The Bestseller

by Olivia Goldsmith

  “I’d be grateful.”

  Roberta stared out the window at the ugly bit of yard. “Do you garden?” she asked. “I have a garden on my terrace. You actually get some sun out there. I think that empty space could be made lovely.” She looked at Opal, who had joined her at the window.

  “Perhaps it could,” Opal agreed.

  30

  You need a certain amount of nerve to be a writer.

  —Margaret Atwood

  Daniel stepped off the elevator and walked through the glass doors into the Davis & Dash reception area. Nervously, he ran his hand over his hair and then pulled at his tie. Perhaps he shouldn’t have even worn the tie. After all, he wasn’t a businessman or an academic. He was a novelist.

  For a moment his conscience pinched him. He wasn’t really the novelist either; Judith was. On this deal he was the businessman. But the important thing was getting the deal made. He shook his head, as if to loosen these distracting thoughts. No time to worry about credit right now. He hadn’t told Judith about any of this. He didn’t want to have to deal with her anxiety as well as his own.

  He looked down at the receptionist, who had a tiny Davis & Dash name tag on her left shoulder. “Hi, Sandy,” he said, “I’m Jude Daniel here to see Mr. Davis and Ms. Mantiss.” He had never lied about his name before, never actually said this nom de plume out loud, and for a moment he expected the girl to narrow her eyes and contradict him. Instead, she merely lifted up the phone, punched in an extension, and murmured his name. Then she smiled at him.

  “They’ll be right out,” she said. Almost immediately he was greeted by a portly, well-dressed woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Perkins. Daniel strolled with her down two long, messy corridors. Piles of manuscripts and papers were everywhere. Shelves were stuffed with books, posters, and reams of other, unidentified paper. Despite his pretended experience to Judith, he never actually had been inside a publishing house, and he tried, surreptitiously, to look into the small offices he passed. Everything seemed surprisingly disorderly, with chairs, tables, and desks stacked high with manuscripts and books. There were also cartons piled willy-nilly in the hallways. The walls had no art other than blowups of book jackets. Soon, he dared to think, his own might join them in the invigorating squalor.

  At the end of the corridor he was ushered into a suite of rooms that was completely different. Here elegance and order reigned, and the furniture was not utilitarian Formica but antique wood. Daniel was brought through a private reception area, past an enormous conference room, and up to a mahogany door with gold lettering that read GERALD OCHS DAVIS. The great man himself. Even though Byron had told him that the fabled name wanted a look-see, it still felt unreal that he, Daniel Gross, was about to meet one of the most influential publishers in New York. Quickly, before he passed through the door, Daniel wiped his sweating palms against the side of his slacks. He didn’t want to give a wet, wimpy, handshake to the guy who might make him wealthy.

  “Well. The talk of the town,” said the small, dapper man sitting behind the enormous partner’s desk. He had the worst rug on his head that Daniel had ever seen. “I’m Gerald Davis.” He put his hand out, and Daniel grasped it firmly—maybe too firmly, he realized as he saw Davis wince.

  “I’m Jude Daniel,” Daniel lied for the second time.

  “And I’m Pam Mantiss, the editor in chief. I just loved your book.” Daniel turned to a woman with wild blond hair, feverish eyes, and—he couldn’t help but notice—enormous breasts. He held his hand out to her, and this time he was the one who nearly winced from the handshake. Pam sat down in one of a pair of low chairs in front of Davis’s desk. Daniel took the other.

  “Mrs. Perkins, I think we’ll have some coffee,” Gerald Davis said. He turned to Daniel, and his eyebrows raised. “So? Espresso, cappuccino?”

  “Just coffee, thanks,” Daniel said. Then he wondered if that was a mistake. Was coffee gauche? But Gerald Davis only nodded to Mrs. Perkins, and she left them.

  Pam Mantiss was the first to make a move. The low chair had pushed her center of gravity to the very back of her seat. All that Daniel seemed to see when he looked at her were her eyes, her cleavage, and her legs, which were exposed to the top of her thighs. She was an attractive woman, in a frightening way. “I loved your book,” she said again. Her voice was deep, almost mannish. “It’s absolutely astonishing. I don’t think any man has written in a contemporary woman’s voice with such authority.” Daniel smiled. Did this mean they definitely wanted the book? Was it a done deal? And how much would they pay? Before he could say anything, Gerald Davis chimed in.

  “It’s not only that,” Gerald said. “It’s that you turned a well-known tragic story into a really thrilling read. Of course, everyone has heard about the actual case. We know the outcome. But you make it new and hair-raising. The pacing is extraordinary. It’s hard to believe it’s your first novel.”

  “What’s hard to believe is that a man wrote it,” Pam Mantiss said, laughing. Daniel thought of Judith, and his face paled. He felt tiny beads of sweat break out along his hairline. Pam looked at him and half-closed her glittering, heavily lidded eyes. “When I read it, I came back to Gerald and said, ‘I’ve got to meet this guy. Someone who really understands women.’” She smiled.

  “Great,” Daniel managed to croak. “Great,” he said again, a little more enthusiastically. Now was the time. It wasn’t too late; he could tell them about Judith. He could explain they were coauthors. But would he lose this offer if he did? Was there going to be an offer? And how much? As if reading his mind, Gerald gave him a toothy smile.

  “You are going to be a very rich man,” Gerald told him. Daniel let out a breath. Could he ask how rich? Or was that also gauche?

  “Very rich?” he managed to echo.

  “Oh, yes,” Gerald told him with a laugh. “You’ll be in the Bentley Turbo R class.”

  Daniel had no idea what Gerald was talking about. Was that a legal term? A financial term? Publishing? He tried to make a mental note of it to ask Alfred Byron about later. He wished that Byron had come to this meeting. But Byron said they wanted to meet him alone, “just a look-see,” whatever that was. How should he play it?

  Mrs. Perkins returned with a china tray carrying three cups. She placed it on Gerald’s desk, nodded, and excused herself. Gerald and Pam began to reach for their incredibly tiny, fragile-looking demitasse cups. Daniel quickly rose from the difficult chair and passed Pam’s cup to her. His own large coffee cup looked like a definite gaffe. He should have had espresso too, he thought. Though he liked cream and sugar, he was too nervous to try to pour them. He took the large cup and sat back in the uncomfortable chair, awkwardly balancing his burden on his knee.

  “Well, where have you come from?” Gerald asked. “Before you take the book world by storm, we want to know who you are.” Daniel managed to swallow the incredibly strong black coffee without choking.

  “Originally from Westchester,” he told them.

  “And you teach now?” Pam asked, her eyes still half closed.

  Daniel nodded. “Upstate. You know. The usual English survey courses, plus a little creative writing.” He shrugged modestly. They asked about his classes, his status at the college, and when he’d begun the book. Pam asked if he was married and made a point of sighing when he said he was.

  “And when did you finish the book?” Gerald asked.

  “About two months ago,” Daniel told them and—briefly—thought of Judith’s black mood since then. “It’s been hard, you know. I’ve felt very empty since it’s finished.”

  Pam nodded and leaned forward, putting her hand on his knee. Through the fabric of his trousers he could feel the heat from her palm. “Oh, you’ve gotta start on your next one, right away,” she advised. “It’s the only solution for that feeling.” She smiled at him again, and he nodded.

  They both seemed totally positive. It was going to happen. Would he get a million dollars for the book? He had read of huge advances for fi
rst-time novelists. He guessed that Byron would have to make the deal, but he wanted to get a feeling from them. It all seemed so complicated. What was the etiquette?

  “Have you thought about your next book?” Gerald asked.

  Perhaps that was it, Daniel thought. Well, he was prepared. “Oh, yes,” he told them. “But I’m torn. I have three ideas, and I don’t know which one to begin with.” Briefly he outlined a few plots he had been thinking about, all dealing with women as both victims and perpetrators of crimes. As he talked, he saw Pam throw a look at Gerald. Did Gerald imperceptibly nod? Maybe the meeting was all to prove that he wasn’t a one-book guy. Was that what a “look-see” was about? Would they want a two-book contract? Would that bring him more money up front?

  “Well, what an embarrassment of riches,” Gerald told him when he was through. “You have a real facility for taking an old story and casting it in an updated way. And your writing has so much belief and energy. I saw Elthea with those children at the lake. I felt the youngest son’s arm when she pushed him. Quite astonishing.”

  Daniel blushed and nodded. He’d criticized that part to Judith. He’d said it was too brutal.

  “And we love the title,” Pam added. “In Full Knowledge It’s evocative, it pulls you in. It’s really quite a gift, to title a book. A lot of times we have to change the title for the market. Authors find it painful.” She again put her hand on his knee, this time giving a gentle squeeze to the flesh beneath his trousers. He must have been mistaken. He looked over at her, trying not to show any surprise, but her eyes, still wet and nervous, didn’t reveal anything. “We really want this book,” she said. “We might have to ask for a few editorial changes, but I’d really like to work personally with you.”

  Gerald nodded. “We think you have a brilliant future, and we want to be part of it.” He rose. Quickly, Daniel placed his cup on the desk so that he, too, could stand. He nodded, and Gerald put out his hand. Without time to wipe his own, Daniel had to shake it. Was he dismissed? Pam stood and took his arm at the elbow, walking him across the huge office to the door. Was this it, then, Daniel wondered? He was ready to scream. How much money? How much? But surely he had impressed them. They wanted him. They said he would be rich. Surely that meant a million-dollar advance. He would be in the Bentley Turbo R class, whatever that was. He felt Pam lean against him; her large breasts pushed for a moment against his arm. She was totally terrifying. Daniel thought of a de Kooning painting—all teeth, wild energy, and frightening eyes. But he had to admit that Pam Mantiss was very arousing. He felt himself stir.

  “I can’t wait to work with you,” she said, her voice deeper than ever. And both her eyes and her teeth glistened. “We’ll be talking to Alf this week,” she promised, then let him go, to be shown out by Mrs. Perkins.

  31

  Serious books can find their audience in the United States.

  —Herbert Mitgang

  On Monday morning, Emma put The Duplicity of Men manuscript into her backpack along with the Susann Baker Edmonds manuscript and notes. The Edmonds was going to need an entire rewrite! Despite the heavy load, Emma decided she would walk all the way from her Village apartment to Davis & Dash. She needed the time to concentrate. The day was gray and misty, but the air was soft against her cheek. It was early enough so that the traffic in the Village had not yet begun. She walked across Hudson Street, the wind from the river riffling her short hair. Emma smiled.

  It had happened at last. She had found a masterpiece, the kind of book she had dreamed about publishing. She felt that this was a test. What had she gone to school for all those years, what had she been working toward, if not to get a wonderful, enlightened, and enlightening book like this one published? Surely Pam and the other members of the editorial board would see its luminous truths…if she could get them to read it. Emma crossed Fourteenth Street at Fifth Avenue and increased her pace.

  Yes. If they read it. Pam and Gerald and the other editors would have to see the brilliance of Terry O’Neal’s book. But what if they didn’t? What if they only saw its length, its denseness, and, Emma admitted to herself, the unlikelihood of it racking up anything much in sales? It was a serious book, and Nan Talese had estimated that there were only four thousand serious readers in the country. It would certainly be an expensive book to produce. But surely that was the reason why they—she herself—had done so many commercial books: to subsidize a brilliant, lyrical book like this one. That would justify publishing crap like Peet Trawley and Susann Baker Edmonds. In the pit of her stomach, Emma felt her excitement changing into anxiety. Everything was up to her. She had to present it properly. She had to get Pam behind her.

  Though she was difficult, undependable, and often lazy, Pam Mantiss was not stupid. That was one of the reasons why Emma had been glad she’d been chosen to work for her. Though she often published crap, Pam never mistook it for gold. Surely she would recognize this gold that Emma had, amazingly, panned out of the river of slush that was unsolicited manuscripts.

  It wasn’t as if Pam hadn’t published truly good books. She had. She’d discovered Mary Keene and Thomas Sutton. Both were literary, both respected. But that had been years ago. And both had left Davis & Dash. Word was that Pam tended to resent her authors once they achieved success. Anyway, for the last eight or ten years Pam had been more involved with commercial books. Emma could point that out—that Pam needed a new literary author. But perhaps that would be presumptuous.

  Alternatively, Emma could present this as her own big find, since it was. But then would Pam be envious that it wasn’t her discovery? Pam’s territoriality and jealousy were frightening. That would be the other danger. Emma knew that for the sake of the book she would have to make sure that Pam not only loved The Duplicity of Men, but also never felt that Emma would take the credit for it. If it succeeded. It would become Pam’s book.

  When she became an editor, she was given the right to one editor’s choice a year—publishing a book even if the rest of the editorial board didn’t agree. But at her very first editorial-board meeting Pam had pushed for a new Dick book. “Is that your editor’s choice?” she’d been asked. “No, it’s Emma’s,” she’d replied with a grin. Emma still hadn’t confronted her over that. Emma sighed and adjusted the straps of her backpack. This morning it was a heavy load.

  But she shouldn’t feel burdened, she told herself. She should rejoice. She had been privileged to read this manuscript, and now she would simply have to accept—as her mother always told her—that along with privilege came responsibility. She would whip the Susann Baker Edmonds nonsense into shape—no matter what it took—and that would justify the publication of this book.

  She did have one last strategy, though she hated to use it. If all else failed, she would just threaten to resign. And if that failed, she would actually do so. It was a gamble, but at this point Pam was lazy and dependent enough to fear losing her. Emma hated the risk, but she’d take it. Because if Davis & Dash didn’t publish this book on her recommendation, Emma knew that there was no reason for her to remain there.

  “I don’t care how good it is,” Pam said, her hand thumping the big pile that was The Duplicity of Men. I don’t want to know how good it is! I need an eleven-hundred-page masterpiece like I need congestive heart failure.”

  “You have to read it,” Emma repeated for the third time, as calmly yet strongly as she dared.

  “What should I read it for? If I like it, it will just be more difficult to say no. And if I don’t like it, then I’ve wasted a weekend.” Pam Mantiss paused, crossed her arms, and settled them and her large poitrine on the desk before her. “What is it? A Pink? An Uh-oh?”

  “It’s nothing like that,” Emma admitted.

  “Look,” Pam said, “you’re no tyro. You know the economics of this. We’re not an artsy-fartsy little literary house funded by some rich guy’s ego and a grant from the National Endowment of the Arts. This isn’t Citron Press. We’re a business.”

  “Yes,” Emma
agreed, “but we’re the book business.” She paused. Over time Emma had found that her best argument with Pam was silence and repetition. “Pam, you have to read it.”

  She wasn’t getting through to Pam, and she could feel the chance—the precious single chance Duplicity had—slipping away. She tried to keep down the panic she felt. Like some kind of primal jungle animal, Pam could smell fear and would just dismiss her and the book if she did so now. Emma took a deep breath. “Look,” she said, “this is the kind of book that will get someone named Editor of the Year. When it’s published by someone else, reviewed by Christopher Lehmann-Haupt, and then makes the front page of the New York Times Book Review, everyone will find out that you rejected it. How is that going to help Davis & Dash’s credibility?”

  Pam Mantiss narrowed her yellow eyes. “Who the hell is representing it?” she asked. “And why didn’t they come to me directly?”

  God! What could she say now? Emma swallowed. Pam was actually weakening, but here was another ego trap, one Emma hadn’t foreseen. If she told the truth, about the old woman and her story of the dead daughter, Pam would laugh her out of the office. Sentimental she was not. If, on the other hand, Emma lied and pretended that Lynn Nesbit or some other important agent was representing the book, Pam would find out the lie or, worse, resent the agent for going to Emma. It was best to sidestep the issue. Pam could, sometimes, be distracted. “Look,” Emma improvised, “I got it from a friend. No one knows I have it, and it hasn’t been submitted anywhere yet. She’ll lose her job if her boss finds out.”

  Pam grinned in the infuriating way she had whenever Emma mentioned a woman friend. But maybe she was smiling at the idea of a coup. Pam loved intrigue, subterfuge, and treachery—as long as she was on the winning end. Her paranoia was justified by her own shady methods. The idea of snatching an illicit manuscript away from the jaws of the other hungry publishers out there would definitely have appeal.