sex.lies.murder.fame.

by Lolita Files

  “Yes,” she lied. “And he’s fine with it. He’s perfectly fine.”

  “Interesting.”

  She jumped up from the couch, stamping her foot.

  “I wish you would stop saying that. I know what you mean.”

  “I don’t mean anything, Beryl. I’m just listening and asking pertinent questions.”

  “Well, you’re doing it with judgment. I can hear it in your voice.”

  “I’m not judging you, Beryl. That’s not my modus operandi. Please, do sit down.”

  She did, planting her bottom on the edge of the chair.

  “I don’t need you to judge me,” she said, her eyes flashing with restrained anger. “This is a happy time for me. I wasn’t expecting you to do backflips, but no one likes a pie in the face, either.”

  Ripkin’s stomach snarled on cue at the pie.

  “I would never minimize the significance of your feelings, Beryl.”

  “Hmph,” Beryl sniffed. “Okay. We’ll see.”

  “So when, exactly, did this portentous meeting occur?”

  “Tuesday.”

  Ripkin’s throat caught. He cleared it. She was kidding, of course.

  “Tuesdaaaaaaayyyy when?” he asked, dragging out the words in the hopes that, surely, she was not going to say what he feared would be the obvious, that she had just met this man.

  “Tuesday the day before yesterday.”

  “Right. Yes. Of course.”

  He cleared his throat again, a simultaneous gesture that blended with a fresh chortle from his belly and created a bizarre gurgle of a sound.

  “Tuesday. The day before yesterday.”

  “Yes.”

  “And now you both are in love.”

  “Yes.”

  For once, Ripkin didn’t know what to do with his body. He wanted to cross his legs, but the girl was so hair-trigger, she might read something further into the move. He coughed instead. His stomach yodeled, demanding the duck confit.

  “Are you comfortable with this?” he asked.

  “Quite,” Beryl said. “He’s great. His name is Pennbook Hamilton. He’s a writer.”

  “A writer?”

  “Yes, a very good one, too.”

  “That’s quite a coincidence. Looks like kismet’s delivering you the full monty. ‘Editor meets writer.’ A real headline for the heavens.”

  She was grinning. Ripkin couldn’t believe she was smiling at his words. He’d broken form, of course. Said something conspicuously biting. Yet here he was being his most ironic, and she didn’t even…whatever.

  “He’s a genius, Dr. Ripkin,” she said, gushing. “He’s got an IQ of two hundred and ten.”

  “Two hundred and ten? I say, that’s an extraordinarily high number. Are you sure you’re not mistaken?”

  “Two hundred ten is two hundred ten.”

  “Right. Of course.”

  Beryl was shaking her head.

  “Marvelous,” Ripkin said. “Well then, I suppose congratulations are in order, young lady. This has been a long time coming.”

  She looked up at him.

  “Do you mean that?”

  “Of course. We want the best for you.”

  “We?”

  “Yes. You and I. We both want the best for you. If this is it, then I’m happy to see that it makes you happy.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  She reached into a big purse she had sitting on the floor.

  “You’re the reason I’m even able to have a healthy relationship, Doctor. I owe you so much. This has been sixteen years in the making.”

  Ripkin’s stomach roared.

  “Yes, it has.”

  “I know I’ve given you a lot of these, but this will be the last.”

  She pulled one of her dreaded African violets from the bag. It was in full bloom, bigger and louder than the ones that lined the sill. Something snapped in Ripkin’s nape. At least, he thought it did. Was it the cord that held his neck and torso together? It was, wasn’t it? Finally, after years of tolerating fools, his head had rebelled and was about to fly off. What was this ridiculous talk about this being the last plant? Surely she didn’t mean…?

  “I wanted to give you something to mark all the hard work you’ve put into me over the years,” Beryl said. “You’ve done so much and I’m so very grateful. You’ve practically been a surrogate father to me.”

  He could feel something breaking inside of his chest. No! Not this! She couldn’t be leaving him.

  “Yes, well,” he stammered, “I’ve watched you grow up practically, from a delicate teenager, who was a little on the brash side, I must admit—”

  “I won’t be coming back anymore,” she said, handing him the plant.

  There. She’d said it.

  Ripkin’s stomach made a long, hissing sound that tapered off into a high squeal.

  “Beryl. Surely. You must realize that now is not the time to—”

  “I don’t need to anymore, Doctor.”

  “But what about your medication? You’ll need to keep taking them.”

  “I’ve got a few more refills. Then I plan to wean myself off. He gets me, Doctor. I don’t need to hide behind pills anymore.” She smiled.

  It was the whitest, most fabulous smile he’d seen from her. Ever. She was downright beautiful for one shining moment. Ripkin had to blink a few times to assure himself it was her.

  “Mission accomplished,” she said. “Well done, Doctor. Well done.”

  She wrapped his hands around the plant.

  “Beryl.” He laughed nervously. “I think this is a mistake. You shouldn’t just end your sessions like this. There’s so much still to explore. We’re not even sure of how you will integrate into a normal relationship after years of never having one—”

  “I’ve got faith. I want to try this on my own.”

  She stood on her tiptoes and hugged him.

  “Thank you,” she said. “For taking such good care of me.”

  “Of course,” he mumbled, staggered by surprise. “I’m here if you ever need to call on me. It’s your choice. No pressure.”

  “I know.” She leaned back, her eyes connecting with his. “Be happy for me,” she whispered. She kissed him one last time on the cheek.

  He watched her walking out the door, her perfect hair and perfect clothes making a perfect exeunt out of his life. The back of his throat felt thick.

  He looked down at the radiant plant, blooming with life.

  Much to his amazement, he wasn’t hungry anymore.

  She immediately subscribed to all the appropriate periodicals: Bride’s, Modern Bride, Elegant Bride. She registered at www.theknot.com. She began building her database of who to invite (and who not to), picking out places where they could register for gifts, all manner of exciting things. There were so many choices.

  “Would Mercury be your best man?” she asked Penn.

  “Best man for what?” he said, lost in Sartre’s Being and Nothingness.

  “Best man for the wedding, silly.”

  “Wedding?” he said, looking up.

  “Yes. When we get married.” A thought suddenly struck her. “You still want to get married, don’t you?” she asked in a panic. “You haven’t changed your mind?”

  “Of course not,” he said, smiling. He buried himself back in his book.

  She stared at him, needing to be sure. He glanced up at her and winked, then resumed reading.

  Thank God, she thought. At least that was settled.

  So who would be in her wedding party? She really didn’t have close friends who could be her bridesmaids. Perhaps she could get some of her professional acquaintances. Maybe Shecky could even be one of her girls.

  But who would walk her down the aisle?

  She thought of her parents and felt saddened that they wouldn’t be there to see her special moment. Her father had been a strong, quiet man, sparing in his praise, but loving, protective. He would be proud of her, so proud. So
would her mother. They would be pleased to know their daughter had gotten such a prize, and Penn was indeed the prize of a lifetime. She was going to have a chance at happiness, a real chance, after so much tragedy had befallen her family. Beryl knew they were watching over her. They would be with her in spirit.

  She could ask Ripkin to give her away, but he was so damn cynical. Maybe he’d be different by the time their nuptials approached. Penn’s book would have to go into the publishing production schedule, he’d have to tour, they’d have to allow enough time to pass for her to quit her job. So many things.

  There was plenty of time for Ripkin to soften.

  And plenty of time to ensure she had the wedding of her dreams.

  A deal

  …was a deal, and Penn finally had his.

  And money. A fat advance of two-point-three meeeeeeeeeeeelyun dollars, to be paid out in increments divided in three, upon signing the contract, after delivering an approved manuscript, and upon publication. The deal made all the New York papers, Variety, and all the relevant gossip sites, Gawker.com et al., were blogging about it. The buzz about the book, which had remained untitled, was already starting to build.

  And Spanky Katz. Turned out she was really cool and damned good, really good. Oblivious of a connection between Penn and Sharlyn, Beryl had convinced (so she thought) her star author to recommend Penn to her agent. Shar was represented by Spanky, and any request from one of Spanky’s authors always got top attention. The agent reread the manuscript and enjoyed it this time (after Beryl had gone through it with Penn in a preedit). Spanky was going to take it to auction. She created a storm of interest, treating the manuscript as top secret information, requiring editors to sign statements agreeing to keep the subject matter confidential if they wanted a chance to see it and bid. Even if they passed on it or didn’t win, they couldn’t divulge its content prior to the book’s publication. Just when it appeared things might get crazy, Beryl came in with her preempt and shut it all down.

  Spanky became one of Penn’s biggest champions, impressed by his charisma, attractiveness, and pluck.

  And if anybody knew from pluck, it was Spanky Katz.

  Owner of one of the most powerful literary agencies in the world, Spanky Katz had been in the book business for more than thirty-five years. The first half of those years were spent as an editor, where she turned burgeoning voices into blockbusting superstars and literary giants. The second half was spent repping blockbusting superstars and literary giants, many of whom were some of the very authors she’d developed as an editor.

  She was tiny, tony, elitist, and abrupt, with short jet hair, narrow brown eyes, and rosy chipmunk cheeks. The narrow eyes served her well, the better to see through bullshit and effect lucrative deals. The rosy cheeks, however, were most deceptive. They looked pinchable, almost cute, but only a fool would pinch the cheeks of Spanky Katz. If anyone was going to do any pinching, it was Spanky, and Spanky alone. Only Spanky didn’t pinch cheeks, she pinched checks, and was a master at pinching big checks for those fortunate enough to become her clients.

  Penn was as impressed with her as she was with him when they finally met. Sharlyn had arranged for their formal introduction to take place over lunch at Cipriani’s. She was present to make sure everything flowed well. Penn expected to feel smug and self-satisfied now that Spanky was coming to him, but that wasn’t how it went at all. What he experienced instead was a kind of mutual guarded fearsome awe, like two prize dogs sniffing each other.

  “Spanky Katz,” she had said, pumping his hand with a Popeye grip. “A pleasure. A pleasure.”

  Her clawlike shake nearly squeezed the feeling out of his fingers, but it gained her instant respect. Her grip was like an arm wrestle, some sort of dare to take her on. He got the feeling she rarely lost a challenge.

  “I’ve read your manuscript several times now,” she said. “I think it’s extraordinary. There’s a lot we can do with this. A lot.”

  “Really?” Penn said. “I’m surprised at that.”

  “Spanky,” Sharlyn interjected. “Penn has read quite a bit about your impeccable reputation.”

  “Of course he has,” Spanky said. She turned her skinny gaze on Penn. “So why are you surprised that I like your book? Why wouldn’t I? I know good work when I see it.”

  Sharlyn cleared her throat. She had warned Penn to let any resentment go. He told her he would, but now that he was in the moment, he felt he at least wanted an explanation.

  “I sent you my manuscript before. A couple of years ago. You sent me back a letter saying it was shit.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Spanky sputtered. “Ridiculous. I would never do that. That’s not my style.”

  Penn produced the letter, still in the frame. Spanky’s eyes traveled from Penn to Sharlyn to Penn again. She snatched the thing from his hand, simultaneously donning a pair of glasses that hung on a chain around her neck. She peered at the letter, scanning it with her fiery gaze. She thrust it back at him.

  “What is this, some kind of a joke?”

  “That’s what I thought when I got it,” Penn said.

  “Well, I didn’t approve it,” she said, removing the glasses. “It probably came from some overeager assistant.”

  “Is that your signature?” he asked, pointing to the scrawl on the page.

  Spanky lifted the glasses again and glanced at the letter.

  “Looks like it,” she said, dropping the glasses, “but that doesn’t mean anything.” She signaled for the waiter, snapping her fingers. “Pellegrino, please. Pronto.”

  “Are you saying they send out letters without your approval?” Penn pressed.

  “Put that thing away,” Spanky ordered. “I said I never sent it. Besides, it’s moot.”

  “Moot how?”

  “Because it is. The bottom line is I represent you now, if that’s what you want. I’m the best in the business. If you read up on me like Sharlyn said, you know that already. Anything else is bullshit and shouldn’t come under discussion at this table. Do you understand?”

  Penn, for once, was speechless.

  “Do you want me to represent you?” she asked.

  Her tapered eyes were locked onto his. Sharlyn sat between them, unsure of what was about to go down.

  Spanky and Penn held each other’s gaze for a long moment, then Penn smiled.

  “I guess I have an agent now.”

  “Of course you do,” Spanky declared. “And I’m going to make you rich.”

  Penn had what he wanted.

  More importantly, he had what he needed: the love and affection of two women, and a great degree of power over them both. Sharlyn was doing everything to help him, in addition to the efforts that Beryl put in.

  Beryl had done what she did best, stoked the interest of other companies in a grand synthesized plan to promote one of her books. This time, it would be bigger than what she had done with Canon Messier. This would be her biggest feat yet.

  Four major corporations had already signed on. Beryl had called on her connections at Calvin Klein, Apple, Starbucks, and Tower Records and had brought them together in a huge pitch meeting where she rolled out her version of the concept of Gesamtkunstwerk as it related to Penn.

  “It’ll be more than just the book, but the man as the brand,” she’d said. “He’s young, blonde, tall, beautiful, talented. Everything America loves. This man, this new breed of writer”—her arm was outstretched as though she were a circus barker about to lift the curtain on a bearded three-headed lady—“this, ladies and gentlemen, is the American Dream!”

  And she had brought Penn out to pose and squeak and signify on cue, a modern-day King Kong who wowed the room and gave the executives and their minions a glimpse of marketing perfection.

  “But it’s a book about a man who wakes up as a giant penis,” said the Apple exec. “That’s not exactly the kind of thing we want to align ourselves with. We want hip, fresh, progressive, and fun, but not vulgar. The subject matter of this
book borders on outright pornography.”

  “Not at all,” Beryl had said. “There’s a reason none of you have been given the entire book to read just yet. We wanted to keep it shrouded in secrecy. We plan to do that until the very moment we launch, which is something we’ve never tried before. There’ll be no galleys, no advance reviews, no blurbs. Just hype. But it’s a hype we believe will fully pay off.”

  “That’s absurd,” said the Tower rep. “It’ll never work. Why would people buy a book they know nothing about? Why would the media participate if they can’t get an advance copy? This is a give-and-take business. There’ll be a backlash from the press. You can’t sell what you don’t know about.”

  “No disrespect, sir,” Beryl said, strolling over to the man, “but I believe you can. I’ve studied this considerably. I’ve looked at all the possible angles. Sure, we’re living in morally stringent times. Sure, people like knowing what the product is they’re promoting or reviewing or considering buying before they sign on. But this is the age of the buzz. Pretty soon it won’t matter what the product is. All any of us will have to do is represent it with confidence. That doesn’t mean we should take that as a license to sell garbage to the American public. Not at all. But there is something to be said for mystery when there’s an excellent product to back it up.”

  She wandered back to the front of the room, making eye contact, one by one, with every exec.

  “With each of you on board, we can create a synergy that benefits all of us. The consumer’s imagination will be fueled by the desire to know why four such powerful corporations would get behind an unknown artist with an unknown product. The curiosity will drive them mad. We live in an age where people need to know, have to know. That’s why we Google everything. We TiVo stuff so we won’t miss out. We have to know what’s what and why. By simultaneously branding Penn through the buzz of secrecy behind his book, consumers will be compelled to know more. I’m confident of this. They will buy, and buy in droves.”

  “But it’s about a penis,” another exec reiterated. “When people finally discover that’s the core of the content, who knows what the reaction will be? It’s a crapshoot. This is an incredible risk. We’re talking decency here. These days people get up in arms over risqué clothing catalogs. We’re liable to be open to all kinds of lawsuits. It’s dangerous, very dangerous.”