Daniel felt his face darken with a blush.
“Wait a minute,” Alf said. “We have plenty of time to sign the rest.” Daniel watched with deepening embarrassment as Alf laid his age-freckled hand on Chris’s arm. “We’re happy to sign them.”
“No, we’re not,” Daniel told them all, and laid down his pen.
93
Never look on the bright side; the glare is blinding.
—Florence King
There was a knock at her door, and Camilla looked up from her manuscript. She hoped it wasn’t Will. Since she had been interviewed by People, he had been peevish—almost as if he was hurt. Camilla could only suppose that Will was either jealous of that silly article or felt that she was about to abandon him along with her status as a noncommercial penniless author. Not that it was likely—Davis & Dash still wasn’t returning her calls. The knock came again. This silliness was beneath Will. Camilla went to the door. To be careful she looked through the peephole and was surprised to see a uniformed face topped by a cap. “Who is it?” she asked.
“It’s Bobby. Frederick Ashton’s driver.”
Camilla opened the door. She said hello before she saw the roses—dozens and dozens, maybe hundreds of roses—some bunched under Bobby’s long arms, others piled in cellophane at his feet, and the rest stacked along the staircase. “Oh, my goodness,” she said. “What—”
“Where shall I put them?” Bobby asked with a grin.
“I have no idea,” Camilla told him. She walked into her tiny kitchenette looking for a vase. It was ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. If she put them in her garbage pail, her mop bucket, every one of her drinking glasses, as well as filling the sink, she still couldn’t possibly get them all into water. Bobby kept returning with yet more roses, rather like the sorcerer’s apprentice. They seemed to be every color, from white to the lightest pink blush to a darker pink to an almost magenta. They were magnificent.
“He’s quite mad,” she said. “Your boss is quite mad.”
“Mad about you,” Bobby said with a nod, and Camilla blushed almost as deeply as the roses.
“Oh, I think not.”
“Ha! The two of you ought to have your heads examined.” Bobby brought in yet more flowers.
“Whatever shall I do with them?” Camilla asked. “Beats me.” Bobby shrugged.
“The bath!” Camilla rushed to fill the tub with lukewarm water. When she came out of the bathroom, Will was standing in the doorway.
“Chelsea flower show?” he asked.
“A bloody funeral, more like,” Camilla said. “They’re all going to die if I don’t put them in water.” She began to transfer the roses to the bath. “How did you know I was here?” she asked Bobby.
“You weren’t,” he said. “Not when we came earlier.” Camilla had gone out early for a quick breakfast and the Sunday paper. “We came back.”
“We?” Camilla asked.
“Yeah. Frederick’s downstairs, sitting in the car. He—”
Camilla didn’t wait. She ran down the stairs without a coat, without a thought, to see Frederick. Will yelled something, but she didn’t hear it. The car was parked across the street. Despite the cold, Camilla stepped between a parked van and the truck at the curb and crossed over. Frederick, sitting in the backseat surrounded by still more roses, didn’t see her, but when she knocked on the window he immediately lowered it. “You are totally bonkers,” she said.
“Hello. So nice to see you, too. You’re very welcome for the flowers.”
“Yes. Of course. Thank you, you madman. They’re brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. But you are mad. They must have cost a fortune.”
Frederick nodded somberly. “Yes. Now I’m poor and I’ll have to move to Park Slope. Will you like me better then?”
“Oh, Frederick, I’ve always liked you.” Camilla pushed her face through the opening to kiss him on the cheek. He didn’t see it coming, moved his head, and her lips touched his. His hand rose and held her cheek, and the kiss became serious. Her hands were braced against the side of the car, her back bent at an awkward angle, but the kiss went on and on and she loved it.
At last she pulled back.
“You like me,” Frederick said. “You really like me.” His hand moved down her neck to her shoulder. “God, how can a woman so cold be so hot? You don’t even have a coat on! Get in here before you get sick. I have something to show you.” She opened the door and he moved over, crushing some of the roses beneath him.
“Be careful of the flowers,” she cried.
“I’m only worried about the thorns,” he said as he pulled one stem. He leaned across and closed both the door and the window. Then he put his arm around her. “For medicinal purposes only. You’ve got to be warmed up or you’ll die of pneumonia.” Bobby got into the front seat, increased the heat, and without a word, pulled out onto the street.
“Where are we going?” she asked. She felt better than she had in months. “Am I being kidnapped?”
“Don’t kid me, honey,” Frederick said. “You haven’t been a kid in years. I don’t care what People magazine wrote. ‘The Little Author That Could,’” he mimicked.
Camilla shrugged. “I didn’t write it,” she said apologetically. “Anyroad, I must lock my door and get a coat.”
“All taken care of,” Bobby said, handing her her keys and thrusting her blue jacket over the divider.
“But what’s the rush?” Camilla asked. “Where are we going? And what about these roses? They need to be put in water.”
“You’re a woman with a lot of worries,” Frederick commented.
“I’m a woman with a lot of roses,” Camilla retorted. “Where are we going?”
“Patience, patience,” he counseled. “You are on a need-to-know basis.”
“What?”
“Military term. For security reasons you only need to know what you need to know. No more.”
“What is this, the army?”
Frederick ignored her. “There are a few things you do need to know,” he said. “The first is that I’m going blind.”
“I know that, Frederick,” Camilla said, her voice serious.
Frederick continued to ignore her. “The second is that I love you.”
“I didn’t know that,” she said, and she felt her heart quicken.
“That’s because of the third thing. I’m very proud. And independent.”
“Is that the fourth thing?” Camilla asked in a small voice. “That you’re independent?” She was still thrilled over the second thing—Frederick loved her.
“No,” Frederick told her, “that’s part of the third thing. Those two things go together. The fourth thing is that I’ve never made love to a woman and had it feel the way it did with you.”
“I think I’ll close the privacy panel now, if it’s all right with you,” Bobby interjected from the front seat.
Frederick shrugged. “Have it your way. The man is a nut about his privacy.” He turned to Camilla. “The fifth thing is that even though I’m visually challenged, as we now say, I think I’m worthy of you. It took me a long time to decide that, but you’ll have to decide for yourself whether I’m right or not.”
Camilla sat back. She thought of Craig and how…how she didn’t love him. She looked at Frederick. They had crossed the Williamsburg Bridge and were driving up the FDR, heading to Midtown. The East River was silver outside the limo window. “I don’t know what to say,” she began.
“Wait,” Frederick interrupted. “There’s one more thing you need to know. There’s no question of financial dependency. There’s absolutely no question.”
Camilla felt the color drain out of her face. Was he talking about some kind of salary for her? Or even a contract, that she would not expect any of his money? A prenuptial? Or was he offering her money? Ready to be insulted, Camilla told herself to calm down and not be so quick to rush to judgment. “I don’t know…”
The car turned off at an exit and pulled over to a corner. It w
as Sunday morning in New York, and all was deserted. “Get out,” Frederick said. Bobby was already circling to open the door, and Camilla was completely confused. Was he throwing her out? Had she offended him already?
“What is going on?” she asked aloud.
“Be patient, Little Author That Could.” Frederick stepped out of the car with her and made his way from the curb to the window of the shop. “Take a look,” he told her. She did.
The window of Bookberries was completely filled with copies of A Week in Firenze. “Oh my God!” she said.
Bobby took a pile of cellophane-wrapped roses and put them in front of the bookstore. Camilla stared and stared. “Have you taken it in?” Frederick asked. “Bobby already took photos. Want to get back in the car? We have a few more deliveries to make.” Frederick ushered a reluctant Camilla back into the limo. Their next stop was the Madison Avenue Bookstore. Again they got out of the car and again the window was filled with copies of A Week in Firenze. Camilla was speechless.
“We took the liberty of signing your name to the cards,” Frederick told her. They left another bouquet and drove on to Books & Co., then Burlington Books, and finally made their way across Central Park to the West Side. There they stopped at The Bookstall, which had one window filled with The Duplicity of Men and the other stuffed with A Week in Firenze. At Shakespeare & Company there were only a few window copies. “That’s probably because they’re sold out,” Frederick said cheerfully. “Yesterday it was full.”
“Frederick, is this some kind of a joke? Did you arrange this?”
Frederick laughed. “Drive down Fifth Avenue,” he told Bobby. And in Doubleday, Barnes & Noble, and all the other Fifth Avenue shops Camilla saw her book in huge displays. They left flowers everywhere, and then Frederick opened a bottle of champagne. They drove down to the Village to visit the bookstores there.
“Is it all because of the People article?” Camilla asked in a daze.
“You mean you haven’t seen it?” Frederick asked.
“Seen what? There’s something else?” Camilla asked.
Frederick shook his head. “You are on a need-to-know basis only, but this you do need to know. Didn’t you get the paper this morning? Didn’t Davis & Dash call you?”
“Know what?” Camilla asked again. “I will throttle you in another moment.”
Frederick knocked on the privacy panel. “Bobby, could you please give me the copy of the book review?” He turned to her. “The New York Times put you on the cover,” Frederick explained. “You didn’t know that either? Because that’s the last thing I had to tell you. Number six: You’re rich. You’re a bestselling author. A Week in Firenze is reviewed on the front page of the book review. And it is number three.”
“What? How?”
“People magazine? Word of mouth? The booksellers getting the Times on Thursday? Listen, Camilla; here’s the point. You’re going to be very, very rich. You don’t need me at all. Not that you ever did. But I hope that you want me. I want you. I know that, and I’m not afraid to tell you. I’m just afraid to hear your response.”
“I think I’ll close this privacy panel again now,” Bobby told them.
“Camilla, are you in love with this guy you work with? If you are, I want you to know that I blew it. If you did care about me, I know that I blew it. But it wasn’t a lack of feeling for you. It was stupidity, pride, and fear. Are you in love?”
Camilla felt as if she couldn’t breathe, but oddly, it was a wonderful feeling. “I am in love, Frederick.” But she couldn’t bear, even for the moment, to see the disappointment that crossed his face. “With you, Frederick. Since Italy. Since before I knew about your vision, and after. And not because I’m a martyr. Or because you’re rich.” She paused. “I think it’s because you’re very, very good in bed.”
Frederick laughed and extended his hand toward hers. She took it and put it against her mouth. “You ain’t seen nothing yet, honey,” he told her.
94
As repressed sadists are supposed to become policemen or butchers, so those with irrational fear of life become publishers.
—Cyril Connolly
“It seems that there are significant discrepancies in the orders and the actual shipping,” said the tall fool from Price Waterhouse. He was black, and he looked a lot like a Doberman pinscher.
“I’m shocked to hear that,” Gerald told him. “Is it more than the typical irregularities of inventory control?” He was perfectly calm. CPA’s were like dogs—they could smell fear on you, but Gerald had none. Whatever Carl had done could be written off to human error or, at the very worst, some misguided loyalty nonsense on the part of one of Carl’s subordinates. He looked at these two pencil counters, careful not to show his scorn. If the tall black one looked like a Doberman, the short, thin, white one looked like a terrier. He would just pat them on their heads and send them on their way. With the Trawley/Mantiss scandal breaking, the poor showing of Susann Baker Edmonds, the incredible returns expected on In Full Knowledge, and the earlier flap over the Chad Weston book, the last thing he needed was deeper inquiries into their record keeping. He was already on thin ice. As long as Carl kept his cool there was absolutely no problem.
“Have you discussed your concerns with Carl Pollenski? I’m really not as computer-literate as I should be. He’s in charge of all that.”
“I’m afraid that Mr. Pollenski is part of the problem, Mr. Davis.”
“Well,” Gerald said smoothly, “I had hoped he was a competent man. He’s only been here for a year or two, but he came with the best recommendations.”
The little terrier spoke for the first time. “Mr. Davis, do you know that A Week in Firenze is about to make the New York Times bestseller list?”
“What?” Gerald felt himself grow pale and lightheaded as the blood drained from his face. Was the stupid little book selling that well? How many sales had he and Carl reassigned to Twice in the Papers? How in the world could it get on the list? Gerald attempted a smile. “What good news. We’ve been praying for another bestseller. I guess our prayers have been answered.”
The Doberman shook his head. “Something is wrong, Mr. Davis. By your records you’ve only sold and printed thirty thousand copies. But it must be at least three times that.”
Gerald shrugged. “Nobody understands the weighting of the Times list,” he said. “It’s a science, an art form, or something. If it’s a literary book, it has to sell far fewer copies to make the list than a commercial book does.” He was talking too much. He stopped and shrugged. “Well, I’m sure you’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“I think we have,” the terrier told him. “But we’re reporting our findings to Mr. Morton. Carl Pollenski has made a statement.”
95
And we meet, with champagne and a chicken, at last.
—Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
“Oh, Mother, I’d love to.”
Susann looked across the table at Kim’s face. Her daughter had changed. Susann wasn’t sure if it was the modest success of Kim’s book or the process of writing it. But somehow her daughter seemed calmer, more accepting, yet optimistic. “I’m returning the Davis & Dash advance, and I have the co-op up for sale. And I’ve already had a few nibbles. Should we plan for a May embarkation?”
“Now, there’s a good word,” Kim said with a smile. “And one you don’t get to use much in conversation, unless of course you’re discussing an around-the-world cruise with your author mother.”
“I do think it will be the perfect way to write: spend the morning with our manuscripts and then in the afternoon we come to a port and sightsee.”
“And shop,” Kim said, laughing. “Oh, Mother, it really sounds wonderful. It’s an absolutely great idea. Just the two of us.”
Susann paused. “Well, not exactly. I did want to invite someone else.”
Kim’s face darkened and for a moment she looked like the old Kim—resentful, angry, and jealous. Not that Kim didn’t have every right to feel
those things, Susann reminded herself. I squandered too much of the time that belonged to my daughter on my writing and undeserving men.
“It’s not Alf.” Susann assured her daughter. “I want to take Edith.”
“Edith! Oh, how wonderful.”
“I thought so, too,” Susann said.
96
Nothing beats a good book.
—Nunzio Nappi
Opal was dreaming of fish. One of them was also Terry. Opal watched the fan of a speckled fish tail. She herself was a fish, but once she realized that she became confused. Was she, or was she drowning? Then the telephone rang and Opal was pulled from the dream.
She must have dozed off. She reached for the phone beside her elbow. The chair was not a good one for sleeping, and her neck hurt. She put the phone to her ear and winced as it compressed her stiff neck.
“Hello.”
“Mrs. O’Neal?” It was Emma Ashton.
“Yes, Emma,” Opal confirmed. “What is it?”
“Mrs. O’Neal, your daughter has just been awarded the Tagiter.”
97
Editing can, and should be, not only a life-enhancing profession but also a liberal education in itself…
—M. Lincoln Schuster
Emma was sorting through her piles of reading. She had them laid out on the floor of her apartment, and the place was an absolute mess. Emma got through the long weekends by doing her reading—she was actually almost all caught up. She smiled to herself grimly. What time is it when an editor is all caught up with her reading? Time for an editor to get a life.
There were a few memos and trade magazines left to go through. Emma didn’t mind—it was actually a pleasure to read Publishers Weekly with enough leisure to enjoy it. This was actually the current issue—sometimes she didn’t get to look at them until they were two or three weeks old. Emma went to her couch and settled down among the sofa pillows. She read Judy Quinn’s “Hot Deals” column and Paul Nathan’s “Rights” column. Alex was mentioned there—she had sold foreign rights for The Duplicity of Men to thirteen countries already. Emma had to smile. Alex was a hustler, no doubt about it.
The Bestseller Page 59
