Blind Submission (26 page)

But then I read the scene and everything I thought I believed went into a mad tailspin.

My first impulse was to call Malcolm and pour out my outrage over the phone, but I forced myself not to. I let it simmer for a couple of days, turning it around in my mind, looking, again, for reasons why he couldn't be the author, trying to recapture my trust in him. I was hoping that by the time he came over for the dinner we'd planned I'd have had some kind of revelation, but I didn't. Instead, I just felt my anger and confusion grow until my entire being was saturated with it.

This was the state I was still in as I waited for Malcolm to show up for the dinner that was supposed to mend all our fences. When, finally, I heard his knock at my door, I found my legs so stiff with tension, it was difficult to even walk across the room to open it.

The first thing I saw when I opened the door was the giant bouquet of I'm-so-sorry flowers Malcolm was holding in front of his face.

“What's the matter?” he asked before he'd even gotten both feet inside.

“Why are you doing this?” I said, sounding much more dramatic than I'd intended.

“Doing what?” he said, but his face paled immediately and he looked as guilty as sin.

“You know what I'm talking about,” I said. “Don't make me go round and round with it, okay? I just want to know why. What do you think you're going to get out of this ultimately? How long do you think you can keep it going?”

“Angel…” He hesitated and looked down at his feet. The flowers seemed to visibly wilt in his hand. “I really don't know what you think…what you mean.” He shrank away from me. The sight of it made me sad and furious at the same time.

“Come
on,
” I said. “Stop it. When were you going to tell me? Were you going to tell me at all? She wants to sell it. She's
going
to sell it. You know that! How long do you think you can be anonymous?” My voice had risen to a screechy pitch.

I watched as Malcolm's face changed from pale to flushed. His eyes, which had been downcast and clouded, snapped and sparked. He'd been almost cowering but now stood up straight, filling his chest with air. “What the hell, Angel?” His voice was angry, no longer hesitant. “I. Do. Not. Know. What
you're talking about!
Make some sense.”

“Blind Submission,”
I said. “I know you're the author. I've read that chapter, okay?”

“Say
what,
Angel?” Malcolm looked at me, his face a wild mix of competing expressions, as if he didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or throw up. He opened his hands and raised them palms up, dropping the flowers on the floor. They landed heavily, making a splayed pattern of stems and blossoms at my feet. “You're crazy,” he said. “‘That chapter'? Do you hear yourself? You've gone nuts, Angel.”

I went on, fueled by days of compacted anger, insisting that he was the only person who could have written the manuscript. He remained adamant that he hadn't and forced me to go over every detail of it with him. He made me say it out loud—made me talk about Damiano and how I was sure that the sex scene between Vaughn and Alice was another accusation. His face grew darker when I brought up Damiano and then twisted into a grimace when I stumbled over the description of the sex scene and, finally, the irrefutable evidence of the tattoo.

“You think you're the only woman who likes it a certain way, Angel? And please, can you possibly believe that you're the only chick with a tattoo on her tit?”

I was stunned. I felt like those cartoon characters that have the floor give way underneath them but remain suspended in the air for several seconds before they fall. But Malcolm didn't need a response from me; he wasn't finished with his own commentary.

“Do you think I'd have such little pride that I'd send an anonymous novel to be edited by
you
?” he said. “Do you think I have as little faith in my own talent as you do? I'm an
artist,
Angel. You've never understood that. How could you think, even for a moment, that I'd do something like that?”

“Because—”

“How do you know it's not your boy Damiano? Maybe that's your mystery author. Seems he knows quite a bit about you, doesn't he?”

“You can't still think—”

“I'm not sure what I think anymore.”

“Damiano doesn't need to sell another book!” I spat. “He's already writing a very good one for very good money.”

“Unlike me, right, Angel? Isn't that what you meant to say?”

We stood staring at each other for several long seconds. I didn't know how to answer him or whether or not he was right. My eyes started to fill, but I was so confused about what was going on, so unsettled by all the strange turns my life was taking, that I didn't know whether I was crying or whether my eyes were watering at the strain of being open too wide and too long. I looked away from him, down at the mess of spilled flowers at my feet. I didn't know what to say. I didn't even know how I felt anymore.

“You think I need you, don't you, Angel?” Malcolm said. The edge of indignation in his voice was sharp and grating. “Well, I don't. I don't need your help and I don't need your pity.”

“No,” I said softly. “You certainly don't.”

“That's right,” he said, his tone growing more forceful, “and I'll tell you something else,
baby
…” He paused, drawing and puffing himself up, honing in. “
You
need
me.
”

“And what's
that
supposed to mean?”

“I've been carrying you since I met you, Angel.”

“Carrying me?”

“Seriously, do you think you'd be where you are now without me? If I hadn't pushed you, you'd probably be out on your ass without a job, let alone a career. And then where would you be? With me, that's where. It's not like you have anyone else to support you.”

“I don't remember you supporting me, Malcolm. I've been supporting myself just fine for years.”

“I'm talking about emotional support, Angel. It's been only me since I've known you.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Malcolm shrugged. “I'm just saying…for the last couple of years, you've had nobody but me in your corner and you haven't even looked for anyone else. And I think…You depend on me. That's all I'm saying.”

That was all he was saying, all right. Not one word about love.

“Thanks for clearing that up, Malcolm,” I said. “Maybe it's time for all of that to change.” My voice was shaking.

“What do you mean?” he asked, a slight catch of doubt puncturing his self-righteousness.

“I think we should…” My whole body felt unbearably cold, encased in ice, but my heart was racing. I could hardly believe the step I was about to take, and I faltered on the edge of the gangplank.

“You think we should break up?” Malcolm was incredulous. “Is that what you're saying?”

“Yes, I guess that's what I'm saying.” I'd started trembling. The two of us stood frozen in the chill of my words for a moment and then Malcolm took a step closer to me, leaning down so that I had no choice but to look into his angry eyes.

“I don't think you know
what
you're saying, Angel, but I'll tell you something: When you wake up and think about this for a second, you're going to realize what a huge mistake you've just made.”

“I think you'd better leave now, Malcolm.” I had to get him out of my apartment before I could change my mind and take everything back. I could feel myself on the edge of it as it was. It wouldn't take much to send me over.

“There's one thing you should know, Angel.”

“Just
go,
” I said, praying that he would before the ice melted and I dissolved in tears.

Malcolm shrugged and turned to leave. “I'm not your guy,” he said as he made his exit. “You should look somewhere else.”

I didn't know whether he was referring to our relationship or to
Blind Submission,
but he was long gone by the time I thought to ask him.

TEN DAYS TO GO
until Lucy and I left for New York. As I made my way to the office in the dawn's early light, I anticipated that every one of those days would be jammed with appointments made, canceled, and remade; memos and e-mails to various editors, assistants, and heads of houses; and endless flight and hotel reservations, again made and remade until they arrived back at their original formula. From the moment Lucy had announced her New York trip and the fact that she was taking me with her, these booking details had become all-consuming. As we counted down to liftoff, Lucy became more and more obsessive and micromanaging about her schedule, the travel, and anything else related to the trip. Three days earlier, I had been instructed to give her a twice-daily weather report from New York (“And make sure it's the
city
of New York, Angel, I don't need to know skiing conditions in the Adirondacks”) in addition to any late-breaking TSA reports about what one could or could not bring onto airplanes.

Of course, none of this work was supposed to interfere with my usual load, namely finishing my edit of Shelly Franklin's novel so that it would be ready for Lucy to sell (for a small fortune) in New York and the now-almost-impossible task of working on
Blind Submission.
The sheer magnitude of my workload did have one advantage: It kept me from thinking too much about what a shambles my personal life had become.

CRAIG'S CAR
was the only one in the driveway when I pulled up to the office. I'd hoped I would be the first to arrive so I could get a jump on Lucy's endless list in relative quiet, but Craig had also been putting in crazy hours since we'd started planning our trip to New York, so I wasn't exactly surprised that he'd beaten me to work.

I steeled myself for the day ahead, gathering my bag, the endless pile of manuscripts, and my still-steaming coffee, and got out of my car backside first in order to gather everything I needed to carry in.

When I straightened up and turned around, Damiano was standing in front of me, a sudden mirage holding a vase full of calla lilies, and I jumped, a muffled yelp of shock coming from my throat, dropping my coffee and a good portion of the manuscripts I was holding.

“Damiano! You scared the life out of me!” My heart was pounding and skipping and my knees felt unsteady.

“I'm so sorry, Angel, I thought you heard me come up. Here, let me help you.” He leaned over to pick up my papers at the same time I did, and the two of us bumped heads, fumbling through a scene that could have been in any number of date movies. “Sorry, sorry,” he said again, and started to laugh. Our faces were very close, and when I raised my eyes to his, I was pulled in again by the sheer force of my attraction. A wave of heat rushed up my neck and into my face. I could feel myself starting to sweat. I lost my balance and started to tip over. Damiano reached out to steady me, and when his hand touched my arm, it felt like an electric shock. I had to stand up, pull myself out of this narrowing orbit of desire before I lost it completely.

“Do you have an appointment with Lucy?” I asked him when we were both standing with a comfortable distance between us and I could trust my voice again. It was a stupid question because if Damiano had an appointment with Lucy, I'd have been the one to arrange it, but it was the best I could come up with.

“No, not exactly,” he said. “I have the contracts to sign and I thought to bring them in with these.” He gestured to the vase of lilies, which he'd picked up again. He was wearing a white sweatshirt and blue jeans and looked as if he'd just finished shooting a Levi's print ad. I could hardly stand to look at him. It was so much easier when I talked to him on the phone and didn't have to deal with this rush of blood in my veins.

“You could have sent the contracts in,” I said. “You didn't have to come all this way.”