Blind Submission (15 page)

“Good, so let's hope your instincts are as sharp as they were on the Italian book. But regardless of whether or not that one turns out to be something, we need to start getting more creative about increasing revenue. In our search for the next hot book, we seem to be neglecting a very important source of possible sales. Can anyone tell me what that is?”

“Subsidiary rights?” Anna asked, hope threading its way into her voice.

“That's not what I'm talking about, but yes, that is another front we've been neglecting. Which you should know, Anna, since you've been in charge of sub rights for the last two months. But what I'm referring to now is
our authors.
The ones we already have.”

“Option books,” Craig said.

“Exactly,” Lucy said. “We have a number of authors out there who are not producing second or third books. They need to be contacted and, if necessary, they need to be given some direction on what to do next.”

“I could compile that list for you, Lucy,” said Anna. As sorry as I was for my part in Anna's earlier embarrassment, her sycophant approach to Lucy was starting to nauseate me.

“No, your plate's full of sub rights to attend to, Anna. And by the way, I'd like to see an updated list of what you're working on right now, please. Angel will generate the list of authors and possible projects. In the meantime, I have two authors in mind who can be contacted immediately.” Lucy took a dramatic pause. I noticed that Craig was smiling as he jotted notes on his legal pad. I wondered if there was something I was missing because I couldn't understand what he might be finding so amusing.

“Karanuk!” There was a collective intake of air at Lucy's pronouncement. “Yes, that's right, Karanuk has begun work on a new book. I've spoken with him recently and he's ready to move forward. However, he needs a little…
encouragement,
shall we say.” She cleared her throat and plucked some nonexistent lint from her skirt. “Angel, I would like you to call him and offer him whatever he needs to get going.”

“You want me to call Karanuk?” I asked her. My heart had started thumping so hard that I coughed over the last syllable of his name.

“Yes, call him. You know how to operate a telephone, do you not? Why do you look so frightened, Angel? He's just a
writer,
you know. After all.”

“Does he have pages you want him to send?” I managed to ask.

“He has a title,” Lucy said. “He's calling the next one
Warmer.
At least that's what he's calling it now. What do we think of that title?”

“Sounds great!” Anna gushed. “A perfect follow-up.”

“I like it,” said Nora. “Sounds, you know,
warm.
”

“Maybe
Warm
would be better. Without the
er,
” Craig offered.

“Yes, with ellipses,” said Anna. “Instead of, you know, the exclamation point.”

I watched Lucy's face as they spoke. By the time it came around to me, I knew exactly what she was thinking and exactly how to respond.

“I guess it would depend on what kind of book he's planning to write,” I said. “You wouldn't want him to spoof himself.”

“No, you wouldn't,” Lucy said. “Good, then. You'll call him. Now, the second author I have in mind is Stephanie Spark.”

“
Eat, Treat, Defeat!
” Anna practically shouted.

“Exactly,” Lucy said. “As I'm sure you all know, that was a fabulous book. The meditations were excellent, but the diet was what really sold it. People lost thousands of pounds on that diet.”

“I was one of them,” Anna said. “Of course, I put some back on, but that wasn't the fault of the book or the diet. I should go back on it again.”

“Yes,” Lucy said. “Anyway, one of the reasons the book did so well was because the author took her own diet very seriously. Too seriously, in fact. She now suffers from anorexia. I think there's a story to be told here about the so-called success of dieting and where it can lead from the standpoint of a bestselling diet book.”

“Good idea,” Craig said.

“I could call her,” Anna said. “As someone who's tried her diet—”

“No, I want Nora to handle this one,” Lucy said.

“Why? Why me?” Nora squeaked, shocked out of her customary silence.

“Well, isn't it obvious?” Lucy asked, scanning Nora with her eyes. “You're anorexic yourself, aren't you? You must understand the mind-set, surely.”

“What? What? I am not! Why would you say that?” Nora flailed her arms as if someone were trying to pin them down. She started shaking her head back and forth, on the verge of hysteria.

“There's nothing to be
ashamed
of, Nora,” Lucy said, her tone clearly indicating that there was. “There are treatments for this kind of thing, you know.”

“I can't, I can't, I can't,” Nora said, and started to cry. I felt as if I were watching a train wreck. I was horrified, but I couldn't look away. Neither, it appeared, could Anna or Craig.

“Nora,” Lucy said, her voice slow and measured, “if you are unable to participate in this meeting, perhaps you should take a break. I'm trying to run a business here.”

Still sobbing, Nora bolted from Lucy's chair and disappeared into the main office. After a minute of uneasy silence, punctuated by the sound of the bathroom door slamming shut, Lucy stood and reclaimed her own seat.

“Totally unprofessional,” she said. “This is the problem with these
girls,
Craig.” Craig shrugged and raised his palms as if to deny culpability. “I ask you, was that performance really necessary?” I almost expected Anna to answer because she seemed to love skewering herself on rhetorical questions, but this time she wisely left it alone. Lucy sighed heavily. “Well, I suppose you'd better go see to her,” she told Craig. “More time wasted. And I suppose we'll have to adjourn this meeting until later. Angel, you've got work to do. Anna, you stay here, I need to talk to you.”

“Okay,” Anna said. “I'll get the door.” The look of self-satisfaction on her face annoyed me more than I wanted to admit.

There was a small tempest hovering over Nora's desk when I walked back into the office. Stacks of manuscripts sat on her chair, on the floor, and in the middle of her desk. Spilled Rolodex cards lay scattered on her computer keyboard and an assortment of rubber bands, paper clips, and pens decorated the remaining space. Nora was bent over the mess, emptying the contents of her top drawer into a large canvas bag. I watched as she threw in a jar of mustard, a container of protein powder, a hairbrush, a spoon, and a small notepad decorated with iridescent hearts. Craig sat in pacific calm at his own desk, attending to a file. Not only was he not “seeing to her,” as Lucy suggested, he wasn't even looking at her. I felt a jolt of panic followed by a stab of guilt. Panic because she was obviously quitting and her workload would no doubt fall to me. Guilt because my panic wasn't even slightly tempered by any sympathy for Nora. I wondered if I should talk to her, offer some words of encouragement, or try to convince her to stay. But I'd already decided that it wasn't really my place. I wasn't Nora's buddy and I wasn't her boss. And it wasn't like anyone would do the same for me. It was clear that we were all on our own here, despite Lucy's constant assertions that we were a team. I was the only one watching
my
back in this office. Besides, judging by the speed with which Nora was moving, it didn't seem as if any kind of supportive gesture would make the least bit of difference. The phone rang and I leaped to answer it, glad for the excuse to shift my attention.

“Lucy Fiamma Agency.”

“Yes,” a small voice said, “this is…my name is Shelly Franklin? I sent you a manuscript a while ago? I don't know if you've seen it?”

“Hi, Shelly!” I said, sounding ridiculously upbeat to my own ears. “This is Angel Robinson, Lucy's assistant. I was just about to call you!”

“Oh. You were?” Her voice became more timid and I could barely hear her.

“Yes, I really like your novel. Lucy's reviewing it right now.”

“Oh.” She sounded almost disappointed. Not a good sign.

“We were wondering if you've sent this novel to other agents? You didn't mention that in your letter.”

“Oh, I didn't? I was calling because I was wondering if I enclosed a self-addressed stamped envelope? If I forgot, I can send one in?” she whispered.

What was it about these authors? Every one of them seemed loony in his or her own way. “You did send one in as I recall,” I said, my voice rising as hers dipped, “but we really don't need it right now because we'd like to see the rest of the novel.”

“The rest?”

“You have the entire novel written, don't you? You did say that in your letter.”

“Yes, I've written it.”

“Can you send it to us?” I asked her. I realized I was almost shouting into the phone. There was obviously something wrong with this woman and I scrambled to try to figure out what it was.

“Okay,” she said. “I'll send that out today. Thanks.”

“Can I just ask you, have you sent this novel to any other agents?” I asked before I lost her.

“No?” she said, and hung up. I stared at the phone, as perplexed as I'd ever been. I'd have to call her back and I didn't relish the prospect. I looked up and saw Nora standing over me with a pile of manuscripts. She was dry-eyed, but tear-tracks stained both sides of her face.

“This is my reading,” she said. “Now it's your reading. You'll have to go get today's mail.”

“Okay,” I said. “I'm really sorry.”

Nora leaned in so that her face was close to mine. “She's cruel,” she whispered. “It's one thing to be tough, but she's
cruel.
” She straightened up and turned to walk out. Craig's voice caught her before she could reach the door.

“Nora, if you leave now, I'll assume you're quitting. And if you're quitting, I'll need you to sit down for an exit interview,” he said.

Nora shot him a look potent with hatred and misery. When she spoke, her voice trembled under the weight of unshed tears. “My name is Kelly,” she said. “Kelly.
Kelly.
” She walked out, closing the door behind her, and Craig didn't try to stop her.

As if on cue, Anna emerged from Lucy's office before the dust from Nora's—
Kelly's
—exit could settle and walked over to my desk.

“Lucy wants me to ask you if you've called Karanuk yet,” she said. “And we're supposed to have a meeting about my reading. But she wants me to read this first.” She held up a manuscript for me to see. I recognized it immediately. Malcolm's novel.

“Hey,” Anna said, noticing the unoccupied and disheveled desk for the first time. “Where's Nora?”

SIX

THE PHONES WERE RELENTLESS,
ringing and flashing in an unremitting assault to my senses. If I hadn't known better, I would have sworn that Nora contacted every unpublished author who'd ever sent us a manuscript and instructed them to call right after she made her exit. Even Craig, who almost never picked up the phone, was forced to put on a headset and catch the calls that Anna and I couldn't get to. Lucy had voice mail on her phone system but hated the idea that any caller would ever hear a recording. It was unprofessional, she said, and gave the idea that we were a small, struggling agency. She wanted a live human to answer every call, even if that human had to spend the next ten minutes getting the caller off the line. Which is what Anna, Craig, and I did for the better part of two hours after Nora left.

“Just the first fifty pages and a self-addressed stamped envelope,” I could hear Anna saying over and over again. Lucy hadn't emerged from her office since the staff meeting, and I wondered if she even knew that Nora had left. Surely, if she did, she would have called another meeting to discuss it.

I'd taken one break, if it could be called that, to retrieve the day's mail from the nearby postal store where Lucy had the agency's account. Again, as if N—Kelly had planned it this way, there was an unusually heavy load. I dragged three full mail tubs to my desk and was frantically trying to separate the submissions from the catalogs, letters from editors, bills, and the usual choice items. Prospective authors sent in an astonishing array of ridiculous gifts in an effort to catch Lucy's attention. Most sent chocolates (Ghirardelli, Godiva) or money (cash stapled to cover letters), but others got more creative. Since I'd started working at the agency, we'd received a variety of animal pelts from writers trying to copy Karanuk's work, hand-painted mugs (stating
World's Best Agent
in gold glaze), theater tickets, gift certificates, and lavender-scented soap. All of these items had to be returned immediately, of course, along with their accompanying manuscripts. Nothing got a project rejected faster than when it had an attempt at bribery attached to it. Wading through all of this had been N—Kelly's job, and now it was mine. Whatever sympathy I'd had for her was fast dissipating as I struggled under the weight of my additional workload. Could she not have waited until the end of the day? As if she'd heard my thoughts and sent the gods to punish me, I caught my finger in an unusually stubborn clip and tore enough of the skin that I started to bleed on a manuscript.

“Damn, damn, damn,” I whispered, smearing the cover letter in an effort to save it.

“Angel!” Anna's voice, high pitched and frantic, sliced through my consciousness. I dropped the manuscript into my own take-home pile and turned to Anna, trying to hide my bleeding finger, but she had already seen. “What are you doing?” she hissed.

“I cut—”

“Never mind! I need you to get the phone.” I didn't ask her why she couldn't get the screaming thing, just turned and punched the line.

“Lucy Fiamma Agency,” I said.

“Angel, is that you? It's Dami.”

“Dami! Hi!” I was absurdly happy to hear from him and I was sure he could tell from my voice, which had turned high and squeaky. Anna must have heard it, too, because I could see her glowering at me from the corner of my eye.

“How are you?” he asked.

“I'm fine,” I said. “How are
you
? You must be so thrilled about your book.”

“It's amazing,” he said. “I can't believe it.”

“Well, believe it,” I told him. “It's really going to happen. Do you need to speak to Lucy? If you hold on a minute, I can put you through. We've been really busy here today.”

“I love to speak to Luciana, but I called now to talk to you,” he said.

“Oh. Is there something you need help with? I can—”

“No, no, Angel. I want to come to the office today to thank you in person. I have something for you and Luciana. We have to celebrate.”

“Oh.” For a moment, I had no response to give him. I'd never seen a visitor of any kind in the office, let alone an author. Lucy had some local authors on her list, but most of her clients lived far away. I should probably ask her first before I extended an invitation to Damiano, I thought. On the other hand, I was almost positive that she'd nix the idea immediately. Lucy couldn't tolerate any kind of interruption of the workday unless she created it herself. And although I seemed on my way to becoming a liaison between her and her authors, I sensed that the last thing she wanted was for me to have any kind of personal relationship with them. Still, I was eager to meet Damiano. After spending so much time with him on the phone, and working through so much of his writing, I felt as if I already knew him. To hell with it, I thought. If Lucy complained, I could always plead ignorance. After all, I'd never received an
explicit
instruction not to allow an author into the office without permission.

“Well, it would be great to meet you,” I said at last. “When were you thinking of coming by?”

“I'm coming from the city,” he said, “so it takes me a while to get to you. The traffic, the bridge, you never know. So I'll be there sometime this afternoon.”

“Okay, I'll let Lucy know,” I said, although I had no intention of doing so. I didn't want Anna to hear, either, and had lowered my voice to a near-whisper. “Do you need directions?”

“Not to worry, Angel,” he said. “I know where you are.
Ciao, bella.
”

“Who was
that
?” Anna asked as soon as I'd hung up, but I pretended not to hear her and picked up the phone again. My intercom line was flashing. Lucy had been silent long enough.

“Hi, Lucy.”

“Angel, have you spoken to Karanuk yet? I'd like a status report on that.”

“Not yet, Lucy. The phones have been crazy today.”

“
Prioritize,
Angel,” she barked, and hung up.

I hated to admit it to myself, but I was scared to call Karanuk. Despite what Lucy had said about him being “only a writer,” I was intimidated by the very thought of him. What could I possibly say that would be helpful to someone of his literary stature? I had no idea what approach I was supposed to take with him. I could try fawning and cajoling, which would be preferable to a tongue-tied stammer, I supposed, but that didn't seem to be what Lucy had in mind. At any other time, the opportunity to speak to Karanuk would have seemed to me like a great honor. At this point, however, it was another fumble in a dark room.

As I dialed, I clung to the hope that I'd get voice mail or even an assistant, but no. Karanuk answered his own phone on the first ring with a simple but firm, “Karanuk.”

“Hi, Karanuk?” (
Mr.
Karanuk? I had no idea.) “This is Angel Robinson? I'm Lucy Fiamma's new assistant? Lucy asked me to call you?”

“Yes,” he said.

Yes…what? I thought, but forged ahead, anyway. “Lucy's very excited about your new book and she wanted me to ask you how—I mean when—she'll be able to take a look at the manuscript?”

“I don't have anything to show her,” he said abruptly. I was sure he was going to hang up on me.

“Okay, do you know when you might have something? I think what she meant was just an outline or proposal, not the whole thing, of course.”

Karanuk laughed, the first display of any kind of emotion since we'd begun talking. For a laugh, however, it didn't have much mirth. Like his voice, it was deep and strong, but devoid of accent or inflection. For someone who wrote as eloquently as he did, that absence of feeling seemed very odd. Which reminded me that I'd said nothing to him about his work.

“I'm a huge fan of
Cold!,
by the way,” I said hurriedly. “It's one of the best books I've ever read.”

There was a brief silence and then he said, “I live in Los Angeles. I'm not very cold anymore. Things are much warmer here and much different. My shape has shifted. I'm suffering the fate of a Klondike bar in the Sahara. There has been a melting process. Additives…plastic components…One does not know which way to proceed.”

So he was off his head like almost every other author, I thought. But he'd given me an opening and I felt the jolt of an idea zip through my head.

“Oh, is that the theme of the new book?” I asked. “It's terrific. Displacement. Loss of self. Man out of his element. Disconnection from culture and reality under the hot sun of…of…”

“Celebrity,” he said, and paused for a beat or two. “What did you say your name was?”

“Angel.”

“Angel,” he repeated. “You are her assistant? She has had many assistants. She needs much assistance.”

“Yes, I've been here about…” I couldn't remember how long I'd been working for Lucy. Five minutes? Forever? They were the same thing here. “I've been here awhile.”

“And you are a writer yourself?” he asked.

“Oh no, no.
No.
I don't write at all.”

“But you know how a writer thinks,” he said.

“Well…”

“I will send you pages. You can tell her that.”

“That's great! If I can be of any help at all, please let me know.”

“You have been of help already. That's why I am sending the pages to you.”

“Great! And the working title is
Warmer,
is that right?”

Karanuk let out another mirthless laugh. “No,” he said. “This book does not have a title. That's her title. If I wanted, I could compile an entire book with her proposed titles.”

“Oh, okay. Well, it sounds fantastic. We can't wait to see it.” As I hung up, I realized that, like Gordon Hart, Karanuk had not once referred to Lucy by name. Their relationship was obviously a very complicated one, and I didn't want to spend time trying to figure it out. Instead, I allowed myself a minute to revel in the pure excitement of the fact that I'd soon be reading a new work by Karanuk before anyone else. There was a new title forming in my mind already.
Thaw.
I hoped he'd like it.

“Angel!” My intercom shrieked, punching a hole in the first moment of silence we'd had all day. “My office. Now.” I stood up too fast and knocked into my desk, bumping my forgotten cup of coffee and spilling it all over my pants.

“Shit,”
I hissed. Anna and Craig swiveled their heads simultaneously to look at me. I caught the shadow of a smile forming on Anna's lips. Craig raised his eyebrows in surprise. As if cursing were a novelty around here, I thought.

“Angel!” she shouted again, and I ran to her office, the scent of old cappuccino rising off me in waves.

“I asked you about Karanuk,” she barked before I could get all the way through the door. “What is the status, Angel?”

“I just spoke to him,” I said.

“And?” She sat at her desk, imperiously straight, tapping her Waterman pen against a stack of notepads.

“He's sending pages.”

“He's
what
?” Lucy got up and walked around to where I was standing, not stopping until she came within inches of my face. Her closeness was unnerving. I felt cold and naked in her gaze of lusty anticipation.

“He's sending us pages for the new book. He didn't say how much, but he asked me to tell you that he's sending it in soon.”

“Really, did he,” she said, but it was not a question. “And did he happen to tell you what his idea for this book is?”

“Um, yes, he's writing about his experiences since leaving Alaska and how that has changed his life.”

“How did you manage that, Angel?” Lucy's voice had dropped considerably and was softer than I'd ever heard it. I watched myriad expressions dance across her face like shifting clouds. In her eyes, which were boring into me with laserlike precision, there was surprise, something that looked like pleasure, a hint of annoyance, and self-satisfaction all at once. It was as if she couldn't decide to be angry or pleased that I'd done exactly what she'd asked me to do. Before I could answer her, though, she seemed to catch herself and draw all the emotion out of her features. “Good,” she said. “I'll expect it shortly, then.” She inhaled and wrinkled her nose. “What is that awful smell?”

I looked down at my wet-stained pants. “I had an accident with my coffee,” I said, attempting a smile.

“That's disgusting,” she said, backing away from me and heading back to her desk. “Children have accidents, Angel. Have Nora get you some soda water or something when she goes out for the mail.”

If only she hadn't mentioned it. Now I was stuck having to be the messenger. “About Nora,” I said. “She's gone.”

“Well, send her out again when she gets back. What's the problem?”

“No, she's gone for the day. I mean, she's gone for good. I think she quit. She took all her things….” I was frozen in place by Lucy's stare of unvarnished bitterness.