The Bestseller

by Olivia Goldsmith

  Susann felt her face flush, almost as if she’d been slapped. This was it then. The bottom line to Alf had always been the bottom line. “I’m afraid it does, Alf.”

  He stood up. “Wait a minute,” he said. “I’d like to think we can work out the personal side, over time, but in terms of business you have a contractual obligation…”

  Susann tried to hide her hurt. She would keep this on a professional level, because it was clear to her that she meant more to Alfas a paycheck than as a person. “No, thank you,” she said crisply.

  Alf’s face once again got very red—whether from embarrassment or anger Susann could not tell. But his next words made it clear. “I’ll have to take legal action, Susann. We have a contract. Davis & Dash is instructed to send your checks to me. After I deduct my percentage, I’ll send them on to you, but I am the agent of record.”

  Susann shook her head. “I’m afraid the Davis & Dash deal is going to be terminated. My new attorney is taking care of it.”

  “What?” he asked.

  “Terminated, Alf. I’m returning the advance. It’s one of the reasons I’m selling this apartment.”

  “But…but—”

  “Yes, Alf, one of us is a butt,” Edith said, looking up brightly. “You got that part right.”

  104

  The shelf life of the average trade book is somewhere between milk and yogurt.

  —Calvin Trillin

  Daniel buzzed but got no response. Daniel knocked, and when there was no response he banged on the door with his foot.

  He felt desperate, and he had to get in. He couldn’t stand the idea of another night in a hotel. He hadn’t slept well in weeks. His money was going too fast, and now that his marriage was over he couldn’t go back to the apartment in Fox Run. Anyway, he wanted Pam—he wanted her energy and her body to console him. He wanted comfort, and he wanted her to explain what had gone wrong with the book. He also wanted her to fix it, to fix everything. And then he wanted some athletic sex and a good night’s sleep. What Daniel Gross wanted as he pounded on Pam’s door was for his new life to begin. At last he heard feet padding down the hallway to the door. “Go away.”

  “It’s Daniel!” he shouted before she walked away.

  “Daniel who?”

  Daniel shook his head. He was very tired, tired and confused. “Jude! Jude Daniel,” he remembered to say.

  There was the sound of locks sliding open, and in a moment the door opened. Pam’s blond curls looked matted and wilder than ever, dark at the roots. She was wearing nothing but a man’s stained shirt that barely covered her pendulous breasts.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I’ve come to be with you,” Daniel said plaintively. She looked at him and his two suitcases.

  “Be with me or live with me?” Pam barked. “Anyway, are you out of your mind?”

  She began to close the door. Daniel couldn’t believe it. Was she drunk? High? “Pam, it’s me. Don’t you want to live with me?” She paused and looked him up and down.

  “I don’t even want to know you,” she said. “You’re a bad fuck and a big failure—in my experience always a lethal combination. But believe it or not, you are the smallest of my problems right now, you stupid prick.” As she started to close the door, Daniel stopped her.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “What’s wrong? What’s wrong? That would take too fucking long. Why don’t we talk about what’s right? Nothing. Absofuckin’lutely nothing. Meanwhile, I’ve lost my job, my reputation in the industry, and—” she paused, taking in his rumpled clothes, his red eyes, his air of desperation—“you’re an asshole.”

  Daniel felt his entrails turn to water. What was going on? “I thought you loved me,” he blurted.

  “Yeah, and I thought you wrote that fucking failure of a book. We were both misinformed. So fuck you, Mr. Greenjeans.” She slammed the door, and Daniel, paralyzed, heard the locks slide into place. He stood frozen for a moment. He picked up his bags and started to walk away, realizing he had nowhere to go. He couldn’t go back to the college after his resignation. He wasn’t going back to Judith. He had no friends in New York except Alf Byron, and after their last encounter, he doubted that Alf would even take his calls. He put his bags down. He needed Pam, and she needed him. How had she been fired? And what had people told her about his book? He’d get this business straightened out. He’d explain about Judith, about how the book was really his idea and Judith had merely done the mechanics. He should have told Pam earlier. He’d apologize. He’d apologize and they’d make love and then he’d move in with her and he’d write. He’d write a real bestseller.

  Daniel took off his overcoat and laid it on the floor. He’d sleep here tonight. Tomorrow he’d talk to Pam, and then everything would be all right.

  105

  Nothing succeeds like success.

  —Alexandre Dumas, père

  When Camilla walked into Citron Press, the little hallway that served as a reception area was decorated with balloons and a big banner saying CONGRATULATIONS CAMILLA. “She’s here!” Emily yelled down the hall. Susan, Jimmy O’Brien, and the two college interns began pelting Camilla with confetti. She got her hands up to her face but not before she got a mouthful. It didn’t get really crazy until Craig came out of his office, popped a champagne cork, and began spraying them all. Behind him, Alex Simmons squealed and jumped away.

  “Not on my Armani!” she yelled as she landed a handful of confetti on Camilla’s damp hair.

  “Who’s number one? Who’s number one?” Jimmy began to chant.

  “Who’s number one?” the others joined in and then formed an impromtu conga line that moved down the hall to Craig’s office.

  Camilla was touched to see a cake decorated with her name and a book on top, along with a big candle shaped as a 1. Craig began to pour champagne into flutes. Everyone was chattering, but Craig’s voice rose above the rest. “I don’t know what the hell I’m celebrating for! Citron Press didn’t publish you,” he mumbled as he handed her a glass.

  Alex smiled. “No, but for the right price, perhaps you’ll publish her next one,” she said coolly.

  Everyone laughed, and Craig rose to the bait. “Hey, I’ll even increase her pay.” He smiled across the cake at Camilla. “Three bucks an hour more. Now, you can’t say that’s not fair.”

  “That’s not fair,” Jimmy said. “I’ve been here longer.”

  “Well, when you write a number-one bestseller, I’ll pay you three dollars an hour more, too,” Craig told him in a universal mother voice.

  Susan was about to cut into the cake.

  “Wait, wait! First she has to blow out the candle and make a wish,” Emily said.

  “That’s only on birthdays,” Susan told her.

  While they all argued the point, Camilla stood there, the glass in her hand, remembering she’d come in today to quit. Her guilt was now far exceeding her pleasure at all the fuss. How would she tell these nice people that she was leaving? It was the only fly in her ointment. Last night at Frederick’s she’d actually had trouble sleeping, thinking about it. Camilla knew that friends were hard to find and that Craig and the others had been there when she truly needed them. She knew how Craig felt about her and remembered how kindly he’d taken her rejection. Perhaps she should stay. “To Camilla,” Craig said. “A woman who, incomprehensively, would rather write a number-one bestseller than bear my children.”

  “Good judgment there,” Susan said. “I’ll drink to it.” And they all raised their glasses.

  “Speech, speech,” Emily and Alex demanded. The others chimed in, and Camilla, blushing, drained her glass.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Really. Thank you very much. When I came to New York and only knew two people, you all became my friends.”

  “Even then we knew,” Craig said.

  Camilla couldn’t bear it. Tears sprang to her eyes. “I don’t mean to be ungrateful,” she said. “But…I want t
o spend more time…I can’t go on…”

  Craig started to laugh. “Camilla, are you trying to announce your resignation?” he asked.

  Camilla nodded and felt a tear run down her cheek past her nose. “We’re very disappointed in you. We thought we’d latched on to one of those annoying people who win the lottery and announce that they’re still keeping their job as a legal secretary.”

  “Stop teasing her, Craig,” Susan admonished. “She’s really upset.” Susan patted Camilla on the shoulder, then gave her a hug. “It’s okay, Camilla, we know you’re not going to work here part-time anymore.”

  “No,” Jimmy said. “We figured you’d demand full-time status.”

  “The question is, are we going to publish your next book?” Craig asked.

  “Yes, please,” Camilla said.

  “Whoa! Not so fast,” Alex interrupted. “That is not a legal commitment,” she told Craig. “You can get in line for the auction with everyone else.” Camilla looked around. Apparently, no one was angry with her. Nor did they feel she was being disloyal.

  “Camilla, we want you to leave,” Craig explained. “We want you to finish your new book as fast as you can, then bring it over here, and then we’ll get any editor you want and we’ll turn it right out. In fact,” he said, taking the champagne glass out of her hand, “we want you to go home right now. What are you doing here when you could be home writing another bestseller for Citron Press?” He turned to the group. “It looks like everyone will be paying their rent next year,” Craig said.

  “Let’s drink to that,” Susan added.

  “Hold on a minute,” Alex interjected. “There is no legal—”

  “Oh, relax, Alex,” Camilla said, at last regaining her equilibrium along with her sense of humor.

  Sensing the opening, Craig jumped. “We’ll do everything for your book. And we’ll be so supportive of you. You might have to wait a bit for a large advance, but once the royalties start rolling in—”

  “She needs a major advance, Craig,” Alex said.

  “I’m sure there’s some way to work this out,” Camilla told them, “although it might involve a small Canaletto.” Craig groaned and looked serious for the first time that morning.

  “Not the Canaletto!” he cried. “No, Camilla, not the Canaletto.”

  Camilla merely smiled.

  106

  Stay still, be quiet, and listen to your heart. Then, when it speaks, get up and go where it takes you.

  —Susanna Tamaro

  Emma was definitely moping. Not only that, she wanted to mope, and she was going to keep on moping for as long as she wanted. She couldn’t believe that she’d been fired. After all the work she’d put in, after all she’d done, especially her dedication to, if not affection for, Pam. This had been her reward.

  Since her firing she had spent most of her time lying on the sofa. She’d pulled out the phone and only plugged it in when she’d called out for pizza or Chinese food. The floor was littered with empty take-out cartons, but Emma didn’t care. She couldn’t face anybody’s pity. She didn’t feel like starting at the bottom of the ladder again, and she wasn’t about to report any of this to her mother.

  There was a knock on the door. Emma jumped but didn’t get up. When the knock became a pounding, she simply yelled, “Go away!” When the pounding actually seemed to threaten the hinges, Emma finally got up.

  “Who is it?” she shouted.

  “Open the fucking door, you idiot!” Alex yelled. “You haven’t answered your phone. I thought you were dead in there.”

  Oh, God. She didn’t need this, but the pounding didn’t stop. Cautiously, slowly, Emma opened the door a crack, but Alex pushed right past her.

  “Ah, having a pity party? And you didn’t even invite me. God, this place looks like an opium den.”

  Emma looked at Alex resentfully. She had gotten two important clients from her, and Emma had gotten the ax. It wasn’t fair. “What are you doing here, Alex, gloating?”

  Alex looked at Emma, and Emma could see that she was hurt by the comment. Too bad, she didn’t care. She walked back to the sofa and threw herself on it.

  “Gloating? You’re the one who should be gloating. I get you recognition for all of your work, and—”

  Emma lifted herself up on one elbow. “You got me recognition?” She paused. “You mean to say that you were the one who fed that information to PW?”

  “Well, I don’t think fed is exactly the word I’d choose. But I did let some of the facts drop, shall we say.”

  Emma jumped up. “You got me fired!” she cried.

  “Fired? Word on the street is you walked out.”

  “Pam fired me,” Emma told her.

  “Was that before or after David Morton fired her?”

  “Pam’s been fired?”

  “Yeah. She was fired by GOD before his father fired him.”

  “GOD the father fired GOD the son.”

  “Yep. That just leaves the holy ghost, but like I said, Pam’s gone, too. Wake up and smell the printer’s ink,” Alex told her. “It’s been a regular bloodbath.”

  “You’re kidding? I thought there was trouble in the executive suite, but Gerald is actually fired? No more Davis at Davis & Dash?”

  “Oh, who cares about them? I care about you.”

  “No, you don’t. You only care about business.”

  “Is that what you think?” Alex asked. She paused. “Well, I do care about business, and I always will. I wasn’t born with a trust fund, and I have to take care of myself. But I don’t only care about business.” Alex came and sat down on the sofa beside Emma. “Emma,” she said, in a voice that was very gentle, “I love you. I’ll always fight for my clients and be tough for their sake, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. Were you afraid I was using you?”

  A tear slipped down Emma’s cheek. She nodded.

  “Oh, baby. How could you think that? I’m sorry. I get so intense I forget other people might not be used to me. Maybe we better not work together in the future.”

  “No fear, I’ll probably never work again.”

  Alex looked at her as if she were crazy. “What are you talking about?” she asked. “Absolutely everybody wants to hire you. David Morton wants you back; I also heard that Putnam wants you. But I think you should become editor in chief at Citron Press.”

  “Editor in chief?”

  “Craig Stevens is a friend. There’s no guarantee, but he’s dying to meet you. It’s a small house, but that’s its charm. You could build the list with him, exactly as you want to.”

  “Editor in chief?” Emma repeated. “He’d consider me? For editor in chief?”

  “You sound like Rick Kot’s demented parrot. ‘Editor in chief, editor in chief.’ Yes, I’m sure. Why don’t you hose yourself off and put on some decent clothes, if you have any. I’m taking you out to lunch with your new boss-to-be.”

  107

  The trouble with publishing today, says this old man, is that as you look around the arena, you will not find heads of houses who really give a shit about literature.

  —Roger Straus

  Gerald stood beside his study window, a copy of The Duplicity of Men in his hands. It was a heavy book, in both senses of the word. He had just read it for the second time, and he was even more impressed than on his first reading. He thought of the writer. She had been dead for over a year now, but her work would live on long after her. What had he done that would live beyond him?

  Absolutely nothing. The confrontation with David Morton was humiliating enough, but the words that kept ringing in his ears were his father’s—“I’m disappointed in you,” “You’ve deeply shamed me,” and, worst of all, “I’m backing Mr. Morton and the shareholders on this, Gerald. It’s the only honorable thing to do.”

  Now he knew—perhaps for the first time—what shame felt like. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation. He had been called “shameless” by many people in the publishing world, but he hadn’t really thought a
bout it until now. He thought of his uncle’s suicide and realized how the old man must have felt. Going on was unbearable.

  In fact, Gerald couldn’t bear to think about it—any of it. He’d squandered his time on earth, so limited and so full of possibilities, writing stupid, foolish books that hadn’t even succeeded on the most crass commercial level. He’d left his first family, abandoned his older children, and then abandoned the woman he’d left them for. Terry O’Neal could have been writing about him. His latest marriage was loveless. Despite his huge earnings he was penniless. Nothing made sense in his life. His father was right.

  He looked at the book in his hands. It was so beautifully written, so deeply felt. Why hadn’t he been able to write something equally good? Why hadn’t he written something worthy of a Tagiter? The only worthwhile thing he had done was to insist on the publication of this book.

  He put the book on the windowsill. He found the small but adequate gun he kept in his study drawer. He looked down, shot his cuffs, and then shot himself.

  108

  “In the book business all success is really just back pay.”

  —Molly Friedrich

  Opal had been very busy, what with all the interviews and the Tagiter ceremony and the rest of the flapdoodle. Surprisingly, she hadn’t minded the flapdoodle. She felt that it was dignified, that it was Terry’s, not her own, and she did her best to live up to whatever Terry’s expectations might have been. One of the surprises had been the Tagiter prize money—$173,000. The Pulitzer gave only $3,000. The other surprise was the sale of paperback and foreign rights—sixteen more countries were bidding on the book. In addition to her vindication, Opal also found herself modestly rich for the first time in her life. She even flew out to Los Angeles—at the expense of Paramount—and talked with their executives about a film of Duplicity. Opal wasn’t sure it could happen or would happen or even if she wanted it to happen, but Miss Lansing, the head of the studio, had been beautiful and charming and compassionate and had given her lunch in a lovely white private dining room. It had been very pleasant to see a woman in charge of all those men.