The Bestseller

by Olivia Goldsmith

  Susann drained the cup of cooled tea, then picked up her pen. “All right,” she said.

  42

  Publishing is not exactly a business; it’s more an activity.

  —Ruth Nathan

  Opal was to meet the miraculous Emma Ashton and her boss for lunch, but since she had nothing else to do and she was far too nervous to stay home and scrub or read, she showed up at The Bookstall as usual. Well, not exactly as usual, she admitted to herself: She was wearing a new navy blue rayon dress that belted at the waist. She had even put her gold Cupid pin on the collar. It was the first time she’d had a skirt on since she’d arrived in New York, and when she walked into The Bookstall Roberta looked up and smiled. “Perfect,” Roberta said approvingly, and Opal wondered if, perhaps, Roberta had worried that Opal might not have or even know the appropriate thing to wear. “You look dignified and businesslike. Very nice.”

  Roberta and Opal had spent the last two days talking about nothing but the upcoming lunch at the Four Seasons. Roberta had dined there several times, back when the book business was better. She talked about the New York landmark restaurant in the Seagram Building and described its two vast, austere rooms. “If you’re meeting with someone senior,” Roberta said, “you’ll probably eat in the Grill Room. It doesn’t look as fancy as the Pool Room does—it’s just a series of levels off the bar—but those are the most fought-over lunch tables in Manhattan.”

  Opal had shrugged. She just wanted to talk about whether these people would really publish Terry’s book. Since the phone call she had told herself a hundred times not to get her hopes up, but, of course, she couldn’t help it.

  Roberta had told Opal that she needed a literary agent or lawyer. Opal had merely shook her head. “Who?” she asked. “How? I couldn’t get any of those agent jaspers to talk to me up till now. I don’t want to get this any more complicated than it has to be.”

  “But you’ll have to have someone read the contract.”

  “Well, I’ll take care of that when we come to a deal,” Opal had said.

  “I don’t think that’s the way it’s done,” Roberta had told her. “Your agent is the one who makes the deal and gets the money for you.”

  Opal had looked at Roberta with big eyes. “Money?” she had said. “That’s the least of it. Why, at one time I thought I’d have to pay to publish this myself!”

  Now Roberta came from around the counter and handed Opal a thin flat box. “It isn’t new, I’m afraid,” Roberta said. “But it’s a good one and I’ve never worn it, and I’d like you to wear it today.” Opal blushed with pleasure. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a gift. She opened the box and found a tissue-wrapped scarf; a scarf so beautiful and of so many colors that it silenced her.

  “You don’t like it,” Roberta said. “Well, don’t feel you have to wear it.”

  Opal shook her head, then took out the heavy silk square. She knew it must be French and tremendously expensive, even before she saw the Hermès signature at one corner. She’d already admired Roberta’s beautiful scarves. She knew they cost a fortune. Now, recovering from her surprise and pleasure, she remembered her manners. “Oh, it’s too nice. It’s absolutely exquisite. I can’t let you give me this.”

  Roberta smiled with relief. “You like it? Listen, you can’t stop me from giving it to you: I’ve already done that. And you can’t stop me from tying it on you, either.” Roberta wrapped the scarf into a precise knot around Opal’s neck. “Come on, take a look,” she said, and walked the reluctant Opal back to the mirror.

  The scarf was breathtaking, and it transformed Opal. She didn’t look like an Indiana librarian. Instead she had become, well, if not fashionable, at least in the running. “Let’s move the pin,” Roberta suggested kindly. They did, and with the Cupid readjusted, Opal felt as if she could stand up to the Four Seasons or any other restaurant.

  But Roberta wasn’t yet satisfied. She was looking at Opal critically, her eyes half closed. “Almost,” she said. “Almost.” Then she pulled her own earrings off. “Lose those little pearls temporarily, and put these on,” she insisted. “Just a loan,” Roberta assured her. Opal didn’t even argue. Roberta’s earrings were big, each one a kind of modern wing shape, and they framed either side of Opal’s face. They weren’t anything Opal would have chosen or worn, but she had to admit they were impressive. “There you go,” Roberta said. “The woman with the biggest earrings runs the meeting.” Opal laughed.

  And it was a good thing that Opal was armed with Roberta’s earrings and scarf, because everything about the restaurant was intimidating. She walked into a large, bare marble room that seemed to have nothing in it. Well, nothing but a window in one marble wall where people handed over their coats; that and a huge suspended staircase. No signs, no other doors. There was a sofa, so Opal sat down on it, but after a few minutes she realized that everyone else who entered had made their way upstairs. That must be where the restaurant was. Roberta hadn’t told her that crucial bit of information! Now she’d be late.

  When Opal did make it to the top, an enormous room opened up in front of her. There was a four-sided bar on the right of the staircase and a large lectern on the left of it where three or four restaurant staffers stood. She looked past them to the banquettes behind the lectern and tried to recognize the face or form of Emma Ashton. But no one looked familiar. After all, Opal reminded herself, she’d seen the girl only for a few moments. And since then she’d heard her voice just once on the phone. Opal looked around again, telling herself not to panic. From Roberta’s description, she knew this was the Grill Room. Perhaps they had been seated in the other area of the restaurant. What was that place called? Opal thought it had something to do with billiards, but that couldn’t be right. She looked at the group at the lectern and steeled herself to approach them. After all, here she was expected and did have an appointment. What did she have to be frightened of?

  The answer to that question was, of course, a rejection. Emma had said they liked the book but they had some things to discuss. What things? Opal forced herself to push her fears out, into the corner of her mind, and went up to the desk. “I’m here to meet Miss Ashton,” she said.

  The woman at the desk looked down a list. “Ashton?” she asked. Then she shook her head. She was polite, and looked concerned. “No Ashton, I’m afraid.”

  Opal’s stomach lurched. Had she gotten it wrong? Was there some mistake? Certainly, it couldn’t have been a joke. And certainly she had not gotten the day, the place, or the time wrong. Just then Opal felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see that she did, indeed, recognize Emma Ashton, though the girl was dressed more like a grown-up today, wearing a severe gray knit.

  “Um, Mrs. O’Neal,” Emma said. She sounded a bit unsure herself. Opal nodded. “It’s so good to see you. Please come over to our table. Pam Mantiss is dying to meet you. She’s our editor in chief.”

  Well, that was something. The editor in chief. Opal was led back to a corner table against a kind of niche. She was introduced to Emma’s boss, Pam. Opal tried not to take an immediate dislike to the woman—after all, she reminded herself, she may want to publish Terry’s book. But there was something in the woman’s glittery eyes, in her too-tight sweater and her immediate barrage of questions that was unnerving and off-putting.

  “So, did your daughter really write this book?” Pam Mantiss asked before Opal even sat down. “It’s remarkable really. What was her background? Where did she go to school? Has she written anything else? Was she published before?”

  Opal, startled as much by the nonstop delivery as by the questions themselves, took a deep breath. Only Emma’s calm face made it viable to stay. Emma seemed to wince a bit and nodded at Opal. “Yes, of course Terry wrote the book,” Opal said, trying not to show her exasperation. “She’d been working on it for almost a decade when…she died.”

  “One of my authors just died,” Pam exclaimed, as if that was a bond between them. “Peet Trawley. Terrible. We h
ave a contract and no book.” Pam smiled. “While you have a book and no contract. Right?” Opal couldn’t even nod; she felt too paralyzed. “You haven’t been talking with any other publisher?” Pam Mantiss continued.

  Opal thought back to all those useless hours and hopeless conversations in reception rooms. It seemed, though, that this bizarre woman was afraid of competition. Opal wasn’t cagey by nature, but she could commit a sin of omission on Terry’s behalf. “Well, I have spoken with a couple of other houses, but not in a serious way,” she said. It wasn’t exactly a lie.

  Pam Mantiss shot a look at Emma. What, Opal wondered, did that mean? Did they mean to publish the book or not?

  Just then the waiter arrived and asked for their drink orders. “Pellegrino,” Emma said, whatever that was. Pam ordered wine.

  “Coffee, please,” Opal told the boy. Then they consulted the menu. Opal couldn’t believe the prices. She ordered the salmon and was surprised when it came—it was the best thing she’d ever eaten. Well, of course Opal knew there was such a thing as fresh salmon, but there wasn’t much of it in Indiana. While they ate, Opal answered questions and told them a little about Terry’s background—valedictorian, her undergrad and grad school-scholarships, her Yale and Columbia degrees. The entire time she felt as if she were being tested. Would they publish Duplicity or not? She didn’t know what to omit, what to add. She didn’t mention the rejection letters, but she did tell them Terry took her own life.

  “So did my father,” Pam said, between bites of steak tartare. “It really fucked me up.”

  Emma and Opal looked at each other, then sat in silence. Pam didn’t seem to notice. Opal couldn’t tell if Pam liked her or not—or if Pam liked the book. She watched as Pam cleared her plate, ordered an extra side of creamed spinach, ate that, and, Opal noticed, finished the rolls. “Do you want that?” Pam asked, pointing at Opal’s own dish. Opal shook her head and Pam took the plate, cleaning it. She ate with a peculiar intensity, as if nothing stopped her hunger. Opal couldn’t help but stare. The waiter broke the silence when he asked for their dessert order.

  “Nothing for me,” Pam told him. “I’m on a diet. But I will have another glass of wine.” Opal wasn’t sure if it was Pam’s third or fourth. At lunch! Then Pam turned to her. “The thing is,” Pam said, in a serious voice, “we would love to publish this book. It’s a brilliant, brilliant work.”

  Finally! Opal took a deep breath. “Well. It certainly took you long enough to say so,” Opal said tartly. But she guessed that was just the way these people did business. Four glasses of wine, enough food for a week, rude questions, and then the praise. They wouldn’t talk to you if they didn’t think the book was worthwhile. Weak with relief, Opal leaned back in her seat. She was in one of the fancier restaurants in the city talking to one of the best publishing houses. She had done it. She had found a home for Terry’s work, and soon The Duplicity of Men would be in bookstores and libraries all over the country. Thank God. Thank God for that last manuscript, and for Emma Ashton, and for Roberta Fine, and even for this crazy woman Pam. “Thank you,” was all she managed to say, but it was all she really needed to. She lifted her coffee cup to her lips. Ah.

  “Have you an agent?” Pam asked. As usual, before she got an answer, Pam went on to another point. “Listen, there’s no way that we can pay you much. This is actually the kind of book that university presses put out. Confederate Widow, that kind of thing. And they pay squat. But we believe we can create a wider audience for this book. Still, it’s a gamble. In terms of the actual advance…”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Opal said, shaking her head slightly. “By ‘advance’ you mean money? Well, the money isn’t the point.”

  Pam Mantiss’s eyes narrowed. They were almost the same yellow as a cat’s eyes. She smiled, but only with her teeth. “Good. Now, the other thing is, it’s going to need a lot of pruning. Hopefully the manuscript will be significantly shorter. It’s got to be cut down by at least twenty percent, and I’d like to see it cut even further.”

  Opal looked up from her coffee. The others had been served coffee too, along with a plate of tiny, tempting cookies. But she ignored the treats. Opal could barely believe what she had heard. First of all, there was that dreadful use of hopefully—and by a New York editor in chief! This editor was not going to work on Terry’s book. Hopefully not, anyway. And how could the woman think the book could be cut? Opal put down her cup. “Not one word,” she said.

  Pam Mantiss, who was finishing the last of the little cookies, smiled—or at least she showed her teeth. “What?” she asked.

  “No cuts,” Opal said. She felt on firm ground at last. “Absolutely no cuts, no editing, no ‘pruning’—as you called it. This isn’t a tree, it’s a book. And it’s complete. No changes. There are a very few typos that I have noticed, but other than that, none of Terry’s words are to be deleted or changed.”

  “What?” Pam asked again, her voice rising harshly.

  Opal’s stomach tightened, but so did her resolve. Publishing a bowdlerized book would not be publishing Terry’s book. “No cuts,” she repeated calmly, and finished her coffee.

  Emma Ashton broke the silence. “Mrs. O’Neal, you don’t understand. I love the book just as it is. But the economic reality of publishing a book of this magnitude is a frightening one. Especially with the cost of paper and the limited sales prospects for Duplicity of Men. It’s a brilliant book, perhaps even a great one, but we can’t—”

  “How many libraries? How many real bookstores?” Opal interrupted her with the questions. “This is not a book to be read only today. It is for generations to come. Every college, every university will need copies.”

  Pam Mantiss smiled. This time it was more than showing her teeth: It showed her contempt. “Mrs. O’Neal, I think you have to reconsider—”

  There was no point in listening to her. Opal had pegged that one right from the beginning. Her way or no way. “I’m sorry,” she interrupted. “There’s nothing to consider or reconsider.” Opal paused. Emma Ashton’s face was a study of concern. Well, Opal couldn’t back down. “My daughter spent her entire adult life making that manuscript as perfect as she knew how. That is the way the work must be published. Nothing deleted, nothing changed, nothing edited. Anything else would show a lack of respect for her.” Opal paused and gained control of her voice, which had risen. “She’s not here to approve any suggestions, and you weren’t there to give her any before she died.” Opal said quietly. “So it’s published as it stands or not at all.”

  Emma looked across the table. For a moment, Opal glanced into her eyes and felt that the girl knew what this was costing her. But even if it cost her publication of the book, she would not waver. Terry’s work must stay intact.

  “Well, I guess that’s it,” Pam said flatly. To her credit, Emma looked stricken. Pam Mantiss searched through her bag, pulled out a credit card, and handed it to the hovering waiter. Then she handed a business card to Opal. “Looks like it’s a university press for you,” she said. The bill came, and Pam scribbled her signature. Then she struggled into her leather jacket. She stood up.

  “It’s been nice to meet you,” she said. She motioned for Emma to follow her. “We’re outta here,” she announced. “Give me a call if you change your mind.”

  43

  It’s necessary to publish trash in order to publish poetry.

  —Herbert Mitgang

  Gerald stepped out of the company limo and was greeted by the new doorman at his father’s Fifth Avenue apartment building. It was one of the smaller but more exclusive structures on what was called “Museum Mile”—the Guggenheim, the Met, the Frick, and the Cooper-Hewitt were all in the neighborhood. Senior lived on the floor below the penthouse—penthouses, he felt, were ostentatious. Gerald glanced at himself in the gilt-framed mirror in the elevator vestibule. His hair was on straight, his tie was tight, and his jacket was admirably cut. Too bad he felt he was about to be cut as well.

  The walnut doo
rs of the elevator drew back, and William, eyes downcast and white-gloved as always, greeted him. “Hello, Mr. Gerald,” he said. One of the smaller riddles of Gerald’s life was how William identified everyone by their feet. Gerald stepped into the elevator and looked down at the gleaming parquet floor and the tiny upholstered divan across the back wall. In all the years he had lived in the building—as a boy, as an adolescent, and on all his visits as an adult—he had never seen anyone sitting on that seat. William, wordless, carried him up to the penultimate floor of the building and rolled back the door.

  Senior’s apartment was the only one on the floor. Gerald stepped out of the elevator directly into the gallery, a thirty-foot-long space hung with a few old portraits and carpeted with an ancient and somewhat tatty Kirman rug. There were five imposing doors off the gallery—one huge one to the salon, another, its twin, opposite the dining room, and three smaller ones that led to the library, his father’s study, and the bedroom wing. Gerald shot his cuffs and then, annoyed with himself, promised that he would not allow himself that habitual tic until he was safely out on the avenue again. He looked around for Matilda, the housekeeper, but it was Senior himself who appeared, standing in the doorway to the library. Trouble. Gerald nodded and walked across the long and empty space to where his father stood.

  Formal as ever, Senior held out his arm, his elbow bent at a ninety-degree angle, and gave Gerald two quick handshakes. There were no hugs or even eighties air kisses in the Davis family As always, Senior was immaculately groomed, his full head of white hair brushed back, his cheeks clean-shaved and pink, his mustache perfectly trimmed. He was attired in what Gerald thought of as his retirement afternoon uniform: gray flannels, a white Brooks Brothers shirt, and a cashmere cardigan the watery blue color of his eyes. His only acknowledgment of age and infirmity were the soft black kid slippers he wore instead of his usual lace-up shoes.