The Bestseller

by Olivia Goldsmith

  “He can schmooze,” Pam guaranteed. “How about fifteen cities?”

  “He’ll be dragging his ass by the time that’s over,” Wendy said. “You ought to know how hard it is to get much interest in a first novelist.”

  Pam shook her head, exasperated. “Forget about that. This isn’t about a first novelist. It’s the nonfiction angle. Women who kill their own children. C’mon, use your head: He’s a college professor. He can be positioned as an expert.”

  Dickie nodded. For once he and Pam were in agreement.

  “Okay,” Gerald said, “I want to see a really great marketing plan and a terrific publicity package. I think we’re in good shape on this one. Let’s plan a tentative print run of a hundred and fifty thousand copies, and if orders look strong, let’s kick it up to two hundred.”

  Chuck Rector rolled his eyes and mumbled something about remainders. Gerald would have liked to slap him down, but with the memory of handling his own remainders so fresh, he abstained. Well, the meeting was at the highest point it would reach. He’d best get on to his new manuscript. “Now, about my oeuvre,” he said. There was silence. “I know I can say we were all disappointed by the performance of Lila. But I don’t have competition from Laura Richie on this new one. I have the inside story, and I know I can deliver.”

  Gerald looked around the table. No one but Wendy was meeting his eyes. “I’ve rewritten the opening. It’s much stronger now.” He kept his voice low; he refused to feel embarrassed. He couldn’t prevent himself from tugging at his cuffs, though. “Listen: I’m going to send the preprints out to all my old friends. Liz Smith will write something positive. So will Helen Gurley Brown, if she’s not out of there. But I don’t want the book circulated too widely. Blurbs are better anyway.”

  He couldn’t admit that he was afraid of negative reviews, but they knew—all but Wendy—that that’s what he was saying. “There are a lot of people close to me who owe me one. We won’t have trouble getting quotes.” Certainly not, Gerald thought, since every author he published would be obligated to say something nice about the book. That is, if they wanted another contract. He cleared his throat. “Dickie, I need you to sell three hundred thousand copies.”

  Dickie pushed back his chair, partially rose, then fell back. “Gerald, please…you have to listen to reason on this. The bookstores know exactly how many copies of Lila were shipped. And how few sold. Everything is computerized. They know their returns. You can’t expect—”

  “You can’t expect me to listen to this,” Gerald said coldly. “I’ll be at the sales meeting. I’ll present this book. And I’m going to ask for a personal commitment from each of our sales reps, promising to place their quotas. Anyone who can’t make that promise can rep someplace else. Have I made myself perfectly clear?” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “We aren’t talking about options here, Dickie.” Gerald turned his cold eyes on Wendy. “See what you can come up with as a publicity plan. But no tours. Let’s just talk to a few of my journalist friends. I think we might be able to get a New York magazine story, or maybe something in the magazine section of the Times. We’ll certainly get coverage in the Observer—maybe an interview. There’s this whole New York socialite/crime-story angle. Dominick Dunne has done so well with it. I want to see that kind of coverage. Go to Vanity Fair and The New Yorker. They’re into recycling old scandal. Wendy, you’re in with the Condé Nast people. With all that, a big advertising budget along with the quota, we ought to do it.” Case closed. It was, after all, his company. He paused. “Now, on to Madame Edmonds?”

  Shell-shocked, the staff turned to Pam. “What about that prima donna?” Dickie asked. Gerald knew they were all afraid to say what they were thinking: that he’d bought a dated novelist at an inflated price as she began her decline.

  “I like it,” said Wendy. “It’s better than Jackie Collins.

  “Hardly a recommendation,” Gerald said.

  Dickie spoke up. “I think her problem was that she’d lost touch with her typical readers. And the average age of her core audience is “deceased.” This book is more realistic. It deals with today’s women’s problems and yet fulfills more wishes than her last one.”

  Gerald smiled grimly. “She will,” he said. “So what can we do to turn her around and get her back on the very top of the bestseller list?”

  “Well,” Pam suggested, “there’s already a lot that we’re contractually obligated to do: Alf Byron has us tied up. We have to do the national advertising—”

  “Shit, that doesn’t sell anything,” Dickie said. “She just wants to see her airbrushed picture in the papers.” He shook his head. “We’ve committed a quarter of a million dollars to the campaign.”

  Chuck whistled and smacked his head with his hands. “Good money after bad,” he muttered. Gerald ignored him.

  “Look,” Lou said, “I’m not on the sales end, and I don’t pretend to be an expert there. But it seems to me the only way to get this writer back on the rails is to get her back on the rails. Know what I mean?” Everyone stared at him. No one did know. Sometimes Lou made no sense at all. But this, as it happened, was not one of those times. “Maybe they didn’t buy her last book, but they all know her name,” Lou said. “She’s still a celebrity. She’s got some glamour. Not in New York or L.A. or even Chicago, but she does in the whistlestops. Get her out there to every little bookstore. Spend the money on that. People won’t show up for a Jude Daniel. Who the hell ever heard of him? But for twenty years Susann Baker Edmonds has been a name on every bookrack in every airport and every drugstore and every supermarket in the country. And am I the only one who’s noticed that she’s used the same photograph for twenty years? Anyway, she’s an institution. Put the broad on a forty-city tour. She’ll get coverage in every small newspaper in the country.”

  “It’s a great idea,” Dickie said. “My reps will love it. We have her visit the Heartland. No Dallas-Fort Worth bullshit. Let’s see her in Cincinnati and Rutland, Missoula and Sacramento. Omaha. Kansas City. Definitely Kansas City. Ken Collins can sell the hell out of her in Kansas City. None of the garden spots.”

  “She’s gonna love this,” Pam intoned, then couldn’t stop a wicked giggle. Even Gerald grinned. Oh, it was evil. He imagined Susann and Alf stuffed on a four-seater commuter plane over the Puget Sound. For the millions they’d paid her, Susann Baker Edmonds would take their marching orders. She’d weep and wail, but she’d do it. And he’d bet that people in the boonies would come out and buy.

  “Will that consume the whole budget?” Chuck asked. “We’re contractually obligated to spend it all.” He stopped to calculate. “Between the tour, the advertising, some posters for the bookstores, and the usual promotional stuff, what else is there?”

  “How about bumper stickers?” Wendy asked.

  “Yeah. ‘Honk if you remember Susann Baker Edmonds,’” Dickie said, and they all laughed.

  Gerald grimaced at a vision: Susann Baker Edmonds as the Anna Morrison of the future. Christ, he hoped he was wrong. “All right, we’re in agreement that we have to bring Susann back to the top and we have the means and money to do it. Let’s move on.” Everyone grumbled in low tones, as if they had just been punished by their school principal. “Now, the last beauty on the agenda is this untitled bit by one Camilla Clapfish.”

  Since his visit to Senior, he’d read the manuscript and agreed with Senior’s view. “We haven’t quite acquired it yet, but I like it, Pam, despite Emma’s pass.” Pam smiled at Gerald. “It will cost us a nickel, and it might go places.” Frankly, he was surprised that Emma Ashton, who had seemed so savvy about his own book and the O’Neal, didn’t see the possibilities. Well, maybe she wasn’t as bright as he’d thought. “Anyway, the angles for it are the fact that its author is a Brit and she writes charmingly. You know what Priestley said: “An Englishman is never so happy as when he’s explaining an American.”

  “It sucks,” said Dickie. Gerald ignored him.

  “What the hell are we going
to call it?” Pam asked. “Does she have an idea?”

  “How about Florence in Florence?” Wendy offered. “Isn’t one of the main characters Mrs. Florence Mallabar?”

  “Oh, come on” Pam groaned. “How about Boring?” Dickie asked.

  That remark made Gerald think of the Charles Willeford book with the best title in the world: New Hope for the Dead. But he didn’t want to encourage Dickie. “Let’s get serious,” he said. “Pam, have you got a contract with her?”

  “No problem. She’s coming in next week to sign.”

  “So? A title?” Gerald asked the group.

  “How about A Week in Florence,” Wendy suggested. “Undertones of A Year in Provence, but shorter.”

  “It should only sell like Peter Mayle,” Dickie said.

  “Let’s say A Week in Firenze,” Gerald suggested. “It adds that little something, the spice of the foreign.” He nodded. “I really like this little book. It seems to me it’s really got something. I don’t think we should expect much of it, but we throw it in as a long shot. Let’s use the word charm a lot in the marketing copy.”

  “So, what do we give it in support?” Amy asked. “Advertising? A poster? A book tour?”

  “You’ve got to be joking,” Pam said. “This one makes it on its own or not at all. Maybe those characters up at Misty Valley Books will give her a reading in their ‘New Voices for a New Year’ program. We’re not investing enough for it to matter either way. We’ll just throw it out there and hope it gets some good reviews.”

  “But without any publicity or advertising the chances of a first novel going anywhere are just about zero,” Wendy protested. Pam looked at her as if she were a fool.

  “Ain’t life a bitch?” Pam asked.

  PART THREE

  In Chains

  Publishing is no longer simply a matter of picking worthy manuscripts and putting them on offer. It is now as important to market books properly, to work with the bookstore chains to get terms, co-op advertising, and the like. The difficulty is that the publishers who can market are most often not the publishers with worthy lists.

  Gerald Ochs Davis, Sr.

  Fifty Years in Publishing

  46

  The Author lacking superb sage advice Is grist for editorial malice; Or onward, where the rude Publisher’s haste Drives the Author to new heights of angst.

  —Paul Mahon

  Camilla had forgotten how deeply nasty American immigration was, involving standing on long, crowded queues after hours of sitting in a cramped, crowded plane. She got through it as painlessly as possible, but she’d had quite enough of people in close quarters, thank you, by the time she got to the rude bureaucrat who wanted to know the purpose of her visit and to see her return ticket, which she didn’t have. “I’m here from Italy for business, and I’ll be getting a ticket to London after the business is completed,” she said coolly, though she had no idea if that was true.

  “And what kind of business are you in?” the immigration officer asked.

  Only then, with a certain amount of pride, did she hand over the Davis & Dash letter. “I’m here to talk to my publisher,” she said, and the sentence rolled off her tongue delightfully. My publisher. She had a publisher.

  A tiny voice inside her, like a flick of cold flame, said, “Not yet, you don’t.” The letter was not a contract after all. But she shook off the negative thought.

  If the clerk didn’t seem impressed with the letter, at least he let her pass. Next she battled a gaggle of Italians to get to the Alitalia carousel, where she picked up her bags. Exhausted, she got through customs in only a moment and moved, out past the stanchions that blocked luggage carts, into the chaotic milling crowd of Kennedy Airport’s international-arrivals terminal. She knew there was a coach to Manhattan, and she would have to find the place to purchase tickets. But there, before her, in very large black letters on a cardboard sign, was her name: CLAPFISH, it said, unmistakably. She walked over to the man who was holding the sign. He was dressed in a black suit and white shirt. She was almost afraid to address him—after all, this was New York—but her name was unusual enough for this to be more than coincidence. “Who are you looking for?” she asked, playing it cagey.

  “Camilla Clapfish. That you? We’re here to pick ya up. Mr. Ashton is in the car waiting.”

  The man picked up her two bags and, without another word, began shouldering his way through the crowd. Was it some sort of luggage-stealing dodge? Camilla didn’t know what to do, so she simply followed. Frederick hadn’t said that he was picking her up, but it was very kind of him—if a little bit stifling. They had agreed to stay friends. Frederick had begged her to forgive him and to promise to forget that their one night together had ever happened. She had agreed, but she broke the promise often. She dreamed about his hands on her, his mouth over her own. Still, she would never let that show. Never. So, why had he come to the airport for her?

  Camilla followed the driver’s broad back as he pushed his way out to the electric exit doors. But she didn’t expect the sleek black limo that awaited her outside. The driver opened a back door and held it for her while she hesitated. Camilla had never been in a limo. For a moment—only a moment—she wondered again if it might not be dangerous—a white-slaver plot or something—but she figured she really wasn’t worth much on that market, if there was one. She did peep inside, though. Frederick was sitting there in the dimness. Was his smile nervous? It was hard to tell.

  “You made it,” he said and reached out for her hand. He missed and grabbed her at the elbow, but she made up for it by leaning forward and timidly pecking him on the cheek.

  “Well, this is an elegant surprise,” she said. “Do you always travel by limo?” She meant it as a joke, but she really didn’t know the answer: After all, there was so very little she actually did know about him.

  “Oh, yes,” he said matter-of-factly. “We keep a fleet.” Then he laughed, and she knew he was joking. “This is one of the strange and few bargains in New York,” Frederick explained as the driver got in front and smoothly moved them out into the mayhem of airport traffic. “It costs almost as much to take a dirty cab out and back to the airport as to hire a limo. I figured the splurge was worth it.”

  “It’s certainly nice to arrive as an aristocrat. I just hope I don’t pique their expectations at the Lesley.” From another tour guide Camilla had found out about a very modestly priced hotel on Riverside Drive, at the western edge of Manhattan.

  “Well, as Mark Spitz used to say, it’s nice to begin with a splash.”

  “Who’s Mark Spitz?” Camilla asked.

  Frederick shook his head. “My goodness. It’s good I picked you up. You’re not prepared to live in New York without some help. You don’t even know who Mark Spitz is. That alone could affect your success here.” He leaned forward and addressed the driver: “Bobby, tell her who Mark Spitz is.”

  “I know the name. Is he that serial killer they caught out on Long Island? No. No. He was that guy before Greg Louganis.”

  Frederick rolled his eyes and shook his head. “The dumbing of America.” He raised his voice. “An Olympic swimmer. Won six gold medals. How soon we forget.” He turned to her. “So, Camilla, what are your plans?”

  “Well, I’ve written to Alex Simmons for an appointment. Then I thought I might start to look for a flat.” She paused, waiting to tell him the best news. “And I’m already on the third chapter of my new book.” She was quite chuffed about it, actually.

  “Wonderful! It sounds like you’ll be busy.” Frederick turned to look out the tinted window, though Camilla doubted he could see anything. “I’ve decided to register for some classes myself.”

  “Are you going back to university, Frederick?” What would he study instead of architecture?

  Frederick barked a laugh. “Not exactly. Lighthouse for the Blind offers a program in Braille for the NSI: the newly sight-impaired. I’ve decided to take it. I just wonder if I’ll still move my lips when I r
ead, or only my fingers.” He turned back to her. “Mother has invited you for dinner in Larchmont tomorrow,” he said. “I don’t know if you have other plans, but I designed the place and I’d like you to see it, though I can’t speak for the meal itself.”

  “Oh, I’d love to,” Camilla said. “It’s very kind of her. Did she really want to go to all that trouble?”

  Frederick shrugged. “It was her choice. Dinner for you or a beating from me with a tire iron. I think she showed good judgment.”

  Camilla laughed, then wondered just how much of that was true, and whether Mrs. Ashton would be happy to never set eyes on her again. But Camilla decided not to inquire too deeply.

  They crossed over the Triborough Bridge, and Camilla remembered to look to her left to watch the amazing Manhattan skyline come into view. The afternoon was hazy, but despite that the thrilling agglomerate looked as magical as ever. She turned to Frederick and felt a pang for him as he stared blankly ahead. But she reined in her pity: They were not to have a relationship based on that.

  As they crossed Manhattan, Camilla had become more and more excited to recognize personal landmarks, but she tried not to be too effusive. After all, Frederick was oblivious. It was still hard for her to realize that she had returned to this city—the one that had defeated her—as a success, as a novelist about to be published.

  It was only at the Hotel Lesley that reality began to set in.

  The building was nicely situated on an Upper West Side street at the corner of Riverside Drive. It was what was inside the building that got frightening. First, there was the smell. As Bobby carried the bags and held the door, Camilla and Frederick navigated the three steps up to the lobby and were hit with a scent that seemed a combination of unclean clothes and something nastier. Ammonia? Urine? Frederick actually wrinkled his long nose. Before them was a torn linoleum floor and a battered counter, behind which the palest man Camilla had ever seen, wearing the most obvious black toupee, stood listening to the complaints of an old woman. She was supported by a walker and dressed half in nightclothes and half in combat wear. “It should have come already,” she whined. “Didn’t it come? Or did one of you sonsabitches steal it?”