Camilla must have sensed her discomfort. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be bothering you with this,” she continued. “I know I’m expected to take care of myself, and you’ve been ever so generous already. I do like Alex Simmons. She seems much more on-target than Mr. Byron.”
“Byron?” Emma said and rolled her eyes. Alf Byron, the hyena of agents. “What did you see him for?”
“Pam Mantiss suggested it.”
Of course. One hand washing the other. But Emma was in no position to criticize Pam, since she wasn’t clean on this. Still, Alf Byron. An illiterate so crass that he thought Howards End was a gay novel. “What did Alf Byron say?” she asked.
“That I should rewrite the book and make them college girls on a summer holiday.”
Emma hooted with laughter. “Perfect! Well, why don’t we meet for a drink and talk?”
“I’d be very grateful,” Camilla said, sounding sincere.
“Why don’t I come over tomorrow evening?” Emma proposed, looking at her appointment book. “Shall I just drop by Frederick’s?”
“Oh, could you manage it?” Camilla asked. Her relief was obvious. They agreed on a time, though Emma wasn’t so sure she could manage it. Not without being deeply upset by whatever was going on with Alex.
58
I see my [editorial] role as helping the writer to realize his or her intention. I never want to impose any other goal on the writer, and I never want the book to be mine.
—Faith Sale
Opal sat at Terry’s desk, the enormous pile of galleys on her left. On her right was the tower of Terry’s manuscript, and Opal was attempting, line by line, to compare each and every word to make sure that The Duplicity of Men would be produced exactly the way Terry wrote it. She agonized over every correction. What had Terry meant? Opal pushed her reading glasses up to the top of her head and pinched the part of her nose, just above the bulbous end, where her glasses always left a mark.
She looked out the window at the cleared yard and the beginnings of the garden she had started there. Will the flowers have bloomed and faded and lost their petals before she was done with this job? Opal looked down at the two pages before her. She’d never had any idea before of how much tedious work it took to actually make a book happen, beyond just the writing of it. This was making her hand cramp and bringing on a headache. Of course, most manuscripts were not 1,114 pages long, and most authors were working from their originals, not this blurry, third-generation photocopy of Terry’s manuscript. But surely all authors had to work with typesetters, and though the manuscript may not have been easy to read, Opal was appalled and frightened by the mistakes she had already found. One chapter had the last three pages lopped off, and it had taken Opal almost three hours to find that the missing text had been inserted ninety-one pages later. Characters’ names were misspelled in such original ways that Opal herself got confused. And the spelling in general! The spelling and the punctuation errors were beyond conception: colons interspersed almost anywhere, word breaks hyphenated willy-nilly, a peculiar bracket that did not seem to be part of the English language popped up again and again, while quotes opened but never closed. As for paragraphs! Well, Terry might almost have not bothered with them, since these on the galleys so often bore no relation to her own indents. There were sentences duplicated from the bottom of one page to the top of the next. How, Opal wondered, did authors have the strength to go through galleys again and again, when she herself knew that even a missing italic could have such an impact on the way a sentence read? Opal sighed and promised herself that, despite the tedium, despite the dreadfulness of the work, she would make sure that every page was carefully checked as many times as necessary.
But there was the rub—when, by accident, she had reread a page that she had previously corrected, Opal had found not one but two inconsistencies she had failed to notice. Disgusted, she got up from the desk, walked to the stove, and put some water on for tea. Not that she wanted any, but perhaps the caffeine would freshen her. And maybe the job wouldn’t look so impossible when she returned to it.
As she poured the boiling water into her mug to steep, she made a quick mental calculation. She had been able to do about thirty pages a day during this first week. If she could keep up at that pace, or do a little better—why, it would still take her over a month to get the corrections made! And she didn’t have a month. Emma Ashton had explained that to get on the fall list they had to have the galleys back by the end of next week. Then they would be sent to these same pathetic typesetters and—Emma had explained to Opal’s despair—the process would be gone through again to be sure the corrections had, in fact, been made. Opal figured that the whole thing might take her another three or four months.
That brought up the question of whether or not she was to give up her job in Bloomington, because before then the library would insist they had to know. With a sigh, Opal picked up her tea and went to stand by the window. Though it was already dark in the apartment, sunlight fell on the raised brick bed against the far wall. To her surprise, Opal saw that Aiello was out there, stirring up some of the earth, several plastic bags arranged around him. She rapped on the window with her knuckles.
Aiello heard the noise, turned, and approached her. She pushed open the window so she could talk to him, but he spoke first. “Just thought I’d help you with the weeding,” he said, though it was clear there were no weeds at all. “And I thought I’d put in a few marigolds for you, while I was at it.” That explained the bags, she realized.
“Thank you, Mr. Aiello. That’s very kind, but I don’t care much for marigolds.”
“Everybody likes marigolds,” Aiello told her. “Hey, you plant them now, they’ll bloom all summer.”
“I know,” she said. “They’ll bloom and bloom in orange and yellow. They’ll smell very strong. This garden will have very few flowers, and all of them will be lightly scented and white.”
“Listen,” Aiello told her, “you can’t beat marigolds. You know, they keep away bugs.”
“I did know that,” she told him. “It’s because of that objectionable scent. You see, both the bugs and I don’t care for them, and I told you that I’m only planting white flowers. Sort of a memorial to my daughter, you know.” She was embarrassed to resort to it, but she had to stop him.
“Right.” Aiello nodded, then paused. “I could just put them in along one side,” he offered. “Pity to waste them.”
“No, thank you,” Opal managed to say without snapping. Then, mercifully, she was saved by the bell.
“Who could that be?” Aiello asked, and though it was true she had virtually no visitors, Opal didn’t appreciate the comment.
Of course, it was Roberta. “I left Margaret to close up—most probably a mistake,” Roberta admitted. “But I thought you might come over to my apartment this evening. I miss you at the shop. I want to know how the galleys are coming along. Anyway, I made too much dinner last night for one, and it seemed a pity to waste it today in unappreciated leftovers.”
Opal smiled at her friend’s tact. “I would love to get out of here,” she said. “You couldn’t have come at a better time. Just let me get my sweater.”
Roberta stepped in while Opal went to the closet.
“So what do you think of marigolds?” Aiello asked her from the window. Roberta jumped.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said when she recovered herself.
“He’s helped with the garden,” Opal explained, lifting her eyebrows to express exactly how helpful he was.
“Marigolds,” Aiello repeated. “She should plant them, right?”
“But I thought this was going to be a white garden,” Roberta said. “All white.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Aiello agreed dismissively. “It can all be white, except for the marigolds. What do ya think of them? I mean, in general.”
“As Miss Jean Brodie put it, in regards to chrysanthemums, ‘A very serviceable flower,’” Roberta quoted.
“See!” Aiello told Opal
triumphantly.
“Mr. Aiello, it wasn’t meant as praise,” Opal explained and flung on her sweater. “Now, no marigolds. But thank you for the thought.” She closed the window firmly, and she and Roberta went out to the street.
“I think you’ve made a conquest,” Roberta said. For a moment Opal hadn’t a clue as to what her friend was talking about, and then, with horror, it came to her.
“Oh, you don’t think Aiello could…no! Oh, absolutely not! I’m older than he is, and…and he’s an idiot.”
“A cat may look at a queen,” Roberta said mildly, grinning a rather feline smile. “I stand on my position. He fancies you.”
“Well, I assure you that his love is unrequited—unless, perhaps, he has a hidden proofreading talent. Then I might consider a liaison worthwhile.”
Opal had never been to Roberta’s home. She stepped out of the elevator in the doorman building and was momentarily confused to find herself in a tiny vestibule that seemed to open right into someone’s home. Then she realized that Roberta’s apartment was the only one on the floor, and it was the penthouse. She followed Roberta into the small but very attractive living room. Three walls were covered with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, except for the alcove where the fireplace was located. The fourth wall opened to a terrace. In the dying light Opal couldn’t help but be drawn to the doorway and the view of bedded plants, birch trees, and the sparkling city lights arrayed behind the parapet wall. “Oh, my,” she said. “This is really impressive.” Roberta, already on her way into the kitchen, turned for a moment and smiled.
“Yes, the garden with the city view behind it is fun, isn’t it? I’m lucky. I rented this place right after I opened the store. Back in the days of rent control. Since then it went co-op, but I never bought it. I’ve lived here for twenty-two years, and my rent now is only up to eight hundred and seventy dollars. Other people in the building pay three times that in maintenance alone! It hasn’t made me popular, but I didn’t do it as an investment strategy. I simply didn’t have the money, or whatever I did have I always put into stock for the shop. The store is my only equity.” She shrugged. “Probably not a wise financial move.”
Opal followed Roberta into the spacious kitchen and helped her set the table. In just a few moments Roberta pulled together a salad, heated the French casserole, and sliced the seven-grain bread. She took out a demi-bottle of wine and, over Opal’s protests, poured a little into her glass. Then they sat down in companionable silence and ate.
It wasn’t long before Opal began to talk about the task in front of her. Roberta was all sympathy. “Oh, typesetters and proofreaders are all getting more and more careless. Books now are just unbelievable! I catch typos in almost every one.” She shook her head. “It’s an enormous job for you,” Roberta said sympathetically. “Perhaps you could hire somebody to help you.”
“I haven’t the money, and I wouldn’t trust just anyone, anyway,” Opal told her. “But now I know where the term ‘galley slave’ came from!”
Roberta laughed, then paused. Perhaps you would let me help. After all, you’ve been helping me and you haven’t taken a dime. Turnabout is fair play, Opal.”
“Oh, I couldn’t let you. It’s just too much work and too tedious.”
“Unlike bookstore work,” Roberta said dryly. She paused. “You know, Opal, you are a lot better at giving than you are at taking. That is not a particularly healthy way to be. Trust me, I speak from experience on this.” Roberta softened her voice. “Your daughter, I think, shared the trait. She couldn’t ask for help when she needed it. But it’s not too late for you to change.”
Opal blinked and thought of the endless galleys awaiting her. She thought of Terry, toiling alone at a task much more difficult, more isolating, and with less companionship than she had. If only Terry had asked for help. If only…Opal shook her head, picked up her glass of wine, and drank it down. It was nasty stuff—not the least bit sweet. She ran her tongue against the roof of her mouth. What Roberta had said hurt, but it wasn’t said to be hurtful. “Yes,” Opal agreed. “I do need help. Thank you for offering.”
59
An editor’s job is to push you, teach you, and to wear miniskirts with black mesh stockings.
—Howard Stern
Daniel lay flat on his back, panting. Beside him, Pam lay naked, her eyes closed, wild blond hair hiding the rest of her face, one of her heavy breasts resting against the crook of his arm. He dared to glance at her again. She was as ferocious in bed as she was in business, and Daniel couldn’t remember ever having fucked like this before. Even now, his penis hardened as he remembered her on her knees, then straddling him, and that last position! She had moved on him and under him with more urgency, more crazed energy, and more noise than he had ever experienced. She was frightening, but undeniably erotic. Her huge breasts alone were fascinating, almost freakish. He thought about his first wife, and Cheryl, and Judith, all small-breasted dark women. Daniel could have been smothered by Pam’s enormity. Even now, the weight of her breast on his arm was arousing and alarming at the same time.
He was satisfied, and not just sexually. He had long suspected, he had hoped, that he was special, that he deserved something more than just an untenured teaching position in an obscure school. He wanted fame, and money, and recognition. He wanted access to the likes of Gerald Ochs Davis, coverage from magazines like Vanity Fair, and sexual gratification from women like Pam Mantiss. He turned his head toward the bedside table and the two bottles of Moët they had drunk. Vintage. What did a bottle of that cost here? Two hundred dollars? Three hundred? What was this room costing for the few hours they’d use it? Davis & Dash was willing to pay for it, to pay for him. And if he hadn’t actually written every word of the book, well, the idea had been his, the nerve to do it had been his nerve, the strategy, the entrée through Alf Byron, all of it had taken courage, determination, and skill. He had pulled it off, and this was his reward: knowing he had “graduated,” that he had made it into a new world, one he had longed to enter.
He had delivered the revised manuscript a week ago. Pam had read it and suggested they meet to “discuss” it: This tryst had resulted. Daniel smiled to himself. Apparently he had been accepted in both senses of the word. He looked over at Pam again, and her eyelids fluttered. When she opened her eyes, he looked away, then nearly jumped to find her hand wrapping itself around him.
“Mmm. Nice. Is this for me?” Even when she was being seductive, Pam managed to sound a little bit threatening. “I’d hate to waste a hard-on,” she told him.
Before he could say anything, her mouth was on him. Daniel looked down at her bobbing head, and though the delicious warmth and the feel of her magic tongue made him long to close his eyes, he fought the temptation, exchanging that pleasure for the one of watching the editor in chief of Davis & Dash gobbling him. It made him harder, and it made him smile, until Pam looked up and pulled her mouth from him with a wet, sucking sound. Oh, he could hardly bear to have her stop.
“Now my turn,” she said. “Since I started the Prozac it’s been a bitch to come. Here, let’s try this.” She got up on her knees and moved them to either side of his face. Before he could react, she had settled herself on his mouth. “Now, work me, baby,” she told him, her voice a growl. And, pinioned between her legs, how could he refuse?
Judith sat primly on the sofa, her hands folded on her lap. “Is it all right?” she asked. “Did they accept it?”
Daniel nodded his head, drained in every sense of the word. All he wanted was a long hot shower and unconsciousness. But Judith, he realized with a sinking feeling, was ready for a blow-by-blow. “Everything went fine,” he told her, trying to circumvent the inevitable.
“Oh, great!” She ran to him, threw her arms around him, pressing her lips to his mouth. Daniel recoiled, thinking of Pam’s other lips, but then he remembered himself. He kissed Judith on the top of her head. This was unlike her. Judith wasn’t demonstrative. “I’m so relieved,” she was saying. “I do
n’t think I could touch the manuscript again for any amount of money.” Her eyes opened wider, reminding him of Little Orphan Annie’s circles. Daniel couldn’t help but compare them to the elongated slits of Pam’s yellow eyes. “So, we got the money?” Judith asked. “We got the acceptance money?”
Exhausted and—for some reason—depressed, Daniel slumped into the only comfortable chair in the living room. Why was everything his responsibility, he wondered? Why was all the pressure on him? He looked at Judith again, and if his resentment was colored by guilt, he chose not to feel it. He would make her feel guilty.
“Yes, I got us the money. I mean, it’ll be sent. But it wasn’t so easy.”
“I thought you said everything went fine.”
“Only because I made it happen,” Daniel said. “He went through every damn page. We fought chapter by chapter. It was a wrestling match.” The image of Pam’s legs coiled over his torso intruded, and he put his hand up to his eyes, rubbing them wearily. He’d been careful not to mention Pam’s name to Judith; he’s only referred to Gerald Ochs Davis.
“What about the answering-machine chapter? Is it all right? I softened it a little, but Elthea’s obsession just has to be—”
Christ, he couldn’t take this now. “He said he’s going to think about it. He still wants it cut, but he said he’d think about it.”
“And what about the ending? He can’t want that happy ending. Will he take my new version?”
“I’m not sure, Judith. He said it was better, but he still thinks we have to go for something more upbeat.”
“It’s not better. It’s much worse,” Judith said angrily. “But it’s not as dark as it was. He can’t really expect—”
“Judith, I don’t want to talk about it! I spent the whole day fighting for us. Now I don’t want to spend the whole night fighting with you. I’ve had it.” Judith looked away for a moment and bit her lip. Then she walked out of the room. Oh, Christ! Now there’d be another whole scene. Just what he needed. Daniel sighed, feeling the martyr. But instead of pouting, Judith surprised him by returning with a smile on her face and two glasses in her hands.
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