The Bestseller

by Olivia Goldsmith

  Frederick took Camilla’s hand as they left the Helvetia & Bristol Hotel. The weekend crowd was noisy and pleasant. They’d been a part of it, talking about her book, a possible title, the tour group, and the two new shirts he’d bought. He told her about his job and his flat—which he called an apartment—in New York. Then he’d offered to walk her home. Camilla had been relieved that he had not invited her up to his room, though she was sure it was elegant and seductive. She just didn’t want to be put in that position.

  But she realized as they walked through the Firenze evening that she would like to sleep with him. Somehow, his lack of expectation, the very lack of pressure from him, had made the difference. Unlike Gianfranco, who had wooed her with passionate words and romantic little gifts, Frederick’s calmness had reassured and attracted her. Unlike Gianfranco, Frederick really listened to her, and helped her in ways that mattered. Camilla made up her mind. She would sleep with him tonight, back at her own tiny room. Assuming, of course, that he wanted to.

  She thought he did. His hand—all long, slim fingers—was wrapped around hers in a gentle but possessive way. His whole arm pressed against hers, as if he were taking her lead on every step. It was surprisingly sexy. He was not a dominant-male type, that was certain, but he was far from weak. He was her height and didn’t weigh much more than she did. But despite his unprepossessing physique and looks, his deep enthusiasm for her, for her writing and her knowledge of art, moved her. After all, what had good looks in men bought her before? Yes she was definitely attracted to Frederick on some deeper level. Though she could ill afford another disappointment, Camilla felt that Frederick could be something more in her life than an ill-fated affair. And she needed something more.

  Being alone so much had taught Camilla to be brutally honest with herself. She was attracted to Frederick’s intelligence, his wit, and his kindness. More than anything else, she was attracted to his stability. She’d liked his solid, protective, upmarket mother, and she liked the description of his life in New York. She admitted to herself that there was none of the breathtaking excitement here that there had been with Gianfranco and others, but Camilla knew just where that kind of excitement would lead her—to obsession, unrealistic expectations, and disappointment.

  They rounded a corner onto the Via Cistone. Her pensione was just a few steps up the street. As they approached the door, Frederick stumbled over a cobblestone and she had to spin and shore him up with her free hand. He shook his head and apologized. “I’m worse and worse,” he said. But she patted his arm. He was nervous, and so clearly awkward and vulnerable. It was a nice change that, for once, it was the man, not she, who was at a disadvantage.

  There, in the dim light from the street lamp, she turned to him. “This is where I live,” she said. “It’s not much. Would you like to come upstairs?”

  He lifted his hand up to her face, gently touching her cheek and then her forehead. He moved his hand under her chin and brought her mouth to his for a kiss. It was a promising kiss. Not shy at all.

  “I’d like that very much.”

  Camilla opened the enormous door and brought him over to the steps. They were shallow and marble and curved in a gentle ellipse up to the floors above. Hesitant at first, once Frederick grasped the rail, he moved smoothly beside her. At the top of the second staircase Camilla gave Frederick her arm and led him down the long, dark hallway. He held her arm firmly with one hand, dragging his other hand along the wall. Her room was at the very end of the second floor and had two windows, one facing east and one facing south. There was no real view to speak of, just some red-tiled roofs, stucco walls, and a bit of the church of San Giovanni. As quietly as she could, Camilla opened the door and let Frederick in. Although her landlady seemed to like her, Camilla felt that discretion was more than desirable, especially as Signora Belleccio had turned a blind eye to Gianfranco’s first visit.

  Frederick stood very still while Camilla closed the door behind them. She was about to turn on the light when Frederick, his voice thick, said, “Let’s leave it dark.” He was very close to her; she could feel his breath against her cheek. He stood there, deeply still, but now she didn’t feel any nervousness or tentativeness from him. Slowly, he put one arm behind her, his hand low on her back. With his other hand he cupped her head and brought her face to his for another kiss. Camilla relaxed, her body drawn to him as much by her loneliness and attraction as by his hand pressing her against his chest. The kiss was luxurious, long, and searching. He tasted sweet, as if he had somehow turned the wine they’d drunk to sugar. Camilla sighed. Then he took her hands and held them together, gently, at the wrists. “Take me to your bed,” he said, and she did.

  Camilla lay on her side, cuddled against Frederick. Because he wasn’t much taller than she, he fit her nicely in several senses of the word. In the darkness, her back to him, she smiled. She felt rapturous. Frederick’s passionate, gentle, insistent lovemaking had come as more than a surprise. His hunger, and his skill, had almost been a shock. Had she imagined him awkward, inexperienced? There was nothing rushed or fumbling about him in bed. As awkward as he might be when vertical on his two feet, he was masterful when he was horizontal in bed. Camilla nearly giggled with the sheer joy of it.

  Perhaps she had felt some doubt about his performance, sensed something amiss, what with his hesitancy, and his mother and all. Perhaps she had taken him to bed partially as a sort of recovery, or through lack of other options. But he was a wonder, far better as a lover than Gianfranco had ever been. He had made her shiver, and he had made her laugh, and then he had made her come. Afterward, without discussion, he had taken out a condom—something Gianfranco had fought every single time. Frederick was sure of himself but so very considerate. He’d entered her, and after he’d had his own release, he had actually brought her to orgasm again. She’d laughed then. “Where have you been hiding all of my life?” she’d cried. Now they were crowded on the narrow bed, but tired as she was, Camilla felt neither uncomfortable nor sleepy. She felt as if it were Christmas or some other usually disappointing holiday, and she had opened an unpromising package to find a splendid treasure that was all hers. She couldn’t help it—she did giggle aloud.

  Frederick moved against her and gently blew in her ear. “Are you laughing at me?” he asked, but his voice was indulgent. “Ready for more?”

  “How old are you?” she asked. “I thought all this was supposed to peak years ago.”

  Frederick laughed. “I am a late bloomer,” he said. “I’m thirty-six. I think I can hold it together for another eighteen months or so.”

  Camilla did a quick mental calculation. He was almost seven years older than she, though somehow he seemed older. She’d been too shy to ask until now. Camilla raised herself on one elbow and kissed her surprise package on the mouth, then on each of his eyes. “Are you sleepy?” she asked. He shook his head. “Then what should we do?”

  “Why don’t I tell you how much I like your book?”

  “Been there. Done that,” she said, but she blushed with pleasure.

  “Then why don’t you describe your room to me,” he suggested.

  “What? This room?”

  “Well, this room to start.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not much. A bit of a tip, really.”

  “A tip?”

  “Oh. A mess in your language.” She kissed his nose and snuggled nearer to him.

  “Then describe this room as you would like it to be,” he told her. “It’s too dark for me to tell the difference.”

  Camilla lay back down beside him. He tucked the sheet over her shoulder and put an arm under her head. She liked his quirkiness. She thought of a favorite room of hers, one in a private villa just outside Ravenna, to which she had taken several special tour groups. It was a salon overlooking the river, and it had enchanted her. So, lying in the dark in her small narrow room, Camilla described the lofty frescoed ceiling, the Palladian windows, and the magnificent mosaic floor of the Villa d’Amica. She
described the open loggia, covered with wisteria vines, that ran beside it. Frederick listened so quietly, his breathing so deep that after a little while she was afraid he might have fallen asleep. But when she dared to look over at him in the darkness his eyes were open, though unfocused. He must have sensed her looking at him and turned his head.

  “Nice place you got here,” he said, and she laughed. He paused, then lowered his voice. “I love to hear your descriptions, Camilla. They make me see things as if I’d never seen them before. Or as if I were seeing them now, here in the dark. You bring everything you describe to life. That was the wonder of your book. Right now I would swear that if I put my foot over the side of the bed, my feet would touch mosaic.”

  “No. You’d only step on my knickers, I’m afraid.” She smiled at him. It was the last smile she would give him for a long time.

  “I have something to tell you,” Frederick said, and his tone of voice told her everything she needed to know. She felt the ocean of loneliness outside the room, just waiting to rush in and engulf her. God, she should have known! What was it going to be? That he was married? That he was leaving for five years of missionary work in China? That there was some woman back in New York? That he didn’t really want to be involved with anyone? Whatever it was, Camilla knew she didn’t want to hear it. Not now, not ever. She turned her back to him, huddling away from his body, toward the cold stucco wall.

  “I don’t want to know,” she said.

  He put his hand on her shoulder. She didn’t want him to touch her, but all at once she felt so tired that she didn’t have the strength to shrug it away. “Perhaps I should have told you before,” he said, using that old line that they all did. Only he had used it a little sooner, after a particularly good bonk. That was all it was. A bonk.

  “Perhaps you should have,” she said coldly, without even bothering to turn around.

  “Well, I thought you suspected. You’ve been so understanding. That’s the only reason I put it off.”

  What in the world was he talking about? He’d paused. “I really thought you suspected, so I didn’t come right out and say anything. I mean, it’s not an easy thing to hide. I didn’t make any moves on you. I left that up to you. And when you invited me up…well, I couldn’t resist. Anyway, I didn’t say anything. Because of that, and…” he paused. “Because of that, and because I didn’t want a pity fuck. I thought you really liked me.”

  Camilla couldn’t help herself. “Like you? Of course I like you. Are you mad, or just insulting? What would I go to bed with you for if I didn’t? Why in the world would I pity you?”

  “Because I’m going blind,” Frederick told her.

  37

  My definition of a good editor is a man I think charming, who sends me large checks, praises my work, my physical beauty, and my sexual prowess, and who has a stranglehold on the publisher and the bank.

  —John Cheever

  It was a wet and windy day, and though it wasn’t yet noon, all the lights were on in the bookstore. Opal squatted before a low shelf and heard both of her knees creak. New York dampness was hard on the joints. She put two paperback copies of Styron’s Lie Down in Darkness onto the fiction shelf and had to steady herself against it to help her rise. She looked around the bookstore. There was a student type in an oversized army jacket looking at hardcovers. Well, he’d never buy a twenty-five-dollar book. A well-dressed older woman was paging through cookbooks at the back. Although Opal had spent close to twenty years in a library, it was interesting to see how a short time in a bookstore had completely changed her relationship to books. She didn’t enjoy seeing people reading anymore. Now Opal wanted them to buy. Since she’d started working here, Opal had learned that Roberta had problems. Business was slow and the rent still had to be paid. Opal was concerned, and not for Roberta’s sake alone. After all, Roberta was not only her one friend in New York—she was also the only person Opal knew who had been kind to Terry. So it was the least that Opal could do, helping out at the store.

  Across the floor, Opal saw the young man look around, as if to see whether he was being observed. There was more pilferage than Roberta could afford, and Opal disapproved of all those jacket pockets. She put on her can-I-help-you smile and walked up behind the young man. “Anything I can do for you?” she asked. He started a bit, then spun around.

  “No. No, thanks,” he said, then walked away from her up the aisle and made a beeline for the exit. Well, either she’d insulted him and queered a sale, or she’d just prevented a theft. She was about to turn away when she saw Roberta across the street, making her way against the rain and wind to the shop. Roberta had had an early-morning dental appointment. Painful and expensive gum work. Opal had always prided herself on taking very good care of her gums.

  Roberta came through the door, her discomfort making her long face appear even longer. “How was it?” Opal asked.

  “About as bad as it gets.” Roberta tried to smile, but it ended up a grimace. “When this work is done, I’ll be even longer in tooth than I am now.”

  “Could you drink some tea?” Opal asked as she followed Roberta back to the small stockroom where they also kept their coats, the bookkeeping, mugs and spoons, uncrated books, and other bookstore detritus.

  “I don’t know. I know I’ll never eat again.”

  Roberta might not be able to eat food, but she had devoured Terry’s manuscript. And she had loved it. She’d called Opal in the middle of the night the moment she’d finished it, and the two of them had gone over it in loving, delighted detail. It was a two-and-a-half-hour phone call, and the only time since Terry’s death that Opal had felt happy.

  “Try some tea,” Opal now urged Roberta.

  “I could drink it if it isn’t too hot,” Roberta agreed, putting her coat on a hook and brushing her damp hair back with her hand. “Thanks so much for covering for me. You really have to let me start paying you.”

  Opal shook her head, then started heating up the water.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” Roberta warned her. “I’d better get out front. How was the morning?”

  “Not too bad,” Opal reported proudly. “One of your regulars, that designer with the adorable Chinese baby, came in. She bought one hundred and forty-six dollars’ worth of children’s books.”

  Roberta tried to smile. “What would I do without Mrs. Kahn and Lily?” she asked.

  “That was about it. UPS was late. I haven’t opened the boxes.” Opal paused. “And something else.” Roberta raised her brows. “Mrs. Kahn had a woman with her. French, I think. But black. Madame someone. Do you know her?”

  Roberta shook her head.

  “Well, she was introduced, she looked at me, and said, ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’” Opal paused. It had been very strange. She couldn’t really explain the feeling of shared sorrow and warmth that seemed to flow from the woman. “Then she told me, ‘Your daughter’s words will live.’”

  “What?”

  “Well, I wondered if you’d talked to Mrs. Kahn about—”

  “Certainly not! Who was this woman?”

  Opal shrugged. Then the front door chimed. “We better get out front,” Roberta repeated. She was almost to the cash desk when the phone rang, so Opal left the call to her. But after a moment, Roberta put her head around the door to the back room again. All the pain was erased from her face, replaced with a look of—what? Expectancy? Excitement? “It’s for you,” Roberta said to Opal. “Emma Ashton, from Davis & Dash,” she whispered. “Wasn’t she the one who took the manuscript?”

  Opal felt herself freeze, as if she had turned suddenly to ice. And then she felt as if she were melting, going to water. She had told Roberta about the young kid with the backpack who had agreed to take the manuscript home. But Opal had not dared to hope to hear from Emma Ashton. She figured she would give it another few weeks and then call her. But it had been only ten days. Opal blinked, then swallowed. She couldn’t just stand there doing nothing in the middle of the stockr
oom. She made herself take the two steps over to the extension and lifted the phone. Her hand was trembling.

  “Hello,” she said. “This is Opal O’Neal.”

  “Mrs. O’Neal? This is Emma Ashton from Davis & Dash. I called your number but there was no answer. I got this number off the manuscript. I took The Duplicity of Men with me. Remember?”

  Remember? Opal had had to use every bit of willpower not to allow herself to think about it for the last 240 hours. But, she told herself sternly, you knew this would be a long haul. So what if this girl, this child, doesn’t like it? Opal was prepared for that. She would not allow herself to be disappointed. Whatever it took, however long it took, she was prepared. If this girl couldn’t understand the manuscript, there would be somebody who did. Eventually, if she kept at it, somebody would.

  “I can come pick the manuscript up this afternoon,” Opal said into the phone.

  “What?” the girl asked. She probably was busy today. Opal had to remind herself not to be pushy or resentful.

  “Or I could come first thing tomorrow,” Opal told her.

  “I’m sorry. I’m in an editorial meeting all morning tomorrow.”

  “Well, you can just leave it with the receptionist,” Opal said, exasperated. “I could pick it up from her. Sandy is her name. She’s very nice.”

  There was a pause, increasing Opal’s exasperation. “I don’t think you understand, or else I don’t understand you,” Emma Ashton said. “I don’t want to give you back the manuscript. I want to publish it.”

  Opal stood there for a moment and actually stared at the receiver in her hand. “You want the book?” Opal asked, afraid to hear the answer.

  “It’s a wonderful book, Mrs. O’Neal. You were right. Your daughter is—was—very, very talented. I can’t say what we can pay for it yet. I’m not authorized to do that. It is an unusual book, and its length is a problem, but Davis & Dash would like to talk with you about publishing it.”