by Anna Porter
“Mrs. MacIntyre, how are you?”
“As well as can be expected,” Jane MacIntyre said primly. Then she sighed. “These haven’t been happy times for us. Not this last week since Mr. Sandwell passed away…” Her voice trailed off for a second. “I’m helping Mr. Burnett now, as you can see.” There was, Marsha thought, a slight edge to her voice, though it might have been weariness. “He can certainly use the help. Suddenly he has the responsibilities of the whole house. Not easy for him. For any of us really. And so unexpected. Mr. Sandwell—you know…”
Marsha nodded. It would be particularly hard for Jane MacIntyre to adjust. She had been Eric’s right hand. Marsha touched her lightly on the shoulder. She wanted her to know that she understood, even if she couldn’t think of the right words to say.
Jane MacIntyre saved her from further struggle. “You’re looking wonderful,” she said brightly. “Not too tired from that dreadful flight?”
Marsha said she felt much better after two long runs in her favorite park.
“It’s the Spring air that does it. Back home, we’ve hardly seen the sun yet.”
“How would you, Miss Hillier, among all those skyscrapers? It’s as if you New Yorkers didn’t want to see anything but concrete. I just don’t know how you can live there.”
“Neither do I,” said Marsha. “Truth is, though, I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”
The only time Jane MacIntyre had ventured across the Atlantic, she had run into a snowstorm in New York City, been stuck on the Triboro Bridge for five hours, hadn’t been able to find a cab to take her to the Brooklyn Zoo or to The Cloisters, and had lost her handbag (she was sure it had been stolen, this was New York, after all) on the subway. Still, there had been Bloomingdale’s, and Saks, and Bergdorf Goodman, and, above all, she had discovered Calvin Klein.
“I did bring you the scarf,” Marsha said, handing over the small Calvin Klein bag. “I hope this is the right one.”
“Well.” Jane MacIntyre swallowed hard. “Well. You remembered. Thank you.” She unwrapped the package and shook out the tiny silk scarf. “Absolutely perfect,” she said gazing at it. “Lovely.” Then, as if the emotion had been too much for her, she quickly folded the scarf back into its wrapping. “We had better be heading upstairs.”
She stood aside to let Marsha into Peter’s office.
“Perhaps you’ll stop by later?” she said. Now quite composed, she headed down the hall.
As the door opened, Peter came striding across to meet Marsha.
She smiled fondly at his familiar loping gait, one shoulder slightly dropped like John Wayne’s, and from about the same height. He was startlingly attractive. There was, perhaps, a touch more silver at the temples, but his hair was still thick and unruly. For an Englishman in the book business he looked unusually sporty, as if he had just left the football field. As ever, the top button of his shirt was undone, his tie disarmingly askew. When he reached Marsha, he held her for a moment, examining her face. Then he grinned his boyish grin—half shy, half aggressive, and kissed her on the forehead.
“My, it is good to see you, Marsha. You’re absolutely splendid. As ever. Come in, come in. Here, we have made fresh coffee in your honor. Perked, not freeze-dried. And I brought you some fresh cream. Let me take your jacket. Or are you cold?” He ushered Marsha into a large leather armchair. He took her braided Dior jacket, glanced at it appreciatively—unlike most men, he knew what it was—selected a short wooden hanger from the walk-in closet between the two towering bookcases, and hung it inside.
“And you’re as splendid as ever,” Marsha said a little stiffly. She wanted to keep her emotions in check. “Heartthrob of every aspiring writer in the British Isles. Unfair competition, wouldn’t you say?”
Peter poured coffee from the silver container perched on a silver tray on a bow-legged George III table by the door. Style. They still had the style, if not always the substance. In America, it was often hard to discern either.
“Attracting them, m’dear, is hardly the problem these days; it’s how in hell we can afford to publish them that creates the difficulties. I rather think if Emily Brontë walked in with a crisply typed copy of Wuthering Heights, she’d have trouble getting a fair reading. There isn’t enough money to go around, and, naturally, all of us are more inclined to back the sure-fire winners than bet our money on a dark horse. Your Martin manuscript, for example. Can’t remember what it’s called—dance of something or other, right?”
“Dance of the Marionettes.”
“Right. Here’s your coffee. Not too much cream? Well, then. That’s your perfect example. A book that takes no risks, exposes no new theories, breaks no new ground, fits right into your Big Book Syndrome. The characters are forgettable, the story is well plotted, but nothing new—I don’t recall where it takes place, it leaves you with no delusions of having had a new experience. Fits the mold.”
“You don’t want it, then.” Marsha laughed, thinking of Jelinek’s prediction. Jelinek had hung up on her in disgust when she confessed she’d fallen prey to Peter’s need for an extension. “So who cares Sandwell died? Either they get off the pot, or they don’t. This property is in demand. And that means hard bucks, not sweet-talk. If they don’t jump first time, they’ll be whimpering their way into 10 percent over their last offer. Mark my words.” She knew Peter would do the best job for the book. Hamilton, Thornbush had a big brassy marketing department with a budget to match, and a formula novel destined for the best-seller list needed just such treatment.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Peter. “Of course I want the book. For all the wrong reasons. And for all the right reasons—can’t you see the imitation Forsyth-Ludlum hype now? It’ll make a lot of money.”
Marsha walked over to the window. The red-brick facade of the house opposite crowded in so close it was hard to imagine a whole street in between. Yet there was room enough for one big untidy acacia tree in front of Number 37. Amazing that someone would have planted such a messy tree between these houses. She imagined Peter looking out at this sight each day. It felt as though this shared experience brought them closer. Quickly, she turned her back on it.
“I have no innate desire to defend Dance of the Marionettes,” she said finally, “but I cannot understand why you’re so intent on doing me a favor by offering to publish.” That wasn’t fair, but nor was his preaching. After all, she did not create the rules.
“You’re being uncharacteristically obtuse,” Peter said. “Let me refresh your cup. These bloody trans-Atlantic flights play havoc with the mind. And body, in most cases. Not yours, though, thank God. Not yours.” He loped over to the coffee again.
Marsha knew what was coming.
“Having suspected all along, however, that I would remain sternly unrepentant, you’ve had only one recourse, right?”
“Right,” Peter said, grinning. He flipped open a file and extracted several long sheets of paper.
“How much?” Marsha asked.
“A little more than Jelinek expected, a little less than what we think it’s worth. But then we’re probably wrong. And that doesn’t change my assessment of its intrinsic value, you understand?”
“Fully.” Marsha took the contracts from his outstretched hand. She returned to her comfortable leather chair to read them over.
“I’ve been worrying about you,” she said over the top of her documents.
“That’s comforting. I didn’t know you could afford such frivolity,” he said with a quick smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be harsh. The past week hasn’t been easy. I miss Eric dreadfully. He was more than a boss, or a colleague. He was a friend—I still can’t face going into his office. I doubt I’ll ever quite take his place.” He turned his back on Marsha and strode over to the bookcase. He stood for a moment, studying the spines of the books, pulled one out. “Something for you,” he said. “Jeremy’s new novel. A very British jacket, wouldn’t you say?”
It was.
Marsha had
finished reading the contracts and tucked them and Jeremy’s bright yellow book into her canvas bag.
“They’re fine,” she said. “Jelinek will like them. Next time, though, I’ll be sure to send you something more soulful.”
“Heaven forfend.” He extracted a hefty brown parcel from the bottom drawer of his desk. “Talking about serious literature, this, I believe, is what you were seeking when you called me from New York.”
“The manuscript from Fitzgibbon & Harris?” Marsha’s pulse quickened.
“The same,” Peter grinned. “A wonderful little story, set on a pig farm in Saskatchewan. It’s magnificently written, though, and seems to have more to do with the female’s natural desire to dominate the male than it does with raising pigs. Nothing personal, Marsha.” This time he grinned more aggressively than boyishly, but Marsha had no interest in picking up the challenge. “But I don’t think it rates half a million dollars.”
“Pigs?”
“Pigs.”
“Amazing,” Marsha said. “Do you mind if I glance at it now?”
“Not at all,” Peter said. “Take your time. It’s a most rewarding read. And you never know, it may be a real find for your list.”
Marsha read down the middle of the pages, as Jerry read the newspaper, looking for content, not for style. In a few minutes she concluded Peter was right. An extraordinary novel, a perceptive and talented writer, but definitely not the manuscript she was looking for.
She glanced at Peter. He had been writing something, intently, his head tilted slightly. He stopped when he felt her eyes on him.
“Finished already?” he asked regretfully. “I was becoming used to your being here.”
“I don’t understand,” Marsha said, shaking her head. “There has to be another… Perhaps Eric took it…”
“They don’t let you take manuscripts along where he went,” Peter said.
“Eric did have a heart attack?” Marsha asked abruptly.
“I haven’t a degree in medicine, Marsha, but the doctor seemed very certain. Look, for heaven’s sake, will you tell me what this is all about?”
“Is this the only manuscript you’ve had from Harris?”
“It’s the only one from Canada in some time. I was very thorough in my search, m’dear, since you asked.”
“Was there a letter with it?”
“Yes.” Peter pulled a sheet of Fitzgibbon & Harris letterhead out of his file and thrust it at Marsha. “See for yourself.”
My dear Eric,
This is the manuscript we discussed on the telephone. Please read it yourself and get back to me by phone no later than April 17. You understand this could be an auction situation, but you have the opportunity of making a preemptive bid if you are willing to meet our terms.
Yours,
George
The letter was dated April 5th. It was marked “Personal and confidential.”
“Impossible,” she murmured.
“Right,” Peter agreed. “It is quite impossible for our list. A fine piece of writing and all, but…”
“That’s not what I meant,” Marsha was saying, not trying to hide her disappointment. “This is not the manuscript I phoned about. There was another…”
“Well,” Peter said lightly, “perhaps George Harris chose a more deserving house. There are still a few around. That brings to mind Hiroshima Revisited. You were my first choice. Have you reached a decision?”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Marsha murmured.
“On the contrary, it makes eminent sense, when you consider the alternative. Everyone should visit Hiroshima at least once, if not in person then in spirit. Only that can bring the stark and terrible facts to light. ‘It’s only through conscious choice and then deliberate policy that humanity can survive’—Pope John Paul II at Hiroshima four years ago. Or don’t you read him either?”
“Peter. I wasn’t talking about Hiroshima. Please. I was thinking about the Harris manuscript. I was sure it was here.”
“Why?”
“He’d made a note of sending it here.”
Peter shrugged.
“What about Hiroshima?”
“I’m afraid we decided we couldn’t do it justice. There have been so many apocalyptic books recently. I can’t see selling another one in the States.”
“A pity,” Peter said. “There are some subjects you can never overexpose.” Then he laughed. “The other one being sex.”
He helped her into her jacket and walked with her to the ornate front door before returning to a catalogue meeting. He would pick her up for dinner at 8:00.
***
She stood outside for a moment gazing at the acacia tree, wondering why in the world George Harris would have asked for an urgent response to a manuscript set on a pig farm in Saskatchewan. Why would he insist Eric read it himself in a week? Why would he talk about auctioning and preemptive bids?
She turned on her heel, opened the door again, cautiously. Peter had gone upstairs. She walked through the lobby, waved cheerily at the receptionist, and marched up the two flights of stairs, past Peter’s closed door, down to the end of the hall.
Jane MacIntyre was in her office bent over her typewriter, her back to the door.
“Mrs. MacIntyre,” Marsha said tentatively.
When she saw Marsha she stood up quickly, adjusting her blue dress. “I came by to say good-bye and…” Marsha hesitated for a second, then plowed right ahead. “I have a favor to ask you. I’m trying to trace a manuscript George Harris sent to Eric. It’s a major property Max Grafstein was going to buy for the US. I thought perhaps you’d remember…”
“Naturally, I remember.” Jane MacIntyre bristled. “But didn’t you ask Mr. Burnett? He has the original.”
“The original?”
“Yes. But let me just buzz Mr. Burnett for you…”
“I don’t want to bother him again…” Ugh. Too lame.
“I’m sure he won’t mind, seeing it’s you.” Jane MacIntyre reached for the telephone.
“No. Really.” Marsha didn’t quite grab the hand as it went for the receiver; the fact that their fingers touched stopped the other woman in midair. “Please.”
Jane MacIntyre looked puzzled.
“Whyever not?”
“He was going into a meeting right away.”
“Really, Miss Hillier…” said Jane MacIntyre, exasperated.
“I’ve already asked him. Only…” She had to trust her instincts now. It was the only chance she had. “… for some reason he couldn’t remember it.”
“He couldn’t? Well…” The overt sarcasm in Jane MacIntyre’s tone confirmed that Marsha’s hunch was right. Peter Burnett hadn’t won over Eric’s exacting secretary.
“Was there anything unusual about that manuscript that you remember it so well?” Marsha pressed her advantage.
“Unusual! I’ll say there was. Mr. Sandwell had been expecting it all morning. It came by courier. He was popping in and out of here asking whether it had arrived yet, as if I wouldn’t have told him right away. I was to interrupt whatever he was doing and take it to him. Which I did. I hadn’t seen him so excited in a long time. Soon as I opened the door, he jumped up, rushed around his desk, took it right out of my hands. Later, you know,” her voice softened, “I wondered whether all that excitement might have caused what happened. He took such good care of himself otherwise.”
“Oh yes,” Marsha concurred. “He was in superb shape. Not a trademark of our business, on the whole. Do you recall what the manuscript was called?”
“That’s the devil of it. Can you imagine, the title typed on the top page was ‘Untitled’? And there was no author’s name, only ‘X.’ It wasn’t all that thick either. Not like some of the stuff we get in here—Lord, it would take a truck to cart them around. Why people will write that much with no hope of being published, I don’t know.”
Marsha tried to quell her excitement.
“How many pages would you say it was?”
&n
bsp; Mrs. MacIntyre pulled out the top drawer of her desk and withdrew a stenographer’s notebook.
“Two hundred and sixty-eight. Exactly,” she said with justifiable pride. “I check them all in here, and I note when they are returned, which most of them are, poor things. Only Mr. Sandwell’s stuff though, I haven’t been asked to do Mr. Burnett’s.” She flicked back a couple of pages and lifted the book for Marsha to see. There it was in neat rounded 1930s secretarial script. ‘Untitled’ ms. by X. from G. Harris, F & H. Received Apr. 8. 268 pages.
And some say the British are slipping, Marsha thought, elated. They hadn’t met Mrs. MacIntyre!
“And a letter came with it?”
“Naturally. That’s how I knew this was the manuscript Mr. Sandwell had been expecting.”
Marsha took another chance.
“George Harris wanted a preemptive bid by April 17?” she asked.
“That’s right. Never had one of those from Mr. Harris before. It’s the agents mainly that like to play around with auctions. You know…”
Marsha nodded. She did.
“Mr. Sandwell wanted to read this right away. He closeted himself for the rest of the morning. He didn’t want any calls till he was finished. Except for Mr. Burnett. I had his lunch brought up special.”
“Except for Mr. Burnett, you said?”
“Well, yes. That would be different. He wanted Mr. Burnett to stand by and come and talk to him soon as he had finished reading. And that he did. About 2:00, I think. They were ever so excited. I could hear them talking and Mr. Sandwell seemed so pleased when he came out again.”
“Did you hear what they were saying?”
Jane MacIntyre looked shocked.
“Miss Hillier,” she said, “you don’t think I would eavesdrop.”
“Heavens, no,” Marsha said quickly. “I thought maybe—seeing they were talking so loudly—you couldn’t help overhearing…” Oh hell. “I’m sorry. It’s only because this was so unusual.”
Jane must have accepted her apology.
“You say unusual, well there was something. Before Mr. Burnett came in, right after lunch, it was, Mr. Sandwell went down to the duplicating machine and insisted on copying the first few pages of that manuscript himself. I don’t remember the last time he used that machine. He had to ask me how it worked, but he went ahead and did it himself anyway.” She smiled at the memory.