“Anyway,” Edina continued, “I’d like you to fix it up, and then I wondered if we could talk about doing three more.”
“What?” Holy shit! First the bitch complains, and then she expands the contract? Pam smiled for the first time that morning. This wasn’t about lyricism. This was all about money. That was the subtext for Edina Trawley. Pam quickly tried to figure how much she could ask for, and how much of that she’d have to pay off to Stewart. She’d work with him if she had to. “Well, we could certainly talk about it. I’m sure Mr. Davis would be interested.”
“Well, fine then,” Edina drawled. “Fix this one up, and why don’t you talk with our lawyers?”
Pam sat down, took a swig of her Snapple, then picked up the phone and dialed Stewart Campbell’s number.
Pam’s apartment was a pigsty. She couldn’t blame it on Christophe—he was as messy as any nine-year-old, but he pretty much contained it in his bat cave of a room. No, the mess was mostly hers. Take-out containers littered the counter from two nights of quick dinners; glasses and bottles—empty and half-filled—were scattered on most horizontal surfaces; shoes were flung into corners; and layers of clothes she’d peeled off hung over the side of the sofa, except for those that lay in wrinkled piles on the floor. Unopened mail and unpaid bills, along with manuscript pages, were everywhere. What she needed was a full-time housekeeper, Pam thought. And the money from the Trawley contract—the new three-book contract—would get it for her, along with a nice car, some new furniture, and a down payment on a country house. All she had to do was bully Stewart through the final rewrites, get him on board for the next ones, and cash the check.
Stewart would be there any minute. Pam got two black plastic garbage sacks from the kitchen, closed the door on the chaos in there, and then went through the living room and dining room throwing everything—clothes, papers, glassware, and cutlery—into the bags, which she then stowed in the hall closet. She had barely finished by the time Stewart rang up.
Pam was prepared for warfare. And the struggle between editors and writers was like a war. She wondered briefly if all editors both admired and hated writers as she did—and envied them. It was odd how learning that she couldn’t write a book hadn’t diminished her hate but had intensified it. The last time she had seen Stewart he was less than a whipped dog. She had thrown the manuscript at him and demanded the second rewrite. He’d whined, and she had resorted to insult and threat. The problem was that she resented like hell the fact that Stewart, hack though he was, could sit down and write, while she—who had always told herself she would someday—could not. The only way she could cope with the knowledge was by torturing him.
Her doorbell buzzed, and she walked down the long hallway and opened the door, but it wasn’t a whipped Stewart who greeted her. Pam had the survival instinct of a feral wolf, and she could smell any change in the wind. Something had changed, and Stewart, messy and disheveled as ever, looked different. She thought it was something about his shoulders—up to now she’d never even noticed Stewart had shoulders. He seemed thinner, too. God, she wondered, is he sick? Does he have AIDS? He’s just the type to be bisexual. And I probably slept with him. She told herself to keep cool, and led Stewart down the darkness of the hall into the open space of the combined living room/dining room. She sat down on her leather sofa, crossed her legs, and then decided perhaps it was best to be a little more accommodating. “Are you losing weight on purpose?” she asked.
It was as if he didn’t hear her. Stewart threw the bulky envelope containing the latest revisions onto the coffee table. “This is it, Pam. I’ve done the best I could. I don’t know if you’ll be happy with it. I don’t know what would make you happy. But I’m finished.”
Pam felt her stomach tighten. He didn’t just mean finished with the draft. She could tell. “You’re sick?” she asked.
“Sick of you,” he said, and she realized it wasn’t AIDS that had caused the weight loss; it was aggravation. Her relief was tinged with concern. The idea of finding a new author, of getting him or her to agree to total secrecy, of the possibility that Stewart would now start to talk, all terrified her almost as much as the idea of a fatal disease. The industry would not look kindly on an editor who fraudulently presented a ghostwritten book as a posthumous one. And, almost worse, if word got out that she had written it, she’d be embarrassed by its poor quality and the critical jibes she would have to take. Worst of all would be to have it known that she had subcontracted the book out while she retained most of the money—a clear conflict of interest and violation of her fiduciary responsibility to her authors. But she told herself to keep her cool, and she managed to do it, at least outwardly. She recrossed her legs and managed, “Do you want a drink?”
Stewart shook his head and refused even to sit down. It was obvious to Pam that it was taking all of his will to stand up to her both literally and figuratively. That was a good sign.
“I think you’re finished, too, Stewart.” She looked at him, hoping for a wince. But his face showed no reaction, except perhaps a softening of the mouth—was that relief? “And you know what? I think I owe you an apology.” Still no reaction, not even surprise, but she wasn’t sure how much Stewart was actually hearing, he was so intent on speaking his piece. “I know I was hard on you, Stewart. But I had a lot of reason to be. You’re good, you know. You’re really good. But you lack discipline and structure. I’ve told you that before. I thought if I could push you with this one, if I could get the best possible work out of you, that it would help you with your own writing. I thought you could take it. That was my mistake. I had your best interests at heart, but if I rode you too hard, I apologize.”
Stewart remained standing, but he took a deep breath. He was such a decent guy Pam almost laughed. “Okay,” he said. “There’s the final. Pay me if you want to and don’t if you don’t. But I am not touching it again.”
Then, unbelievably, Stewart turned and started to walk down the hallway. Pam almost panicked, but then, using all of her self-control, she burst out laughing. Stewart stopped in his tracks.
“Stewie. Stewie.” She drew out the syllables the way a kid would. “Hey, Stewie, don’t take it so personally. Sure, I screamed and threatened. Like I said, it was a test, and you passed. You passed with flying colors, Stewie. But you don’t get a grade. What you get is a nice fat book contract. Actually, two of them.” Stewart turned and looked at her. “Come sit down for a minute.” She held her breath while he hesitated. But finally he took the four crucial steps back into the center of the living room and lowered himself into the chair farthest from her. Pam was sweating, but she hoped it didn’t show. Her fish had seen the spangle of the lure. But would he take the bait?
She made her face as serious as she could. She couldn’t use the fish analogy on him. Go for the veldt, she thought. “Listen, Stewart, this was a trial by fire and I know you feel burned, but you came through it like a lion jumping through a flaming hoop.” She put her hand on the manuscript on the table. “Without even reading it I know it’s good. It was good in your last draft. But now it’s really going to be right. A job well done, and you get your reward.” She paused, picked up the manuscript, and put it on her lap. “Stewart, I’m ready to offer you a three-book contract for your own work. And I’ll double the advance to fifty thousand per book.”
His mouth opened, then closed, like a little guppy. He’d taken the bait. But was the hook set? He sat quietly for a moment and then said, “Can I do the ecology one?” Pam, confident, began to reel him in. For years Stewart had been talking about a stupid novel with an eco theme. Those books never made any money. But Pam smiled at him beneficently. With the Trawley books millions of dollars were at stake.
“As your third book, Stewie. When you’re up to your full powers. But that’s not all,” she told him. “I want you and I to privately agree to another three-book contract—three more Peet Trawleys. That, my dear, will bring you three hundred thousand dollars,” she paused for full effect.
It would bring her over a million. “You could move into an apartment with air conditioning,” she said, smiling.
Stewart paled, and even across the room she could see the sweat glistening on his forehead and upper lip. Did fish sweat? Pam wondered idly.
“I can’t ghost another Trawley book,” Stewart said, his voice so low it was almost a whisper.
“Of course you can. Now that you’ve gotten his style down, it’ll go much more smoothly.”
Stewart shook his head. “I can’t.”
They sat there in silence. Pam knew the next person who spoke would be the loser in this battle of wills. She kept her eyes focused on Stewart. She had to land him. She wanted to mention the money again, but she kept her thin lips shut. What was the first line of The Old Man and the Sea? The silence stretched out between them. “I don’t get my contract if I don’t do the Trawley, do I?” Stewart asked.
Pam silently shook her head and waited for Stewart to jump into the boat, as she knew he would.
Pam couldn’t get a goddamned taxi, and she had to get back to the office for a meeting with Gerald by three. It was so fucking inconvenient that she couldn’t meet Stewart in public. At last, desperate, she hailed a gypsy cab and agreed to pay ten bucks to be brought back to the Davis & Dash building. The cab was hot and smelled of body odor. Pam probably did too. She threw the ten dollars at the driver and jumped out of the car the moment it pulled to a stop. She had four minutes to make it through reception, up the elevator, and down the hallway to Gerald’s office. He hated people to be late for his meetings, though he invariably made them wait for him. She dashed through the lobby and to the elevator as the doors slid open. Chris from marketing and an older woman Pam didn’t know stepped out. “Congratulations,” Chris said as Pam pushed by them. She paid no attention.
She punched a button to get her upstairs. Just before the elevator doors closed three secretaries stepped into the car, and of course, they all punched different floors. Pam tapped her foot with impatience. The secretaries were eating frozen yogurts and talking a mile a minute. When the the first one got out, she actually held the door open to finish her stupid comment. “Give it up,” Pam barked and pushed the “door close” button. The two others fell silent and looked at each other, but Pam didn’t give a shit. Finally, she got to her floor, and as she was stepping out of the elevator, Dickie Pointer stepped in. “Congratulations,” he said, and the doors slid closed. Pam began to walk as fast as she could past the receptionist desk.
“Congratulations, Miss Mantiss,” the black woman said, but Pam kept walking. It wasn’t until she rounded the corner by Heather’s desk that Heather stood up and said the same thing. Pam, already late for Gerald, stopped. Then Emma Ashton came out of her office, holding her hand out as if to shake Pam’s.
“Congratulations,” Emma said.
“What? What?” was all she snapped.
“You’ve been nominated for Editor of the Year,” Emma told her.
65
It’s those damn critics again.
—Irwin Shaw
Emma looked around at the empty tables surrounding them at Zöe, the huge SoHo restaurant. Eight o’clock was early for dinner in SoHo. Emma knew that within an hour or so every table would be filled, and the noise in the high-ceilinged, tile-floored restaurant would be overwhelming. In SoHo people seemed to like noisy spots. Perhaps it made them feel like they were in the middle of something happening. And they were. Dan Hedaya, the dark, intense actor from Nixon and First Wives Club, was at a table to her right. Elise Atchinson and her young director husband were just behind them. The place was hip, but Emma knew that the din would tire her brother, and she hoped that they could finish the awkward celebratory dinner quickly and be out before the worst of the crowd kicked in.
“Editor of the Year!” Alex picked up her glass of wine by its long stem and laughed.
“That takes the biscuit,” Camilla agreed.
“She means the cake,” Frederick said.
“No, wouldn’t I say ‘cookie’? That takes the cookie?”
Frederick shook his head. “Biscuits are cookies, but the expression here is ‘That takes the cake.’”
“Excuse me for interrupting this transatlantic summit, but for what, exactly, did Pam Mantiss receive this nomination?” Alex asked.
Emma shrugged. “Oh, you know how political the association is. Pam’s been on their steering committee for years. She’s been pushing for it like crazy—you know, campaigning without campaigning, like a cardinal for the papacy.”
“Will they send up a puff of white smoke if she’s elected?” Frederick asked.
“Black, I’m sure,” Emma joked. “She’s not well liked. She’s expected to be nominated almost as often as Susan Lucci for an Emmy; she finally campaigned for the thing and this time she may finally manage to bag it.”
Alex laughed and raised her glass. “To Pam Mantiss, the Susan Lucci of publishing,” she said, and Frederick and Emma laughed.
Camilla wrinkled her brow. “I’m afraid I don’t quite see it,” she said. So Emma explained about All My Children and the Emmy Awards. Camilla nodded. “Rather like Tony Warren’s brilliant creation Coronation Street, she said, “although I don’t think anyone in the U.K. ever tried to give any of them awards. But the queen watches regularly.” Camilla paused. “I felt she was quite mad actually. Not the queen,” she hastened to explain. “Pam seemed mad.”
“Oh, she’s always mad about something,” Emma agreed.
“Let me translate again,” Frederick said indulgently. “Camilla was just speaking English. She didn’t mean angry. She meant crazy. You know, like the Mad Hatter.”
“Oh, she’s that, too,” Emma agreed.
“It’s Emma who ought to be mad—I mean angry,” Alex said. She looked at Emma directly for the first time that evening. “You’ve done all of her editorial work for years. And what’s she getting the most buzz on now? The Duplicity of Men, which you found.”
Emma shrugged. There was a silence. Just as it became awkward, Alex turned to Camilla and asked how her apartment hunting was going. Emma was surprised: She’d thought that Camilla was comfortably ensconced in Frederick’s place. Had Camilla and Frederick had a fight, just as she and Alex had?
Well, it hadn’t been a fight, exactly. Emma had finally heard from Alex after days of silence and had told her how disturbed she was by the way Alex had handled Camilla. She accused Alex of disloyalty, if not directly, then by implication. And Alex had become very defensive. “Look, business is business,” she’d said. “It’s a question of ethics. I have to tell my clients all their options. There are enough sleazebags in the business who don’t.”
Emma had been hurt by Alex’s attitude—as if she were accusing Emma of unethical behavior. Alex’s ethics hadn’t seemed so visible when she’d benefited from Emma’s contacts. Emma had been so pained by Alex’s attack that she didn’t raise any of her other doubts—why she hadn’t heard from Alex in two weeks and the feeling she had that once she had been useful in sending over Opal O’Neal and Camilla, she might be dispensable. Alex should have called her, should have apologized, should have pursued her and would have, if she cared. Emma didn’t argue when hurt. Certainly now Alex had cooled, and this “celebratory” dinner they were having was not going as well as it should. Her brother also seemed distant, and he and Camilla seemed estranged. The conversation seemed to flow smoothly only between Camilla and Alex.
Alex was praising and complimenting Camilla on everything from her haircut to the first chapter of her new book. Was she sincere, or was she doing it to antagonize Emma? The thought occurred to her that Alex might be interested in Camilla as more than a client. Emma pushed the thought out of her mind as unworthy, even paranoid, and tried to think of something to interject. “Well, the good news is we really need your book, and they’re actually talking about moving you up to the fall list. Quite unusual since we don’t even have a signed contract! Pam thinks your book doesn’t need any line ed
iting—she’s putting it right into copy-editing.”
“Well, that sounds promising,” Frederick said.
Alex put down her wineglass and sat up straight. “Wait a minute,” she interjected. “Why is that? Is Pam too damn lazy to do a careful edit?” Alex turned to Camilla. “The book is good, but it could be tightened just a little bit. I’m thinking particularly of chapter three and maybe the last chapter.”
Camilla nodded, then shrugged. “I don’t know. What do you think, Emma?”
“Why is she coming out on the fall list?” Alex demanded of Emma. “I thought it wasn’t scheduled until spring of next year? What’s the rush? She’ll be buried.” Alex turned to Frederick and Camilla. “All the big books come out in the fall—it’s the busiest time of the year. It’ll be much harder to get you reviewed or to get publicity, or even shelf space in the bookstores.” She turned back to Emma. “Why the hurry?”
Now it was Emma’s turn to shrug. “Pam likes the book. And maybe it’s filling a gap. You know, we did expect to do the Chad Weston book.”
“Oh, great,” Alex said. “Replace some sleazy, male, misogynistic porn with a sensitive, literary first novel. Someone’s got their brains where they sit.”
Camilla’s face clouded. “Is this bad?” she asked. Emma noticed she asked Alex, not her.
“Well, if they put you in the Weston spot and spend the money advertising you that they were going to spend on Weston, then it’s fine. But somehow I don’t think that’s the plan. Is it, Emma?”
Emma looked up from her drink. Alex knew very well that it wasn’t. She felt attacked, and this time she was sure it wasn’t oversensitivity. Why was Alex being so hostile? Why was she making Emma look bad to her author?
“I thought it was good news!” Emma said. She looked at Camilla. “You’ll get your second check this September instead of having to wait until April. I don’t think it’s bad to have the book come out in the fall. It means it’s important. There are a lot of big books that come out then, but you’re not competing with them anyway. With first novels it’s always a crapshoot.”
The Bestseller Page 45
