The Bestseller

by Olivia Goldsmith

  Oh God, she thought. Here it comes. This was what happened when one wasn’t good at talking. She decided it was best to take control herself. “You want to sleep with me,” she said, her voice flat.

  Frederick leaned back. He was silent for a long moment. “That’s a very kind offer, and I’m sure it would be much more than pleasant, but I wasn’t actually thinking about that.” He paused, and Camilla tried to get over her monumental embarrassment. “I was talking about something more intimate.” Frederick said. “I hoped you would read me your manuscript.”

  They had moved into the salon for the light. Frederick was lying on the uncomfortable-looking sofa, propped up by an even more uncomfortable-looking bolster. Camilla sat across from him on the small chair beside the lamp table. She had her manuscript on her lap—she carried it with her all the time since she’d finished it. Frederick had called for a bottle of Pellegrino, and Camilla stopped now, at the end of the chapter, and took a sip. She was afraid to look at him. She was still far too embarrassed. And she was also far too excited. She had never shown the manuscript to anybody, and she had certainly never read it out loud. Hearing it made a lot of difference. She saw awkward phrases and some redundancies. But on the whole she thought it came across, and she had been thrilled when he laughed at the funny bits. She’d even dared to glance across at him from under her lashes as she read the scene introducing Mrs. Florence Mallabar. She couldn’t be sure, but his face looked pained.

  She finished the fizzy water and put the glass down. They were both silent for a moment. “Are you tired?” he asked.

  She shook her head, but she didn’t want to bore him. “I’ll stop,” she assured him. “It isn’t very good, is it?” The eleventh commandment in Britain was “Thou shalt not blow thine own trumpet.” She still adhered to it.

  Frederick threw his legs over the side of the sofa and sat up. “Camilla,” he said, “it’s wonderful. It’s a really wonderful story. Your descriptions…well, they’re brilliant. I see everything that you write about.” He paused. “But that’s not it. That’s not even important. It’s the characters. Those women are so alive. I know them. My mother is friends with them. They’re funny. And brave.” He paused. Camilla’s heart beat so loudly she was sure he could hear it too. “You have so much insight, and so much compassion for them, Camilla. You’re really, really good.”

  She sat still, utterly still, for a long moment and then put her face in her hands. She began to cry, silently at first, but she couldn’t help making some sound. She wept because she believed him. This book that she had started, purely out of loneliness and desperation, that she had worked on with discipline, and then with all of her concentration and all of her love, really was worth something. It had taken on a life of its own. It wasn’t just because Frederick said so. His words had unlocked the knowledge in her own heart. She looked across the room at him.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  20

  That’s very nice if they want to publish you, but don’t pay too much attention to it. It will toss you away. Just continue to write.

  —Natalie Goldberg

  Judith lay on their bed. Her feet were cold, but it seemed too much trouble to untangle the blanket and cover herself. She had no energy. With great effort, she turned her head to the right so that she could see the electric clock on the night table. It was eleven twenty-five already. Time in the dusty little apartment had a very strange way of going unbearably slowly and then telescoping, so that now, somehow, it was almost time for Daniel’s return.

  She had managed to lie here for almost five hours, disturbed only by her own thoughts. The phone hadn’t rung. Since the break with her family, she never heard from them—except for the letter that her mother sent her every month. And she had no real college friends. When she married Daniel, she had had to drop her two college roommates—they’d seemed so young, and Daniel hadn’t liked them. Since then Judith hadn’t replaced Stephanie and Jessica with any of the cold faculty wives or professors. They certainly disapproved of her. Anyway, she had to spend hours alone on the book, so it seemed as if the writing life didn’t make it easy to make friends or to keep them.

  While she was writing, Judith had been holed up in her little office room all day without the time to think of herself as lonely. At night she’d been tired, and then she had Daniel’s company. Only now that the writing was finished had she realized how alone she was without the book to keep her company. The days stretched endless and empty before her, a burden rather than a gift. She imagined this was a little bit like postpartum depression. But then didn’t your obstetrician give you pills? Wasn’t there some young mother who told you she’d had this too and what to do about it? Judith felt as if she had given birth to Elthea and the other characters of In Full Knowledge, but there had been no celebration afterward. There was no pink little baby to delight in. Instead, all the labor and pain had yielded nothing but a dead manuscript that Daniel had taken away and that no one seemed to be celebrating.

  Judith sighed and turned over. She had meant to get up early this morning and begin to clean the apartment. She had planned to start in the bathroom, but when she had awakened at half past six it was still dark out. Once she did force herself up and had walked across the cold, splintery wooden floor and smelled the mildew in the bathroom, Judith had felt so overwhelmed with despair that she had simply crawled back into bed. There was so much that needed to be cleaned—the windows were coated with dirt, the floors had dustballs and dog hair on them, the windowsills were gritty. Even the sheet she was lying on needed to be changed. Judith rolled over and opened her eyes. The pillowcase under her cheek had old mascara marks and an irregular stain the shape of Australia where she had drooled during the night.

  Somehow it seemed the more she rested, the more tired she was, but Judith couldn’t manage to just tell herself to snap out of it. Anyway, what was the point? If she washed the windows, a cold and messy all-day job, they’d only be coated with grime in a day or two. And the bathroom! She could scrub the grout with a toothbrush, and the stains still would reappear. The worn linoleum of the floor didn’t get really clean no matter how much scrubbing she did, and anyway, once Daniel peed and missed the bowl it would just need scrubbing again.

  Still, despite her overwhelming fatigue, Judith hadn’t meant to be lying in bed in a dirty nightgown until lunchtime. How had the morning gone by? What was wrong with her? She was frightened, but she didn’t know who to talk to. She felt too guilty to tell Daniel, and anyway he was so wrapped up with his classes and his workshop and his phone calls to agents that he seemed almost unaware of her. Perhaps if they marked the occasion or if he had seemed more excited about the completion of the book…perhaps if there had been some good news about it…But Daniel had told her it was far too early to hear any thing. When she had handed In Full Knowledge over to him, Daniel had simply put it in his new briefcase and said that he would read it and think about “a submission plan.” And that had been that.

  Judith looked over at the clock: 11:31. Daniel would be home in ten or fifteen minutes. She couldn’t let him see her like this. In a panic, she stood up, dizziness hitting her as she did so. She dragged herself into the bathroom, peed, and realized she didn’t have the time or the energy to shower. She couldn’t think about what to wear. She would pull on her jeans and her sweater from yesterday. She didn’t have the wherewithal to plan another outfit. She went to the sink and washed her face quickly, not bothering to use the facecloth but merely splashing the water on with her hands. She brushed her brown hair back and put an elastic around it. It was too greasy to let it hang down any other way.

  She walked back to the bedroom. She didn’t have time to make the bed now, not if she wanted to have some lunch waiting for Daniel. The apartment was very quiet. Where was Flaubert? Usually he slept with her at the foot of the bed. Now even her dog was avoiding her. Judith walked out of the bedroom and closed the door on the chaos. She would hope that Daniel didn’t open it and her
sins could go undiscovered. She promised herself that she’d clean it up this afternoon, before he came back. In the kitchen, and another wave of despair hit her. The bread was out, and the skillet still bore the remains of eggs from Daniel’s breakfast. The sink was filled with the dishes and pots from the dinner of two nights ago, while the pizza box and the paper plates and forks from yesterday’s take-out meal still littered the small table.

  Judith looked at the kitchen clock. Ten minutes! Quickly, she gathered up the garbage, but as she tried to fold the pizza box and throw the rest of the trash into the can under the sink, she realized it was already full to overflowing. And then she found there were no more garbage bags. She’d forgotten to get more.

  Judith went into her office and found an empty carton under the card table. She hadn’t been in her office in over two weeks—not since she’d finished the book. She looked around for a moment. Though those days had been hard and isolated, they now seemed a golden time compared to this emptiness. She sighed and picked up the box. Then she noticed the dog. Flaubert was lying in the farthest corner, his soft brown eyes sadly watching her, his muzzle pressed into the floor beside his two front paws. “What are you doing here?” she asked. No wonder she had forgotten him. Did Flaubert hate her, too? He’d gone to the corner of the apartment farthest away from her and the bed.

  My God, she thought, when was the last time he was walked? No wonder he hated her. Pity for the helpless dog overwhelmed Judith. Had Daniel walked him this morning? She didn’t think so. “Come on, Flo,” she coaxed. But the dog only looked away. What was wrong with him? Was he sick? She approached him and scratched behind his ears, right in the place he liked, but she didn’t get the usual responsive thump of his tail. Well, she didn’t have time to think about it now. She’d fill the carton with trash, put the dog on his leash, run him downstairs for a quick pit stop, and then rush back upstairs to make something for lunch. It would have to be grilled cheese on stale bread, but at least it was better than nothing. Daniel would know she’d tried.

  She was dressed and the kitchen would be reasonably neat; these were improvements over Daniel’s return yesterday. She wondered why she could only mobilize herself to do things for the dog or her husband, not herself. But she didn’t have time to think about it now. She filled the carton with the kitchen garbage, called the reluctant Flaubert, and hooked the leash to his collar. Then, balancing the odorous carton in one hand and holding the leash in the other, she walked through the kitchen and into the dark hallway to the door. Her foot descended on something soft, and she nearly slipped. She had to put down the carton and fumble for the lightswitch. She looked down. “Oh, Flaubert!” The dog’s ears went down, and he turned away in shame and trotted back through the kitchen to the cold little office. Daniel hadn’t walked him. Judith looked down at her messed shoe. She had been lying in bed all morning while the dog had been suffering. Tears sprang to her eyes. From the day they had gotten him from the pound until this morning, Flaubert had never had an accident in the house. This wasn’t the dog’s fault; it was hers. He had obviously tried to get himself out. She could see that by the scratch marks on the door. The disgusting smell wafted up to her. Nauseated, she lifted her right foot and removed her sneaker, trying not to touch the dog shit.

  It was then that Daniel opened the front door and stepped into the hallway.

  21

  Almost anyone can be an author; the business is to collect money and fame from this state of being.

  —A.A. Milne

  Well, he had finally finished. Gerald looked at the screen and the last words of the last chapter of his new book. He’d written it, and now he’d revised it, and he had only two wishes left: one, that it sold a million copies—hardcover—and two, that he never had to see the benighted, leprous, disgusting, and disappointing thing again. One fact that Gerald had learned in his writing career: It was just as hard to write a bad book as a good one. He had undoubtedly worked hard, but he was smart enough to know the book was bad.

  The good news was that bad books sold just as well, better, than good ones. But was this one of the bad ones that would sell, or was it so bad that it would embarrass him?

  Somehow, revealing the awful secrets of his aunt and uncle, adding imagined conversations, sexual liaisons, gossip, and scandal, didn’t shame him in the least. After all, Joe McGinniss imagined and published what Rose Kennedy said when Ted told her of Robert’s assassination. That took balls—fucking with history and national tragedy. Gerald was only retailing a small family scandal. Everyone did it. Why, Caroline and John Kennedy, Jr., had even auctioned off their mother’s household trifles for a few dollars. It was the idea of the book lying on remainder tables that humiliated him. Gerald no longer hoped for a succès d’estime; a succès d’argent would be plenty good enough.

  He rose from the davenport and walked to the tantalus, pouring himself another glass. The wine decanter was all that was left of the old decor of his study. Stephanie, his third wife, had recently redecorated the room for the second time. Gone were all the passé hunting prints, wood paneling, and old chintzes. Now the room looked like a Fifth Avenue version of an Oriental monastery. Actually, Gerald rather liked the austerity, and it set off the David Hockney painting to perfection.

  Yet all of this cost a tremendous amount of money. Money to buy it, money to run it, and money to move Stephanie and himself among the wealthy who controlled the spigots from whence the money flowed. Only this morning Steph had presented him with another sheaf of unpaid bills—her Sonia Rykiel statement, the garage, the caterer’s, and florists. Gerald had stuffed them into the Korean chest and closed the door on them for the time being. He had to focus on the manuscript, and he had. He’d completed it.

  The phone rang, but he would let the housekeeper get it. She knew he was not to be disturbed. He had taken five days from the office grind to hole up and get this editing job finished. As soon as he handed it in, he could expect his acceptance check, and then the overdue maintenance, the assorted bills, the money he had borrowed on his margin account, the car-lease payments, and all the rest could be brought up to date.

  Gerald looked out over the top of the Metropolitan Museum and beyond, into Central Park. For a man who had not inherited great wealth, he was doing very nicely, thank you. Remember that, he told himself sternly. He decided to celebrate and moved to the liquor cabinet. He took out the last bottle of 1912 port. There was enough for one drink. He would drink it, indulgently, leisurely, toasting himself. It was these small pleasures, these private ceremonies that gave life zest. He may have inherited his access to Davis & Dash, but he ascended based on his own merits, and he’d managed this lifestyle by spinning straw into gold.

  There was a timid knock on the door—everyone but Stephanie was nervous about disturbing him—and Puri, the Philippine housekeeper, inserted her head. “It is your father,” she said, before he could tell her not to disturb him.

  Gerald put down the untouched port. He and his father adhered to certain rituals: lunch once a month at the Knickerbocker Club; a phone call at the office every other Monday; Christmas dinner, Easter lunch. It was neither a warm nor rancorous relationship, yet somehow, despite his fifty-eight years, Gerald still felt a thrill of anxiety, tinged with something less pure, when his father summoned him.

  He walked back to the desk, regretting the port. It would be spoiled now. Gerald lifted the phone. “Hello, Father,” he said, keeping his voice as neutral as he knew how.

  “Gerald. Something has come to my attention. I must say, I am concerned.”

  Christ in a corset. Gerald knew business wasn’t great right now. He didn’t need Senior to second-guess him. “I know that sales aren’t quite as strong as we predicted, but I don’t think I’m going to have any problems with the board,” Gerald began.

  “I’m not talking about the financials, Gerald. I’m talking about this rumor—at least I am assuming it’s a rumor—about your latest work.”

  Gerald felt his stomach
quiver. Why did his father always make him feel the way he used to when he was called down to the headmaster’s office at Deerfield? “What about it, Father?” He rubbed one hairless hand nervously over the other.

  “It isn’t possible that you’re writing about your uncle, is it?”

  Well, there it was. And on some level, hadn’t Gerald been expecting this? Hadn’t he been afraid of just this question? “Father, I am writing fiction. That’s really all you need to know. It’s fiction.”

  There was only the minutest of pauses. “I know the difference between fiction and a roman à clef. You are not hanging out our linen, are you?”

  Gerald tried again. “Times have changed, Dad.” He never called his father Dad. It was a mistake. It showed his discomfort, his concern. But it was too late now. “I’ve borrowed some bits from their story, but I’ve made it my own.”

  Gerald could hear his father’s rasp of breath. “I simply can’t believe it. You know how I felt when you did that last book, the one about the poor, dead hermaphrodite. It was sensationalism at its worst. But at least he—or she—or whatever the poor creature was, was not your family. Gerald, I insist that you send over the manuscript.”

  Gerald needed the acceptance check. He needed time. “Father, it’s not even close to finished,” he lied.

  He could feel the ice forming at the other end of the line. “You forget, son, that I have read works in progress before,” Senior said. “I’ll read it this weekend.” It wasn’t a request, it was an order. The question: Was it an order that Gerald would obey?