The Bestseller

by Olivia Goldsmith

  “This is only eleven. You got another one in mind?” Carl asked. Gerald thought of his father and his prediction about “the little Italian novel.” “We could add the Clapfish book to the list,” Gerald said. “No one will notice if some of her sales disappear.”

  57

  Editors seek out the first novels with the seductiveness of Don Juans; the pleasure of discovery is one of the obvious reasons.

  —William Targ

  Camilla showed up at the Chelsea address of Alex Simmons fifteen minutes early, bringing a copy of her manuscript and the precious letter from Davis & Dash along with her. It wasn’t as if she thought that Alex Simmons might doubt her word—she knew Alex had been put in the picture by Emma Ashton, but carrying the little portfolio made her feel more secure, more like a real writer, whatever that was. And after the meeting with Mr. Byron, Camilla needed all the support she could muster.

  Alex Simmons’s office was not what she expected, nor was the neighborhood. Chelsea, nothing like London’s Chelsea, was a collection of residential brownstone streets mixed with wide commercial avenues. It was on Manhattan’s West Side, just above Greenwich Village. Several of the streets she’d walked from the tube stop had been very attractive, but this one looked a bit down-at-the-heel, and the several steps she had to negotiate to descend to the ground level at Ms. Simmons’s address were cracked, while the foyer was littered and bare of plants or ornamentation. In London there would be a neat garden, or at least box hedge and a few evergreens. In Italy there would be a profusion of flowers to dispel the prison-yard atmosphere. The windows were also barred, not to mention dusty. Camilla shrugged. Although she had expected something more upmarket, or even more uptown, she was still grateful for this woman’s interest.

  That she would be one of Ms. Simmons’s first clients would bring certain advantages, Camilla thought, but that must be weighed against the disadvantage that Alex Simmons surely was not yet a well-established agent: hardly an Andrew Wylie, whom tabloids in London had labeled “The Jackal” for the killer deal he made for Martin Amis.

  Well, I suppose I’m not in the killer-deal category, nor will I ever be, Camilla thought. She would never own a Canaletto, drive a Roller, or even own her own flat. It was enough that she was here, in New York, with a book about to be published and at least two agents apparently eager to represent her. Camilla smiled and buzzed the intercom.

  The office was a single room that held file cabinets along one wall, a colorful framed Jasper Johns framed over a desk, and a small sitting area. It wasn’t much, but it was orderly, and the woman who turned to greet her was tall, well groomed, and very well dressed. Could she be the P.A.? Camilla wondered. As usual she felt awkward and shy with any new person, and this woman made her feel a bit dowdy in her plain skirt and sweater. But no. It was surely Alex Simmons herself. This was a start-up—she didn’t seem to have a secretary.

  “You must be Camilla,” the tall woman said and extended her arm. Her handshake was very firm, and she kept hold of Camilla’s own hand a bit longer than Camilla thought was quite necessary. But Americans were like that. “Come sit down.” There was a small loveseat, a low table in front of it, and a straight-backed chair. Camilla took the chair, though she wasn’t sure she was expected to. Still, she was so eager for this meeting that her physical comfort hardly mattered.

  “I loved your book,” Ms. Simmons said. “But somehow I expected you would be older.”

  “I expected you would be, too.” Camilla smiled. Ms. Simmons laughed.

  “I would say that we are both protégés, but neither of us is that young. Still, pretty accomplished for a first novel.” Alex Simmons paused. “It is your first novel?” she asked. Camilla nodded. “You haven’t published under any other name? Or published in London?” Camilla shook her head. Why was the woman looking at her so intently? Alex smiled. “Well, jolly well done, then, as you might say.”

  “I doubt I’d say anything like that,” Camilla told her coolly. Somehow this meeting wasn’t going quite as she expected it to. They weren’t clicking. In fact, she wasn’t sure she liked this woman at all. Was it something about agents? Why the suspicion? Was it complimentary, indicating that Camilla’s work seemed very professional, or was it denigrating, because she was under suspicion? “Do you doubt my word? Or my ability?” Camilla asked her.

  Ms. Simmons laughed. “Oh, God! Neither one. Just getting things clear. You know, it’s just that there’s always a certain advantage to working with a first novel. Critics are eager to discover a new voice. For some reason they’re just as eager to be disappointed by a second novel.” She shrugged. “Human nature? Envy of their own creation? Who knows? Anyway, I wanted to be sure what I was working with here.”

  Camilla hardly knew what to do. This woman seemed very savvy but also more than a little off-putting. Perhaps it was best to get up and walk out of the office. But where would she go, except back to Mr. Byron, who was unthinkable. If Ms. Simmons felt Camilla’s discomfort, she didn’t show it. Instead, she gave her a sunny smile—all those white American teeth—and said, “I think we really have something here, Camilla. Middle-age romance is in. Just now the market is hot, especially for short books. Readers don’t want the old Michener and Sheldon behemoths.” She lifted a couple of smallish books from the neat stack on her desk. “They want a quick, light read for less than twenty bucks, and they want a little sentiment. They also want to feel smart, if it’s at all possible. Your book will do it all. It has wit, but it also has the sentiment. I think we might get the literary market and the commercial one if we play our cards right.”

  “But I really didn’t see this as a particularly sentimental book,” Camilla protested, surprised. In fact, she was offended. She had tried to imbue her woman characters with dignity, despite their fussy ways and little foibles. And the actual romance was very minor, just a subplot and not the point of the book at all. She looked again at Alex. “Of course, I’d be grateful if it was a commercial success, but do you really think it’s likely?”

  “Not likely, but possible.” Ms. Simmons leaned forward. “I know you’re going to talk to some other agents. Fine. And maybe you’re not sold on me yet. Perhaps you don’t think highly of me. But let me tell you what your agent is supposed to do for you.” She paused. “Your agent is not your editor, nor your business manager, nor your mother. What we should do for you is see your greatest market potential and help you achieve it. We do it by placing you with the right publisher, selling your foreign rights, overseeing your publicity, and positioning you in the publishing world.” Ms. Simmons flashed her another winning smile. “I’m prepared to do all of that. It’s going to take some work. And you won’t have this chance—to be making your debut—ever again. If you miss it, the boat is gone. I’m willing to get on your team. And I think that together we might have quite a potential.”

  Camilla nodded. This woman was not stupid, and at the very least Camilla was getting an education. But she was also getting rather frightened. Was that part of a ploy? Well, she’d question her based on what Alfred Byron had said. Despite her shyness, Camilla asked, “Do you think the characters need to be younger?”

  “Younger? No.”

  “Do you think there should be more sex?”

  “Certainly not! Did Pam Mantiss suggest that?”

  “No. Someone else did.”

  “Well, forget about it. Everyone is a writer manqué.” Alex Simmons stopped smiling then. She looked hard at Camilla. “Let me ask you a question: Have you started another book?”

  Camilla nodded.

  “Great. Then let me ask you another question: How are you going to live while you finish it? Do you have money of your own?”

  “Not really. I thought I’d live on the advance.”

  Ms. Simmons actually snorted. “You do think highly of me,” she laughed. “I know I can do better than the twenty thousand that Davis & Dash offered, but not much. How long can you live on that in New York? And anyway, you’ll only get
half of it. You won’t get the other half until publication, and I wouldn’t expect the book to come out until next spring, at the earliest.” She was talking quickly, turning over papers on her desk. “How in the world are you planning to live for more than a year in New York City on twelve or fifteen thousand dollars, less my fee—which is ten percent—less taxes, which I suggest you pay right up front.”

  “I only get half the money?” Camilla asked, stunned and dismayed. She didn’t know that most crucial fact, and of course she hadn’t thought to inquire of Emma over dinner, or of Mr. Byron. It wasn’t just her shyness. She’d been taught never to talk of money. It was rude, even shocking. Yet one had to, to live. Camilla felt a knot of panic tighten in her chest.

  “You only get half the money,” Ms. Simmons told her, nodding knowingly. “And you’ll have to go through a pretty onerous editing cycle, then probably be involved in some publicity for the book. At least we hope so. Publicity is very important. Meanwhile, you’ll also have to be working on your new manuscript. With all that, do you think you could still have it done in a year?”

  Camilla shrugged. She had never tried to do a book by schedule, and she’d never been through an “onerous editing cycle.”

  “Look, here’s one way we could approach this,” Ms. Simmons said. “I could go to Davis & Dash for a two-book deal. I know that Pam Mantiss will fight like hell against it, because she doesn’t want to buy a pig in a poke and—if she does—she certainly will want to buy it very cheaply. But the advantage of a two-book deal, if I could get it, is it would give you more money up front—maybe thirty thousand dollars.” The knot in Camilla’s chest loosened for a moment. “The disadvantage is that if your first book does well, you’ve sold your second one for peanuts.” Alex Simmons continued. “Of course, you’ll make it up eventually in royalties, but you’ll be waiting two years before you’ll see your first check.”

  “Two years?” Camilla asked. The knot came back. Her voice sounded faint in her own ears. “Why so long?”

  “Publishers do their accounting and issue royalties only twice a year, and then they are always reflecting with the period that ended six months before. Plus, they’ll deduct your advance from the first royalties. That’s why smart agents try to get the biggest advance they can—otherwise the publisher is holding your earned money for over a year. Think of the interest they earn on the float! And Davis & Dash, because they’re so big and they can get away with it, is one of the worst. I hear they’ve just redone their reporting system and now they’re four months behind what they usually are.”

  “What’s the alternative?” Camilla asked, more frightened than before. She’d come to New York with the expectation of a check, a career, and a new way of life. Instead, it seemed, everything had become more costly, the money wasn’t there at all, and she had nothing to fall back on. Oh, she couldn’t bear to go back to waiting tables or those other jobs from her student days!

  “Well, we could try to auction the book. It’s not what’s usually done with a book like this, but all I need for an auction is get two publishers interested. And then get them bidding against each other. Still, I’d have to submit it to a lot of publishers.”

  Camilla paused. “You mean take it back from Emma Ashton?” she asked.

  “Not take it back, exactly. They don’t own it. They’ve got no contract with you.”

  “No, but she was the one who helped me.”

  “Yeah. And I’m trying to help you now. We’re talking business. We try to get a few editors, the more literary types who are looking for the next Amy Tan, and we tell them you’re it. I probably couldn’t get more than fifty thousand for the book, maybe less, but half of that ought to hold you for a while, at least until you get the draft of your next book finished.”

  Camilla sat there stunned. She couldn’t possibly withdraw her book from Davis & Dash. The Ashtons had been kinder to her than her own family. They were the only people she knew in New York. Emma had even been so kind as to send her to Alex Simmons, who in return was suggesting she betray Emma! Camilla shook her head. “I’d prefer to stay with Davis & Dash,” she said coldly.

  The agent shrugged. “Well, they’re a good house. And Pam Mantiss is smart, no doubt about it. Let’s just hope she really likes the book and wants to get behind it. Because what they propose to do to promote it is as important as what they pay for it. But what will you do? Financially, I mean?”

  “I guess I’ll have to get a job,” Camilla said, and the whole bubble that she had built for her future seemed to burst right there in that small dim office. There would be no charming flat, there would be no mornings of contemplation over her tea. There would be no relaxed but agonizingly pleasant choice between this word and that, no long lunches with her editor, afternoons in the library reading room, meetings with other writers.

  Though she hadn’t had it long, the thought of giving up the writing life gave her a physical stabbing pain. She couldn’t bare to. She couldn’t say writing made her happy, but it wasn’t about happiness, in the long view, was it? It certainly didn’t satisfy her—her work wasn’t nearly good enough, would probably never be good enough. But it was the striving, the movement from nothing to something and then on to something better, that mattered. Editing, though onerous, was necessary in writing just as mistakes were necessary in life. It was the hope for perfectibility and the hopelessness of it that kept Camilla at her desk. What in the world was she going to do? What had she been thinking? She’d returned to New York, the toughest city in the world, without a means of earning a decent living. And Camilla simply couldn’t face going back to the dreadful, pinched life of a student again. She felt far too old and tired for it.

  Alex Simmons was looking at her closely. Camilla hoped her agony didn’t show. “It’s imperative you finish your new book within the year. Otherwise you’ll lose momentum. The market forgets quickly nowadays.” The two of them sat there silently for a few moments. “Maybe I could get you a part-time job,” Alex offered. “Something in publishing. It wouldn’t hurt you to get to know a few people. What do you think?”

  “I don’t have a clue,” Camilla told her.

  “Hello, Emma. It’s Camilla Clapfish.”

  “What’s up, Camilla?” Emma asked. She was up to her neck in a dozen things, but she focused on Camilla. She liked the woman.

  “Well, actually, I just thought I’d report in after my meeting with Alex Simmons.”

  Emma felt herself blush at the sound of Alex’s name. Luckily, she was just on the phone. “Oh, great. How did it go?” she managed to ask.

  “A bit of an eye-opener, really. I guess it was a necessary step. There’s so much I don’t know about the business of publishing. It’s all really very complicated, isn’t it? Contracts, advances, foreign rights, commissions.” She paused. “I’m actually rather more confused than I was before,” Camilla admitted.

  Even over the phone Emma could hear her discomfort. She needed new-author pep talk number eleven. “Well, it seems that there are two kinds of authors,” Emma told her. “The ones who really like and understand business. They stay involved with it. But the majority are the ones that don’t. They just let their agents handle it. I imagine you’d be one of the latter type.”

  “Well, actually I’d like to be. And I think Alex Simmons is quite good. At least she seems so. But her advice has really presented me with a problem.”

  “What’s that?” Emma asked brightly.

  “Well, it’s really rather awkward. It seems that she’s recommending that she do something she calls “shop the manuscript around” or even auction it, to get me the greatest advance. Though I admit I need the money, I feel I’m committed to you. What do you think? I won’t go with Alex Simmons, though I think she’s most competent, if you tell me not to. And I certainly won’t withdraw the manuscript without your permission.”

  Emma’s eyes had already opened wide, and her mouth was hanging open as well. Alex had suggested shopping the manuscript around?
To take it away from Davis & Dash? Emma couldn’t believe it. Aside from the trouble it would make for Emma with Pam and Gerald, how could Alex betray her like this? After all, she was the one who sent Camilla to Alex in the first place. What was going on? Surely Camilla had gotten something wrong, but the terms she was using—“shopping around,” “auction”—were agent’s terms. Emma tried to take a deep breath, to not make a judgment, and to be sure not to show her surprise and concern to Camilla. Who had continued talking without realizing Emma’s attention had wandered.

  “The point is,” she was saying, “I feel very grateful to you and Frederick. I know that, as Alex Simmons put it, business is business, but I certainly would prefer to work with you than anyone, and I don’t want to do anything that might be disloyal. What is the protocol? I’m all new at this, you see. So I’m calling you to help me decide what to do.”

  Emma very nearly groaned aloud. This was getting worse and worse. She knew she never should have suggested an agent to Camilla, and now the conflict of interest had deepened in four different directions at once! First, Emma was paid to serve Davis & Dash’s interest, and she took her responsibility seriously. She shouldn’t be looking after Camilla’s interests. But she already felt that Camilla was a friend, new to publishing and New York City, and she ought to be given some good business advice. As if that wasn’t enough, Emma certainly didn’t want to turn Camilla off about Alex and lose a client for Alex, especially since Alex had been so enthusiastic about the book and seemed dedicated to it. Finally, Emma’s feelings kept asking over and over how Alex could possibly betray her in this way. Why would she? What had Camilla quoted? “Business is business.” Was that how Alex felt? Emma sat, miserable and confused.