The Bestseller

by Olivia Goldsmith

  Mrs. Perkins nodded. “Mr. Morton and—”

  But Gerald turned and almost ran to his sanctum. He opened the door and was shocked to see David Morton sitting in his chair at his desk, with another man beside him. A third man, his back turned toward Gerald, was in one of the low chairs in front of his desk. How dare they! Gerald was in a rage but tried to keep calm. In the corporate wars he had learned that anger was best kept under control. Cunning, patience, and ruthlessness were required, not explosions of childish temper.

  “Gerald, this isn’t going to be pleasant, so I’d like to make it brief,” David Morton said. “I have your resignation here. I’d like you to sign it.”

  “Are you insane?” Gerald asked.

  “Sign it, son,” his father’s voice said. Gerald walked to his desk and faced Senior, sitting in the low armchair.

  “I’m not signing anything,” Gerald said. What the hell was his father doing here? What did Senior have to do with any of this?

  “We’ll press charges if you don’t,” David Morton said. “We’ll call the SEC. We don’t know how long you’ve been pulling the switcheroo on your book sales, or how much you knew about the Trawley business, or a lot of other things, but we certainly have enough to get you jailed.”

  “Jailed?”

  “This is a publicly held company, Gerald,” Morton said.

  “Sign the paper, son.”

  It was unbelivable. Gerald tried to take it all in. “But you can’t want me to resign,” Gerald said nervously to his father. “You may not have agreed with all of my decisions, but this is Davis & Dash. I’m the one with all the contacts in the business. I’m the one who brings in the big authors.”

  “Like Susann Baker Edmonds?” Morton asked with a sneer.

  Gerald saw his father sigh and shift in the chair as if he were in physical pain. “I didn’t want to have to say this in front of a stranger, Gerald, but I’m deeply disappointed in you. I don’t understand why you’ve done what you’ve done, and I don’t excuse it. I hold you responsible for your uncle’s death and the shameful publicity blitz that surrounded it, and now I’m shocked to find that you’ve been dishonest as well. This gentleman from Price Waterhouse has explained the whole ugly scenario.”

  “Carl Pollenski is singing like a diva,” David Morton drawled. Gerald’s desperation became panic.

  “Give me a little time,” he said. “There’s no one else to run the company. Let me do it until you find someone else. I’ll help with the transition.”

  “I’ll do that, son,” Senior said. “It’s the least we can do for the shareholders.”

  “But what am I supposed to do?” Gerald asked.

  “Sign the paper and then walk away,” David Morton told him.

  102

  It is important for an editor in chief to remain calm in what can be difficult circumstances…

  —Betty A. Prashker

  The Editor of the Year sat in the tiny space between the bottom of her office bookshelves and the small refrigerator. Despite her ballooning weight, Pam had managed to insert herself into this corner because it seemed to her that only here could she feel even a modicum of safety. The floor was littered with empty Snapple bottles. They had sustained her through the siege outside her office. She didn’t want to think about what would happen when she ran out of Snapple, but that wouldn’t happen for a long time—there was at least a case of doctored iced tea in the fridge.

  Because Pam was not leaving her office, not even to pee. She knew that if she did, her nightmare would come true—she’d be locked out of the corner office it had taken her twenty years to achieve, and she’d have no place, no place at all, to go.

  Littering her office floor were red-circled printouts, copies of torn-up trade magazines, and shredded newspapers. Pam didn’t like the news in any of them. The Chad Weston book was number two on the New York Times list, the only bestseller—aside from Trawley—she’d selected that season. And it was earning money hand over fist for the fucks at Peterson.

  Worse was the absolute collapse of Susann Baker Edmonds’s book. Pam had warned Gerald that the woman was on the decline, but Pam was the one who was living day-to-day with the results of that corporate acquisition. Despite an initial sales surge from the advertising and tour, the book had risen only to the high teens and then, in a week or two, disappeared off sales radar completely. Gone with the wind.

  Gone with the Wind. Now there was a book, thought Pam as she picked up another Snapple bottle. She once read that there were more than fifty fully developed characters in Margaret Mitchell’s pulp masterpiece. As a girl, she had read—no, devoured—it and had identified with Scarlett so completely that she’d asked to use it as her confirmation name, much to the priest’s dismay. She only remembered now that Scarlett had wound up loveless and defeated. When she was a girl, Pam had always believed that Scarlett would regroup, would find Rhett and convince him that tomorrow was another day.

  It was only now, crouched in the corner beside the refrigerator, that it occurred to Pam that Scarlett had made too many fatal mistakes—she would not rise from the ashes but decline into lonely middle age. Tears for Scarlett, and herself, flooded Pam’s eyes.

  The phone rang, but Pam didn’t move. It could only be more bad news. She had already been summoned to a meeting in Gerald’s office, a meeting she did not choose to attend. She wasn’t going to let that bastard fire her again. Not after all these years. Her secretary had been banging on the door at regular intervals, but Pam wasn’t moving. The phone stopped, and she smiled, taking another swig from her bottle. Enjoy those calls now, she told herself bitterly. Your phone isn’t going to ring for a long time, girlfriend.

  Pam’s legs were cramping, and she shifted her weight. She could understand the Susann debacle, and the Chad Weston backlash. She had even expected the failure of Gerald’s book. What she couldn’t understand was In Full Knowledge. All the signs of success had been there—the early buzz, the movie sale, the current-events tie-in. The book was even well written, not that that accounted for much in today’s market. In Full Knowledge hadn’t just failed, it had bombed, and she was left holding the bag. She appeared to have wasted hundreds of thousands in promotion—promotion of a book she’d bought cheaply and whose author she was known to be sleeping with. Though her excuse was she had saved all of the money up front, because of the deal she had worked out with Alf Byron, it looked to David Morton and his minions like she had simply pushed her lover’s book. Unprofessional and immoral. How could she tell David that the book would have cost them a million dollars if it had gone up for auction? That she had worked a covert deal with Alf? Preying Mantiss had struck again. But this time she’d fucked herself. Even if she got David to believe her, which she doubted, she’d look like a whore. And Alf Byron would never back her up. So she was left with no defense for the expensive Edmonds book campaign, either.

  Now, as she rocked back and forth on the floor, she had two very serious problems—well, three. First was that Gerald knew she had betrayed him to David and she’d lost Gerald as a protector. The second was that David Morton was no doubt personally hurt, and she didn’t look as pristine as she had. Third, she simply had to pee, and she couldn’t leave her office to do it.

  There was more pounding on her door. Not all the office doors at Davis & Dash locked, but when Gerald had given her a budget to redecorate, that was one of the first things she’d installed. “Pam, you have to unlock this.” It was Dickie Pointer’s voice.

  “Fuck you, Dickie!” she yelled. He’d be happy to see her go down in flames. She took another swig from her Snapple bottle. Going down in flames reminded her of a filthy Sophie Tucker joke about Cointreau and cunnilingus. Pam laughed out loud. She actually felt very comfortable, except for the terrible pressure her bladder was exerting.

  Everything would have held together if it wasn’t for that little fuck, Stewart. If he hadn’t called Edina Trawley herself, Pam could have managed everything. But, like living dominoes,
Stewart had called Edina, Edina had called David Morton, David Morton had called Gerald (and probably the newspapers as well). Pam remembered the Times publishing column by Doreen Carvajal.

  Davis & Dash Editor in Flap

  Insiders at Davis & Dash say that Pam Mantiss, editor in chief well known for her commercial-fiction instinct, has lost a writer. While house jumping isn’t new, house jumping by dead authors is a twist. But the estate of Peet Trawley, the late bestselling author of…

  Pam hated their hypocritical, holier-than-thou attitude. Like everybody didn’t ghostwrite everybody’s books. So she was an editor and a ghostwriter who employed a ghostwriter. Big fucking deal! Margaret Truman didn’t even read the books she turned out, and Ivana Trump probably couldn’t read her own.

  Pam realized she was very, very drunk, but she didn’t care. The phone began ringing again, but Editor of the Year wasn’t going to answer. She wasn’t going to answer the door either, no matter how hard they banged on it. What she was going to do was take a piss—she had to piss like a racehorse. Pam reached over for one of her empty Snapple bottles, and without leaving her tight corner, she pulled up her skirt, pulled off her panties, and crouched over the bottle.

  The release felt wonderful, and for a moment Pam felt nothing but good as she voided her bladder. But after only a few seconds she realized that the bottle was almost filled and she couldn’t stop. It overflowed, and hot urine ran down the side of it and over her hands onto the carpet. Shit! Or, she wondered drunkenly, should she more accurately say piss? She laughed, spilling some more urine. Goddamn it! Now she’d have to sit in the wet spot. Well, she’d been doing that with men all her life!

  Crouching on her toes, her skirt around her waist, the Snapple bottle under her, Pam reached for the New York Times column. She’d wipe herself with it. That was what you did with that kind of journalism. Yellow journalism, she thought, and laughed again as the urine turned the page sallow. What’s black and white and yellow all over? She was very drunk, she realized again. It was only when the door flew open, and Dickie, followed by two security guards, Pam’s secretary, and a host of others pushed into the room that Pam, in her half-naked crouch, realized she was not nearly drunk enough.

  103

  Failure feels bad.

  —Nan Robinson

  Alf simply couldn’t believe it: In Full Knowledge had not just disappointed, it had bombed. He stared at the current issue of Publishers Weekly. In the featured article, “Unhappy Returns of the Season,” In Full Knowledge was listed at the top. He knew he’d be seeing it on remainder tables for years to come. He wasn’t sure what exactly had gone wrong, but it had gone wrong drastically.

  Among this year’s major disappointments was the much touted but little-bought In Full Knowledge. This first novel was optioned by International Studios while still in manuscript, and the ABA buzz was that it would be the Big Fall Book. Believing it a new Horse Whisperer, Davis & Dash ordered a mammoth first printing of 250,000 copies. But it fizzled…

  Shit! Alf threw down the magazine and got up from his desk. Pam Mantiss wouldn’t return his calls, much less discuss a second book contract for the professor, and he knew that there would be no interest from any other publisher after the widely publicized failure. What did Michael Cimino do after Heaven’s Gate? No. More importantly, what did his agent do?

  Thinking of Hollywood, Alf shuddered at the memory of the enraged call he’d gotten from April Irons, who’d told him he was, “a stupid old putz,” among other unkind things. There would be no movie, that was for sure. Now Alf wished he hadn’t negotiated quite so hard with her, but it was too late. Another burned bridge.

  It was too late for almost everything. He looked ridiculous to the industry and even to himself. Worst of all, Irons’s comment stuck in his mind. He was a stupid old putz. He’d been fooling himself. He had only one client—he’d always had only one client who was worth anything—and that was Susann. Her latest book hadn’t done well, but it hadn’t been the utter debacle Jude Daniel’s had been. Susann still had her contract, and Alf felt sure he could help her to come back. Maybe she wouldn’t be as big as she had been, but if once again he focused his attention only on her, he could make sure they both had plenty of money for years to come.

  He’d been a fool. It had been just a silly mistake after all these years. Susann would understand. In fact, there was probably no need for apology.

  Alf buzzed his secretary. “Call the florist,” he told her. “I want a box of roses to bring with me tonight.”

  “How many?” his secretary asked. “What color?”

  “Red, and make it two dozen.” Alf stopped and considered. Roses were expensive. “No,” he said, “make it a dozen and a half.”

  “Alf is downstairs,” Edith said and raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t know he was coming over.”

  Susann looked up from her sorting. They were going through the bookshelves, getting ready to pack. The apartment had sold quickly—it did have a stupendous view—and they needed to be out by the end of the month. Susann knew she was disheveled, and she hadn’t checked her makeup since this morning. “I need lipstick,” she said and stood up.

  Edith smiled from across the room. “I’ll entertain him until you’re ready,” she said in a girlish voice, then laughed. She sat down in the large winged chair and picked up her knitting. “Can I watch?” she said. “I’ll feel like Madame Defarge.”

  Susann walked through her bedroom to the bath. She switched on the light and looked at herself in a mirror. She was pale, and the puffiness under her eyes was more visible than ever. But it wasn’t a bad face, not a bad face at all.

  She looked into her own eyes, ignoring the lines and the hooded lids. “You’re fifty-eight years old,” she said aloud. “You’ve got a twenty-nine-year-old daughter. You’ve been married three times, and you’ve been Alf’s mistress for almost fifteen years. Can you face this? There won’t be any more men. Anyway, it’s not likely.” She watched as the eyes in the mirror filled with tears. Something hurt her, in her chest and throat. She stood there, watching her reflection and feeling the pain.

  “Silly bitch,” she said. “It’s not like they were anything but trouble.” Quickly—well, as quickly as she could with her hands—she put on some lipstick and dusted her cheeks with blush.

  When she joined Edith in the living room, Alf was ensconced in his chair, and a bunch of red roses was placed in one of her Lalique vases. “Flowers,” Susann said. “How nice.”

  “A dozen and a half,” Edith said with wicked emphasis.

  Susann almost smiled. Alf would never change. It had been so long, and he still didn’t remember that she hated red roses. Well, perhaps she had never told him. She took a seat on the sofa, almost across from him. “This is a surprise. To what do I owe the honor?”

  Alf glanced over at Edith, then shot a meaningful glance at Susann. She ignored it. Whatever he was going to say he was going to say in front of both of them. “Susann, I…” he paused. “What are you doing with the books?” he asked.

  “Packing them up,” Susann said calmly.

  “How come?”

  “Because we don’t think the new owners of the apartment want a library exclusively made up of various editions of my novels.”

  “The new owners?” Alf paused. “Are you putting the apartment up for sale?”

  “No,” Susann said, “I’ve already sold it.”

  Alf jumped up from his chair. “Sold it?” he said. “Are you going to live in France?”

  Susann shook her head. “Selling that too,” she said. “Though it may take a little longer.”

  “I don’t understand,” Alf said.

  “I’m sure you don’t,” Susann agreed calmly.

  He ran his fingers through his white mane—he still had lovely hair. But Susann watched as his face got red. She almost told him to be careful, to remember his blood pressure, and to take another pill, but that wasn’t her job anymore. Alf looked at Edith, who was calml
y watching while she clicked away at her needles. “Susann, can we talk alone?” he asked.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Susann said sweetly. “I’ve been doing so much alone already. I only had Edith to help me.” Susann smiled at Edith, who didn’t even look up. “I had to deal with my editor all alone, I even had to do my book signings all alone, I had to break down in the desert all alone.” She looked at Alf. “Not actually alone, though,” she said. “I was with Edith, and I’m with Edith now. So I wasn’t alone. Alf, I was without you, though. And at first I didn’t like it. Then I got used to it. And now, Alf, I really enjoy it. I really enjoy being without you.”

  Alf stood up and ran his fingers through his hair once again, looking down past his belly to his Belgian loafers, then at her. Too bad he’d never practiced a best smile, Susann thought. He could have used it now instead of the ghastly grin he’d plastered on his face.

  “Susann, I know you might be a little angry with me,” he said. There was a noise that sounded like a snort from Edith’s direction. Alf paused, looked at her blackly, and then went on. “I know how you feel.”

  “I doubt it, Alf,” Susann told him. “I don’t think you’ve thought about how I feel in a very long time.” She looked over at the flowers. “If you did, you’d know I hate red roses. If you did, you would have insisted that I be invited to your son’s wedding. If you did, you never would have made me leave Imogen and put me in the hands of that maniac, that insect, Pam Mantiss.” She paused, letting it sink in. “If you knew how I felt, Alf, you wouldn’t have sent me around the country, dragging myself from place to place, without coming with me. And if you knew how I felt, Alf, you certainly wouldn’t have broken your promise to show up in San Francisco and finish the tour with me. Alf, we’re finished. It’s all over.”

  Alf sat down heavily, not in his chair, but on the sofa. He let his hands fall between his knees. “I’ve been very blind,” he said. And for a moment, just out of habit, Susann felt sorry for him. He wasn’t a young man. He wasn’t even middle-aged. Alf Byron had gotten truly old, and in a way, she felt compassion for him. Then he lifted his still magnificent head and looked at her. “This doesn’t mean I won’t be your agent anymore, does it?”