“It hasn’t come,” said the man behind the desk. “It never comes until five. Why don’t you go to your room until then?”
“One of you sonsabitches stole my Meals-on-Wheels. I’m stayin’ right here. I’m gonna watch you to see if you eat it. I’m gonna watch you.”
To Camilla’s left was a sofa that looked like nothing so much as a backseat from a 1940s DeSoto. Perhaps it was. On it, a cadaverous young man lay sleeping, his legs stretched across the floor, his head hanging at an ominous angle. Camilla tried to ignore them all and simply announced her name. After some brief paperwork, she was awarded a key for her courage and directed to a room on the third floor. She asked if there was nothing available higher in the building, and the toupeed clerk didn’t even bother to look up. “Forget about it,” he said. She was too addled to ask about a view.
They waited a long time for the lift, and when it arrived, a demented-looking old man, his greasy, shoulder-length hair plastered to his head, stepped out. He was shirtless and wore stained electric blue trousers. He was already talking at the top of his lungs, though the lift was empty. He continued talking as he walked by them. Camilla took Frederick’s arm, and with Bobby behind them, they got into the elevator. Bobby pressed 3.
The third floor was incredibly dim. Frederick’s hand tightened against her arm. She was sure he could see nothing at all—she barely could—and for that she was grateful. The hall was incredibly narrow and meandered in a strange way, with random room numbers and cul-de-sacs. There were holes in the middle of the tatty carpet. The three of them negotiated the best they could. But the strangest thing was that the rooms, many of them, were locked only with padlocks, as if people had been thrown into them for storage and then locked up. Or locked out, Camilla supposed. They found her room, 334, and the moment she fit the key in the lock and pulled open the door, her modest fantasy of the table by the window, the new manuscript, and the view of the river was shattered.
The room was perhaps five feet by nine feet, with a bed pressed against one wall, a broken bentwood chair, and an overhead light. There was no night table, much less a desk, and the window was partially paned with painted plywood, the rest of the window so filthy and facing such a dark airshaft that no light came in at all.
The three of them couldn’t fit in the room. Bobby, in the doorway, was the first to break the silence: “Oh, man.”
“Camilla, you can’t stay here,” Frederick told her. “You really can’t.”
“He’s right,” Bobby agreed. “Forget about it.”
“But I have to,” Camilla said, though her voice was very small. The whimpering from down the hall was really the worst of it. Was it an animal or a person in pain? Camilla had converted all of her money into dollars, but despite the good exchange rate, she had less than a thousand of them. She didn’t know how long it would take to get her book money, but she knew she wouldn’t find a place less costly than this one. “I have to stay here,” she said, “I can’t afford—”
“She’s on drugs,” Frederick explained to Bobby. “Pay no attention to her. Use force if necessary.” He turned to Camilla. “Come on, let’s go.”
For a moment Camilla thought they meant they were leaving her, just like that. Panic set in. But then she felt Frederick’s hand propelling her from behind. He pushed her as far as the lift, though she began protesting mildly. But when the door opened and she saw another guest, this one worse than the first two, she closed her lips and stepped into the car with relief.
They were out on the street and into the limo in minutes. Frederick gave Bobby an East Eighty-sixth Street address.
“You can stay at my apartment,” Frederick said. “Don’t worry. It’s empty. I’ve been staying with my mother. This will just be temporary, until you figure out what you’re doing.”
And since she didn’t have a better choice, Camilla merely nodded in mute gratitude, not remembering that Frederick couldn’t see her.
47
It’s not the most intellectual job in the world, but I do have to know the letters.
—Vanna White
It was done at last! And not just done, but done pretty well. Susann handed the last edited page of her book to Edith and stood up. Oh, Lord, she was stiff! The small of her back still ached, despite the pillow that Edith had stuffed against the chair back. Susann had been sitting at that desk for days. But Edith, bless her heart, had kept her going with dozens of cucumber sandwiches and endless cups of black coffee. That and bouillon were all Susann could keep down: Her anxiety had kept her queasy throughout the whole editing process. It had been torture, but now it was over.
There were only three good things about the experience, Susann reflected, other than the fact the book was done. One was that her hands, for some mysterious reason, had stopped aching. The second was that she had probably lost weight from the anxiety and all the caffeine. Last but most important was that through every minute Edith had been so supportive, so nurturing and enthusiastic that Susann found herself not just grateful but actually loving. Susann looked over at her, still bent over the word processor, and felt such a rush of feeling for her old friend that when Edith turned around, Susann had to blink to see her clearly.
“Oh. This is good. This is really good,” said Edith, looking at the last page. And Edith wasn’t one to throw praise around loosely.
“Do you really think so?” Susann asked anyway.
“Oh, yeah. This is wonderful. This is vintage Susann Baker Edmonds. I mean, it’s like your old books. Ruby is a great character. She’s not so perfect; she’s more real. And then this ending…” Edith looked back down at the page. “It’s really good,” she repeated, and sighed gustily.
“How would you grade it?” Susann asked, then held her breath.
Edith turned to look at her, her pudgy, aging face taking on that serious expression it always did when considering the Edmonds oeuvre. Susann knew that Edith took their work very seriously, and that she respected it, admired it, a lot more than Susann did herself. A long time ago Susann had run out of inspiration and operated simply on discipline and craft. But Edith expected—and sometimes saw—art. Usually Edith’s naive attitude irritated Susann, but during this editing trial-by-fire she found it surprisingly comforting and endearing.
“So?” she prompted. “What do you say?”
Edith looked back at the manuscript as if she would find the answer written there, but Susann restrained her irritation. Edith was slow, meticulous, sincere, and loyal. Susann would do well, she told herself, to remember that all the time. While Alf had been busy traveling, negotiating, and being generally consumed with his new Boy Wonder, Edith had been here, working out each sentence, patiently listening as Susann unknotted the plot and tightened the characters. Amazing, Susann reflected, that for all this Edith received only fifty thousand dollars and a tiny room in the attic, while Alf would get two and a half million, his 10 percent of her newest contract.
Edith now looked at Susann. She pursed her lips, which deepened all those lines that radiated from her mouth. Edith really should have dermabrasion, Susann thought, then chided herself. She was shallow. Here, when everyone else had abandoned her—her editor, her agent and lover, her daughter—Edith had not just done her job but had comforted and encouraged Susann. And Susann was petty enough to be turned off by the poor woman’s lip wrinkles.
The lips opened, and “A minus” came out. She paused and considered for another minute. “It would have been an A, but the coincidence of the miscarriage was always a little hard for me to believe. You know, it was so convenient.”
Susann’s eyes opened wide. She hadn’t received an A from Edith since A Woman and a Lady. Susann distinctly remembered that Edith had given The Lady of the House a B minus, and Susann had been deeply offended (though she had secretly agreed, or thought even less of it). When it hit number one, Susann had been particularly pleased to point it out to Edith, and gave her a bonus to rub it in.
Now the hairs on Susann’s arm
s rose as she went goosefleshed. Edith, her personal weather vane, felt that this one was that good. Perhaps all the work had been worth it. Susann put her hands on her lower back and arched it against the pain. She’d take a long hot bath and call her masseuse. But first Susann and Edith would drink a bottle of champagne to celebrate. Because Susann suddenly felt that Edith was right: This book would fly up the list. She wouldn’t have to settle for, be humiliated by, two weeks at number twelve. She’d regain her glory and see this one at the very top, kicking the hell out of Waller and Grisham and that dog Crichton. With this one she’d do something not just for herself but for women, and then she’d be up there again with reigning queens Danielle Steel and Barbara Taylor Bradford. Everyone at Davis & Dash would treat her with respect. She’d insist that she get a new editor and that they fire that annoying girl. Then she’d have a long, stern talk with Alf about his role. Perhaps it was time to renegotiate his percentage. Or even to drop hints about a new agent! Yes, that might get Alf’s attention.
“Edith, break out the Moët. Then I’m taking you out for the best dinner in the city. To hell with cholesterol. We’re going French. We deserve it.”
“You deserve it,” Edith said fervently. “Though that editor’s comments were really helpful.”
Susann watched Edith as she rose from the word processor and went to fetch the champagne. Well, Susann decided, she wouldn’t insist on the firing of Emma Ashton, then. But once she had her power back, Susann thought, she would do the rest.
The phone rang. Great! Maybe it was Alf and she could coolly share her good news with him. It wasn’t too soon to begin to get the upper hand again. Perhaps she’d invite him over to share the champagne. Or out to dinner. She’d have to cancel dinner with Edith, who’d be disappointed. Still, she could always reschedule that. It wasn’t as if Edith’s dance card was filled.
But it wasn’t Alf. “Call off your dogs.” It was Kim’s voice, and she didn’t sound clean or sober. Susann hadn’t spoken to her daughter since Kim had revealed her publishing plans over tea. God knows what Alf had instigated since then with the help of Davis & Dash. Susann’s stomach fluttered, and at the same time a pain in her right hand stabbed viciously. Oh God, the arthritis was back!
“Kim, where are you?”
“Why the fuck should you care? Want to send a subpoena?” Then the bitterness in her voice seemed to seep away, leaving only despair. “Listen, when Craig Stevens, my publisher, got those letters, he caved. He can’t afford any legal battles right now. He won’t do the book if you threaten.”
Susann sighed in relief, but she was careful not to let Kim hear it. Ah, she must be so disappointed! Though Susann had never connected with Kim’s hunger for drugs and booze, she could identify with the hunger to be published. And she could always deal with Kim when she was depressed—it was her daughter’s anger that frightened Susann. “Listen, he can do the book, Kim. Just not with my name.”
“Oh, come off it,” Kim snapped. “It’s my foot in the door. Citron is a new small house. What the fuck is going to sell my book except the name? What sells yours now, for God sake? The deathless prose? The originality?”
“All that we were asking—”
“I want to do this,” Kim interrupted urgently. “The book might not be much, but it’s mine, and no worse than a lot of others. If the name is the only wedge I’ve got, then let me use it. It beats working as a waitress, or that probation job in the auto-supply store.” She paused, but not before Susann thought she heard her daughter sob. “Stop this blackmail. I’m asking you to call off all of those fuckers, to send Citron Press a letter granting permission, and to let me be.”
“Kim, I have a lot riding on my new book, and I just don’t want your release to muddy the—”
“Fuck you, you selfish old bitch! It’s always you.” Kim’s voice deepened into the voice that terrified Susann with its rage. Susann clutched the phone, though her knuckles ached. Then Kim’s voice continued, but the anger was gone: Her voice was slower, more powerful somehow, and infinitely sadder. “Can’t you see you had your turn? You made your choices. You went as far as you could. Isn’t three husbands, ten bestsellers, and a lot of money enough? It’s ending now for you. Now the ride is ending. But please, please give me a shot at a turn.”
Susann put down her champagne flute. How dare Kim do this? Ruin everything, make her feel old and wasted and finished! Kim had always been jealous, dangerously jealous.
“Kim, you’re being unfair. Unfair and—”
“Oh, don’t bother,” Kim snapped. “You’re so very fair yourself, right? Listen: I’m making a simple deal with you. You understand deals. You try blackmail, I try blackmail. Drop the legal thing. Let me alone, and I’ll let you alone.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll kill myself. I’ll do it publicly, off a very high roof, and I’ll leave a note. I’ll sign your last name to it. And that, I guarantee, will get published, Mother.”
Then the phone clicked.
48
The cat does not negotiate with the mouse.
—Robert K. Massie, The Artistic Cat
Emma turned over the last page of the new Peet Trawley manuscript. If the Trawley books had been bad before, they certainly weren’t going to be improved by being written by Pam Mantiss. In fact, Emma was shocked at just how bad, how bankrupt, this one was.
Of course, that didn’t mean it wouldn’t climb to the top of the list, as his books always did. There was a certain golden circle of authors who had previous sales and positioning so high that a new book of theirs automatically generated enough advance orders to guarantee bestseller status, even before the book was written. They were the “brand name” writers, and in America brand names sold. There was a whole new breed of readers, readers created by the superstores, who actually only read a single brand name: “I’ll have the new Steel,” or “I want another Clancy,” they’d say. Since they’d never read novels before, Emma had thought it was a good development—at least new readers were being created. But when the brand names started pushing dozens of other authors off the shelves, Emma began to worry. Peet was Davis & Dash’s brand name, along with Susann Baker Edmonds, but after reading Peet’s manuscript, Emma couldn’t help but wonder if, dead or alive, his luck would continue.
Emma was about to lift the phone to call Lucille Bing, who managed production and copyediting, but the instrument of torture beat her to it and rang first. For a moment her heart thumped. She was hoping to hear from Alex. Instead she lifted it up and heard Pam, already uttering a stream of profanity before Emma had even gotten the phone up to her ear. “Have you seen the fucking cover art for Gerald’s goddamned reader’s copies?” Pam was asking.
“No,” Emma admitted.
“Well, it sucks. He fucking hates it. You know how anal he is about covers, and he really hates this one. When are the cocksucking reader’s copies scheduled to go out?”
Emma didn’t know why she felt guilty: Thank God, art was one thing she wasn’t responsible for. She also didn’t know why Pam had to call her to tell her this, or to ask her about the production schedule—Pam had her own copy of it but was apparently not comfortable lifting it off her windowsill. Easier to call me, I guess, Emma thought as she pulled the printout toward her and reviewed the timetable. “We have two weeks,” she said.
“Oh, shit. He’s in the Hamptons till Thursday. He’ll just have to see what that prick Jack pulls together then. I swear to God, Jack is shitting bricks over this.”
Emma was sure, without the overly scatological description, that art director Jack Weinstock was indeed uncomfortable. He was a sensitive man, and though he had managed to survive for years through the frequent personnel urges and purges that GOD provoked, he seemed to live each day in fear that his head was on the block.
“Listen, I have an important meeting,” Pam snapped. “But while I’m gone come up with a plan for controlling the distribution of those motherfucking reader’s copies. “You
remember what happened with the reviewers last time? Gerald doesn’t need any third-rate stringer for some pathetic, bullshit book section in Albuquerque taking potshots at him. No review copies to critics.”
Emma didn’t bother to repress her smile. Paperbound preprints of all major books were manufactured and distributed specifically so critics could see them early. In fact, they used to be called “review copies.” But times had changed, and some publishers felt more comfortable quoting friendly celebrities rather than hostile critics on the back of book jackets. The two appeared to carry equal weight with book buyers, and the former were much easier to control. Since Gerald knew everyone, he would manage to get celebrities or authors who owed him a favor to say something about Twice in the Papers. Emma was always amazed to see legitimate writers—or prominent people with taste—stoop to recommending a patently bad book, but it was done all the time. “A landmark.” “Delicious.” “A spellbinder.” The public didn’t seem to get it, and if the blurb was later paid back with a blurb for their book, a new contract, or even just a slightly larger advance, no readers were the wiser.
“Listen, I’ve got to go. I have to convince a first author that he’s got some revisions to do. It’ll take hours,” Pam moaned. “By the way, have you heard about the nominations yet?”
Emma rolled her eyes. Pam was absolutely obsessed—well, Pam was obsessed with everything—but her latest obsession was this year’s Editor of the Year Award. “I don’t think the nominations are announced until the end of the month,” Emma told her, as if Pam wasn’t completely aware of that fact.
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