The Bestseller

by Olivia Goldsmith

  —Alberto Moravia

  There was no doubt in Camilla’s mind that Frederick Ashton’s flat was the nicest place she had ever lived. It was four enormous rooms; a drawing room that faced south and had three ten-foot French doors that opened to a Juliet balcony, a book-lined dining room, a corner master bedroom with huge south and east windows, and a combination guest room-study. There was also a tiny but efficient galley kitchen. Throughout the flat the floors were magnificent—parquet with the most beautiful, subtle woodworked designs around the borders of the rooms. The floors shone in a way that Camilla hadn’t seen since she’d left the convent school.

  The furniture was sparse, simple, and almost nondescript. It was the space and its light that made the flat so exquisite. Camilla also thought that perhaps Frederick avoided clutter and excess since he couldn’t see it now, and from a practical point of view, all of it could prove an obstacle to knock down or trip over. In the bedroom, for instance, there was only the high four-poster bed, two nightstands, and a low tufted bench at one window. There wasn’t even a bureau. Clothes were all stored in closets and cabinets that were hidden from view. Surprisingly, the simplicity and emptiness didn’t seem stark to Camilla—at least not after she got used to it. In fact, the flat seemed a restful oasis in a visually overloaded, merciless city.

  In the short time she’d spent in these rooms, Camilla had come to love them deeply. This was a New York she had never known before or even dared dream of. She watched the light play on the walls and floor of the flat as the sun moved through the day. Even the shadows at twilight were exquisite, and she almost hated to turn on the lamps at night. Camilla felt very secure in the apartment. But she had not unpacked—her clothes were neatly stored in her suitcase in a wardrobe—and she had, after her talk with Emma, determined that she would have to leave it, and soon. She had decided to take on Alex Simmons as her agent, to stay with Davis & Dash, and get a job. She would live within her means. There was a limit to how much debt one could be in, even to a friend. And she needed to be sure that Frederick understood that her tenure here was not a prelude to anything more in their relationship.

  Frederick was not indicating otherwise. Camilla tried not to think of their night in Firenze. He was a friend, not a lover. He must want it that way. He was the opposite of pushy—he called only once or twice a week, inquiring about her writing, and at her invitation, he sometimes dropped by.

  He came to his flat as if he were a visitor, and half a dozen times he had taken her out to dinner. He brought her to a different restaurant each time, and he seemed to be known at each one. Talking and dining with him was the bright spot in her days—but that didn’t mean that they should be anything more than friends. After dinner she’d sometimes read to him, and she found it helpful reading her words aloud. It was a great editing tool. Frederick commented very little, though she knew he liked what she’d done so far. She’d seen it in his acute reaction to her words.

  Frederick was also advising her on business. They had discussed Alfred Byron and Alex Simmons. Both had agreed that Alex was the only choice, and yesterday Camilla had signed on with her. In fact, Camilla had never felt so well taken care of, so buffered. It was lovely, but it also made her both sad and anxious. This must be what it was like to be born into a family with retainers, solicitors, trust funds, and contacts in all the right places. That the Ashtons were so willing to share all of this with her, a virtual stranger, was both touching and rather eerie. She wondered when it would all be withdrawn.

  Since her arrival in New York, Camilla had spent her days divided between her work on the new book and long walks through Manhattan. While she had not unpacked her clothes, she had made the study her own and sat each morning before the window at Frederick’s desk, which she had littered with new pads of lined paper, a framed Canaletto print, and a Venetian blue glass vase in which she kept some tulips.

  She worked for three or four hours in the morning, walked from eleven to almost three, and then worked in the afternoon for two hours more. In the evenings, when she didn’t see Frederick, she watched American television—all those channels with nothing on any of them!—or went out to the cinema. She had spent one glorious afternoon at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, but oddly, she didn’t feel up to returning. Right now she was focused on words—the words that were growing in a magical, organic way on her pages. She was writing about a student’s adventures in New York and revisiting some of the places she had lived during her student years. Her story was developing nicely.

  But this suspension could not go on indefinitely. She couldn’t accept much more of Frederick’s hospitality. She would have to leave fairyland. Like all the other struggling people outside this perfect flat, she would have to get a day job and find digs. Manhattan seemed financially out of the question, but Brooklyn or The Bronx seemed within reach. Today she was going to meet Craig Stevens about a job with his small firm and then take the subway to The Bronx—where she had seen a bed-sitter advertised in the paper for just five hundred a month.

  Camilla dressed carefully for her interview. Alex had called her with the address and an appointment, telling Camilla that she had already spoken to Craig Stevens on her behalf. Camilla walked out of the apartment, and Curtis, the elevator operator, greeted her. So did the doorman, George. She would miss being pampered with their daily salutes. She walked to Lexington Avenue, checked to make sure she had the requisite tube token, and disappeared into the underground entrance.

  Craig Stevens was a handsome man, but a good part of his charm resided in the fact that he seemed unaware of it. His hair was very dark and thick, and he wore it without a part. His face was strong, with a square chin and intense eyes. Most attractive was his ruddiness, a healthy glow to his skin that seemed either about to bloom or darken into whisker shadows along his jawline. Camilla couldn’t help thinking of Stendhal’s title The Red and the Black because Craig Stevens’s hair was so jet, his color so high, his jaw so dark. There was a vitality about him that created a feeling of excitement and confidence.

  She was drawn to him. He was physically impressive. He wasn’t tall, but his shoulders were broad. There was something solid about him, both in his build and his attitude. He was young to be a publisher, at least she thought so. He couldn’t be more than thirty-five, forty at the outside, but his energy and enthusiasm made him seem even younger.

  Citron Press was his own creation, and it was small but sturdy. Right now it consisted of four offices in this loft building on Twenty-second Street, but he confidently assured her they’d be moving in just a matter of months to larger quarters. Alex had told Camilla that the young publisher had had a modest upbringing and that he’d made a fortune in book packaging, whatever that was. He also had the courage, skill, and charisma that attracted a following of investors willing to bankroll Citron Press.

  “We thought of a lot of names before we came up with Citron Press,” he told her. “Stevens Publishing sounded a little grandiose. I wanted Miracle Books—you know the old gag: If it’s a good book it’s a miracle.” Camilla laughed. “Anyway,” Craig continued, “some of the investors were afraid Miracle might sound like a Christian press, so we’re Citron. Give us lemons, and we’ll make lemonade.”

  Camilla smiled. She liked his energy and silly jokes. Then she looked at the wall to her left. She stood up, galvanized. “It’s genuine, isn’t it?” she asked. She moved toward the small painting. It was a Canaletto, a small study of the Grand Canal, right after the Rialto.

  “Yes. It was my grandfather’s. He left it to me. He bought it in London in a sale room at the turn of the century.” Camilla stared at the tiny, beautiful scene. The sun always shone from a perfect Adriatic blue sky, it would seem at high noon. It was what she loved about Canaletto—the control, the microscopic detail, and the way he encapsulated the atmosphere of the whole city of Venice in a five-by-twelve-inch piece of canvas.

  “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

  Craig nodded. “My favorite
possession,” he said.

  Camilla sat opposite him again, listening while he leaned forward and placed his hands on his knees. “Here’s what we’ve got going,” he explained. “Publishing has become such a big business that authors aren’t treated like authors anymore. Publishers look at them as manufacturers of their “product,” and their books are treated that way. Like products. What we’re managing to do is attract a select group of writers who want to be treated as writers, who want their work respected and understood by their publisher. We think we can do that and make money, though neither one is easy. We’ve got almost fifty titles, and we’re out of the red.” Camilla nodded. Though she knew so little about the business, she could recognize this as an achievement. She was definitely attracted to this vibrant, intelligent, enthusiastic man. Her eyes moved back over to the Canaletto. Amazing. He stood up and moved to the shelf behind him. “We publish Walter McKay,” Craig Stevens said proudly. “He left Random House for us. And we’ve just signed Veda Barlow. She’s been bouncing from house to house, with one horror story after another. They’ve totally mishandled her, but I think she can be really important, and a lot more than a regional writer. Do you know her work?” Camilla admitted she didn’t. Craig smiled and shrugged. “That’s the problem,” he said, “but you will.”

  Camilla believed him. If anyone could succeed in this difficult, challenging city, it would be a man like Craig Stevens.

  “We’re also trying a few first novels. Ron Fried. I’m trying to sign Susan Jedren. And Kim Baker Edmonds. A mix of literature and popular stuff. Small presses are really important to America. We’re the ones that will keep new blood flowing to the readers and other publishers out there. The problem is, only small bookstores buy from small presses. And once an author hits it big, they often move away to a giant house. Oh, well.” He paused. “So, Alex told me a little about you. Davis & Dash is doing your first novel. I’d like to read it.”

  Camilla smiled. “I’d be happy to show it to you,” she said.

  “And you’re working on a new one?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes. But I can’t afford to do it without working at a paying job as well, it seems.”

  Craig was nodding. “Well, I have a part-time opening. Reading manuscripts, some books from the U.K. we might want to publish over here, answering phones.” He shrugged, almost apologetically. “Nothing too literary. A little of this and a little of that. No title, no health insurance, and a lot of flexibility required. But if you’re interested and we work well together, we can try it out for six months. Then either put you on full-time or give you benefits.”

  “You’ll hire me?” Camilla asked. She hadn’t even been paying attention. He hadn’t gone over her resume, had he? Or even questioned her about her schooling? She tore her eyes away from the painting.

  “Sure,” Craig said. “You’re obviously smart, educated, and you’ll work cheap. Alex even tells me you’re talented.” He grinned. “And maybe we’ll do your next book.”

  Once again, Camilla marveled at how easy things became when you had the proper introduction. “I’ve never worked in publishing before,” she felt obligated to tell him.

  He laughed. “Great! No bad habits.” Then he got serious. “Hey, listen, you write books. You know what a lonely, insecure life it is. You’ll know how to care for authors. That’s what we’re about.” He stood up and pulled on his jacket. “You want to go out and get a bite?” Craig asked. For a moment Camilla wasn’t sure what he was talking about. Then it dawned on her that he’d just invited her to dinner.

  “Oh, I can’t. I have another engagement.” Was the job dependent upon that? Did this mean he was interested in her in that way? It was so hard to tell with Americans. Craig shrugged. Just then, Susan walked in.

  “Where are we eating tonight?” Craig asked Susan.

  “At Tutta Pasta,” Susan said. Craig made a face.

  “Well, you’re not missing much,” he told Camilla. “Can you start next week?” Camilla nodded, and Craig turned to Susan. “Meet the sixth employee at Citron Press,” he said, and put his hand on Camilla’s shoulder. “About to be underpaid and overworked.”

  “Any other abuse we can offer you?” Susan asked with a wry smile.

  “Find me a cheap flat,” Camilla joked. “I was going up to The Bronx this afternoon to look at one.”

  “The Bronx?” they both asked, looking at each other with alarm.

  “How cheap?” Susan asked.

  “Five hundred dollars a month?”

  Craig shook his head as if that was impossible, but Susan nodded. “Park Slope,” she said.

  When Frederick arrived that evening, Camilla greeted him with a smile and a statement: “I’m taking you to dinner tonight.” She still had $140 in her purse and meant to return to the nicest restaurant Frederick had taken her to—a tiny French place off Madison Avenue called Table D’Hote. But as they began walking down the street, Frederick grasping her right arm gently for stability and guidance, he demurred.

  “I don’t really want French,” he said, “if you don’t mind.” He paused, as if considering. “Could we have Chinese? I’ve got a yen for it, you should pardon the pun.” Camilla groaned. She hadn’t yet been to a Chinese restaurant in New York.

  “Certainly, if you know of one.”

  Frederick laughed. “They’re on every corner. But I know the good ones.” It was only once they were seated at First Wok that Camilla realized she’d been outsmarted. Dinner for two would hardly cost more than twenty dollars. She looked up from the menu and smiled at Frederick.

  “You’ve been very naughty,” she told him.

  He raised his brows, his face innocent of guile. “What?” he asked, but then he broke into a guilty grin. “So what are we celebrating?” he continued, changing the subject. “I know there must be a celebration here. Have you already finished the new book?”

  Camilla laughed. “I’ve barely finished the new chapter,” she said, though she was pleased with her progress. “No. What I’ve done is gotten a job.”

  “A job?” Frederick asked, his smile fading. “What do you need a job for?”

  “For the money, Frederick. Obviously, for the money. I can’t depend on your hospitality forever.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not? Because it’s…preposterous. I can’t live on charity. Now that I’ve realized how little I’ll actually get for the book, even with Alex’s help, I shall have to cut my cloth by my pocketbook.”

  “What the hell does that mean? Is that some limey expression about fashion?”

  “No, Frederick. It means that I will have to work, and find an inexpensive place to live, and get on with the book more slowly. So I’ve found a part-time job with a small publisher, and I’m looking for a place to live in Park Slope.”

  “Brooklyn? You want to live in Brooklyn?”

  “Want has nothing to do with it. It’s just what I have to do right now.”

  “No, Camilla. What you have to do right now is get your next book written before the first one comes out. That’s so that no matter what happens—if the book is well reviewed or if it bombs, you already have your vision established.”

  “Well, I shall endeavor to do that,” Camilla said stiffly.

  “But why do it so slowly? Why be distracted by a job? What kind of job is it, anyway?”

  So Camilla told him about Craig Stevens, Citron Press, and her new, minuscule salary. “But that and the advance ought to keep me, if I can find a place for five hundred a month. And they know of a few buildings in Brooklyn, one of them where another Citron Press writer lives. Park Slope seems to be a great enclave of writers.”

  “I don’t know. It seems to me Manhattan is the center of everything.” He paused. “Isn’t my apartment comfortable?”

  Camilla could hear the hurt in his voice. It was the very last thing she had meant to do, and yet she had done it. Oh, she was so awkward and hopeless with this sort of thing! She reached her hand across the table, past
the moo shu pork, and took Frederick’s long hand in her own. “Your apartment is absolutely splendid, and so are you. It’s just that I can’t live on your charity. It isn’t right for me.”

  “It isn’t charity!” Frederick said loudly. Heads turned. “It isn’t charity,” he repeated in a much quieter voice. “It’s friendship. And it also allows me to support the arts. All right—I admit I’m not Lorenzo il Magnifico, but there’s no reason why I can’t be your patron.”

  Camilla thought of Gianfranco, ready to keep her as his mistress. She couldn’t repress a small shudder. That wasn’t what Frederick was proposing, but it still would not do. “This isn’t Firenze, and it’s not the fourteenth century, Frederick,” Camilla said gently. “You’ve already done so much for me. You’ve done everything for me. You’ve started me on a whole new life. But now I have to take care of myself.”

  Frederick withdrew his hand. “Yes. It isn’t easy being taken care of, is it?” Camilla heard the pain in his voice and realized anew what he was going through. “I wish I didn’t have to depend on anyone either.”

  She bit her lip. He hadn’t talked much about his program at Lighthouse for the Blind, but she knew he was having difficulties. Who wouldn’t? “We all depend on people, Frederick. I have depended on you. I still will. It’s just a matter of degree. You’ve been really marvelous. I don’t know what I would have done without you. Truly. I want to keep you as a friend, always, keep reading to you, and I want to keep seeing you.”

  “I won’t keep seeing you,” Frederick said. “My sight is going very fast now.”

  “Oh, Frederick. I am sorry.” She paused. “I’ll help any way I can.”

  “In Brooklyn?” Frederick asked.

  “Here, there, or wherever it suits you,” Camilla told him.

  63

  Things in the publishing world are seldom what they seem.

  —Anthea Disney