“Should I give you a hickey to take home to Mama in Larchmont?” Alex asked. Emma laughed but pulled her head away. “Or should you be bringing me home to Mama?”
Surprised, caught off guard, Emma stared into the mirror and caught Alex’s eye, but before she could respond Alex bent her head over the zipper. Was that why Alex was hanging around? Had she expected an invitation? Emma was out; her mother knew her sexual preference, but Emma had never brought a girlfriend home. Why was it that parents and children don’t want to hear about one another’s sexuality? It seemed that would rub her mother’s long nose in it. And surely she and Alex weren’t intimate enough yet for the come-home-and-meet-the-parents trauma. But perhaps Alex felt they were. Alex had felt her jerk away and had stiffened. She reached down for the zipper, all business. Oh God, Emma thought. This was the price you paid for being a lesbian. If men were always rushing away from commitment, feeling smothered and “needing more space,” women were overeager. The old lesbian joke was that the first thing a couple did on a blind date was move in with each other. Emma really liked Alex, more than she had liked anyone before, but with their busy schedules they had barely spent three weekends together. Emma needed to take things one step at a time. She valued Alex already, and one reason she wasn’t ready to introduce her was that Mrs. Ashton, when she met either of her children’s potential mates, was not the type to improve the chances of a successful relationship. But now Emma had to worry about whether she was hurting Alex’s feelings, creating resentment that, in the end, would exact a price.
“It’s stuck,” Alex said, referring to the zipper. “I think you have to take it off and then maybe I can wiggle it.”
“Oh God, I don’t have time for that! The train leaves in twenty-five minutes. Mother hates it when I’m late.” Emma tore the dress off over her head and threw it onto the closet floor. Fuck dresses anyway. She pulled out a pair of black slacks, thrust her legs into them, and grabbed a white, man-tailored shirt from the hanger. Perfect. She looked exactly like a dyke, one of her mother’s favorite looks. Emma sighed. Maybe if she tied a scarf around her neck? She wasn’t the scarf type. She did have an Indian silk one stashed someplace, but she couldn’t remember where. Well, she’d just have to settle for a sweater. After all, this wasn’t formal.
“So Camilla Clapfish is going to be there,” Alex said. If she was angry, her voice didn’t show it. “She’s just gotten to New York, I think.” Emma nodded. “I’m seeing her this week, you know,” Alex reminded her.
“Great,” Emma said. “Just keep me out of it.” God, that sounded abrupt. But now that she was editing Camilla, this triangle could get intense. Stop being so self-conscious, Emma told herself, but that never worked. Now that it seemed as if Alex really liked her, now that Emma knew that she was crazy about Alex, all of the madness would begin: the I-didn’t-mean-to-sound-so-harsh-but-you-didn’t-have-to-push-me-like-that stuff. Relationships were so hard, and the Ashton household had by no means been a proving ground for relationship-training. Our motto must have been “Knock politely if the door is closed, and keep your feelings to yourself,” Emma thought. What did that translate into in Latin, she wondered, and was it too long for the family crest? (There was an Ashton family crest, but her mother was far too appropriate to use it.) “I’ve got to go,” she said to Alex, who didn’t make a move. “Just pull the door shut when you leave.”
They were at the awkward phase where they hadn’t yet exchanged keys, but they did leave each other at their apartments “alone.” Emma kissed Alex on the cheek, but Alex didn’t respond. She must be hurt, Emma realized. But it was too late to do anything about it now. “See ya,” Emma said and rushed out to the subway.
Emma made the train and was met at the station by her mother, who brought her home to meet “Miss Clapfish.” But Emma couldn’t quite figure it out: Camilla was a cool customer. It was clear that she and Frederick liked each other, and apparently she had moved into his apartment. But it also seemed that Frederick was still living here with their mother. Were they together or not?
It was none of her business, of course. But Emma hoped Frederick had found someone, and their mother had implied that he had. He certainly deserved to, and now that her own happiness with Alex was blooming she especially wanted her brother to be loved. But it didn’t seem to Emma as if the connection had held, if it was ever there at all. She reached over to the wine bottle and refilled her glass, noticing that Frederick’s was almost empty. “Shall I give you more Bordeaux?” she asked, and he nodded.
They had spent most of dinner discussing Frederick’s trip to Italy, Mrs. Ashton’s recent trouble in the Larchmont ladies’ bridge tournament, and, briefly, Camilla’s life in Florence. Somehow, Emma felt it premature to jump into the business conversation. Yet she had to let Camilla in on the politics at Davis & Dash. How could she start? She didn’t think it was necessary to tell her about the Chad Weston fiasco or the way it had affected Camilla’s luck. But some preparation was clearly necessary. There was a lull in conversation as the salads were removed by Rosa, the housekeeper. Now was as good a time as any, Emma thought. “You know, Camilla, I’m not really here, and we haven’t really met,” she said. “Not yet.”
“What?” Camilla asked.
“I have to explain that you are Pam’s purchase, not mine. In fact, Pam Mantiss thinks I disapprove of your book. It was the easiest way I could get it accepted. Not that it wasn’t worthy, but if I like something, Pam has a corporate policy not to. So I resorted to child psychology. Please don’t blow my cover when you meet her.”
“What is all this about?” Mrs. Ashton asked, her arched eyebrows arching even higher. “Do you have to dissemble to get your job done?”
“Dissemble?” Frederick asked. “Mother, you’ve been reading Henry James again. And after you promised.”
Mrs. Ashton pursed her mouth in an attempt at disapproval, but the right side flicked upward in what Emma always thought of as a charmed and charming half smile. Frederick had a way with their mother, a way of teasing her while keeping his boundary firm and doing so with grace and good humor. Emma envied him that. She had never had the skill, but perhaps that was because of the mother-daughter thing. Or the lesbian thing. Emma knew that she simply didn’t please her mother the way Frederick did. Yet her mother did love her. She knew that too. Mrs. Ashton may not approve of the actions of either of her offspring, but in her restrained yet powerful way, she loved them. Well, it wasn’t her mother Emma had to worry about, she reminded herself. It was Davis & Dash’s fledgling author.
Sure enough, Camilla Clapfish was leaning forward over the table with a look of concern. “I don’t understand,” Camilla said. “Aren’t you my editor?”
“I guess I ought to explain,” Emma said. “Pam Mantiss, my editor in chief, is a brilliant but admittedly rather—um, eccentric—character. She doesn’t see it as my job to acquire manuscripts, at least not any that are guaranteed to sell fewer than fifty thousand hardcover copies. I had just presented another noncommercial book to her when your manuscript came in.” Emma paused and smiled. “It’s a lovely book. I knew it was something we ought to publish, but I had to”—Emma looked over at her mother—“dissemble!”
Frederick was smiling. Camilla seemed to lean back in her chair. Emma went on to explain the ruse, and how—by seeming to reject the book for the wrong reasons—she’d gotten contrary Pam and desperate Gerald interested. “Right now he’s so worried about the list that he would publish the phone book if it had commercial written across it,” Emma finished with a laugh.
Mrs. Ashton tsked. “You would think a man of his stature, from his family—”
Emma laughed again. “Oh, Mother, what does family have to do with anything?” Before Mrs. Ashton could respond, Camilla, looking rather pale, spoke up.
“So you mean I’ve gotten in on a fluke?” she asked. “You tricked them into wanting my book?”
Oh God! Emma had forgotten, for just a moment, about author handling, espe
cially first-time novelists. All writers were insecure, but new authors were the especially so. She had left out the worst of it—SchizoBoy and all that—but she could have been more diplomatic. That last remark about publishing the phone book was dumb. What had she been thinking of? Being with her mother always made Emma awkward. “Not at all,” she said, as warmly as she could. “You would have been rejected by a fluke. Because, by coincidence, I had just fought a battle for another first novel. So I didn’t want that to happen. The fluke was that I hadn’t ever fought for a book before, and right then I’d have had to fight for a second one. So I went another way. And it worked.” Emma took a deep breath. “Pam sincerely likes the book. It’s her baby. Really, it’s best for you. She’s far more important than I am. I’ll just edit you.” Emma looked at the woman across the table, at her level eyes, her scrubbed appearance. It was actually hard to imagine Camilla Clapfish and the overblown Pam Mantiss in the same room. They looked like comics drawn by very different cartoonists: Pam was “The Far Side,” and Camilla was an English Jules Feiffer. “Anyway,” Emma said, trying to summarize, “what this means is that you and I haven’t met. Your manuscript came in through an agent, and I may not even see you this week over at Davis & Dash.” Was Camilla mollified? Emma tried one more attempt. “Since I didn’t, and since Gerald Ochs Davis showed enthusiasm for your book, Pam is very interested. Don’t let her scare you, though, if you can help it. She’s pretty intimidating, but she’s smart, and she can make your book. Just remember that her bark isn’t as bad as her bite.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Camilla said. “I shall just try not to get bitten. I suppose the bad news that you had to use guile is offset by the good news that important people like the manuscript. There’s the fluke.” She allowed herself a very small smile. She was really a cool one, Emma thought. But nice, definitely nice.
“No, the fluke was that you met me and I submitted the book to Emma,” Frederick said. “If you had gone through any normal channels, the book would have been accepted anyway.”
“In my opinion, the fluke is just being served,” Mrs. Ashton said as the platter of flounder filet was brought around by Rosa. Mrs. Ashton looked over at Camilla. “I would love to read the manuscript. I’m sure that neither Gerald Ochs Davis nor his editor in chief could be tricked by anyone.” She glanced over at Emma as if to reprove her for her bad manners and to remind her to toe the line. “I hope you haven’t done anything wrong, Emma.”
Emma tried to smile. “The only thing I did that was remotely suspect was to give your manuscript to Alex Simmons, the agent. That’s against Davis & Dash’s best interest, I suppose. But you ought to have some representation. Still, that advice shouldn’t come from me. So I think it would be a good idea if you went to more than one agent, just so I don’t feel responsible.”
“I will,” Camilla said. “Do you have a list of them?”
“I’ll get you a list,” Emma said, “or you could call the Writers’ Guild.” They all looked down at their flounder then, and in the ensuing silence Emma wondered again what was going on between her brother and this woman. She was afraid she’d handled it all pretty awkwardly. She looked up and tried to seem upbeat while she managed to ask Camilla whether or not she was excited about the prospect of being published.
“I’m thrilled, actually,” Camilla said. “It’s a new start for me. And I’m very grateful to all of you.” And Emma wasn’t certain, but she thought she saw tears in Camilla’s dark brown eyes before she returned them to her plate of fish.
51
Let every eye negotiate for itself, and trust no agent.
—William Shakespeare
“I’m here for some advice,” Opal admitted and looked across the desk at the white-haired older man across from her. His office was as impressive as he was—it looked a little like the Rare Book Room back at the Bloomington Library except that, with the practiced eye of a librarian, Opal could see that none of the books were actually valuable. In fact, most of them were barely what Opal would call books: those fine leather-bound, gold-embossed volumes on her right were all Susann Baker Edmonds! Who would have bothered to bind that pulp in pigskin? Opal suppressed a shrug. Emma Ashton had advised her that she needed an agent or a literary attorney and that Pam Mantiss had suggested Mr. Byron. So, here she was, but she certainly didn’t know what should happen next. Did she write him a check and hire him, or was this more like an audition? Well, first things first. “You’ve read my daughter’s book?”
Mr. Byron’s big head nodded. “Most of it,” he then said, “and I—”
“Most of it?” Opal asked. She knew it was a lengthy manuscript, but how could this man nod and tell her that he’d read it if he hadn’t come to the magnificent ending? “I don’t think we can talk about her book until you’ve read it all,” Opal said, and picked up her purse, preparing to leave.
Alfred Byron made a gesture to restrain her. “Now, now, Mrs. O’Neal. You’ll have to excuse me. It wasn’t that I haven’t been completely drawn in by the power and the magic of your daughter’s work. It’s merely been the press of my own schedule. I can’t tell you how busy I am. I’m representing a very important new author, and his launching is taking a tremendous toll. Plus Susann Baker Edmonds has just finished a novel, and it’s also taking a lot of my attention.”
Well, that explained the bound books. Opal wondered if Pam Mantiss really considered that the agent for that sort of foolishness would be right for Terry’s work. “You know,” Mr. Byron continued, “I am a very hands-on kind of agent. It’s important for me, and for my clients, that I guide not only their careers but often their actual writing. I can’t tell you how much editing and rewriting I do myself.”
“You rewrite manuscripts?” Opal asked.
“All the time,” Mr. Byron told her proudly. “My clients are very grateful. I can’t tell you how many have dedicated their books to me.” There seemed to be a lot of things this man couldn’t tell her. He walked to the shelf on the right, browsing along and pulling down three different volumes. Though he meant it to look casual, Opal had the distinct feeling that the books were not randomly selected, though he tried to make it look as if they were. “Ah. Here’s one.” He flipped it open to the dedication page. “‘To Alfred Byron. Without whom this book would never have been written.’”
He handed it to Opal, and she looked at the spine. She’d never heard of the author. It appeared to be some kind of science fiction. Mr. Byron flipped open another book and smiled, looking down at the page before him. He sighed. “Here,” he said, “I’ll let you read this yourself.”
He handed her the book, opened to the dedication page. Opal, ever the librarian, couldn’t help but notice that the rest of the book seemed in pristine condition. It was obvious that the book was only opened to this page. “To Alfred Theodore Byron, my agent, my muse, my editor, and my friend.” It was signed Susann Baker Edmonds. Opal closed the cover primly and returned it to Alf’s wide desk.
“Well,” Opal said crisply, “I won’t need the muse or the editor part. The book is written by my daughter, as I’m sure Pam Mantiss told you. She edited it herself before she died,” Opal explained. “It’s to be published as is.”
Mr. Byron smiled, perhaps a bit condescendingly. “You have to please yourself,” he said. “But it reminds me of the old saw about lawyers who represent themselves: They find they have a fool for a client.”
“I don’t think I take your point,” said Opal, although she certainly did.
“Well, it’s just that your daughter, like every other writer, may have needed the clear, cool eye of an outsider to do a decent edit. I wrote a whole chapter about that in my book. The need for an outside eye.”
“Oh, now I understand,” Opal told him. “If you’re implying that my daughter was a fool, or that I am, I think I disagree.”
“Not at all. Not at all,” said Mr. Byron, and he stood up, walked around the desk, and patted her on the shoulder. She had virtually decided b
y now: He was a pompous reptile, and she didn’t like him one little bit. “I think you misunderstood,” he was saying. “I didn’t mean to offend. The book is a masterpiece; no doubt about it. And I promise you I wouldn’t have taken time from my heavy schedule to see you if I didn’t think so. I can’t tell you how many people want to see me. So, I’m not talking about changing your daughter’s work. But sometimes some tightening, some judicious pruning, some cutting back—always so painful to the author—can make all the difference.”
“All the difference to whom?” Opal asked.
“To sales,” Byron told her. “Regretfully, a book this length is not an easy sale. It can be intimidating, not to mention expensive.”
“Mr. Byron, I know this book won’t have commercial success on the scale of Susann Baker Edmonds or Stephen King.” Opal paused. “But real readers, deep readers, will appreciate it. They’ll know its worth.”
“Not if they never see it on a shelf of a library or bookstore, Mrs. O’Neal,” he said. “If a book isn’t promoted, it simply sits in a warehouse. And this book—a first novel, an unwieldy length, a challenging style, and a high price, looks like one of those books that never leave the warehouse.”
The thought of all those unread books, like an unlived life, made Opal unutterably sad. She saw there was more to this puzzle than simply getting published. “But don’t the publishers take care of publicity and all that? After all, they’re the ones who lose money if a book sits in storage.”
He laughed unctuously. “In theory they take care—but Davis & Dash has almost fifty titles on the fall list alone. I assure you that all books will not be treated equally. My job is to fight to get Terry’s book reviewed in the right places, to use my contacts to have it written about, to push them at D&D to do what they should.”
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