The Secret Life of Roberta Greaves

by Ann Birch

  It’s December now, two weeks since she’s sent the damn thing to Marianne to forward to George Korda, and she’s slopping around in her old blue flannel bathrobe when the front doorbell rings. It’s the postman with a registered letter from the contractor to whom she owes fifteen thousand dollars. Tearing it open, she finds his threat to take legal action unless there is an initial down payment of five thousand within seven days.

  Suddenly desperate for caffeine overload, she looks in the fridge. No ground coffee left, and she can’t fuss about getting out the grinder. She pours some boiling water over Nescafé and sits down at the breakfast-room table. Perhaps she could put her principles aside — but hasn’t she done that already? — and take her mother up on her offer of the GIC. Not that five thousand dollars would help much. Or maybe she should take a second mortgage on the house…. Damn it, the sleazy novel was supposed to solve these problems. But of course, she can’t expect instant feedback from George Korda at Mayhem. These things usually take several months. Meantime, it seems, James’s legacy is falling on her head.

  The phone rings.

  “Guess what? He says he wants to meet us.”

  “Who?” It would be pleasant if Marianne could slide into a conversation with an introductory word or two.

  “Who do you think?”

  The penny drops. “That’s good. Just what I need to hear right now. So what’s next?”

  “He’s coming to the Delta Chelsea at the end of the week. He’s the keynote speaker at a conference of romance writers. And he wants to see us, probably has some thoughts on the manuscript. Suggests dinner on Saturday night.”

  “Oh my God. I’m not sure I can face George Korda now. Sorry. Can you handle it?”

  “I could, but I don’t think you should turn chicken at this point. I don’t know what he wants, but you’ve got to pull yourself together and speak to the guy. A little oil, you know what I mean? I’ll go with you, but I just can’t tell him you don’t want to see him. He must like the book or he wouldn’t bother. Come on, Roberta. The worst is over. You’ve written it, and now you can suck it up and do what’s necessary.”

  “You make me sound like a prostitute.”

  “So who needs the money?”

  “Okay, okay. Where and when?”

  Roberta meets Marianne in the lobby of the Delta Chelsea on Saturday evening. Marianne is wearing her well-made but frumpy brown suit, a worn camel-hair topcoat and a pair of low-heeled pumps, and Roberta finds this reassuring. Makes the evening seem like just another business interview. She herself has not gone to any special bother with her appearance. She’s wearing a long bright red silk scarf, black pantsuit and patent boots, and a black coat. She hopes that no one in the lobby will find anything about her that might remotely link her to a writer of erotic fiction. In her mind’s eye, she imagines Renee Meadows in a too-tight skirt, smudged blue eyeshadow, and bling.

  She and Marianne have barely exchanged greetings when the elevator door nearby opens, and a short man in a short trench coat steps out, looks around, and walks over to them. He has long messy white hair scooped back in a ponytail.

  “It’s Korda,” Marianne whispers. “He mentioned ponytail and I mentioned brown suit. Just keep your mouth shut and let me handle things, okay? I hear he’s tough.”

  “Call me George,” Korda says as he introduces himself and shakes hands. He doesn’t fit Marianne’s initial description of him. He has a jolly red face and a bit of a gut, and if it weren’t for the ponytail, he’d be a dead ringer for Santa Claus. “Now, how about a drink at the bar here before we go to dinner at that fancy joint across the street?”

  As he says this, he puts his hand on Roberta’s elbow and steers her in the direction of the small, dimly lit room off the lobby. Marianne tags along after them, and for a moment, Roberta wonders if the evening is going to be just between her and Korda, with Marianne as an unnecessary accessory.

  Roberta hopes to sit in a dark corner, but Korda leads them to a semicircular booth in the middle of the room and indicates that Roberta is to slide in first. He follows, so that he is in the middle, with Marianne on his right side.

  The bar is noisy, so that it’s impossible to exchange anything but pleasantries, and at first Roberta welcomes the din. If only the whole evening could be this way. But then she thinks, I’ve got to get it over with, so let’s get on with it. She drains her glass of white wine and notices that Marianne has finished her pot of green tea.

  Korda appears totally at ease and is taking his time over his martini.

  “Shall we move on now to the restaurant where it will be easier to talk?” Marianne says.

  Korda finishes his drink in two gulps. “Okay by me.”

  They are just sliding into their coats when a familiar figure passes their booth. It is John Schubert, resplendent in a long leather overcoat with a cashmere scarf looped artistically at his throat. He is holding a pair of gloves at Roberta’s eye level, and she can see that they are brand new, stiff, and shiny as if they have just come from a box.

  “Roberta, dear, what are you doing here?” His voice rises above the chatter. Then he looks at Korda. “And with the Emir of Erotica, no less?” He reaches across Marianne to shake hands with Korda. Then he takes a second look at the agent. “And the president of the Blackman Agency is here too. Looks like some important business is being transacted, n’est-ce pas? Or am I off base?”

  “Just having a drink with friends, as you see,” Marianne says. “Nothing serious.”

  “And what are you doing here, John?” Roberta asks.

  “Wish I could say ‘having a drink with friends.’ But I’ve just come from upstairs where I had an interview with Lola Lancey. A bit like listening to Lady Gaga, but don’t quote me on that one. Just be sure to read my upcoming review in The Gazette.”

  Korda leans forward. “You mean that Lola Lancey writes bad romance, is that what you’re implying? She’s one of my best writers, and I think I’m a good judge.” He pauses and then adds, “N’est-ce pas?”

  Oh, Korda, please, please keep your mouth shut. Schubert is already sniffing something out and any sarcastic commentary will only egg him on. But at the same time, Roberta admires the finesse with which the publisher has challenged Schubert. She likes the way he’s put that tiny edge in his voice with the last phrase. And she has to concede that he’s with-it enough to recognize Schubert’s smartass reference to Lady Gaga’s song, “Bad Romance.” Charlie had filled her in on it, thank goodness. Otherwise, the whole interchange would have gone sailing right over her head.

  “Oh, no offence intended, I assure you,” Schubert is saying. He slaps his gloves against the tabletop. “So I’ll just say bye-bye now, and let you get on with whatever.” He gives an airy wave and moves in the direction of the lobby.

  Korda helps Roberta with her coat, then does the same for Marianne. “Well, let’s get on with whatever, like that son-of-a-bitch said.” He looks at Roberta. “Sorry, maybe the guy is your best friend?”

  “No, but he’s Toronto’s best critic and I respect that. There are book reviewers in this city that would find writers like the ones you publish beneath their radar.” She doesn’t mention that Schubert may very well get “inspiration” from Korda’s writers for his goings-on with his mother’s young housecleaner. Or cleaners. There’s been a new one this last month.

  “Oh, well then, excuse me. You’re saying I should feel grateful to be called the ‘Emir of Erotica’?”

  The evening is going badly, but what did she expect? There’s silence as the three of them jaywalk across the street to Angelo’s. It’s an expensive restaurant much favoured by overweight tourists who want “a good American steak.” Its décor is nineteenth-century bordello, all swag and fringe and red velvet. It’s the sort of non-trendy place that Schubert is sure to avoid, thank God. But Roberta knows the damage has already been done. Schubert is far fr
om stupid, and perhaps all he needs now to put two and two together is to have his mother tell him about those magazines at the corner store.

  Over the steaks — lamb chops for Roberta — they get down to business. Between mouthfuls, Marianne presses Korda on advances, e-books, reversion of rights, even translations. “My God,” Roberta says, breaking in, “I can’t stand it. Bad enough in English, but in Portuguese or Japanese…?”

  Marianne tosses one of her shut-up-and-let-me-talk looks Roberta’s way, but Korda takes her up on her comment. “You’re ashamed of what you’ve written, right, Professor?”

  “I’m afraid I’m a bit like a dog that gets off the leash, upsets a garbage pail, and gulps down a lot of stuff totally unlike its usual balanced diet of Kibble. At the moment, I’ve got severe indigestion — but that being said, Mr. Korda, I have no one but myself to blame for getting into the garbage pail.” Except James, of course, but Korda doesn’t need to know all the ins and outs of that. “Marianne may have told you I need money...”

  “I know, I know. And The Cretan Manuscripts, brilliant as it is, necessarily has a limited readership.”

  “It’s selling very well actually, and we’re thinking of a popular translation that’s sure to appeal to a broad market.” As Marianne says this, she gives Roberta a nudge on her ankle, which Roberta translates as “watch out, dummy, or he’s going to see how desperate we are and make the lowest possible bid.”

  Korda wipes bloody steak juice from his chin. “Look,” he says, “I’m not out to stiff you on the deal. I know you’ll probably have other offers. The book’s a winner. I read it right through at one go. It plays right into the unspoken fantasies of my female readership, and like the compliment or not, Professor, you’ve written it well. Unfortunately, it can’t be out for the Christmas sales, but if you go with me, I’ll push it along and have it into Walmart and on Amazon by early April, latest. And, in the meantime, I can certainly see my way clear to offering you forty thousand as an advance. It’s more than I’d normally offer, but I know a good sell when I read it. How’s that?”

  Marianne speaks up before Roberta can get a word in. “It seems reasonable.” She presses her left arm into Roberta’s side. Message received. There must be no “hallelujahs,” no “my God, that’s more than we ever dreamed of.”

  “I’ll get the cheque in the mail Monday.”

  Roberta finds that she must say something. “One other thing I need to tell you, Mr. Korda.”

  “George, please.” But there is no enthusiasm in the words.

  “I need to have your commitment to keeping Renee Meadows entirely separate from my real persona. To be frank, I’m a bit afraid of what might happen if word got out. I have an established reputation in academe, you know.”

  “Got it, got it. You have my word that nothing will leak from Mayhem if I can help it. But I have a large staff, and I can’t vet everything they’ll say, can I? So I can’t absolutely commit to absolute secrecy. I’ll do my best, that’s all I can promise.” Korda pushes his plate away. “Now, anyone for dessert?”

  Roberta and Marianne shake their heads.

  “We’ll call it a night, then.” Korda signals the waiter for the bill. As he does so, Roberta notices the lines in his red face. The jolliness she noticed earlier has dissipated.

  “Mr. Korda… George, you’ve treated us decently tonight. I want to apologize for…”

  “For calling Mayhem a garbage pail?” There is anger here, and she can’t do anything about it.

  “Yes, for that, and for most of the other things I’ve said tonight.”

  Out on the street, they all shake hands. Korda’s grasp is strong. He leans forward, his nose on a level with Roberta’s. He’s popped a Tic Tac into his mouth so that she’s aware of the scent of peppermint instead of garlic. “You’re forgiven,” he says.

  14.

  ROBERTA STANDS IN LINE at the Toronto-Dominion Bank, waiting to deposit the advance cheque that has come to her from Mayhem. As the people move forward, one by one, she offers up a small prayer to whatever gods may be that the teller she has to deal with will not be Margot, the pleasant woman who often handles her business. Please, may it be the fat greasy-haired one who’s new. But the man ahead of her in the lineup makes a quick transaction and she draws Margot.

  “Wow,” Margot says, her brown eyes staring at the cheque through her reading glasses. “This is a whopping big cheque.” She looks at it again. “An advance for your work, is it? What’s it about again?”

  So Roberta gives her a quick summary of The Cretan Manuscripts, since Margot obviously knows nothing about Mayhem publications. Touch wood.

  But then Margot says, “Sounds great. Hope I can remember the name of the publisher until I go into Chapters next time.”

  “Not to worry. Why don’t I bring you a copy and autograph it for you? My gift for all the good service you’ve given me over the years.”

  Crisis averted. But how is she going to keep this sleazy secret? Has she just put herself deeper into trouble with this lie? Will Margot notice that Mayhem is not the publisher of The Cretan Manuscripts? God, she’s got to start thinking ahead. She should have been smart enough to have foreseen Margot’s questions about the cheque and set up a new account in a bank downtown, near Trinity College maybe. Or used her bank card and the ATM.

  Home again, she sits in her study and makes out the cheques to her creditors. She puts them into envelopes and delivers them to the post box on the corner. Mission accomplished, at least for the moment. With the most pressing debts now settled or at least partially paid off, perhaps she will have a time of respite until Mira appears in the bookstores in early April.

  Pizza Nova brings supper to the door, everyone’s favourite — thin-crust whole wheat with salami and olive toppings — and Charlie makes Caesars. He’s wearing a pristine white bib apron, and since Roberta saw him last night, he’s had his long hair shaved into a buzz cut.

  “Liz has been giving me some grief about the hair for months,” he tells her and Ed. Liz is a favourite teacher in his Applied Food History class at George Brown. “We were cooking Catharine Parr Traill’s brown cakes in the hearth today, and she made me cover my head in a bonnet — I’m not kidding, something the Traill woman herself might have got decked out in — so for a mere fifteen dollars I’ve solved that little problem. I should have done it long ago.” He strikes a pose, one hand on hip, the other touching the back of his well-shaped head. “Like it?”

  “Wait until you get sick of it and try to grow it out,” Ed says. “I’ll get the name of that Bloor Street hairstylist my eight-hundred-dollar-an-hour boss is always going on about.”

  “I miss your darling curls,” Roberta says.

  Charlie makes gagging noises and they laugh. He sets the Caesars on the breakfast-room table. “I put in lots of Clamato,” he says. “So, I think that with the pizza we’ve covered most of Canada’s Food Guide: grain products, milk and alternatives, vegetables, and meat. Balanced nutrition with no sweat. Though really, Mom, I don’t know about the salami. If you’re serious about low cholesterol, better scrape it off. “

  “Don’t forget the vodka,” Ed says, “listed under spiritual products and alternatives.” They all laugh again. Ed has thrown his tie and suit jacket over the back of his chair, and for a moment, Roberta relaxes with them.

  “Where’s Dad’s picture with Bucephalus?” Ed asks, out of the blue, as he clears off the table and brings in the cornmeal bread that Charlie made when he got home from class earlier in the day.

  “I threw it into a garbage bag. It’s at the back of the downstairs closet.”

  “Come on, Ma. I know you’re mad at the guy, but wasn’t that a bit extreme? He was our father after all.”

  “It’s there in the closet if you want to fish it out,” Roberta says. “But I haven’t got to the point where I want it in the hall where I have to look at it
every time I come in or go out.”

  “If we get those bills paid, do you think you’ll ever be able to forgive Dad?”

  “It’s the secrecy, Ed. It’s the fact that he never told me what he was up to. Of course, the bills are bad. Of course, they weigh on my mind night and day. But…” She stops, thinking of the way she is digging herself deeper and deeper into a morass of lies and evasions.

  Ed brings a cheque out of his pocket, waves it in the air, and sets it down near her plate. She forces herself to look. It’s made out to her for twelve hundred dollars. “I got paid today,” he says, “and this is my contribution to those bills. There will be twelve hundred coming every two weeks now. I think if you phone the creditors and explain that you’ll be sending them money regularly in instalments, we can put ‘paid’ to all this in a couple of years. So right now, we can start to put the whole mess behind us, forgive Dad, and go on….” His voice trails off, and he slumps back in his chair, his dessert untouched.

  Roberta shoves the cheque back. Her voice rises. “I don’t need it.”

  “Of course you need it, Ma,” Ed says. He throws the piece of paper at her. “Didn’t you just say the bills weigh on your mind? Stop treating me like a baby.”

  “Go easy, Ed,” Charlie says. “Shit, we don’t need all this anger.”

  What is she to do? She can’t tell them what she’s done, she can’t, that’s all there is to it. She takes the cheque and tears it into pieces. Some of them drift onto the floor.

  “Christ almighty,” Ed says. “This is crazy.” He gets up from the table. “You hate Dad, I guess I can understand that much. But why you won’t let me help with things, that’s beyond me.” He walks out of the room, kicking at the bits of paper as he leaves. Roberta hears him running up the stairs, and then he slams his bedroom door.