The Bestseller

by Olivia Goldsmith

  “But what about Alf?” Susann asked.

  “I say fire the bastard. But then, what do I know?”

  The telephone rang. Susann knew better than to expect it might be anyone from Davis & Dash, but she still hoped. She managed to sit up and hold out her twisted fist. “Who is it?” she asked Edith.

  “It’s your daughter,” Edith told her innocently.

  90

  Opinions cannot survive if one has no chance to fight for them.

  —Thomas Mann

  Opal’s life had changed more than she would have liked in the last few weeks. The letter campaign to the independent bookstores had finally worked, spawning not only more book orders but also dozens of phone calls from the bookstores asking for Opal to appear. It was the Tagiter nomination, of course, that had done it. That and the New York Times rave. But Opal wanted to deal with the stores that had shown an interest before all of this happened. So she wrote back to Liberties in Boca Raton, Vivien Jennings at Rainy Day, and Dwight Currie and Michael Kohlman at Misty Valley Books. She thought that they would do best by Terry’s book.

  “It’s the most ridiculous thing in the world,” Opal said to Roberta as she tried to do something with her hair. “I’m not a sideshow. Why would anyone want me to sign my daughter’s book?”

  “Oh, Opal, it’s just the way people are. Look at Pat Conroy. He tours with his father—the one he wrote The Great Santini about. And the father signs the books.”

  “Totally shameless,” Opal snapped. “Have they no dignity?” She shook her head. “I’m not making a spectacle of myself.”

  “Look, the Elle Halle show is certainly not a sideshow. People are begging to be on it.”

  “People! People? People are having unsafe sex. People are destroying the ozone layer. People are using unique with a modifier. That doesn’t mean it’s all right.”

  Roberta laughed. “Opal, you’re unique with a modifier.”

  They were waiting for Wendy Brennon and Emma Ashton, who would be conveying them by limo over to the Elle Halle studio. Pam Mantiss, of course, had tried to horn in, but Opal had refused to even consider an appearance with Pam Mantiss there. “I won’t cry,” Opal said now to Roberta. “I don’t care if the woman brings out Terry’s baby pictures. I am not going to weep on television.”

  “Oh, Opal, it’s not the worst thing in the world,” Roberta said. “Elle Halle just wants to make good television.”

  “Good television! An oxymoron. Isn’t Elle Halle the one who asked Michael Jackson and his wife if they have sexual intercourse?”

  “I think that was Diane Sawyer.”

  “Well, shame on her, then. Good television indeed! This is about books, not gossip or show business.”

  “I’m afraid you’re wrong, Opal. The book business has become mostly gossip and show business, at least for the successful.” The buzzer rang, and the two women left the mirror. Roberta spoke over the intercom. “The limousine is here,” she said. “Come along, my reluctant media star.”

  The time on camera went very quickly. Elle Halle, perfectly dressed, perfectly coiffed, and perfectly cool, had asked the usual questions. Terry’s suicide, how Opal felt about getting the call from the police (“How would you feel?”), how Opal had found the manuscript (“I didn’t find it. It was sent to me.”), how did Davis & Dash get it (“From the wonderful Emma Ashton.”). At first Ms. Halle seemed taken aback by Opal’s abrupt, no-nonsense answers, but after a little while Opal could see that the woman, intelligent as she was, figured a way to use Opal’s style as a kind of humorous understatement.

  Elle Halle told the story of the rejections, showed some of the rejection letters on the monitor, and then asked Opal what she thought of the distinguished list of editors who had turned down Terry’s book. “A confederacy of dunces,” Opal had said.

  “Well, either they are or the Tagiter committee is,” Elle laughed.

  Opal shrugged. “One thing I’ve learned about New York publishing,” Opal told her, “is that it’s a lot like what my husband used to say about the used-car business: ‘There is a seat for every ass and an ass for every seat.’”

  Elle had asked about Terry’s father’s desertion, about Terry’s childhood, and about the book itself. “Have you read it?” Opal asked.

  Elle Halle smiled. “From cover to cover,” she said. “Will there be a test?”

  When Opal returned to the green room, Emma, Wendy, and Roberta gave her a round of applause, and that was after the standing ovation from the technical crew. Opal guessed she’d done well. She was pretty tired. It wasn’t every day she was on national TV; she was grateful for that. Elle Halle came back and asked her to sign a copy of Terry’s book, giving Opal an autographed picture of herself in return—“Not that I’d asked for it,” Opal said in the limo on the way home.

  The limousine phone rang. Wendy Brennon took the call, then covered the mouthpiece. “Katie Couric wants you on the Today show,” she said. “What do I tell them?”

  Opal, exhausted, leaned back in her seat. “Can we discuss this tomorrow?” she asked.

  91

  Cool and calm are important, but, paradoxically, so is warmth and energy.

  —Betty A. Prashker

  “Those orders have got to be wrong,” Alex was saying. “Check with your computer department. I see A Week in Firenze everywhere.” Emma shrugged and had to think of what to say.

  “It’s a small book, Alex. It’s a small book, maybe achieving cult status, but just because you see it in bookstores doesn’t mean people are buying it. I guess there’s no sell-through.”

  “Well, call MIS anyway. I’m calling Ingram myself. I’m telling you, the book is being reviewed in a lot of literary journals, and it’s moving. I know it’s moving.” Emma looked at the printout and shrugged again. She was trying to tell herself that Alex’s anger was not directed at her. Alex’s voice softened. “So, how are you?”

  For a moment Emma thought she might keep up a good front. Then, thinking of her conversation with Frederick, she decided to be truthful. “I’m upset here at work,” she said. “I think there are going to be a lot of changes. There are all kinds of rumors.”

  “Hey, it wouldn’t be publishing if there weren’t a dozen rumors a day.”

  “Yeah, but it’s never seemed like this before. The corporate people have come in, and they seem to be combing the place. I don’t know what they’re looking for, but GOD is frayed around the edges.”

  “You would be too if your novel was taking a dump, your highly touted new writer’s book has gone south, you were forced to dump Chad Weston and his book zoomed, while the only thing you got that’s selling was written by a newly dead author.”

  “I don’t think it was written by a newly dead author,” Emma murmured.

  “Yeah, yeah. Pam Mantiss probably rewrote most of it.”

  “I don’t think so,” Emma said. And, despite her better judgment she told Alex about the conversation she had overheard.

  Alex listened breathlessly. “So you’re telling me that not only does Peet’s ghost have a ghost, but that Pam, who is a ghost, has a ghost too?” Alex hummed a fragment of a spooky-sounding tune. Then she began to intone, “The literary dead are restless in their tombs. Skeletal fingers click upon an insubstantial word processor. What haunts these haunts, keeping them from their eternal rest?”

  “They haven’t earned out their advance,” Emma said, finishing the gag.

  “So who is this guy?”

  “He’s a midlist author. Stewart something. Stewart Campbell. You know, I remember seeing him mesmerized by the Peet Trawley display at the ABA. I thought the guy was some kind of weirdo fan.”

  “Sounds like a weirdo hack to me. I wonder what he got paid to write the country’s number-one bestselling book?”

  “There was a rumor that Pam was getting a quarter of a million.”

  “Hmm,” Alex said. And for a moment the conversation seemed over. But Emma desperately wanted to continue the contact
.

  “Isn’t it great about Duplicity?” she asked Alex.

  “I’ll say. I’ve already received fourteen inquiries about foreign rights. Would you believe one is from Croatia? You’d think they’d have more important things to do.”

  “That will make Opal happy.” She told Alex about the taping of the Elle Halle show and how touched she’d been by Opal’s compliment.

  “Jesus, I hope it doesn’t air. They better cut that out.”

  Emma scowled. Was Alex jealous? It was such an unkind thing to say. “Why?” she asked. “Don’t you think it’s true?”

  “Of course, but that’s has nothing to do with it. Don’t you ever think politically, Emma? How is Pam going to feel if she hears Mrs. O’Neal say that after she’s taking all the credit.”

  “Oh, yeah. Right,” she said. “That’s why I need you. I forget things like that. Listen, Alex, do you think we could—”

  “Yeah, seven-thirty at Le Petit Café. Be there or be square.”

  Emma smiled.

  But Emma wasn’t smiling an hour later when Mrs. Daniel appeared at her desk. She looked even worse than the last time Emma had seen her; in fact, she hadn’t recognized her. She had called, earlier in the week, and begged for an appointment. She said that neither Pam Mantiss nor Gerald Ochs Davis would take her calls (which certainly didn’t surprise Emma, based on the performance of Jude Daniel’s book and the corporate trouble that Davis & Dash was facing).

  Emma had felt sorry for the woman, and her punishment now would be the endless list of complaints that wives often made to publishers. How their husband’s book hadn’t been advertised enough, how the publicity should have been reorganized, how…But looking at Judith, her long disheveled hair, her weight, her Indian-print skirt and big cardigan top, Emma realized this woman was not going to try to tell her how to do anything. “Sit down,” she said as kindly as she could. “Would you like a danish and coffee?”

  “No,” answered Mrs. Daniel, who remained standing. She wet her already chapped lips with her tongue. “I’ve given it up,” she said. “I’m…” she looked down at the bulge beneath her breasts.

  Emma raised her eyebrows. Mrs. Daniel was fat, and sloppy. “Are you dieting?”

  The woman began to sob. Startled, immobilized, Emma just sat there. “What’s wrong?” she finally asked.

  “Daniel and I are divorcing,” Judith said. “I’m having a baby. I don’t have a job, and I don’t have any money.”

  “Oh, surely Jude won’t leave you right now—”

  “I’m Jude,” the woman said. “And Daniel will leave me. He has left me. And if he hadn’t I would have left him.”

  Emma didn’t have the slightest idea why this stranger had decided to come to her and discuss her marital problems. She liked the young woman, despite the fact that she was clearly unstable. She had a kind of directness that made it appear she was painfully honest. If it was an act, she was a fine actress.

  “How can I help you?” Emma asked gently. “I don’t really know Jude, but if you think it might help—”

  “I’m Jude,” the woman said again. “That’s what I came to tell you. He’s Daniel Gross, and I’m married to him. And we’re getting divorced. I’m Jude Daniel. I wrote In Full Knowledge. I did it myself, chapter by chapter, and it took eighteen months. Daniel said we would share the money and then I could go out and write what I wanted to. He was going to get the book published, but I wrote it.”

  Emma looked at her. The black makeup around her eyes had softened and smeared. The pink lipstick she had applied too quickly had been eaten off most of her lips, but some remained on her teeth. She looked mad—in both senses of the word.

  “Sit down,” Emma offered. “Sit down and we’ll talk.”

  There were dozens of deluded people, pathetic souls who truly believed that they had written War and Peace, or Valley of the Dolls, or the latest Anne Tyler. And there were nuisance suits, a fairly large industry in California, of people claiming to have contributed a movie idea, a character for a book, or the idea for a title. Changes in copyright law had cleared most of that up. Emma looked at the unraveling woman who now sat in front of her. There was also the issue of marital property. If this was a marital problem, things became fuzzy—as they did over custody. Emma reminded herself that in speaking to this woman she was putting Davis & Dash in jeopardy. She should immediately call Jim Meyer in legal. But thinking about Meyer’s fish-eyed stare made Emma feel greater compassion for this truly disturbed woman. What should she do?

  “Would you like a glass of water? Something else to drink?”

  Mrs. Daniel nodded, and Emma buzzed for Heather. As usual, there was no response. Could Emma leave her alone? She decided to take a chance. After all, what could the woman do in her office expect tear up a few books? “I’ll be right back,” Emma said, then left in search of a soft drink.

  The little kitchenette, as so often happened, had already been ransacked, and Emma couldn’t even find clean paper cups. She thought of the little refrigerator in Pam’s office—Pam was away—and though it was strictly forbidden, Emma dashed down the hall and into Pam’s office, threw open the refrigerator door, and removed two Snapples, being sure to rearrange them so that the missing soldiers were less obvious.

  When she got back to her office, her guest had found some paper napkins, had taken a mirror from her purse, and was mopping her face. “I’m sorry,” she said in a calmer voice. “I know you must think I’m crazy.”

  “Not at all,” Emma lied. She handed Mrs. Daniel the Snapple bottle. “Not very civilized, I’m afraid. We don’t have any cups right now.” The woman shrugged as if that were the least of her problems, and Emma figured it was. She had just managed to seat herself when Mrs. Daniel, after taking a swig from the Snapple bottle, spewed Emma’s desk, her bookshelf, the carpet, and Emma herself with her mouthful of iced tea.

  “What are you doing?” she coughed. “I don’t think it’s funny at all. Do you know I’m pregnant? Is this the kind of thing you sophisticated editors do as a little practical joke? Spike the tea?”

  “What are you talking about?” Pregnant, poison? Was the woman delusional as well as paranoid? “It’s just iced tea,” Emma said.

  “The fuck it is.”

  She sounded violent, and Emma was frightened. She had better call security. She handed another napkin to Mrs. Daniel. “I’m so sorry,” she said as calmly as she could, but it came out as a croak. Emma felt her palms go wet as her mouth went dry. She picked up her telephone and tried to smile. “Just one minute,” she said. And again her voice was a dry croak. She dialed the number for security and picked up her own Snapple, popped off the lid, and took a sip.

  God! Emma nearly spit the liquid into the receiver. How much vodka was in there? And how had it gotten there?

  This explained Pam’s obsession with her sacrosanct Snapple. She was drinking. All day. No wonder she guarded the refrigerator. No wonder she could come in sober and be bombed before lunch. What else was Pam doing? What was she doing with Stewart Campbell? What was she up to with Jude Daniel? Emma turned to Mrs. Daniel. “You’re right.” she said. “It is spiked.”

  Emma continued to stare at the woman. As Mrs. Daniel tried to wipe up her skirt, she pressed it against herself and Emma could see the contour of her belly. She was pregnant. And the Snapple had been spiked. Emma continued to stare at her. What else was true? “You’re telling me the truth, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “You believe me?” Mrs. Daniel asked, her voice soft with surprise.

  “I think I do,” Emma said.

  92

  …when the author goes a-roving on that thing known as “the book tour.” These are the dangerous times, and they are part of what is so blithely referred to as “the writing life.”

  —E. Annie Proulx

  Daniel shifted from his right leg to his left and then back again. In front of him, on the long narrow table, there must have been fifty copies of his novel. The Corner Book Sto
re manager had also thoughtfully provided a chair, a pitcher of water, a drinking glass, and a pen. But Daniel didn’t need any of them. Despite the sign in the window and the one beside the table, it appeared that absolutely no one in the city of New York was interested in having him sign a copy of In Full Knowledge. Worse, they weren’t interested in buying it either.

  Daniel couldn’t believe it. Despite the advertising, despite his book tour, despite the interviews and his charm and the push the book had received at the ABA, despite all of that and in the face of Alf Byron’s certainty and Pam Mantiss’s hunch, In Full Knowledge was failing, and Daniel Gross knew that he was failing along with it.

  He shifted to his other leg. “Sign the books,” Alf muttered and elbowed him. “Each one they sign they can’t send back. It counts as a sold book.”

  Mechanically, Daniel picked up the pen and began to sign. But what good would a few dozen book sales make in the sea of volumes that would be returned to Davis & Dash from bookstores all over the country?

  “Sign the books,” Alf Byron hissed again, but at that moment a man approached the table with a copy of In Full Knowledge already in his hand. Thank God. At least there was one reader who wanted a signature, and despite his mortification, Daniel was relieved to oblige.

  “Hi,” the man said. “I’m Lenny Golay.”

  “I’m Jude Daniel,” Daniel told him with what he hoped was a modest smile. “Shall I sign the book ‘To Lenny’?”

  The man laughed. “No, thank you. I’m the owner. Actually, I’d prefer that you didn’t sign any more copies.” He smiled again. “Chris,” he called to another guy. “Could you bring some stickers and help me box this stock?”

  Chris joined them, a roll of “Signed by the Author” medallions in his hand. “Why don’t you let me put them on the books Mr. Daniel has already signed, and then you can bring the rest of these back to the stockroom.”