"Is that what it's called?" Temple interjected. "Charming?"
"Temple was 'swept' by Fabrizio in the registration line," Kit explained.
"That Fabrizio." Lori sounded disgusted. "The original Mr. Unoriginal. He comes on as all muscle-man, but he only picks up the petite women. What a wimp! Fabio should sue."
"What makes Fabio king of the Prince Charmings?" Temple asked.
"He was the first romance cover model to emerge as a personality in his own right. Then he won the first cover-hunk contest, parlaying it into international celebrity," Susan pointed out. "Is his career so different from what Arnold Schwarzenegger or any other muscle man since and before Johnny Weissmuller did? Only nowadays, a media muscleman can have his own profitable 900 line, his romantic music cassettes, etcetera, ad nauseum. Thanks to romance novels selling forty-nine percent of all paperback book titles, he can be marketed directly to women without making a single Hollywood film."
"Whoa!" Temple's attention had really caught fire. "Forty-nine percent of all paperback books? Does that include nonfiction?"
"You bet." LaDonna crumpled her paper napkin into a lump like a bloody tomato and threw it onto the empty pizza platter.
"Why aren't you all rich then? Or are you?"
Amid hoots of laughter, Kit leaned close to whisper: "Motive Number Two: the Woman Scorned."
"Many are called, but few are chosen," Vivian quoted acidly. "Women writing romances have always been the most exploited group in publishing. Our royalty percentages are often lower than those of other writers. Sometimes our very pen names are not our own to take to another publisher. We have been production-line workers expected to toil forever for minor rewards. And, of course, as the icing on our very plain cake, we get no respect for what we do. Romance novels are just silly women nattering on, especially embarrassing when we write about sex without using the clinical, unemotional prose male writers have institutionalized since Hemingway was immortalized, to make men feel good about being afraid to feel anything."
She paused to catch an indignant breath. "The earth moved.' Really captures the moment, doesn't it, ladies? Hell, Hemingway was just too uncertain of his masculinity to convey more than terse little nothings about sex."
"My land o' Dixie!" Kit fanned a hand before her face, a swooning southern belle in intonation as well as gesture. "Our little Vivian is shorely all fired up about that most unsuitable topic!"
"Kit's got it," Susan said. "What really makes the male-oriented world of publishing and criticism uneasy about romances is that they present a female quest in female terms. Every young girl who enters the dating game perceives that it's one she can lose terribly. She bears the greatest consequences of sexual activity: pregnancy and loss of reputation, ergo self-esteem. How can she learn to be sexual without being betrayed by her body and the society that demands such an impossible role of her?
Virginal but desirable. Sexuality without experience. Eternal love discovered without trial and error."
"Too true," Temple said.
"And now," Vivian put in, "romance novels are the focus of national media attention, and do we get a more enlightened, less sexist, revised view of their underlying issues? No, we get swooning features on cover hunks, which makes our work look even less socially relevant."
LaDonna put down her ice tea with emphasis. "What's even worse, and what drives me nuts, is that quarter-of-a-million deal Fabrizio made to 'write' a series of books. Makes it look like there's nothing to writing a romance. And we all know who's really writing those Fabrizio books--an underpaid, unsung female romance writer. I wonder how Sidney Sheldon would like it if the cover models for his heroines made oodles more money than he did. Wouldn't put up with it for a nanosecond."
"Celebrity authors have always been part of publishing," Kit interjected a little more coolly. "I saw an old book tie-in to Mary Pickford. Gypsy Rose Lee wrote a couple of ghosted mysteries decades ago, and we all know that some celebrity names on mystery and science fiction novels are fronts for the anonymous real writer who produces them."
"Those unsung writers get more ghostwriting than they do for their own books, or they wouldn't take on the work," Lori pointed out.
"And they'll continue getting less money for their work if publishers keep hiring the rich and famous as fronts instead of nurturing real writers' careers." Vivian sat back with an indignant whoosh of the padded vinyl banquette seat for punctuation.
"Oh, please!" LaDonna's eyes rolled over the tops of her half-glasses. "When have writers ever been nurtured? We have to fight for our books, our careers and our survival. If you wanted nurturing, you should have enrolled in kindergarten."
"So . . . who's angriest about the new prominence of cover hunks?" Temple asked.
A moment's silence while mental wheels turned.
"Sometimes even the biggies aren't too fond of the trend." Lori said. "I heard that Mary Ann Trenarry threatened to leave Bard Books when they signed up Fabrizio for all of her future and reissue covers."
"At her career stage, it doesn't matter what they put on her books."
"It does to her. She's been a vocal spokeswoman for the redeeming social value of romance novels, and of her books in particular. This Fabrizio deal has her chewing royalty statements."
"What about the husbands?" LaDonna asked suddenly.
"Huh?" everyone said.
"Temple asked who was angry about the cover hunks. What about the husbands who have to hear about the fantastic Fabrizio' and his ilk?"
"Whose husbands?" Kit wanted to know. "Readers' or writers'?"
"Both, I suppose," LaDonna said. "Maybe especially the husbands of prominent fans, the ones who organize the hunks' fan clubs. They sometimes get to work with them one on one. Most husbands aren't used to competing with perfect media models like women are."
"I did hear something." Lori looked both eager and reluctant.
"Tell us!" several urged.
"That's what we're here for," Vivian pointed out. "To pass secrets."
"And to keep them to ourselves." Lori fidgeted with her dark hair, twirling a long, straight tress on the instant roller of her forefinger. She sighed. "Remember that Ravenna Rivers went on that long book tour with the West Wind imprint's Homestead Man? I heard that afterwards she called him the 'Homestud Man.''
Kit turned to Temple. "Romance publishers will hire a male model as an image/spokesman for a line of books nowadays. As a marketing tool, he gives all the authors' books a signature look; as a media draw on tours, he packs in readers who'd never show up for poor, unexciting us. West Wind's Homestead Man is Dwayne Rand, a Texas frontier type."
"That reminds me," Lori interjected with a giggle. "Ravenna also called Dwayne The Amazing Randy'
after that tour. Do you think she was trying to hint at something?"
Kit ignored the gossip to further educate Temple on current romance-marketing ploys. "Picture Tom Selleck with Wild Bill
Cody Lovelocks, but without the moustache. That's the Homestead Man."
"That's a tough assignment," Temple admitted, recalling her amazement at Max's rather understated ponytail. "And Tom Selleck without a moustache would be roast beef without mustard."
"No moustache," Kit said. "Sorry. Damn few moustaches for cover hunks; same reason newscasters don't wear them. Considered too ethnic."
"That Homestead Man!" Lori was continuing to gush. "He's a Dreamboat with a capital D as in Dishy.
The rumor is that interviewers on Ravenna's tour assumed they were sleeping together. Her husband heard something and came running with his forty-five. For sure the tour was abruptly cancelled."
"I heard she had a book deadline to meet." Vivian looked troubled.
"The deadline was her husband's ultimatum, believe me," LaDonna added. "No more gadding about with good-looking guys."
"I don't know why Mr. Ravenna Rivers's so worried," Vivian put in. "Half of these guys could be allergic to women. Do you know how high the percentage of gay men is among b
odybuilders, dancers, actors and models, ladies? Enough that straight men in those fields get a bit defensive about their occupations."
"Sexual preference doesn't matter," Dr. Susan said authoritatively. "It's the fantasy image that counts. Look, most of these women who go crazy over the male models know it's all show and no go.
They're not expecting a relationship. It's an escape at a romance conference weekend, a goal to get an autograph or a photo taken with a cover man. Consider it a scavenger hunt."
"Hunting implies a prey," Temple pointed out. "What about Cheyenne? Any rumors about him?"
"Oh, that's such a shame!" LaDonna looked genuinely grieved. "Such a nice young guy. He was a favorite for the G.R.O.W.L. award at this year's pageant. That's the popular vote. And from what I heard, his routine would have been spectacular."
"He competed at a previous pageant?" Temple was surprised. She had figured Cheyenne for a local male stripper who was moonlighting, not a cover hunk wannabe of any seriousness.
"Sure. Last year in Atlanta."
"So some of the cover model contestants repeat from year to year?"
Lori nodded. "Just like in women's beauty pageants. It takes experience to win. Why? You don't look too happy."
"I'm not. If contestants repeat from year to year, then I assume conference attendees come back too?" They all nodded. "So we've got more potential here for relationships than I thought."
"What's so wrong about that?" LaDonna was defensive. "Sure, there are regulars, both onstage and off. Most of the same authors return every year too. It's our annual chance to chat and back-pat. This is a very mutually supportive field."
"And mostly female," Temple said. "Except for a few good men. And a very few tagalong husbands.
Yet the authors are rivals as well as colleagues. Then add the heightened competition of the pageant.
Like I said, this isn't just an annual convention, it's a traveling carnival of relationships. And I don't have to tell you romance writers what relationships can be in real life as well as in fiction."
"Murder," Vivian said slowly, nodding her head. "They can be murder."
The four conspirators left two by two, apparently convinced that there was less reason to hide their joint outing on the return cab ride.
"We'll say we were doing the Strip," Lori said.
Temple was reflective as Kit bid each one good-bye with thanks and promises of getting together later at the conference.
"Well?" her aunt demanded, scrambling to dig out and light a Virginia Slim. "Hey, don't look at me like that. This is a smoking section. I just refrained while the others were here."
"Why do people do to their relatives what they wouldn't to friends?"
"They expect relatives to understand." Kit's hands had frozen midway to her mouth, slender cigarette in one and upright, poised lighter in the other. "I can wait."
"No, go ahead. I owe you something for gathering the clan."
"What did you think of them?" Kit muttered through the act of inhaling.
"Great sources--do all writers gossip so much?"
"It's not gossip, it's networking in self-defense. Writers are isolated, yet we live and die by the publishing industry. So we grapevine like mad. Writers are also proud, so we tend not to reveal what we get for our books when the pay is stinky. When the advances get to the big time, everybody knows."
"It looks like I should talk to some of these writers with axes to grind. Any advice?"
"Just pass yourself off as a national media person and they'll slit their writers' wrists and let the ink run out. Not even bestsellers get enough attention."
"You were quiet during the gossip session."
"I listen, but I don't dote. We need to know what's going on for our own protection, but I don't enjoy hearing about other people's woes and throes. I can do all that stuff to the characters in my books. I did notice something when I came in a couple days ago, though."
"Did it involve Cheyenne?"
"How did you guess?"
"I listen, but I don't dote."
Kit stabbed her half-smoked cigarette out in the ashtray. "I did notice some cozy conferences between the deceased, as we say on the Perry Mason set, and the pageant hostess."
"The pageant hostess?"
"Yup, an anchor team of he/she emcees the event, reading unrehearsed witticisms with iffy timing.
The host team changes from year to year, depending on where the conference is held, so there's no ongoing relationship between hosts and contestants to worry about. But I could have sworn that there was history between Cheyenne and this babe."
"Do you have the name, rank and serial number of the 'babe'?"
"A Hollywood type, naturally, Los Angeles being just a hop, skip and plane trip over the state line. So-called actress, once. You probably never heard of her, or saw her in anything, and can count yourself lucky. A real B-movie mama. One Savannah Ashleigh."
Chapter Interlude
Ah, Sweet Mystery of Hystery
A laptop computer was such a tidy, nonthreatening machine.
Its small empty screen seemed especially easy to fill This made writing like walking--one step, one word, at a time, and you could see yourself getting somewhere. The reward . . . ah, maybe an award.
Maybe a fat book contract and a river of royalties.
Anybody could write a romance.
The writer lifted poised hands above the keyboard like a musician about to throttle the Lost Chord out of an organs resisting throat--it helped knowing how to type--and glanced at a stack of paperback novels on the hotel desk. The well-thumbed covers curled, making the hero's hands seem to rest audaciously higher than usual on the heroine's bared thighs.
That was the image to keep! All those steamy covers to inspire the all important "sensual scene" that the Loves Leading Amateur contest required as the test of true romance.
Any idiot could write a romance.
As for the historical details, a few could be dropped in later. Details didnt matter, except in the
"sensual scene." The writer paused, then typed two words.
Savage Surrender
The cursor sat blinking just beyond the final "R," a twinkling Tin-kerbell of the keyboard. Did that title have fairy dust? Would it drive the contest judges to their knees? It was alliterative; it had sinuous initial esses, it implied torrid sex.
Now, what about the pseudonym? Every romance writer worth her salt had a catchy pseudonym.
Watch this, cursor!
by Felicity Fever
No. Too phony-sounding. And not "hot" enough, despite the last name. Another name. Something hot-sounding. Hot . . . something, hot...hot...
by Tamale Tower
Naw. Somebody would probably pronounce the first name Ta-mail.
by Tempest Tower
There we go. Nothing to it. Writing these things is so easy it should be prosecutable. Big bucks, here I come!
Okay. Him. Think hunk. Highwaymen are always hot.
It was a bright and moonlit night.
Good start. Classic.
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moors.
Golly, this is easy. The words come flowing out like red-hot lava. People. Better get the people in there fast.
The
Captain? Too ordinary, too low on the totem pole. The Masked Avenger. The Maroon Mask. Not virile and dangerous enough. The ...Demon of Devonshire. The Demon Dagger of Devonshire. There we go!
The man known as the Demon Dagger of Devonshire drew his
namesake weapon while he waited for the carriage to arrive.
He didn't know which of the two treasures the vehicle carried was the more tempting: the five hundred thousand pounds for the Earl of Eddington's daughter's dowry, or the Earl's adored only daughter herself.
He could hardly wait to get his hands on them both.
An entire itty bitty, teeny weeny screen full, but, hey, War and Peace wasn't written in a day. Maybe we need some sort of detail here.
Remember the tip sheets, hero is central.
He lifted his pistol barrel to brush the long, golden hair from his forehead as the wind rippled against his body like the expert fingers of his latest tart. Soon he would be back at the Bow and Bottom. . . Bow and Bum . . . Bow and Arrow. Hell, forget bow. At the Bottle and Bun.
Bottle and Bun with his booty. And perhaps also with his beauty, if he deigned to despoil the lovely wench before shipping her back to her dastardly dad . . . father.
Long had the man known only as the Demon Dagger of Devonshire waited for this moment of revenge on the wicked Baron who had ruined all his relatives, turned the family estate into a sheep farm and stolen their famous and fabulous jewel, the
Pigeons-blood . . . naw, too ordinary.
Peacock's-blood Blue Diamond of the Punjab!
Getting the hang of it, excuse the expression, Mr. Demon Dagger, you. Oops, that's right, mention danger, always sexy. Something like: If the Crown captured the Demon Dagger of Devonshire, his long, trademark tresses should serve as his hangman's noose.
Huh? What does this mean? Dunno. Sounds good. Nobody reads these things for sense, anyway.
But the beautiful
Oh, boy. Beautiful. . . Hazel. Sounds like a witch. Ariania. There we go, just a bunch of vowels and a couple consonants. Good thing Ive pounded out a few good lines in my day job.
Ariania was worth the price.
Dagger reined his coal-black steed to a stop in front of the carriage.
"Stop!" he shouted at the shrouded coachman, waving his Pistol? Were they used then? Just when is this? Horses, highwaymen. Somewhere in the seventeenth or eighteenth century, I guess. Check it later. Besides, this guy is Mack the Knife in a pony tail.
waving his long, silver dagger in the moonlight.
Great! And that big knife is a phallic symbol, too. What a genius. I should have done this years ago.
Don t forget about that moonlight. Terrific detail.
"John, what is it?" trilled a melodious female voice.
The coachman huddled in his cloak, saying nothing.
That's the kind of minor character I like. Minds his own business and stays out of the way.
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