The Bestseller

by Olivia Goldsmith

  Apparently, she couldn’t.

  Yet she had to have this book for the fall list. And she wanted the money. How could she possibly give up a quarter of a million dollars? She thought of Gordon Lish’s writing commandment. “You have to make love to the page, to fuck it, to suck it off…” Well, she could do the sex, it was the writing that was hard.

  If I could just go away, she thought, if I could take off a month or two and work quietly in a comfortable hotel in Saint Bart’s or Cape Cod.

  Pam looked around. Her apartment was a shithouse, and she looked worse. She hadn’t washed her hair in three days. She’d eaten two pints of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, and she didn’t even like bananas or nuts. The fact was, she was going nuts.

  She had to write this book.

  She couldn’t write this book.

  She had to pull herself together, dress, and go uptown. She had a lunch, and she had to go to the office. And next week she was off to Frankfurt for the book fair, where she would hunt desperately for the rights to anything that might be a hit. She’d have to leave Christophe at home with a sitter. God, it was all too much!

  The lunch with Alf Byron was a waste of her precious time. Pam hated meeting with agents anyway. They were the blood ticks of the publishing world, as far as she was concerned. When they were engorged with the red blood of a successful author’s 10 or 15 percent, they were insufferable. And when they were empty, hungry for new blood, they were desperate and useless. Yet they had come to virtually control the publishing marketplace. Very few authors negotiated their own contracts, and Pam supposed that publishers had brought this curse upon themselves when they had stopped reading manuscripts except for those submitted by agents.

  Pam had been beating the bushes, covering the waterfront, and every other overused cliché she could think of, hoping to find a hot book or two to add to the Davis & Dash fall list. But despite meetings with a dozen agents, from Mort Janklow to Ellen Levine, she’d come up empty. There was a kind of law among agents: They serviced those who had paid them before. And Pam had always tried to buy cheaply. She wasn’t popular with any of them. A few had tried to sell her swine, but why should they give her their pearls?

  Today, because she had to, she was lunching with Alfred Byron, a real pain in the ass. Not that she expected anything there. She merely had to respond to his constant kvetching about Susann Baker Edmonds, his only major client. It wasn’t that he didn’t try for others. For years he had touted a stream of second-rate books by go-nowhere authors. He’d managed to burn Random House and Simon & Schuster a few times with manuscripts that he had created a buzz about but that had ultimately gone nowhere. And he represented Stewart Campbell, a loser suspense writer whom Pam published but paid dick for. Stewart was the kind of author whose books are worth more unsigned than signed. He had gone to a book signing in September and had found signed copies of his last book that still hadn’t sold a year later. Alf had made a career out of a single author, but unlike a few other agents who had hitched their mediocre wagons to a star, Alfred Byron actually thought he was legitimate. That was what made him such a joke in the industry. Pam sighed. Lunch would be a crucifixion. Still, to keep Susann quiet and to be sure she got the massive changes Pam was going to need in the new manuscript, she had to do it.

  Worse yet, they were going to Michael’s. It was the publishing lunchroom, located behind a discreet glass front on West Fifty-fifth Street, and often called “The William Morris Agency Cafeteria” because the agents from around the corner ate there so often. Pam was sure she would see Owen Laster as well as at least half a dozen other people she knew. Working on the Trawley book she had done nothing but eat; she had gained more weight, she looked like shit, and she wasn’t in the mood to smile and act as if she were the one with six books on the New York Times list. She’d prefer some Sixth Avenue dive where no one knew her. But she would have to go. Byron, wanting to be seen, had made the reservations, and she was stuck with it.

  Pam showered, got dressed, blew out her blond hair, and looked in the mirror. Everyone else on Prozac lost weight. What was it with her? She favored clingy knit dresses, but the bronze Karen Kahn dress was just too tight, clinging not just to her large breasts but also to her ever-widening thighs. God, she had to lose weight. That had been one of the advantages of snorting coke—she’d been thin. Well, she’d given that shit up. Now she’d have to just not eat. That was all. She would just stop eating, starting today. She’d have nothing for lunch but a salad.

  The resolve made her feel better. She ran a comb through her hair and put on bronze lipstick. That helped. So did the earrings. But her roots were showing. Then she noticed a spot on the dress, just above her left nipple. Oh, well. She took her raincoat off the hook and slipped into it, though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. She’d just keep her raincoat on. And she’d go back to exercise class with Bernie and Roy, the torture twins. She wouldn’t drink, she’d only have a salad, she’d sit through Byron’s boring bullshit, and then she’d insist on the editorial changes that Emma Ashton had suggested for Susann’s book. Pam tied the trench coat tightly around her waist and scooped up her heavy shoulder bag. It was a hell of a way to make a living.

  Michael’s was crowded, as always. Peter Cocuzza, the manager, kissed Pam hello and, before she could stop him, took her coat. She’d forgotten about the spot on her dress and then had to make her entrance, had to walk down the two shallow steps and pass half a dozen tables in the front where the real heavy hitters were sitting. It was humiliating to have to pass Nan Talese, Howard Kaminsky, and Norman Pearlstine, and smile, taking her seat with Byron in purgatory at the back of the bus.

  Pam tried to steer the conversation with Byron to the Edmonds book, passing off Emma’s initial comments as her own: how flat it was, how dull, and how to fix it. When Emma was finished writing the editorial letter, Pam would send it on to Byron with her signature. But Byron first had to shovel the shit: talk about Susann’s latest foreign-rights deal, who he was seeing in Frankfurt, and his negotiations for a miniseries. Yeah, right. Now Byron was busy talking about some new first novel that he swore was going to go through the roof. How a dozen publishers were dying to see it. How Viking and Putnam were both hot for it. But how Byron, out of loyalty, would show it to Pam first. If she gave him some concessions, If she promised more marketing support for Susann’s book. Yeah, like I believe you, Pam thought. Like I give a shit.

  “…truly extraordinary,” Byron was saying. “I had no intention of reading more than the first page or so, and then it kept me up all night. I mean, everyone knows about the case, but that’s why this is both hot and unique. You remember what Laura Ziskin and Gus Van Sant did with To Die For. Well, he’s brought a freshness to it, the insider point of view, and the compassion he creates for this mother who murdered her children is just…unsurpassed.”

  Pam yawned. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this bored. The waiter brought their entrées and placed the pork chops, prune dressing, scalloped potatoes, and escarole in front of her. She’d already eaten her salad. She’d only ordered an entrée to be polite. She’d just have one bite. Pam picked up her knife and sliced off a piece of the meat. She was starving. “I’m not really interested in crime novels,” she told Byron as she chewed. The pork was heavenly. “It’s just not my thing.” She added a mouthful of prunes.

  “That’s the beauty part, Pam. It’s not a crime novel. Not that people into them won’t buy it. They will. Big-time. But so will women readers. All women readers. It’s got the romance thing, the bad-marriage thing, the revenge thing. It really transcends any genre.”

  Yeah, right. And Susann Baker Edmonds was the new female Shakespeare. “It’s the guy’s first book. And written from a female point of view?” she said doubtfully. “No one can do that.”

  “Wally Lamb did. Remember? She’s Come Undone”

  “Great book,” Pam admitted.

  “You know what they say: Everyone has one book in them.”


  “Yeah. And most of them should keep it there,” Pam told him.

  “Not this one. You gotta look at it.”

  She gave up. “Okay, Alf. Why don’t you give me the first chapter, and I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, we have to talk about Susann’s new book.” Pam stuffed some pork into her mouth and scooped up another forkful of the potatoes, washing it down with a gulp of Chablis. The escarole had been sautéed; she couldn’t help but finish it. Well, it was only a green vegetable; how many calories could that be? Pam took the last bite of the second pork chop and couldn’t resist picking up the bone and pulling the clinging, savory bits from it.

  “No,” Byron said. Pam looked up from her plate.

  “No, what?” she asked.

  “No. I’m not going to give you the first chapter to take with you. I’m not giving it to anyone. If you want to read it, read it here.” He opened his briefcase and took out the manuscript.

  “Are you kidding?” Pam asked. She put down the pork chop bone. Who the fuck did Byron think he was, Andrew Wylie? “Forget it.”

  “Fine.” Alf shrugged and began to put the pages away. The waiter asked for their dessert order. Pam was already stuffed. Her hand lay on the bulge her belly made under the napkin. God, how had she done that? She’d eaten like a pig. “Nothing for me,” she said automatically. Her eyes watched Alf Byron as he stuffed the manuscript back into his attaché. He wasn’t even going to show it to her?

  “Let me tempt you with the specials,” the waiter intoned. “Crème brûlée, double chocolate cake, apricot tarte—”

  “I’ll have the crème brûlée,” Byron said.

  “Me, too,” Pam said automatically. What the fuck. Then her sugar requirement would be taken care of. She narrowed her eyes at Byron. He was bullshitting her. No doubt about it. But what if the thing was good? What if Putnam really was interested? Phyllis Grann was smart. Really smart. Maybe, for once, Alf Byron did have something worthwhile. It could happen. It was a ridiculous demand—who reads manuscript in the middle of lunch?—but Pam held out her hand. “Let me see it,” she said. “I’ll read it right here.”

  Pam hadn’t been this excited about a manuscript in a long while. It wasn’t just that In Full Knowledge was a great read. She also liked the fact that it was written by a man. There was publicity value in that. She could imagine the flap copy: “A woman’s book that reveals a woman’s soul, written by the only man in America who understands.” This wasn’t Fitzgerald, it wasn’t literature, but if she knew flapjacks from jack-offs, it would fly off the shelves. That, of course, was the question. Were her instincts still good? Pam shook her head. Christ, it was a bitch. The book business was nothing but a crapshoot. Pam could have just as easily been a commodities trader or a compulsive gambler. Like either of them, to keep in the game she had to follow her hunches and bet the farm.

  God, she was tired. She wanted to sit back and rest on her laurels. But it was always “Have you got a book on the list?” This year, more than anything, Pam wanted to win the Editor of the Year award. It was PR and bullshit and politics, but she felt it would finally show everyone that she wasn’t a fluke. She needed the Trawley book to succeed. She needed SchizoBoy to hit. She needed the Susann Baker Edmonds to make the list. And now she needed In Full Knowledge.

  Since her failure on the Trawley book she was doubting herself. Was it possible she couldn’t write? Maybe she couldn’t even pick winners anymore. Could she afford to spend a fortune on a first novel? Could she believe in it, in herself? Pam felt the food in her stomach churn.

  But the beauty of this possible deal was that maybe she didn’t have to bet the farm. Maybe Alf Byron would work something out with her. He had seemed to intimate that she could prevent an auction if she called him by Monday. Was he bluffing? Probably not. Other editors would gobble this up. Pam hated the feeding frenzy that went on when two or three houses glommed onto a commercial first novel. Advances rocketed. The sky became the limit. The Horse Whisperer, Thief of Light kind of deals happened. It was ironic that a buzz—about an author without any track record—was more attractive than a known commodity. In fact, Pam knew a lot of authors who simply had to change names and come out with three or even four “first” novels, hoping one would hit. Dean Koontz had written under eight names. Since his first book, Star Quest in 1967, he’d churned out sixty novels—from science fiction to Gothic romances. He’d called himself Leigh Nichols and Deanna Dwyer. Now he had 150 million books in print, and his three contracts with publishers since ’89 reportedly earned him $32 million. Hitting was almost a one-in-a-million chance, but every season or two somebody copped the jackpot. Pam felt that In Full Knowledge,Jude Daniel’s book, just might be the Next Big Thing.

  It was Sunday, and Christophe was at a friend’s for the weekend. Half the time that left Pam feeling empty, abandoned, and anxious. The other half of the time she was relieved. Christophe was adorable but exhausting. He’d gone through eleven au pairs and baby-sitters in the last five years.

  Pam got up from Christophe’s bed, where she had curled up to reread the Jude Daniel manuscript, and wandered into the corner of her dining room that she used as her home office. She wondered what Jude Daniel was like. Was he good-looking? Was he hot? He had certainly written a few sticky-fingered sex scenes. Did he fuck like that? she wondered. She also wondered if she should call Byron now. She certainly didn’t want to seem too eager. She never called anyone on the weekends, but he’d only given her until Monday morning. Pam tidied the manuscript and then pulled open the middle drawer of her desk. She’d promised Christophe that she’d stop smoking cigarettes, but she pulled out a secret stash of Marlboros and lit up. It was another luxury of having the weekend to herself.

  She sat down at her desk, where she had left the Trawley mess. She just couldn’t do it. Hired as a ghostwriter for a dead author, she herself needed a ghost. Maybe that was it. She could hire one of her hacks, one of her midlist authors desperate for money, and have him write the book. Then she’d edit it. Yes. Of course. That would work. No one would have to know.

  The Jude Daniel manuscript would take a lot of marketing, a lot of PR and advertising, but it was part of the solution to the terrible problem of the fall list. Along with the Trawley book, SchizoBoy, and Susann’s, she’d really have something going. But she wouldn’t call Alf Byron until tomorrow.

  Pam snuffed out the cigarette and took the butt into the bathroom. She had to flush it down the toilet, or Christophe would be sure to lecture her. She rolled herself a joint, took a hit, and pulled out her Filofax. Now all she needed was a ghost’s ghost. She held the smoke deep down in her lungs. Okay. But first she would call Alf Byron and see if she could cut some kind of deal.

  28

  In the publishing business you have to learn to greet failure with the same handshake as you greet success.

  —Eddie Bell

  The Frankfurt Book Fair was the largest, most important international trade show in publishing. This was the eighteenth year that Gerald had attended, staying at the Hessischer Hof Hotel, where everybody who was anybody had reservations a year in advance. Gerald had a suite. He also had a sore throat. Was it strep, or was he merely still dehydrated from the flight? Not that it mattered. He, like everyone else, had half-hourly meetings scheduled with barely an interval between them to go to the bathroom. Gerald almost smiled; one of the questions he asked himself at Frankfurt each year was how the fat, German bathroom matrons managed to put up with the book crowd. Although Gerald tipped them the requisite five marks, tipping the toilet help was alien to most Americans, and the Brits were too cheap.

  Gerald entered the enormous book-fair space. Same old thing. All that was different about this year was that for the first time David Morton was actually attending—not that he would acquire any books or sell foreign rights. Morton was there only to show up at the big social event. Raising his profile in the industry. Gerald was only worried about raising his white-cell count and how to get through the day avoidin
g the pitch-meisters while managing lunch. That was the true challenge of Frankfurt—all the restaurants were booked. Anybody who was anybody managed a quickie, but only that. With an hour off, everyone scurried. The losers were forced to gobble bratwurst in the platz.

  When Gerald got to the Davis & Dash booth he found David Morton pacing back and forth alone in a space that was usually jammed. Gerald, surprised, awkwardly shot his cuffs and planted a smile on his face. “David,” he said, as warmly as he could manage, “what a pleasant surprise.”

  “Are you crazy?” Morton asked him, his southern drawl stretching out each syllable.

  “I think several of my analysts would vouch for my sanity,” Gerald said coolly.

  “Then what is your excuse for this?” David Morton asked, hefting the manuscript of SchizoBoy. Oh, Christ, Gerald thought. Someone has taught him to read. “It is, without a doubt, the most disgusting, perverted, sick piece of…” He paused, restraining himself. As a born-again Christian he rarely used profanity.

  Gerald shrugged. “Just one man’s view,” he told David.

  “It is not one man’s view,” David Morton said vehemently. “If it goes out with the Davis & Dash name on it, it indicates that we share that view. And I can tell you that I do not!”

  Gerald purposely sat down and forced himself to cross his leg in a casual, jaunty way. Body language meant so much, and he certainly wasn’t going to bother to explain the First Amendment to Morton the Moron from a standing position. He would take his stand sitting down, thank you. “David,” Gerald said with a smile, “I don’t believe in channeling, but we sold a million and a half copies of that book by the fool who believes she’s communicating with a Native American shaman—though why he would want to talk to that boring creature is beyond me. I’m not a vegetarian, but we publish vegetarian cookbooks.”