The moment she walked into the hip Chelsea restaurant, Judith knew she was dressed all wrong. The restaurant was called Bistro du Sud. It looked like somewhere in France—not that Judith had ever been to France. It was a narrow, long room with a pressed-tin ceiling, signs advertising French beers, and a dark wood bar at the entrance. Around it several dozen people clustered, and all of them, even the men, were dressed better than Judith was. She looked down at her navy blue dress with the white collar and cuffs and wondered what she had been thinking. Compared with all of her cheap, flowered clothes, this had looked sophisticated upstate. Now she realized, too late, that she was wearing a truly suburban dress. She had costumed herself perfectly for the part of the dull wife.
The party was to celebrate the movie option that had been sold to Hollywood. April Irons, the producer of Jack and Jill and The Extinction, was going to make it. Daniel had been so excited by the news that he hadn’t slept for two nights. But he looked good—full of energy and excitement. He’d told Judith that there was another important reason for the party: One of the book clubs was interested in In Full Knowledge but wouldn’t make it a main selection. Apparently, Davis & Dash wouldn’t sell it to them as an alternate. So, to break the deadlock they were having this party and the book-club people would get to look the author over before a final decision was made.
Funny that they wouldn’t look at the real author. Judith felt invisible from the moment they entered the bistro. She couldn’t stop herself—as they approached the bar she took Daniel’s arm, just above the elbow, though she knew it was another one of those giveaway gestures that made her look like the suburban wife. Still, she couldn’t face walking unattached into this crowd, most of them dressed in black, all of them thinner and hipper-looking than she was. Daniel moved forward and was greeted by a tall, broad-shouldered woman who looked about Judith’s age. Judith tried to smile. Had she left that note for him in the manuscript? Was this Pam Mantiss? But even Judith, for all her suspicions, could see that there was no attraction or connection between this woman and Daniel—unless they were the greatest acting team since Olivier and Leigh.
“The author of the year,” the woman was saying pleasantly but without much real warmth. “How about that movie sale?”
Daniel smiled modestly. “Yeah. Pretty good,” he said. “They’re a hot team.”
“You’re the hot one,” another woman said with her own heat. She was older, and her face had a lot of mileage on it. But despite her thin lips and the lines that ran from her nose to her mouth, her wild blond hair and her voluptuousness were appealing. Judith could sense she had a kind of sexual attraction.
“And you must be Mrs. Daniel,” the older woman said. Her eyes, which were long and narrow, seemed to sweep over Judith, focusing particularly on Judith’s bad haircut, her stupid dress, and wide hips. She felt appraised in a millisecond. The thin lips smiled, but it wasn’t a smile of approval. The woman extended her hand. “I’m Pam Mantiss,” she said. “I’m your husband’s…” There was a pause—wasn’t there an inappropriate pause?—“editor. And greatest fan.”
Judith wondered if the woman had considered saying something else, but she didn’t have time to. She was distracted by the first woman, who had extended her hand. “I’m Emma Ashton,” she said. “We spoke on the phone a while back.” Judith took her hand and nodded, distractedly. She remembered that morning. She couldn’t think of anything to say.
“I was in my bathrobe,” she said. Emma blinked. Judith realized she didn’t sound coherent, but the moment of that call came back to her and the words popped out. She’d been vomiting all that morning. “I was in my bathrobe when you called,” Judith repeated, trying to explain. But what else could she say?
“Come on, Jude. I want you to meet Jim Reiner from the book club,” Pam Mantiss said and took him by the arm. “I’ll get you a drink, introduce you around. The book-club people are dying to meet you since they heard about the option. I smell a main selection,” she sang throatily and led him away.
“Well, what do you do?” Emma Ashton asked Judith.
“Uh, I…” She stopped. What could she say? She was a college dropout? A ghostwriter? A housewife? Judith simply stood there, in her stupid dress, pretending not to be the author, pretending not to be distraught, pretending not to be so angry at Daniel that she wished that drink he was raising to his lips at the bar was battery acid instead of Beaujolais. She looked around the room. People were clustering around Daniel and Pam Mantiss, who held the central position at the corner of the long bar. A young man with a ponytail said something, and Daniel’s laugh rang out. Judith counted the people who were grouped there, waiting to talk to Daniel. She stood rooted to her spot, invisible and alone. Daniel, as always, was the center of a crowd, but this time—unlike those times in the past when the students and faculty gathered around Daniel and she felt his importance reflected onto her—Judith only felt her insignificance. And her resentment. The glory he was basking in was hers, and she had allowed it all to be stolen from her. She realized that Emma Ashton was still beside her, now looking at her with some alarm.
“Are you all right?” Emma asked. Judith could only nod her head. “It is a very good sign, this option,” Emma said as if she were trying to be reassuring. “You must be very proud of your husband.”
Judith’s head snapped up, and for a moment she was about to blurt out the truth. She wondered what this woman’s reaction would be. She looked across at Daniel. What would his reaction be? She would have to talk with him. There was no way she could continue with this. He would have to tell them all, whatever it cost them in money and whatever it cost him in ego. Because, Judith realized, if this goes on much longer, it will kill me.
A force she didn’t know she had moved her through the crowd to Daniel’s side. Pam Mantiss was holding his arm, and they were talking to an older man, small and very well dressed. Judith took Daniel’s other elbow and gave it a tug. He was impervious and continued to stare at the small man. Judith tugged again, this time almost viciously. She wasn’t just invisible. Perhaps she was dead—a real ghost. What was the name of the woman in Topper? Marian Kirby. No one could see her but Topper himself.
At last Daniel looked down at her mildly. “Oh, excuse me,” he said—not to Judith but to the little man. “Gerald, this is my wife, Judith. Judith, meet Gerald Ochs Davis.”
Judith barely managed a nod and said, “I have to talk to you.” Daniel smiled blandly and ignored her completely. Had Topper ignored Marian? Judith thought so, but when he did Marian had acted up.
“Gerald was just saying how we would both be fighting each other for a place on the Times list,” Daniel told her. “But I—”
“I have to talk to you now,” Judith said, and her voice was so loud that all the conversation at the bar stopped. Daniel looked at her and then back at his coterie. He raised his eyebrows.
“Excuse me,” he said with a shrug and a smile. “My wife seems to need me.”
Still holding his elbow, Judith pulled him from the group. But where to go? Not outside on the street. They needed some privacy. She moved toward the back of the long restaurant, past the empty banquet tables readied for the dinner, and into a hallway that led to the toilets.
“What are you doing?” Daniel whispered with a snarl. “Are you drunk?” His voice was angry, but for once she wasn’t intimidated.
“I can’t do this, Daniel,” she told him. “It isn’t fair. It isn’t right. No more secrets. We have to tell them.”
“We have to tell them what?” Daniel asked, and she looked at him. He stared back angrily. Was he crazy? Could there be any question of what secret had to be revealed?
“We have to tell them about me. That I wrote the book.”
“Are you insane?” Daniel hissed, his eyes opening. “Are you completely insane?”
Just then someone scurried past them, someone who apparently had been using the bathroom. “Judith, you’re drunk again,” Daniel said in a voice so loud that
Judith jumped.
“I’m not drunk,” Judith protested. “I haven’t had time to even have a drink. Anyway, I can’t drink. Not with the baby.” Judith began to cry.
Daniel paused. Was it her imagination, or did he at last look guilty? Maybe he’d see what had happened, how this had gone too far. Maybe it would be all right. “Judith, there isn’t time for this now. There’s been so much on my mind. There was so much I’ve been coping with.”
“So much you’ve been coping with?” Judith asked, her voice finally rising. “Daniel, this isn’t going to work. We’ve got to tell them. And if you won’t, I will. Right now.” Daniel looked at her, and even in the dim hallway she could see his face pale. Topper turned into a ghost.
“Are you nuts or stupid?” He grabbed her arm. He held her so tight that she winced. “We’re not telling anybody anything. Anyway, there’s nothing to tell.” Then he put both of his hands on her shoulders and lowered his voice. “Judith, we made an agreement. We are playing this a certain way. Don’t you see what’s happening? Don’t you see the opportunity for us? Do you think Gerald Davis shows up at every first novelist’s little party? Does every book get optioned by April Irons? It’s all very complicated. The guy from the book club wants to play golf with me this weekend. This book could really take off. He has connections everywhere. It would be reviewed by the Times, the Washington Post. It would appear in the columns. And if any of them think there’s a problem with it, if anything looks odd to them, they’ll just let it die. We won’t make any more money. Everything will have been for nothing.”
“I don’t care. I don’t care if we never make another dime. I am not going to stand here and be ignored and left out.” Her voice had risen, and he tried to shush her. She felt his fingers digging into her shoulders, but she didn’t stop, though she did lower her voice.
“Daniel, you tell them tonight, or else I will. It’s not complicated. It’s as simple as that.”
The Davis & Dash people were seated at several large tables at the back of the restaurant. Judith was separated from Daniel, who had Gerald Ochs Davis on one side of him and Pam Mantiss on the other. Judith sat between the ponytailed guy—an art director named Jack—and Emma Ashton. It was hard to hear what was being said around the big table. She couldn’t hear her dinner companions because she was so busy trying to listen to what was being said across the table. She watched Daniel. Was he telling Pam Mantiss now? But the woman laughed. Surely she wouldn’t do that if Daniel had told her the news. Maybe she was laughing in disbelief.
Every now and then Mr. Davis would begin to make some pronouncement and everybody would fall silent and then everyone would respond, but a lot of the time Pam Mantiss seemed to monopolize Daniel’s attention. She had draped her arm across the back of his chair in the masculine gesture boys use with their dates in movie theaters. She kept leaning into him and whispering. The rest of the time she chatted with the book-club man on her other side. But with Daniel she whispered. Well, if it wasn’t quite whispering, it was murmuring, and Daniel kept drinking and laughing. In all the time she’d known him, he hadn’t drunk this much or laughed this much. Well, if that’s what it takes for him to get up his courage, it’s all right with her, Judith thought. So long as he talks.
Gerald Ochs Davis had made a toast, and that had been followed by Pam Mantiss’s, during which she and Daniel made a lot of eye contact. Judith didn’t care anymore. She’d stand up in the middle of all this hero worship and make herself the heroine. She would. Just then, to her astonishment, Daniel stood up. Well, he was going to do it in front of them all. Perhaps that was the best way.
“I want to thank you for the tremendous help you’ve given me,” he said, looking around the table. “I don’t think any new novelist has been welcomed into a house as I have at Davis & Dash. But there’s something I have to tell you.” Judith felt her heart beat harder and tried to compose herself. Whatever their reaction, she would be prepared for it. This was important. Her stomach lurched, and all at once she began to tremble. Despite her threat, she couldn’t believe Daniel was making the announcement this way. She smoothed down her skirt, adjusted her collar. “Writing is a lonely business. But, in a way, I’ve been lucky. I haven’t been alone the whole long, painful way. This book wouldn’t have been what it is, it would not have achieved its potential, without the help of one woman. A woman of true literary genius, to whom I am very grateful.”
Judith lifted her head up and stared across the table at Daniel. She was almost faint, but her cheek flushed. He lifted his glass. “To Pam Mantiss. My editor.”
There was an echoing murmur, and everybody else lifted their glasses and drank. But Judith was so stunned that she actually let go of her glass. It dropped to the table but didn’t break, though the wine splattered halfway across the white tablecloth. There was a minor scramble to get out of the way of the moving stain. Then, as smoothly as she could, Emma Ashton righted the glass and the ponytail filled it for Judith, but of course, she didn’t drink. She stared across the table at her husband. He looked back at her, and then his eyes flicked away. What had she read in his eyes? “There’s someone else who needs to be thanked,” he said. “No novelist who’s married ever underestimates the contribution of their spouse. I’d like to thank Judith for all of the time she put in, and all that she had to put up with. And if your typing wasn’t great, honey, at least your attitude was.”
People laughed and raised their glasses, and Judith sat there paralyzed. Was that it, then? Was that his acknowledgment? His confession? He’d made her sound like an idiot. She was about to say something, anything, and then Gerald spoke up and the table hushed again.
“Well, Jude, now that the book has been optioned for the movies, what are you going to do with the money?” he asked.
“Get some shirts like yours,” Daniel said. And everyone at the table roared with laughter—everyone but Judith.
64
Not all writers can work with all editors. A project that is taken on with great enthusiasm by an editor may bog down because the chemistry isn’t right.
—Betty A. Prashker
“Mrs. Trawley’s on the phone.” Pam tried to decide which would be worse: speaking with the Widow Trawley or having periodontal surgery. Not that it was a choice—she would have to speak to the Widow Trawley, and her dentist had told her her gums were shot. Pam picked up the phone. “Hello, Edina,” Pam said in her toughest voice. “What can I do for you?”
“What you can do for me is fix this manuscript,” Edina Trawley snapped. “I don’t know how you could have edited my husband’s works for as long as you did and be able to miss the point altogether.” Pam was always amazed to hear a honey-dipped Southern girl spit her words out, as Edina did now. “Peet’s work had a spiritual undercurrent, a subtext that is completely missing in this draft. I am very disappointed.”
Spiritual undercurrent? Subtext? Edina had been at the literary bottle again. She was drunk with editorial power. What the fuck was she talking about? Peet Trawley’s books were Gothic trash with a lot of satanism and sex thrown in. Subtext? The only subtext Peet could have ever written would have been a submarine manual.
“Edina, I’m not sure I’m following you.” Pam knew she was merely vamping for time and knew also that Edina didn’t have a clue as to what she was talking about. There was a problem, but it didn’t involve spiritual currents or lyricism. The problem was that the book sucked. Unbelievable and badly plotted as Peet’s books had always been, this new one, somehow, managed to be worse. She had already edited it twice and squeezed two total rewrites out of the suffering Stewart, to no avail. Pam had come to believe that Peet had passionately believed in the idiocy he wrote, and that gave it an energy totally lacking in her own work, and now Stewart’s pathetic draft. A reader could always smell an author’s bad faith. Danielle Steel’s stupidities were readable because of Steel’s own sincere belief in her female fairy tales.
“What I’m trying to say is that the book lacks
Peet’s essence. His authenticity. You have to make it an authentic Peet Trawley.”
“Edina, it can’t be authentic. Peet’s dead,” Pam said flatly. And this is the first time you ever bothered to read one of these manuscripts, much less critique one, you bitch, she wanted to add silently. Before he died Peet always complained about how uninterested Edina was in his work. Now, all of a sudden, she’d known about his fiction’s spirituality and subtext? Get the fuck out of here!
But Pam had already spent her share of the ghosting money and couldn’t afford to say what she wanted to. She didn’t like the feeling at all. As editor in chief, she’d been telling authors about their inadequacies for years. She didn’t need this turnabout. She could hardly believe she had to listen to some poor white-trash moron talk about literary imperfection. Next Daisy Mae would be explaining to her the difference between a metaphor and a simile. “Well, what do you suggest, Edina?”
“I think you should fix it. I think you should make it better.”
Pam almost laughed out loud. Now, there was an example of editorial direction. From now on she’d just tell all her authors to “make it better.”
“Listen, Edina. I do think I have to tighten up the ending a little bit. And I can try and make Marie more sympathetic. I think those things would help, don’t you?” Pam promised herself she would kick the shit out of Stewart the next time she saw him. She would never work with the motherfucker again! Not only would she withhold the rest of the money she owed him for this book, but she’d never publish another one of his own stupid novels again. “Do you think that would help, Edina?”
“Well, I think it should be more like The Celestine Prophecy. I read that it sold a lot of copies and it’s very spiritual.”
Yeah, if you consider seventy-nine weeks on the New York Times list and over two million hardcover copies sold spiritual, then it was a spiritual book. Pam considered it a fucking miracle. But it had nothing to do with Peet Trawley’s oeuvre.
The Bestseller Page 44
