched comfortably on the yielding cushions. Alex was reading the book review section from the Sunday Times—even though it was Saturday night. In New York it was a dating tradition to pick up the Times and bagels for the next morning on Saturday night. They had spent the entire day together. After a walk along Hudson Street and the piers, lunch at Elephant & Castle, and a long afternoon in bed, they were sitting here now, just hanging around. Emma was trying to keep herself from hoping that Alex would stay the night. She didn’t want to press her luck. Last night had been so magical, and today had been perfect. It’s enough, she told herself.

  It was just that this was so very, very nice. And that was the problem. Emma was already dreading their separation. When Emma felt the relief of companionship, when she felt the warm, wet surrounding of love and friendship, the coldness of her everyday life alone seemed far worse. She would have to guard against any appearance, any hint of desperation. She had lived alone, and she knew how to do it, she reminded herself firmly. But it was so nice to have somebody here. Someone as funny, as beautiful, as sexy and smart as Alex.

  “Work to do?” Alex asked, and Emma nodded.

  “Flap copy,” she said.

  “New, improved novels,” Alex suggested.

  “Now with plotting, the advanced secret ingredient.” Emma laughed.

  “Reduced adjectives!”

  “Less description—fat free!”

  “And more powerful verbs!”

  Alex had insisted that Emma take out her work. “I don’t want to ruin your weekend,” Alex said, and then laughed as if she knew how ridiculous that idea was. She had settled herself on the sofa at her right, and Emma had taken the much less comfortable sling chair for herself. Then, more out of habit than desire, she pulled out the manuscript that Frederick had sent. She needed to look normal, to keep from staring at Alex. At first Emma had had trouble concentrating: As she began the novel she looked up at Alex over and over again. But she didn’t want to embarrass herself by getting caught, so she had allowed herself only one look at the end of each page. She had done that throughout the first chapter, as she was introduced to the American ladies on tour, their British guide, and the handsome young Italian who drove their bus. But after a while the story had picked her up and swept her along. Now she was so engrossed she forgot about her end-of-page peeks. She even forgot about Alex. Emma felt she was in Italy, on the bus with the widows and Catherine, their diffident guide. There was a clarity to this writing, descriptions so perfectly honed that Emma saw the sights, observations so economical yet so deft that Emma quickly understood the various half-dozen older women and their yearning young guide. When the luggage got confused and Mrs. Florence Mallabar lost her temper, Emma actually laughed out loud.

  “Is it good?” With an unsettling tumble, Emma was back in her living room, Alex stretched out before her. “Is it good?” Alex repeated. “It seems as if it must be.”

  “It is good, so far.”

  “Can I read it?” Alex asked. She threw the Times onto the coffee table.

  Emma thought for a moment. She didn’t want to seem hesitant. After all, this was just an informal submission from her brother. Surely the writer didn’t have representation. Still, Emma felt a little uncomfortable. But how could she say no? She looked across at Alex’s expectant face. Emma’s interest in the book was impossible to hide. This was something they shared. They both loved books. Emma nodded.

  “Great!” Alex said. “Let’s call out for Chinese, eat it in bed, and read the manuscript together.”

  Emma had to laugh. Hardly anyone’s idea of a wild Saturday night, she thought. But she knew it would suit her right down to the ground.

  Later, much later, Emma could never figure out if it was the manuscript, the excitement of being with Alex for the first time, or a combination of the two that made reading the book so wonderful. Reading was almost always such a solitary activity that it was truly peculiar fun to finish a page and pass it directly to Alex. They both loved the book: the quirky, dry humor; the insights into women, both young and aging; the temptations and disappointments of romance; and the terrific, gentle ending.

  “It’s a wonderful book,” Emma said. It was close to two in the morning. They were up, out of bed, and sitting at the kitchen counter, drinking tea and eating the leftover Chinese food. Emma’s microwave was on the fritz, so they were eating moo shu pork pancakes cold.

  “It’s terrific,” Alex nodded. “You’re going to publish, it, aren’t you?”

  For the first time in twenty-four hours, Emma felt her heart sink. She had just cashed in all her chips with Pam. The fight for The Duplicity of Men had been tricky, and Pam was still touchy about Em
ma’s ultimatum. How in the world could she get Pam to agree to publish this one? It certainly wasn’t a typical bestseller: not what Pam would call a Spook or an Uh-oh, or even a Pink. Emma sighed.

  The Duplicity of Men was a great book, and she was glad and proud that she had been instrumental in getting it on the list. This untitled manuscript wasn’t in that category, but it was a tremendously compassionate, readable book with a lot of wisdom and charm. Maybe it was a bit too literate for a mass audience, maybe it was missing a “hook,” but surely there was some place for it. Oh God! Emma hated to even think of Pam’s face if Emma pitched this book. How in the world could she get Pam to agree to do it? She looked across at Alex and shrugged.

  “It won’t be so easy,” she said truthfully, and then she told her all about Opal O’Neal and the strong-arm tactics she had had to use with Pam. Alex listened. She seemed to be a good listener, nodding knowingly at parts, shaking her head over the insanity of some of it.

  “Very ballsy,” she said approvingly. “You did the exact right thing.” She paused. “You said this Opal O’Neal had no representation?”

  “No,” Emma told her. “If she did, she wouldn’t have had to sit in the lobby for weeks.”

  “Will you recommend me to her?” Alex asked. Though she was again uncomfortable, Emma nodded.

  Alex lifted the new manuscript. “So, because of the other book you don’t think you can get them interested in this?”

  Emma shrugged. “It’s good. I know it’s got something. I even think with the right handling it could sell. Look at Barbara Kingsolver. Or Anne Tyler. Or Alice Hoffman. There’s a real market for quality women’s fiction. Pam calls it artsy-fartsy, and it makes the middlebrows feel good. I think it could sell. But I’m not sure Pam will think so.”

  “I could sell it,” Alex said boldly. “I could sell it to Pantheon.”

  Emma felt another stab of discomfort. Was that disloyalty on Alex’s part? Did she feel abandoned because Alex seemed so quick to take the booty and run? Was she jealous already? Ridiculous, she told herself. Alex was helping her solve a problem.

  Alex smiled at her. Had she seen the look of dismay cross Emma’s face? “You can get it published,” Alex assured her. “It’s a terrific little book. And Davis & Dash is really weak on women’s books. Tell Pam Mantiss it will help balance the list. Tell her it’s a long shot that she can buy cheap. Tell her I’m optioning it to Fox. And tell her she can negotiate with me for the rights.” Alex flashed her devastating smile at Emma. “You will let me write to the author, won’t you?”

  Emma nodded. “But I don’t think that will do it,” she said. “Pam is really smart. She’ll know the book is good but risky. And I think if the recommendation comes from me again, she’ll resent it.”

  “Go over her head. Give it to Gerald Ochs Davis himself.”

  Emma looked at Alex with surprise. Would Alex do something like that? Looking at her, Emma thought she would. But Emma herself wouldn’t. She shook her head. They both sat, still and silent, until Alex reached for the last of the moo shu and popped it in her mouth.

  “I know,” Alex said.

  Emma looked at her expectantly. “Bring it to Pam with a strong letter from me,” Alex said. “But recommend passing.”

  “Pass on it? Tell her I don’t like it?”

  “Tell her you do, but it’s not for Davis & Dash. That it’s not a Davis & Dash book. That they can’t do women’s fiction well. And be sure to put a cc to GOD.”

  Emma laughed. “He’ll hate that.” She considered it for a while. “It might actually work,” she agreed. “Especially if I give a copy to Jim Meyer. He sends everything to Gerald’s father. And this is just the type of thing that Mr. Davis Senior might really like.”

  “And if he doesn’t, I’ll sell it to Pantheon,” Alex added. “Or if not I can submit it to Bill Henderson at Pushcart Press. He does worthy books no one else will.” She took Emma’s hand. “But enough about all this. Now, my little moo shu, it’s time for bed.”

  41

  There are days when the result is so bad that no fewer than five revisions are required. In contrast, when I’m greatly inspired, only four revisions are needed.

  —John Kenneth Galbraith

  Susann sat at the desk by her window, the one overlooking Central Park. The day was cold and the park looked deserted. She had not put on any makeup, and the reflection off the window glass was merciless. Despite the heat in the room, she shivered. She picked up the cashmere afghan that Edith had knit for her. Edith’s knitting had so irritated Susann. Visions of Madame Defarge and retirement homes. After all, she wasn’t an old woman, nor was Edith. Edith should have found better things to do than knit. Now, however, Susann was grateful. Somehow she couldn’t get warm. She held the soft blanket around her and looked across the room at the logs flaming in the fireplace. Despite the thermostat set on high and the burning wood, the heat didn’t seem to reach her.

  She knew why. She looked at the massacred manuscript in front of her. Blue lines of editorial comment were everywhere, and color-coded strips of paper were glued to virtually every page. It was the manuscript that was freezing Susann’s blood. She couldn’t fix it, and if she didn’t fix it, she was doomed. She picked up the long, demanding editorial letter that was signed by Pam Mantiss but that Susann knew Emma Ashton had prepared. Phrases jumped out at her. “Ridiculous supposition,” “unmotivated action,” “unlikely coincidence.” Tears rose in Susann’s eyes. She had never been treated this way by Imogen Clark. To be virtually dismissed, insulted, and ridiculed by a girl younger than her own daughter!

  Of course, that thought brought up the problem with Kim, and Susann actually shuddered. Alf had somehow sicced the entire Davis & Dash legal team on Kim, and Susann had not had the courage to stop them. She knew that Kim’s slender resources and the limited resources of her little publishing house would probably not be able to stand up to the onslaught. There would be no novel by Kim Baker Edmonds this fall. But that didn’t end the problem. It would be just one more area in which Kim would fail—because of her mother. But what else could Susann do? Like most of her problems, Kim had brought this on herself. Why did she have to compete with me and my very survival? Susann asked herself. The thought of her own new book failing frightened her so deeply that she shuddered once again.

  “Here, drink this.” Edith had appeared and put a steaming cup before Susann. “It’s tea, but it’s got some rum in it. That will help.”

  Susann looked down at the manuscript, a bleeding blue abortion. “I doubt it,” she said. But she took the cup by its dainty gilded handle and sipped from it. After a few minutes, she felt the warmth move from her throat to her stomach and then further down. She looked up piteously at Edith. “I can’t do this,” she said. “I just can’t.”

  “Oh, yes you can. And you will,” Edith said in that no-nonsense Cincinnati accent. “I know you’re tired. You shouldn’t have agreed to do this new book in the first place—it’s too much extra work. But you can do it.”

  “I don’t know where to start. There’s just so much they want changed.”

  “Well, I have a novel idea,” Edith paused. “Get it? That was a pun.”

  Susann eyed her without even the ghost of a smile.

  “Anyway, we start at chapter one, fix it, and move on to chapter two. I admit it’s original, but it just might work.”

  “I wish Alf would help,” Susann said.

  “Well, he won’t. So I’m going to heat up a can of consommé, and we’re going to sip soup and rewrite until ten o’clock. Then I’m going to make a good old Cincinnati four-way, with onions. You’ll feel better once we get started. And then you can sleep.”

  “I haven’t been able to sleep in weeks,” Susann moaned.

  “You’ll sleep after this work. And tomorrow, after breakfast, we’ll work on chapter two and three.”

  Susann began to shake her head widely. “It’s too much,” she said. “It’s too hard. I’m too tired and w
e don’t have enough time. What if I do all this and the book is still no good?”

  “This is a lot easier than editing that first one we did. Do you remember?” Susann shook her head. “You were working all day at the law firm and we were trying to get it into shape at night. Harlequin was going to take it only if you cut it by seventy pages. Remember? Remember how confused and tired you were? We didn’t have a clue, and we only had three nights to do it and get it back.”

  And then Susann did remember. She remembered exactly what it was like—the two of them working in the kitchen of her awful trailer, Kim asleep, the endless cups of coffee. It had been hard, but they had done it. She wasn’t sure if it was harder than this, but it had been hard enough. “I was younger then, Edith. There was less at stake.”

  “You looked older,” Edith told her, “and there was a hell of a lot more at stake. If they hadn’t accepted that one, you would never have written anything again. There are eight thousand members of Romance Writers of America, and each one would like to be in your shoes.” Susann looked at Edith and slowly nodded. She was right, for a change.

  “But this one is so complicated,” Susann almost cried. “And I don’t have much time. And Edith, they really don’t like me. It’s not like with Imogen. You know they really don’t. I’m afraid of them, and afraid I’ll miss the deadline.”

  “Sue Ann Kowlofsky, you have never missed a deadline in your life,” Edith said. “You won’t miss this one either. Now let’s go through it page by page until we get it right.”

  “But I’m so tired. I’ve already finished this book. I can’t go back to it again.”

  “Well, you have to.” Edith paused and looked again at the editorial letter. “You know,” Edith said, “these suggestions are pretty good. I think they might make all the difference. This girl’s no fool.” Edith looked at Susann. “You might just manage to pull off a bestseller.”