Blind Submission (36 page)

“I want to take their offer,” Shelly said without hesitation, the shy, faltering tone completely absent from her voice.

“You don't have to rush into anything,” Lucy said. “Although I do have to tell you that I promised Julia Swann I would get back to her today, and well…We do have an excellent opportunity here. But would you like to consider the other option and give me a call back?”

“No!” Shelly gasped. “Please call her and tell her that I want to take her offer.”

“You're sure?” Lucy asked. She looked up at me and smiled.

“Yes!” Shelly said. “I'm sure. Oh, please call her before she changes her mind.”

“I'm thrilled,” Lucy said. “Nothing would make me happier. Now listen, dear, there's one thing.”

“What? What is it?” Shelly now sounded frantic.

“Julia Swann, who, by the way, is an
excellent
editor, would like you to play up the poker element in your novel. This is very important to her, dear. It's sort of a deal-breaker. Do you think you'll be able to do that?”

“The…what? I'm sorry,” Shelly said, “I don't think I heard you?” Here it was, I thought, and formed a smile of my own. I doubted Shelly Franklin had ever played the game of poker, let alone considered making it a part of her novel.

“Poker,”
Lucy said firmly. “The novel needs poker. Texas No Limit Hold 'Em, to be specific.” Another long pause on the other end. “Have I lost you?” Lucy said. “Are you already spending your money?” She barked out a laugh. “I do need to call her back, dear, so keep that in mind.”

“Okay,” Shelly said. “It's no problem. I can do that. I can write about poker.”

I felt my heart sink with disappointment and mourned the untimely death of Shelly Franklin's artistic integrity.

“Wonderful,” Lucy said. “And really, I think that it's a wonderful new direction to take the novel in. When I speak to Julia, I'll be sure to let her know that you're very excited about it. You're going to love working with her, dear. She's even come up with a fabulous new title. Hold on a second, I have it written down here somewhere.” Lucy leaned back in her chair, making no attempt to find anything, written or otherwise, on her desk. After a few seconds had passed she said, “
White Aces and Promises.
That's it. As in ‘white lace and promises.' That way you keep the wedding theme.”

I heard something that sounded like a stifled groan or a grunt on the other end of the line. Lucy ignored it and went on. “Really, dear, the more I think about it, the more impressed I am with this offer. I hope you know how fortunate you are?”

“Oh yes, yes. I am so very lucky.”

“Indeed. Lady Luck has certainly been looking over your shoulder,” Lucy said, taking the poker metaphor to its nauseating end.

“Yes, I know, but…” Shelly was faltering.

“What is it, my dear?” I noted that Lucy's
my dear
had the same emphasis as
you bitch.

“I don't…I don't know ANYTHING ABOUT POKER!”

Lucy and I both cringed at the sound of Shelly's outburst. What the hell had happened to her? Five seconds before she'd been willing to sell her firstborn for a book deal.

“It's not a difficult game,” Lucy said, disgust creeping into her voice.

“Just turn on the damn TV and you'll see some tournament on every other channel. Better yet, get a book on the subject.”

“But I don't know how to do it. I don't know how to make it a book about poker. I don't know what to dooooo….” Shelly Franklin had started weeping. I was embarrassed for her. Lucy was having a very different reaction.

“You know, my dear, I worked very hard to put this deal together, and as with every deal I make, my reputation is on the line. I didn't sweat my ass off in Manhattan so that you could sit around feeling miserable when a
million talented authors
are out there waiting for me to discover them. So am I to call Julia Swann and accept the offer or am I to tell her that the author has fallen apart and will not be able to write about a game that any eight-year-old can play?”

“Ah, unhh, baa, haaa…” Shelly Franklin was falling apart and so was her deal. But I had an idea.

“Shelly?” I said. “Can you hear me?”

“A-A-Angel?”

“Yes. Listen, Shelly, I've been thinking. You know how Michael is hiding his alcoholism from Jennifer and she's hiding her pregnancy? Well, why can't he—or she—also be addicted to gambling—poker, specifically—and then when they get to Las Vegas, of course it all comes out? Michael could leave her to go to a tournament. Or she could leave him and go play. Then he goes to the bar, gets drunk—again—and then they try to hash out their problems, but she's winning and they both get caught up in it. Then you can make poker the central motif. You can have both characters thinking about it all the way to Las Vegas along with all the other things they're keeping from each other. Because—here's a thought—perhaps they
both
have a secret passion for this game. Can you see it, Shelly?”

There was a crackling silence from the speakerphone. Lucy was staring at me, her eyebrows forming perfect arrows, her lips folded into a thin line.

“I can do that,” Shelly said finally. “I can definitely do that.”

“So I can call Julia Swann?” Lucy had taken it down several notches now that Shelly was back on the line.

“Yes, I'm so happy,” Shelly said. “Please accept. I can do it. I can do what they want.”

“They want to publish you!” Lucy exclaimed.

“Of course, of course. Thank you, Lucy. Thank you so much for making this happen.”

“Thank
you,
dear. But listen, you'd better let me go so that I can call Julia. Again, I'm just thrilled. Enjoy! I'll have Angel call you when we wrap this up, yes? Bye, dear.” Lucy hung up before Shelly could say good-bye and immediately turned to me, her eyebrows still raised.

“Well, that's done.”

“Yes. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Lucy said. She waited a moment before delivering her next words, which sounded as if they'd been torn from her. “And kudos to you, Angel. Nice work at the end. You have, indeed, been paying attention.” That was clearly all the praise or acknowledgment I was going to receive, and it seemed to have cost her substantially to give it to me. I folded my arms and tried to keep my disgust from working its way onto my face. I'd finally understood why so many of Lucy's authors never wrote second books—she hated writers. And she probably hated me because I didn't.

Lucy stood, brushing the folds out of her pants, looked over at me, and completely misread my thoughts. “I hope you weren't expecting
her
to thank you,” she said, gesturing to the phone. “Not that one. Another one who doesn't deserve what's falling into her lap. To think
I
had to convince
her.
It's a disgrace how many of these self-obsessed narcissists get published, get acclaim, while so many deserving writers
never get heard.
” She took a deep breath. “They'll let you down if you allow them to. I knew you were an author advocate when I hired you, Angel. It helps. But you get much too involved. You can't separate the writers from their writing. That's your problem.” She shrugged and placed her hands flat on the surface of her desk. Her fingernails were painted with a pale opalescent polish. “It's a great pity that one can't excise the author from the book once it's written,” she said. “But there you are.”

Lucy seemed to drift for a moment, caught up in thoughts she chose not to share, before she bristled, her shell hardening once more.

“Speaking of authors,” she said, “I need you to get Karanuk on the phone. You've read his pages, yes?”

“Yes.”

“So you've seen the shape they're in?”

“Yes, but Lucy, I think—”

“But I know how we're going to fix this.” Lucy paused, forming her hands into a steeple and placing them under her chin. “Karanuk is going to write
Cold!Cooking.
” She smiled broadly. “Prose recipes from Alaska. It's a brilliant idea.”

She looked at me for confirmation. I tried, and failed, to muster any kind of enthusiasm. It was a god-awful idea, worse than turning
Elvis
into a novel about poker. She could sell it, of course, but it would permanently damage Karanuk's career. Lucy saw the disapproval in my face and said, “What? What is it, Angel?”

“I know that
Thaw
doesn't look good right now,” I said, “but I think I can work with him. It's got so much potential, Lucy—he's an amazingly talented writer.”

“Fuck
Thaw
!” Lucy snapped. “Get him on the phone for me. He'll write
Cold!Cooking
if I tell him to.”

“Okay,” I said, and turned to leave her office.

“Wait,” she said. “Get me Julia Swann first before she
does
change her mind.”

“Okay,” I said.

“And Angel?”

“Yes?”

“We've got a lot to do today, so you'd better get going.”

FIFTEEN

AS SOON AS I CONNECTED
Julia Swann with Lucy, I felt myself breaking into a cold, crawling sweat. Chilled and overheated at the same time, I put my hands to my forehead and pressed. Bouncing between the extremes of lack of sleep, the absolute creepiness of
Blind Submission,
Shelly Franklin's deal, and worry over the missing Damiano, I was on the verge of having a panic attack. Damiano would never intentionally stand Lucy up. It just wasn't his way. Plus, such disrespect wouldn't exactly be a good career move. He was already in New York and planning to meet with her when I saw him. What could have happened between then and the following evening? I glanced at Anna, snake in the grass that she was, and thought about her heroin addict comment. What if my throwing him out had driven Damiano to…but no, I was giving myself
way
too much credit there.

So where was he?

“Find him,” Lucy had said, and that was good enough for me. I tried his home phone number first. I let it ring ten times before I hung up. I'd discovered during our all-night editing sessions that Damiano had no answering machine or voice mail for his home phone. I tried his cell phone again, but it was still out of area. The last number I had for him was a work number, but even as I dialed it, I knew I wasn't going to find him there.

“Dolce and Pane.” At least someone had answered at this number. Someone who might have a clue as to where Damiano could be, even if the gruff male voice on the other end didn't exactly sound like it belonged to a rich conversationalist.

“Good morning. Is Damiano there?”

“Damiano? No.”

“Do you know if he's coming in? Do you know when?”

“Damiano? No.”

“Damiano Vero, yes. He works there, right?”

“Damiano? Yes, yes. Work here.”

“Do you know where he is?” I asked.

“Damiano? No. You try later,” the voice said, and the line went dead.

I turned to my computer so that nobody in the office could see the tears stinging my tired eyes. Damiano, wherever he was, did not want to be found. At the very least, I thought, he didn't want to be found by me. I was going to have to get control of myself. My blushing and stammering during the meeting had surely tipped my hand, but becoming a sobbing wreck at my desk would expose me entirely. As if on cue, my computer chirped with the sound of an instant message from Anna.

Are you ok?

I turned around in my chair to face her and saw that she had her fingers on her keyboard and her eyes fixed intently on her computer screen. I stared at her long enough for her to notice me, but she kept up with her ridiculous pretense of looking busy. Behind me, my computer chirped again.

You seem a little upset.

I debated whether or not to send a message back. Somehow Anna had managed to become entangled in every aspect of my life. I wondered when all of that had happened and how I'd missed it. Perhaps
missed
wasn't the right word.
Underestimated
was more like it.

We need to talk,
I wrote back. I heard the electronic ping of an incoming e-mail and welcomed the distraction.

 

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: BALSAMIC MOON

Greetings, Angel!

Thank you so much for your note. I apologize for not writing back to you sooner, but my computer's been on the blink for the last few days and I've just gotten it back up and running (this always happens to me when Mercury goes retrograde, so you'd think I'd be used to it by now)! At any rate, I'm so glad you got in touch with me. I believe our meeting was most fortuitous—and destined to happen. Of course, destiny and the stars are my business, so my belief in them both isn't so surprising.

I am “over the moon” (ha-ha) that you are so excited about my book and can't wait to discuss the next step. I look forward to hearing from you again.

Regards to you and Ms. Fiamma,
Sunny

P.S. If you're interested, I would be delighted to send you a copy of your astrological birth chart. All I need is your date, place, and time of birth. Think about it—it might prove to be quite illuminating!

SM

 

I'd almost forgotten about Sunny's book in all the madness of the last twenty-four hours. This was something else to add to the “tell Lucy” list, which was starting to become very long and complicated. I started to send Sunny a reply, something that would hold her off until I figured out a way to keep her from the fate of Shelly Franklin, but the sound of another incoming e-mail completely sidetracked me.

 

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: Alice

Dearest Angel Robinson,

I fear I've offended you, but I can't imagine why. It seemed that we were working so well together. I've just read your last e-mail (apologies about the delay) and I've taken it to mean that you don't agree with the direction I was thinking of taking here, so after giving it much thought, I've decided to rewrite. I'm attaching the fruits of my labor. I'm sure you'll give it your best consideration, Ms. Robinson. I can hardly believe that you wouldn't want to know what becomes of our Alice.

With my very best,
G.

 

I leaped out of my chair like an insane woman, ran the few steps over to Anna's desk, and turned her computer to face me before she had a chance to quit out of what she was doing.

“Hey!” Anna yelled, and recoiled as if I'd struck her. The sound was loud enough to alert both Craig and Jackson, who looked at us with matching stares of alarm. I gripped Anna's computer screen and peered into it. Solitaire. She was playing Solitaire.

“What are you
doing
?!” Anna squealed.

I searched for open windows on her computer, for any indication that she'd just sent me that e-mail, and found none. She'd been sitting there all along playing an electronic card game. It was no wonder she never got anything done.

“Is there a problem, Angel?” Craig's voice rumbled through my consciousness and forced me to turn around.

“No, no problem,” I said, and walked back to my desk, where my intercom was shrieking.

“Angel!”

“Lucy?”

“My office, please!”

“On my way.” I quit out of my e-mail program and grabbed the folders on my desk before heading over. I wasn't about to leave anything behind.

“Angel,” Anna hissed as I passed her desk.

“What?”

“What's the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” I said in a stage whisper. “Thanks for asking!”

“Well, that's done,” Lucy said as I entered her office. “Elvis has left the building.”

I smiled. I had to give her credit for that one. “Viva Las Vegas,” I said, playing along.

“Indeed,” she said. “One hundred and fifty thousand later.” She looked at my surprised expression and nodded. “That's right, I got her to go higher. And I got our girl a bestseller bonus, too. Let's hope that the
poker
is still
hot
by the time it's published.” Lucy was clearly on a roll.

“Have you called the author back to tell her?”

“Angel, I'm an extremely busy woman. If I spent all my time listening to the billing and cooing of grateful authors, I'd have none left to actually sell their books. Now,
what's next
?” She was moving with her usual sharklike speed, swallowing up everything in her path.

“Karanuk?” I offered.

“Yes, but first we need to talk about
Blind Submission.
” Lucy walked around her desk to her couch and sat down. She patted the space beside her. “I can't have a conversation while you're standing there like that, Angel. Come and sit down.”

I took a seat on the couch as far away from her as I could get, and placed my papers on her coffee table. A wave of dizziness hit me and I had to steady myself to keep from falling forward. I realized that the overload of adrenaline that had been keeping me awake had just run out. It didn't help that the temperature in Lucy's office, which was usually brisk at best, was quite warm, hovering between sultry and somnolent.

“Aren't you exhausted?” I asked her. “With the flying and the time change and all?”

Lucy smiled at me, showing an excessive number of her gleaming white teeth. “I slept on the plane,” she said. I wondered if her remaining Xanax had anything to do with that. “The time change never bothers me. It's only three hours and, as you know, I live on New York time, anyway.”

“But you must have taken a red-eye, right? I mean, that's the only—”

“Angel, I appreciate your concern for my health, but onward we go, yes?
Blind Submission.
What's going on with it?”

The very sound of the title made my throat constrict. But I had to tell her. “Yes, I need to talk to you about that,” I said. “It's gotten a bit complicated.”

For the second time that morning, Lucy seemed surprised. It wasn't an expression I was accustomed to seeing on her face, and it made me very uneasy.

“Really?” she asked. “In what way?”

She waited for me to answer, another anomaly, and I reached for the right words.

“I can't work on it anymore,” I said at last.

“And why is that?” Lucy asked.

“Because I think I know who's writing it and I know why.”

“Well, I'm most interested to hear about the
why,
” Lucy said, “but first, do tell me the
who.
” She seemed to be enjoying the conversation immensely. There was none of the usual clipped sharpness in her tone. For once, she seemed content to stay on one topic for longer than five seconds.

“It's Malcolm,” I said, and held my breath, waiting for her reaction. I'd prepared myself for several—anger, annoyance, a lack of surprise—but not for what I saw, which was complete and authentic confusion.

“Malcolm who?” she said.

“My ex-boyfriend, Malcolm.”

“Your
what
?” I watched as she puzzled it out in her head. Was it really possible that she didn't know who I was talking about? Lucy and I faced each other with mirrored expressions of bewilderment until a lightbulb finally went on in some corner of her brain. “Ohhh,
Malcolm.
The
fiancé.
” Her expression changed to one of distaste. “The
writer,
” she said with cruel emphasis. “Really, Angel? You're telling me that your fiancé is the author of a novel you've been working on for—how long now?—and that I've been pitching all over New York?”

“He's not my fiancé,” I said. “He's not even my boyfriend anymore.”

“Is this your way of trying to get me to represent him, Angel?” she said. “Because I can assure you it's not going to work.”

“And I can assure you that I'm not,” I said.

For a moment I thought I saw the flicker of a smile on her face, but I couldn't tell. Her eyes had gone very bright and clear and were staring right through me. I had the sudden sensation that we were on opposite sides of a seesaw and that the balance between us was about to shift.

“An-gel,” she said, stretching the syllables of my name, “you're saying your—Malcolm told you he was the author of this novel? Why on earth wouldn't you have told me sooner?”

“Because I wasn't sure. I'm still not one hundred percent positive, but it
has
to be him.”

“And why is that?”

“I think this was his plan all along,” I started. I looked at Lucy, trying to gauge her receptiveness. She was waiting patiently for me to continue, with what seemed like genuine concern on her face. That look gave me strength and my words started tumbling out. “He wanted me to work here in the first place,” I said. “He figured I'd give you his novel and then you'd represent him. But when that didn't work, he started writing this one, anonymously, so that we wouldn't know it was him and automatically reject it. His writing is all he's ever cared about, not me. And then I broke up with him. That was not part of his plan.”

Lucy tapped her fingers lightly on her leg, her impatience returning. “But how is that connected to
Blind Submission,
Angel?”

I hesitated for a fraction of a second while I debated whether or not to tell her about Damiano. That was all it took to decide not to. “Lucy, you've read that manuscript,” I said. “Don't you think it's more than a coincidence that the characters and plot are so much like us and this agency?”

Lucy shrugged. “Maybe,” she said, “but that's part of what makes it interesting. Part of what makes it
different
from all the other crap out there. But Angel, I still don't know what makes you think it's your—Malcolm.”

“There are aspects of Alice,” I began, and stopped, searching again for the right words. “There are some very personal details of that character that are identical to me. Nobody but Malcolm would know about those.”