Blind Submission

by Debra Ginsberg

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Leave it.” His smile had vanished and his voice had gone cold. I could hear everything he wasn’t saying as clearly as if he’d been yelling it at me. Go ahead, step on my work. That’s what it means to you. That’s what I mean to you.

  “Malcolm, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Better go,” he interrupted. “You’ll be late.” He turned away from me and burrowed under the covers.

  “Malcolm—”

  “Don’t let it worry you, Angel.” His voice, muffled by sheets, was almost a growl. “You’ve got more important things to do.”

  I allowed myself only a second to debate whether or not I should attempt to make things right by falling onto the bed next to Malcolm and burying my face in his neck. But I was going to be late and my desire not to be overwhelmed my desire for him. I’d have to make time later, I told myself, and gathered my things once more. And then, fighting with myself all the way, I collected Malcolm’s pages from the floor and put them in with my pile. At the very least, I owed him enough to take the manuscript with me, even if I wasn’t ready to give it to Lucy yet. If he heard me rustling, Malcolm gave no indication, and then I was out the door. It wasn’t until I was already on the road that I realized I’d forgotten to say good-bye to him.

  UNLIKE ALMOST EVERYONE I KNEW, I loved my morning commute. I felt as if the time I spent in my car was the only real time I had to myself—the only time when I didn’t have to answer phones, respond to memos, or talk to anyone else. For a half hour in the morning and a half hour in the evening, I allowed myself just to think—to sort through the minutiae of my days and organize it all appropriately. It usually went all to hell once I set foot in the office, but that wasn’t really the point. What was important was that I got a few uninterrupted minutes to just let my mind trip and wander wherever it wanted.

  It helped, of course, that I had attractive surroundings to look at while I drove. As soon as I crossed the line out of Sonoma County into Marin, the dry, rural feel of Petaluma gave way to lusher scenery on either side of the road. The closer I got to San Rafael, the greener and better tended the streets became. San Francisco’s famous fog was romantic and all, but I didn’t mind trading it for the warmth and sunlight on the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge.

  As I wound my way through the exclusive real estate that was San Rafael and my guilt over Malcolm’s manuscript started to fade, my mind latched once more on to the anonymous novel, which was sitting next to me on the passenger seat, its presence as large as that of any person. It occurred to me that the author might have sent the manuscript out to several literary agents. If it had gone out wide and I hadn’t chased it quickly enough, I’d risk some pointed wrath from Lucy. Nothing got Lucy more excited or more irritated than when a potentially hot author had his or her manuscript circulating among several agents. Of course, the fact that an author had interest from other agents went a long way to making that author hot, regardless of the potential book’s content.

  And hot was what Lucy wanted—what Lucy craved. Immediately after the sale of Parco Lambro, she’d circulated a memo (which I’d drafted ten times before she approved it) that said, While our recent auction was a success, we cannot afford to sit back and take a break. We need to redouble our efforts to bring in more of the same. This office cannot support all of you without a healthy flow of cash. Remember time is $$$!!!! I expect you all to use yours wisely.

  Of course, I suspected that none of us was making the kind of money that would drain Lucy’s coffers. My own probationary salary was barely a living wage after taxes. I’d done a little research and discovered that even starting salaries at New York publishers were a little higher. Elise had been paying me a little more, but I’d expected to take a dip in salary when I started working with Lucy. I just hadn’t realized how lean things would become. Lucy had, however, called me into a meeting with Craig in her office after Parco Lambro and, with a great flourish, presented me with a bonus.

  “I believe in incentives,” Lucy said. “And although some might say that this is a foolish move, I believe you’ve earned this. And I trust you, Angel. Craig? Will you do the honors?”

  Grimacing as if he’d eaten something rotten, Craig handed me a check for one thousand dollars. “Congratulations, Angel,” he said. “And just so you know, there are no taxes deducted from this check. This is not part of your salary. You’ll have to pay taxes on it separately.”

  “I—I don’t know what to say,” I said.

  “‘Thank you’ is always appropriate,” Lucy offered. “There’s more where that came from, Angel, if you know how to get it.” She took a dramatic pause. “And I think you do.”

  Of course I did. Like Skinner and Pavlov before her, Lucy was conditioning me. Every time I pressed the right bar, I’d get a fat check. Find another Damiano Vero. That was the message, but it wasn’t one that Lucy needed to send. The desire was already alive in me. There was something surprisingly seductive about the rush of excitement Parco Lambro had created in me, and it wasn’t about the money. It was very much like a drug, I thought. The intensity faded soon after the event, but enough of the memory remained to make me want more. I supposed it had to be the same for Lucy and was at least part of what gave her that insatiable drive.

  I FOUND THE OFFICE EMPTY when I let myself in and realized that, despite the fact that I’d stopped for a cappuccino on the way over, I’d arrived ten minutes earlier than usual. I settled myself at my desk and flipped on my computer. There were multiple notes from Lucy in my in-box. At the top of the pile was her daily memo itemizing the tasks that were most important the moment she’d thought of them the previous evening, but that would probably change as the day went on.

  Angel—

  Today’s Top Priorities:

  1. Report on reader’s reports.

  2. Chase Elvis!!!!

  3. Find salon (as in SF Chron) and make appt. (Where is my blue pen?)

  4. I need complete list of all projects in development/in submission/due for delivery/pubbing in the next two months.

  5. Calls!!!

  It was a list of labors worthy of Hercules. The only items that were missing were “Kill Hydra” and “Clean Augean stables.” Which actually wasn’t a bad idea for a business book for one of our authors, I thought. I made a mental note to run it past Lucy; something like Twelve Tasks for Better Business or Twelve Rules for Commercial Success.

  I wondered once more how Lucy was able to do it. How was it possible that she’d accumulated so much for me to do before the day even began? Not to mention the fact that I needed to crack the Da Vinci Code to figure out what each item on the list actually meant. I’d worked out that #3 was a request to make her a hair appointment at a salon that the San Francisco Chronicle had just named the hottest spot in town, but I couldn’t quite grasp how she wanted me to chase Elvis. And, of course, the phone was already ringing.

  “Good morning, Lucy Fiamma Agency.” My voice sounded gravelly and tired. I cleared my throat and heard his trademark coughing on the other end of the phone. Peter Johnson.

  “Hello, Angel. How are you?”

  I wondered when I’d become Angel to him. He’d always been meticulous about calling me Ms. Robinson before.

  “I’m fine, Mr. Johnson, how are you?”

  “Please call me Peter,” he wheezed. “I think we know each other well enough at this point.” He lapsed into another coughing fit. He had a point, I supposed, although it had been a few days since I’d spoken to him last. I couldn’t remember exactly when I’d sent his most recent rejection or if there was one just about to go out.

  “Okay, Peter. You must be calling about your manuscript. I wrote you a note and sent it—”

  “No, no,” he rasped. “I got that. And thank you, Angel, for your kind words. But that’s not why I’m calling.” He took a breath and choked on it, hacking once more into the phone. I bit my lip with impatience and a little remorse. My “words” on his last rejection lette
r had been anything but kind. I’d tried my best to imply, without being nasty, that Lucy would never accept his work for representation. Apparently, he hadn’t quite gotten the message.

  “I’m calling because I’d like to give you one more chance. I need to tell you something. I’ve—” He interrupted himself with more hacking.

  I couldn’t stop myself from sighing into the phone. He wanted to give us one more chance? What was he talking about? How many different ways could I tell him no?

  “You know, Mr. Johnson, I really don’t think—”

  “Please hear me out,” he gasped, but I couldn’t. I didn’t know whether it was fatigue, impatience, or just irritation that got me, but I decided that it was time to put Peter Johnson out of his—and my—misery for good.

  “Mr. Johnson, I think it’s only fair I tell you that Lucy Fiamma has seen your work and it’s just not right for her. She’s not the agent for you. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t understand,” he said. “You’re not listening.”

  “Please,” I begged him. “Do yourself a favor, don’t send us anything else.” There was a quiet pause. For a second I thought he’d stopped breathing altogether.

  “You’re making a mistake,” he said. “And you are not Lucy Fiamma.”

  “I’m sorry if you—” I began, but Peter Johnson hung up on me. I stared at the receiver for a moment, stunned. He’d always been unfailingly polite. But so had I until this moment. I felt a twinge of discomfort. But really, what could he expect? I debated looking up his phone number and calling him back, but the phone shrilled again and I picked it up, assuming he’d beaten me to it.

  “Fiamma Agency.” I waited for the sound of labored breathing.

  “Angel? Is that you?”

  I was momentarily thrown by a woman’s voice on the other end of the phone. “Uh…This is Angel Robinson. May I help you?”

  “Angel, it’s Elise.”

  “Elise!” At that moment, I realized how much I’d missed her. Our daily confabs, swapping customer stories and discussing books, came rushing back to me on a wave of instant nostalgia. And it wasn’t just the easy camaraderie I had with Elise that I missed, it was her good nature, her lack of hard edges, and her centeredness. I missed the quiet enjoyment of working for her. It had been less than two months since I’d last sat with her at Blue Moon sharing quips and coffee, but it felt like the farthest reaches of the past.

  “How are you, Angel? I haven’t heard from you since you left. I thought I’d catch you at home this morning, but Malcolm said you were already at work.” I’d forgotten that she knew Malcolm. I met him in her store, after all. She’d always been very protective of me when it came to him, telling me to watch my heart, not to give away too much of myself—even if he was one of the best-looking men she’d ever met. I’d almost forgotten all of that.

  “I’m so sorry, Elise. I keep meaning to call you, but by the time I finish work, it’s so late and then I don’t remember…I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to be sorry, Angel, I just wanted to see how you were doing. How’s the job? Tell me honestly. She treating you okay?”

  “Great!” I said too perkily. “Busy, you know. We just sold an amazing book by a new author. You’d love it, Elise.” I wondered at my sudden desire to hold back the less pleasant details of my job to present the best possible face. Oddly, I felt as if Elise, who’d been both friend and mentor, had become an outsider.

  “Really? That’s wonderful, Angel. If I know you, you’re doing an amazing job. I suppose you don’t have very much free time, though, do you? I was hoping maybe we could get together for lunch or coffee. I’ve got something to show you—well, give you, actually. I found it when I was clearing out the store. I think you’ll find it very interesting.”

  It was a nice idea, but I’d never be able to find the time to have lunch with her unless I took a vacation day, and Lucy had made it clear that I didn’t have any of those coming to me for at least a year. Even the weekends were booked solid with reading.

  “Maybe I could call you when I get home? We can set something up then.” I was eager to get her off the phone before Lucy caught wind that I was on a personal call. “I’m so glad you called, though. It’s great to hear from you.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay, Angel?”

  “I’m fine, great. I’ll speak to you later. Bye, Elise.” I hung up the phone and exhaled so hard, spots started dancing in front of my eyes. Elise was the second person I’d hung up on in the space of ten minutes. I sensed that this was to be a day of extremes.

  “Angel!”

  I startled and jumped at the sound of my name. I turned my head in the direction of her voice and had to stifle a gasp. Lucy was standing in the doorway of her office, clad only in a large, fluffy white towel.

  “Glad you’re finally here,” she said. “It’s going to be a very busy day today. I need you to start making calls now.”

  I couldn’t answer, paralyzed by the sight in front of me.

  “Is there a problem, Angel?” she asked.

  “Um…”

  Lucy shifted her position and the unthinkable happened: The towel sprang loose and fell to the floor before she could catch it. I lowered my eyes instinctively but not before the vision of her nakedness seared my retinas.

  “Goddamn it!” I heard her curse. And then, “My calls, Angel! Now!”

  FIVE

  I SAT AT MY DESK, head down, eyes glued to my keyboard, for several minutes after I heard the click of Lucy’s office door shutting. That was as long as it took for me to try, and fail, to erase the image of a naked Lucy from my brain. I wasn’t exactly shocked at her lack of modesty. Like many memsahibs before her, Lucy didn’t think much about revealing herself to her servants, and I’d often arrived at the office early enough to see her in various states of undress. This was the first time that I’d actually seen her unclothed, though, and it was a little much to take on an empty stomach. Perhaps I was just exhausted, I thought, working so many concentrated hours on so little sleep that I’d started hallucinating. Yes, that was it—I’d imagined the whole thing. But why, then, were the details so remarkably clear? It appeared that my vision had breast implants, for example, and I couldn’t understand why my brain would choose to hallucinate those. The back of my throat was dry and scratched as if there were something small and sharp poking into it. I felt a little dizzy and slightly nauseated. I needed to drink something. As I bent toward my purse for my water bottle, my intercom buzzed, shrill in the empty office.

  “Angel!”

  “Yes, Lucy?”

  “Why am I not yet on the phone? Is nobody working in Manhattan today? Some sort of holiday I’m unaware of?”

  “No, Lucy. I mean, yes, I’m—”

  “Did I not ask you to begin calling several minutes ago?”

  So I hadn’t imagined it. I waited a second, almost hearing the impatient thrum of passing time.

  “Angel, is there something wrong with you today?”

  “No, Lucy.”

  “Then why the fuck am I not on the phone at this moment, Angel?”

  There was something about the way Lucy cursed, some sort of stiff nuance she placed on the word fuck, that took all the teeth out of it. It wasn’t as if Lucy couldn’t sound nasty, far from it. She could make almost any word sound like the vilest epithet when she placed the right venomous emphasis on the syllables. But she shaped those words like daggers herself, they didn’t start that way. Words like shit, fuck, and bullshit, which she used with intermittent frequency, were already loaded, but I never recoiled when she cursed—unlike the times when she hurled my own name at me like a weapon.

  “I’m sorry, Lucy, I’m calling right now.” I moved to pick up the receiver on my phone.

  “Too late! Put the phone down and come in here now, please, Angel. There’s something else I need to discuss with you immediately.”

  “Okay.”

  “And bring your reading.”

  I rea
lized I’d started perspiring. I could feel beads of moisture on my upper lip and the soles of my feet were tingling. It took me a second to identify the combination as my body’s own response to fear.

  I gathered up the Blind Submission manuscript and a pad of paper to take notes. Malcolm’s novel stared up at me from its position in my bag. In a fit of guilty impulsivity, I grabbed it and added it to my stack. My morning at the office was already so strange and unsettling that trying to push my boyfriend’s book hardly seemed uncomfortable. I knocked on Lucy’s door, standing outside for as long as possible before she shouted, “Come in, Angel!” and I had to enter.

  “I’m quite serious when I ask if you need medical attention today, Angel. First you walk in on me when I’m practically naked—please try not to do that again, by the way—and now you are just standing there. What is wrong with you?”

  I took a deep breath and looked over at her. She was fully dressed, wearing a brown leather vest with a matching skirt, a chunky turquoise necklace, and a bright yellow turtleneck. The outfit did nothing for her complexion, but it was so much better than what I’d seen underneath. I could feel relief flooding my body like warm water. I was so relieved, in fact, that I decided to let her maintain the illusion that I’d walked in on her. It appeared she was capable of embarrassment after all.

  “I’m so sorry, Lucy,” I said. “I guess I’m a little tired today. I haven’t been getting much sleep lately.”

  Lucy scrutinized me for a moment, one eyebrow arching, as if she was trying to decide between two responses.

  “What you do in your private life is entirely up to you, Angel,” she said, and again I noticed her particular talent for making the mundane obscene. “But I must insist that it not infringe on your job,” she continued. “I’m sure you can understand my feelings about this. Perhaps you should save your late nights for the weekends, hmm?” Malcolm could certainly attest that my late nights had nothing to do with anything private and everything to do with the office, but it didn’t seem wise to mention that with Lucy’s eyebrow still arrowed in my direction.