Blind Submission (17 page)

“Can't sleep?” he whispered into my hair.

“I guess not.” I sighed. “Didn't mean to wake you, though.”

“I wasn't sleeping,” he said. He lay silent for a while and I was sure that he'd drifted off. I closed my eyes, hoping for the sleep that wouldn't come. “Do you want to talk?” Malcolm asked. “You've been so quiet.” It was true; this was the longest conversation we'd had since he'd arrived hours earlier.

I'd found my kitchen nearly empty when I got home from work and realized that I couldn't remember the last time I'd gone shopping for food. Too tired to go out again but too hungry not to eat, I found myself staring into my refrigerator at an old carton of eggs that had expired the week before, wondering if they were still safe. I considered what would happen if they weren't. Perhaps they'd make me sick, I thought; maybe even sick enough to be hospitalized. And hospitalization was a perfectly legitimate reason to take a day off. I figured I couldn't lose. I had the eggs in my hand, ready to scramble, when I realized the horrible nature of my logic. Clearly, hunger and exhaustion were making me crazy. Because only a crazy person would consider making herself dangerously ill in order to miss work. In a fit of self-preservation, I turned instead to a stale box of crackers and polished them off while I unpacked manuscripts and laid them out for reading. But the thought of doing more work was so overwhelming, I found myself close to tears. I cued Damiano's CD in my stereo and was contemplating a hot bath when Malcolm knocked on my door.

I didn't ask him why he hadn't let himself in with his key because I didn't care. I was just so glad to see him. No, glad wasn't it, exactly…I was
hungry.
For him. He walked in and I grabbed him and pressed my face into his chest.

“Hey,” he said as I clutched at him. “I'm sorry about this morning.”

“Forget it,” I said, and lifted my face for his kiss. Neither one of us had spoken another word until now.

“Want to talk about it?” Malcolm repeated. “Might help.”

“My job…” I started. I closed my hand around his wrist as if to anchor myself. “I don't know if I'm going to make it.”

Malcolm shifted beside me, separating his limbs from mine. “What do you mean?” he asked. “I thought you were doing so well there.”

“I am,” I said. “I mean, I think I am. You never know with her.”

“You're not getting along with her?”

“That's not it, exactly,” I said, and struggled to pull the right words out. I wished I could transfer my thoughts to him without having to verbalize them. “There's just so much pressure. And it's getting really weird in the office. One of the girls I work with quit today. She just walked out.”

“But people quit all the time,” he said. “What's so weird about that?”

“You don't understand….” I sighed. I didn't know how to explain how casually cruel Lucy had been to Nora—
Kelly
—and how I'd just accepted it, even going so far as to blame N—Kelly herself.

Malcolm propped himself up on his elbow. I could feel his body tensing next to me. “Make me understand,” he said. “I'm asking because I want to know. I care about what's going on with you.”

He
did
want to know, I thought. He was concerned. He loved me. I should be able to tell him everything, otherwise what kind of relationship did we have?

“I saw her
naked
this morning,” I told him. “I got to the office and she came out in a towel and told me to start making her calls. And then the towel fell off. Ugh.”

“Are you talking about Lucy?” he said.

“Yes, Lucy. Totally naked. I nearly had a heart attack.”

“What, she bent over to pick up the soap or something?”

“I wasn't in her
bathroom,
Malcolm. She came out into the office in a towel and it fell off. And then
she
accused
me
of walking in on
her.
”

“Oh, come on,” Malcolm said, and laughed. “You're exaggerating, right?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Well, maybe she was embarrassed, A. Did you think of that? And did everyone else see this, too? Because that would have been even more embarrassing.”

“No, nobody else saw it. She went back into her office, and when I went in there again, she was dressed.”

“I think you're making a big deal out of nothing, Angel. The poor woman—”

“Poor woman? Are you kidding? There's nothing poor about Lucy Fiamma! Poor
me
is more like it.”

“Okay, okay,” he said. He waited a moment and then laughed. “So,” he said, “is she hot or what?”

“Very funny,” I answered.

“Okay, no jokes about naked bosses. What else is bothering you?”

“It's just…difficult,” I said. “And it doesn't seem to be getting any easier.” I'd lost my desire to share the particulars with him. Laid bare in my own bed, I felt overexposed.

“You're not thinking of quitting, are you?” he asked, his voice soft and serious.

“And if I was?” It came out sounding testy.

“Well, you haven't exactly given it much of a chance. And I know you love it. I've seen how involved you are. You're into it, admit it.”

“I do love the work. Some of it, anyway. Just not all of it. And not all the damn time.” I thought about telling him about the expired eggs and decided against it. He clearly wasn't in an empathetic mood.

He reached over me and fumbled around my bedside table until he found the stereo remote. “Let's have a little music, shall we?” he said, and clicked it on. I felt my whole body stiffen when the strains of the first song, “Angel” by Jimi Hendrix, washed over us in the dark. Damiano's CD. In my haste to drag Malcolm off to bed, I'd forgotten to take it out.

“What's this?” Malcolm asked.

“A new…a new CD I got.”

“Hmm,” he said, and curled around me once more. “You're not still mad about my novel, are you? You should just forget about it, okay, Angel? It's important to me, but not more important than us.”

“I'm not mad at you, Malcolm.” I hesitated before I went on, measuring my words. “I gave her your novel today,” I said at last. “She's going to read it.”
After Anna got to it,
I added silently, but I sure as hell wasn't going to mention that to him. There was a long pause. Because he was lying so close to me, I could tell that Malcolm actually stopped breathing for a few seconds.

“Really?” he asked finally.

“Yes, but Malcolm, I don't know if she's going to want to take it. You understand that, right?”

“Of course I understand it,” he said, “but…” He hesitated. Jimi Hendrix gave way to the next song, Tom Petty singing “Angel Dream (No. 4).”

“But what?”

“Haven't you told me how much she respects your opinion? If you tell her it's great, don't you think that makes a difference? Seems like it's made a big difference for a few writers already.”

“But I haven't read it, Malcolm. She'd know I was biased. This way I'm being fair.”

“What do you mean? You told her it was your
boyfriend's
book?”

“Of course.”

“Why ‘of course'? What the hell, Angel? She didn't have to know the connection. Wouldn't it have made more sense just to give it to her without telling her who I was? It's not like you haven't been doing that with all the other assholes who send their crap in. Now she'll think I'm just trying to get a free ride off my girlfriend. She won't even
read
the thing.”

“Hey,” I said sharply, disentangling myself from him and sitting up. “You're
welcome.
” There was a pointed silence and then Malcolm sighed, reached up and gently pulled me back down next to him. And that was when it occurred to me that he had a point. I could feel my face get hot with guilt and I was glad Malcolm couldn't see me in the dark. I sighed, hearing the sound of my breath between us.

“I'm sorry,” Malcolm said quietly. “I didn't mean…I just thought you'd want to read it yourself. You know, before…” We lay still for a moment and then Malcolm folded his arms around me and put his hands in my hair, tickling the back of my neck with his fingers. He brushed his lips across my mouth and throat, moving downward, covering the angel wings on my breast with a long, exquisitely sweet kiss. For that moment at least, all was once again right with the world.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “I mean that.”

I put my arms around him and sighed again, this time with pleasure.

“Want to talk about anything else?” he asked.

“Mmm,” I sighed. “No, no more talking. Just keep…” I put his hands back in my hair. “Keep doing what you're doing.”

Malcolm did that and more, moving his hands across my back and his lips along my neck. He covered me with his body and I could feel the heat of him all the way to my bones. All the while, Damiano's CD continued to play in the background. “She Talks to Angels,” “Maybe Angels,” “Angel of Harlem,” and more angels after that.

Malcolm stopped kissing me midway through “Angel of Mercy” and looked at me. I could just make out the glimmer of his eyes in the dimness.

“Where did you say you got this CD?” he asked. “They're all angel songs.”

I supposed there was nothing quite like stating the obvious.

“Um, well, an author sent it to me. A wannabe.”

“Really?” he asked. “That's a little overboard, isn't it?”

“You'd be surprised,” I said. “Some authors will do anything to get published.”

And then he covered my mouth with his own.

SEVEN

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re: BLIND SUBMISSION

Dear Ms. Robinson,

Thank you for your kind reply. Although this may sound a little “over the top,” I am not surprised that Ms. Fiamma has taken an interest in my work. I believe, as you do, that this novel has the potential to be a blockbuster. A real winner, as it were. To answer your question, I have not submitted this manuscript elsewhere. Ms. Fiamma's agency is known to be among the very best in the country and that is why I selected her. I do not plan to submit elsewhere.

Having said that, I prefer to remain “anonymous” at this point for reasons I cannot disclose at the moment. Please assure Ms. Fiamma that, when the time comes, there will be no problem concerning my identity. In the interest of retaining this anonymity, I will send the manuscript to you via e-mail. To that end, I've attached another chapter. Enjoy!

With best wishes,
G.

 

BLIND SUBMISSION

Chapter 2

Carol Moore was throwing a party at the office to celebrate the entry of yet another book onto the
New York Times
bestseller list. This one was a first novel by Svetlana Vladic, a book the
New York Times
called “a modern
Anna Karenina.
”

Alice settled the bottles of Dom Pérignon in their ice buckets and suppressed the rage that had been building in her all day, all week, for her entire life. Svetlana Vladic was nobody—a pale, washed-out, passionless holograph of a woman. She'd lucked into this success and it tore a hole in Alice's heart. Alice had to admit that the book was good. No, the book was great, but the author wasn't. It was insanely unfair for someone as uncharismatic as Svetlana Vladic to have achieved this kind of glory.

Alice ground her teeth. The mask she wore in the office—that of model employee who wanted nothing more than to please her boss and her boss's clients—was slipping. What was under the mask was considerably uglier and Alice couldn't afford to show it. Yet.

Alice thought about the rejection letter she'd received from Carol Moore only days ago. Of course, Carol hadn't known that Alice was the author she was rejecting. Alice had submitted her own novel under a false name and had given it to Carol, telling the agent that it was some of the best fiction she'd ever read. Carol was inclined to believe Alice because Alice had proven herself to have an excellent eye.

“If you recommend it,” Carol told Alice, “I'm sure it must be wonderful.”

The ax fell soon after. Carol had called Alice into a private meeting and told her that she was sorry, but the novel was just not good enough for her to sell. “I understand that you were very fond of this one,” Carol told Alice, and regarded her with a questioning look, as if she couldn't really comprehend why Alice had liked the novel so much, “so I read it very carefully. But it's just not for me. Perhaps you'd like to work with this author? You could make some suggestions and then we could take another look at it?”

Alice had to take a minute to gather herself after that. Her disappointment and anger flooded her like a tidal wave and she wasn't sure she could keep her face from showing it. Passing her own work on to Carol anonymously had been a calculated risk. Had Alice told Carol that she was the author, Carol would not have been able to read the pages objectively and might even have started looking into Alice's background. Alice couldn't afford that. Had Carol liked what she'd read, none of that would have mattered.

Damn her, Alice thought bitterly. Carol's rejection, however innocent, wounded Alice to her core. Carol had no understanding of what Alice felt. She could never understand what it meant to want something so badly and for so long that every day without fulfillment killed you a little more. And then to know that what you wanted would never happen the way you wanted it…To know that really, underneath it all, you weren't any good…Alice was again filled with red anger.

Finally, when she was able to contain herself, she told Carol, “I don't think so. If it isn't good enough for you, I don't think we should waste our time on it.”

“Were you wanting to represent it yourself?” Carol asked. “Did I misunderstand? Because it's a little early for you to be taking on projects of your own. You understand, don't you, Alice? But we should talk about that if it's something that concerns you. I am certainly willing to work with you. In time, you could be a fine agent.”

Alice tried to twist her bitterness into a smile. “You are very kind, Carol,” she said. “I really appreciate it.”

“Listen, I know how tough it is when you're just starting out,” Carol said. “Especially if you're a woman. It's supposed to be easier now, for women, but it isn't. As I'm sure your mother told you—”

“I don't have a mother,” Alice said, her words bitten off and strangled.

Carol's eyes widened. “Everyone has a mother, dear.”

“Well, not me,” Alice said. She could feel her hands turning into fists. She didn't think she could stand it if Carol kept this up.

“I'm sorry,” Carol said, “I didn't mean to—”

“It's okay,” Alice interrupted, “it's just…It's okay. Of course somebody gave birth to me. But I've been on my own forever. I've never had a woman I could look up to. Not until now, anyway.” Alice's fists were so tight she could feel her manicured fingernails beginning to break the skin of her palms.

“That's very nice of you to say,” Carol said. There was a pause between the two of them. Carol looked down at the letter opener on her desk and then back at Alice. “Listen, Alice, I tell you what I'll do—I'll write your author a long letter and make some suggestions.” A tiny flicker of hope danced through Alice's head. Carol managed to extinguish it with her next words. “Perhaps that way it won't seem as harsh. And then there's always the option of trying again after a rewrite. Although, frankly, I'm not sure it would help too much.”

“Great,” Alice said, her rage threatening to explode in her brain.

Later, Alice had been forced to mail herself Carol's rejection letter. That letter was the point of a knife in Alice's heart. Now the success of yet another undeserving author had driven the knife clean through.

It was time for a new plan. As Alice picked up the phone to call Vaughn Blue's personal number, she knew exactly where she was going to start.

 

The arrival of
Blind Submission
's second chapter couldn't have come at a worse time. The theme of ego-crushing literary rejection it illustrated so well wasn't so strange in and of itself, but the fact that the very same theme was playing out in my own life (and at my own agency) made it uncomfortable—even disturbing—to read. Of course, it wasn't my own work that had gotten rejected; it was Malcolm's.

Deep down, although I didn't like to admit it, I never truly believed that Lucy would agree to represent Malcolm. I had no concrete reason for my doubt, but I didn't need one. I was starting to develop an instinct about how Lucy would react—almost as if part of my unconscious was wired into hers—and it told me that Malcolm would never find his way into her pantheon of published authors. I'd certainly been no help at all. He would have been better off just sending it in himself.

The first sign that I was right came when Anna, perpetually behind in her reading, finished Malcolm's book in record time. Naturally, she didn't share her opinion of it with me. I assumed she'd disliked it (if she'd actually read it), or at least said she did, because that was the way things went in this office. Allying herself with me would do nothing to promote Anna's cause. Of course, Anna's reaction, whatever it was, was immaterial. The manuscript went to Lucy next and then, a day or two later, Lucy called me into her office.

She was sitting at her desk, wearing a lavender dress, gloves, and a hat to match. I'd quickly gotten used to Lucy's bizarre outfits, but this one, which was some sort of post–Henry Higgins' Eliza Doolittle, was stunning on many different levels.

“Do I strike you as someone who has a lot of spare time on her hands, Angel?”

The hat actually had a veil.

“I'm sorry, I don't understand what you mean, Lucy.”

“I mean, do you, Angel Robinson, feel that I, Lucy Fiamma, have the time to
fuck
around with
bullshit,
or do you think that my time is possibly more valuable than that?”

“Of course your time is valuable, Lucy.”

She was wearing white stockings. Not panty hose. Stockings.

“Well, then, Angel, why have you taken up my time with this?” She tossed Malcolm's book onto the carpet at her feet and waved her hand at it in disgust. I bent, almost involuntarily, and picked it up. I realized what a mistake I had made and cursed myself for being so stupid. Although it hardly mattered, I had to know—had to ask the question.

“Was it the writing?” I asked in a small voice.

“His writing is
okay,
” Lucy sniffed. “But there's no plot! It's some sort of literary exercise, destined, at best, for midlist. You know what midlist is, don't you, Angel?”

“Yes, Lucy, I—”

“Let me put it this way,” she continued. “If this book were a film, it would be going straight to video. Do you understand me?”

“Lucy, I—”

“What I don't understand is why you would risk your career over a man. Can you enlighten me, Angel? You're so smart in other ways.”

“I don't know what you mean, Lucy.” My voice was cold, if not loud, and I could feel ice spreading across my middle. I was angry, but I was also afraid. Afraid of Lucy and afraid that she was right. She so often was.

“He must be something,” she went on, lowering her voice. “Is that it, Angel? Is he some kind of divine lover?” A green gleam entered her eyes. I debated making some kind of comment about the inappropriateness of her remark, but she started speaking again before I had the chance. “You're young, Angel, but you have to understand it's imperative that a girl—no, a
woman
—with intelligence like yours not give up yourself for a man. Or for anyone. We've been so conditioned to believe that we are nothing without men that we forget our own power. I would hate to see that happen to you, Angel. It would be a terrible, terrible waste.”

She was completely sincere. Her ability to couch cold barbs in warm truth was another one of Lucy's singular talents. She'd tear you down in a heartbeat, but, at the same time, she'd be laying the foundation to rebuild you. What always got me was her accuracy. She could find the sore spot and press in relentlessly, but she was also able to find the unshakable strengths and tease them out. I knew that she was right about Malcolm. I
did
define myself through him. Until I started working for Lucy, my plans for my own future were dependent on Malcolm's plans for his. I'd merely been trying to fit myself into his vision. Of course, this wasn't his fault at all—it was mine. I found myself confused into silence as I stood in front of Lucy. She kept talking, her voice becoming soft and lugubrious as she went on.

“Now, I realize that you've put yourself in rather a tight spot with this man and his novel by giving it to me, so I've done you a favor.” She removed her hat and placed it, with great care, on the edge of her desk. “I've called the boyfriend,” she said. It took me a moment to realize that she was talking about Malcolm. “And I have given him some very good advice as to how he can improve his chances of becoming published. I know you understand how valuable such a discussion can be and I know that you are aware that this is something I
never
do. The authors I represent don't need the kind of advice I've given him free of charge and those who do need it I wouldn't represent in the first place.”

Lucy pursed her lips and waited for my reaction, which was awhile in coming because I had to spend a few moments trying to figure out when she'd made the phone call and why Malcolm hadn't mentioned it to me.

“That was very kind of you, Lucy,” I said at last. “I'm sure he really appreciated it. I know I do.”

“Yes,” Lucy said, and smiled broadly. The softness, however, was gone from her voice. “I'm sure I've spared you quite a bit of discomfort.”

“Thank you, Lucy. I owe you.” As soon as the words left my lips, I regretted them. Yes, I owed her for hiring me in the first place, but I'd more than proved my worth. If it hadn't been for me, she'd never have seen
Parco Lambro;
Anna certainly wouldn't have pulled it out of the pile for a second look. No, Anna's specialty was finding cute books about kitties and puppies and the occasional travel guide, nothing that required any actual
reading
or thought. Still, I should have read Malcolm's manuscript before I'd given it to her. That was my mistake. One I wouldn't make again.