“Have I heard about what?” Pam snapped, taking a swig from her Snapple bottle. She wasn’t going to admit to a moment of concern.
“From publicity about the Elle Halle show for Mrs. O’Neal.”
“No, I haven’t heard a word. If that old bitch won’t go on Oprah, I don’t give a shit if she gets on anything else.”
“Well, let me know if you hear anything,” Emma said and turned to leave. “Oh,” she said casually, “and good luck with the award.”
Fuck! The girl pissed her off, and Pam thought of the old Chinese question: ‘Why does he hate me so? I never did anything for him.’ She shrugged. Human nature was a bitch.
So much for philosophy. She had to win this year. She quickly went over in her mind her strengths and weaknesses for the award. The big question was the Chad Weston thing. The little prick was making the Davis & Dash rejection into a cause célèbre. Pam didn’t think it could work against her—it might actually work in her favor, as long as the spin was right. After all, it had been her book and it was common knowledge that it wasn’t she who had rejected it. In fact, the whole business could ace it for her. If she had come out with SchizoBoy, the feminists and puritans who were shocked by it would be attacking her now, instead of Peterson. She got to look like a civil libertarian without taking the heat. And though Weston was busy dissing everyone in public, he had not yet attacked her—at least not in print.
The phone rang and Pam jumped, but she wouldn’t let herself answer it. She waited, pretending to be a lady, until her secretary took the call and then buzzed her. Her stomach knotted up—she hadn’t eaten, and the Absolut iced tea was churning. “Jude Daniel on line one,” her secretary told her, and exasperated, Pam snatched up the phone.
“What?” she demanded.
“I’m leaving for Boston,” Jude said. “What are the chances of you meeting me there tonight?”
Pam covered the phone with her hand, closed her eyes, and sighed gustily. Sex with Jude was certainly not good enough to travel for. “Maybe,” she said. “Can I call you back?”
“I’m at the airport,” he told her.
“Right. Well, I’ll call you at the hotel.” Just hang up, she thought, her eye on the light of the other line.
“I’m having a lot of trouble with my wife,” Jude said.
What else was new? Pam didn’t give a flying fuck. Just get off the phone so she could get her call. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said.
“Are you?” Jude asked, his voice intimate. “I’m going to leave her.”
“Great,” Pam said. “I’ll call you at the hotel.”
“But Pam, she’s getting very odd. I’m worried. She may give me trouble. She thinks she contributed more to the book than she did.”
“They always do,” Pam said, thinking of Edina.
“No. I mean she’s really acting unbalanced. She says the book is half hers.”
“Only in divorce court. New York’s law is equitable distribution. But she’ll have to prove it first. Anyway, we have a whole legal department to deal with infringement and this kind of stuff.” Christ. Get off the phone. “Don’t worry. Just knock ’em dead at the bookstores.”
“I—”
“I’ll call you at the hotel,” Pam interrupted and finally hung up. It was a good thing she did, too. Because just then the phone rang with the call she had been awaiting so many years.
“To Editor of the Year,” David Morton said, and everyone lifted their glass to her. Pam smiled demurely. She couldn’t believe her luck—that David Morton had been in New York, in Gerald’s office, when the announcement was made. In publishing in the nineties there was no such thing as job security, but this was as good as it got. Pam looked around the table. They were lunching at Palio, and the expansive room with its enormous high ceilings and marble floor fit her mood.
David Morton was sitting beside her, and Gerald was opposite them. Pam, with her radar for trouble, could feel the tension between the two men. She hadn’t been invited to their meetings, but she had heard from Jim Meyer that all was still far from well.
Pam wondered if the long-awaited restructuring was in the making. How would she fare? It would be almost impossible to match this job. She had little work and a lot of salary, a nearly impossible combination in publishing. The only better job was Gerald’s.
“I’m so glad to get a chance to know you better,” Pam purred to Morton. For a born-again Christian, he wasn’t a bad-looking man.
“Did you read this totally disgusting garbage that Davis planned to publish?”
“You must be talking about the Weston book,” Pam said, all innocence.
“It was horrific. Only a madman would write it, and someone worse would publish it.”
“Well, I know a lot of women here, aside from myself, who were deeply upset about it,” Pam said calmly.
“You’ve read it then? I’m ashamed to think a woman had to read this as a part of her job.”
“Oh, Gerald gives me a lot of unpleasant things to do,” Pam said smoothly. “All in a day’s work. I was just afraid we were publishing it.”
“Listen, there was no way that Davis & Dash would have published the book. This is a Christian country. Who the hell wants to read about a man who kills and rapes and eats women?”
Perhaps Jeffrey Dahmer would, Pam thought, but knew that discretion was the better part of valor. Somehow she didn’t think Morton had a sense of humor. Anyway, Dahmer would only like the book if it were men being raped and eaten. And wasn’t Dahmer dead? Not much of a market there. Pam tried to refocus her mind on the business at hand. There was an opportunity here.
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” she said. “What did you do?”
“I told Gerald to track down that crazy son of a bitch and tell him we’re not publishing that crazy goddamned book.” He paused. “Pardon my French,” he apologized. “I don’t usually use raw language, but I was appalled.”
“As was I,” Pam told him.
“I said ‘Stop the presses,’ or whatever you people say to make a book not happen.”
“Really?” Men loved to show their power. Even born-again Christian men. “And you weren’t worried that his lawyers would sue?” Pam asked in an awed voice.
“Let ’em sue. I said, ‘We are not publishing this book.’ You can ask Gerald yourself.”
“Wow!” Pam purred. “That was heroic.” She paused. “And I do want to tell you, Mr. Morton, that I’m not only speaking for myself but for a lot of the staff here when I tell you how relieved I am by your decision.”
“Well, well. Nice of you to say so. I thought all of you publishing types might get on your high horses with me.”
“Not at all, not at all,” Pam said. “I think it is a deeply wise decision and one that neither of us will ever regret.” She stared into his eyes.
“Well, good then.” He paused, but he didn’t look away. “It’s really very nice getting to talk with you. I look forward to working with you more closely in the future.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more.”
“You’re really great at what you do,” David murmured to her. She raised an eyebrow and looked back at him.
“And you don’t even know all that I do,” she said in a husky whisper.
He looked at her, and for a moment she feared that his shock would turn to distaste. But her mojo was so powerful tonight that she carried it off, even with a born-again southerner like David Morton. Was he physically attractive, or was it his aura of power that enticed her? After all, Graydon Carter of Vanity Fair had named Morton number two in his list of the most powerful men in America. Looking at him, Pam realized she could have him. And that she would.
She looked across the table to find Gerald’s eyes on her. His face had a glazed look. Pam smiled at him. He didn’t smile back.
78
Writing is not a profession but a vocation of unhappiness.
—Georges Simenon
Daniel walked down the long
hallway to the very end of the hotel corridor. Behind him a bellman far older than he carried his bag, and in front of him an obsequious concierge far younger than he carried the keys to the suite.
Daniel hadn’t been in Boston since his student days, and he’d never stayed at a Swissôtel. It was a lot more luxurious and elegant than he had expected—he’d imagined some kind of corny motel with a Heidi motif. When they got to the room, he was surprised to see on the door a brass plaque that said AUTHOR’S SUITE. The concierge threw open the door with a flourish, and Daniel entered. There was a fabulous marble bathroom to his right off the hall and then two fairly small but exquisitely plush rooms. The bedroom was visible through an archway—all soft pastels and beautiful woodwork. The living room was even more welcoming, furnished with a sofa, a silk-covered easy chair, and two vases of colorful flowers. There was also a tray wrapped in cellophane—it seemed to be filled with fruits, candies, and other goodies.
“Sir?” the concierge asked from behind him. Daniel turned to see an antique desk with a bookshelf, and the concierge was holding out a copy of In Full Knowledge. “Would it be too much trouble for you to sign this for our collection?”
Daniel blinked. At first he thought the kid was pulling his leg, but he appeared absolutely serious—in fact deferential. Daniel shrugged. “Sure,” he said. He was actually thrilled, but he didn’t want to look like an amateur. He opened the book to the title page, picked up the pen, and began to scrawl, then realized he’d begun to sign his own first name. He paused for a moment and glanced to see if the kid noticed. He hadn’t, so Daniel simply wrote “Jude” above his first name. Jesus, he’d have to remember to keep his wits about him. After all, this was a book-signing tour.
“Thank you, sir,” the concierge said and added the book to the shelf. Daniel was too flustered to do anything but nod—he forgot to tip either the concierge or the bellman.
Once he was alone in the room he had a chance to catch his breath and orient himself. The view was lovely, but then Daniel had always liked Boston. Maybe he’d live here. He flicked on a few of the lamps. He was drawn to the desk and the shelves above it. There, beside his book, were two dozen or more. Daniel pulled out a William Styron. He opened it up, and inside Styron had written, “Thanks for the hospitality.” I should have written something like that, Daniel thought, and sat down at the chair in front of the desk. A beautifully bound, gold-trimmed volume lay flat on the leather surface of the dropleaf. It was a guest book, and Daniel paged through it. He saw famous name after famous name—all writers—and their comments. I’m sitting in a chair Saul Bellow sat in, Daniel thought. He looked down and saw an inscription from Pulitzer Prize-winner E. Annie Proulx. A few pages later James Finn Garner wrote, “When I read the sign on the door that said ‘Author’s Room,’ I pictured cigarette burns on the table and unfinished cups of coffee around the room, plus a feeling of general ennui. Thanks for dispelling those images. Unfortunately, now I have to go back to the ‘Author’s House,’ which is much less orderly and quiet.” Phyllis Naylor had written, “Last night it was Motel 6 in Danvers, tonight the author’s suite in the Swissôtel. Yesterday I thought this gig would never end, now I’m sorry that it will. What a wonderful respite!”
Daniel knew what she meant. He had no idea where he would go after this tour was over. He couldn’t go back to Judith. Perhaps Pam would invite him to move in. A writer and an editor living together seemed an ideal situation. But was he a writer? Could he write another book? He looked down at the real writers on the pages before him. Jane Smiley, another Pulitzer Prize—winner, had been at the hotel May 6, 1995. She’d written: “Good colors, nice light, well-shaped rooms. I had great dreams here. Thank you for thinking of us. May I see the movie-star room?”
When he walked into the bedroom, Daniel noticed an envelope beside the phone. He opened it up to find a welcome note from the media escort, his guide for tomorrow’s book signings. There was also a schedule outlining all of his activities. He’d be on radio during drive time, then sign some books at Barnes & Noble and meet with a Boston Globe reporter in the afternoon.
On the other side of the bed was a standing ice bucket. In it was a bottle of wine—good wine, Daniel noticed—sent by David Gibbons, the executive director of the hotel. Daniel smiled. He could get used to this.
Daniel opened the chablis, stretched out on the living room sofa, and poured himself a glass. The phone rang. There were five extensions; one beside the sofa; one on each side of the bed; one at the desk; and another on the wall in the bathroom! Each had two lines. “Hello?” he said. Alf Byron’s gruff voice greeted him.
“Hello, Professor. You got there safely?”
“No problem.” Daniel took an appreciative sip of the wine.
“Great. Listen, I’m going to fly up tomorrow morning. I’ll be with you every step of the way. And I have some good news about your visit to L.A. I set up a little meeting with April Irons and her staff. What do you think about writing a screenplay?”
“A screenplay? You mean for In Full Knowledge?” Daniel felt his stomach tighten. “I’ve never written a screenplay before.”
“You never wrote a bestseller before either. Nothing to it. Let’s pitch her. She’s willing to listen.”
“Sure,” Daniel said, and took another swig of his wine. “I can do it. I can do anything.”
79
My family used to tell everybody that the first word I said was “book.” I tell everybody that my second word was “terms.” And by the time I was three, I could spell “co-op advertising.”
—Len Riggio, CEO of B. Dalton Booksellers
The book wasn’t selling. It was as simple as that. Camilla had called Pam Mantiss’s office regularly. At first she had been put through to Pam herself. Then, as it became clear that the book wasn’t moving, a secretary had taken the messages and Pam had been slow to ring back. Now her calls were simply transferred to Emma. Alex was upset. She was trying to work with people at Davis & Dash to get some publicity and reviews, but they didn’t seem to be cooperative.
“Don’t worry,” Alex tried to reassure Camilla late one rainy autumn day when she stopped by after work. “We can still make this happen. I’m arranging for some local book signings and really pushing for more reviews.” Camilla nodded, but she didn’t feel very hopeful. The actual publication date of her book had been an anticlimax, the calm after the calm. Nothing had happened. But something had to happen, for financial reasons as well as career ones. “The problem is,” Alex continued, “that there’s no co-op advertising, no shelf space bought for you. There won’t be a paperback sale if the hardcover doesn’t sell better.” She looked at Camilla. “It’s a good book. It will find an audience.” Alex patted Camilla’s hand. “How’s the job?”
“Great,” Camilla said, and that, at least, was true. She enjoyed her work at Citron. She loved gazing at the Canaletto, living with it, as it were. She liked the people she was surrounded by—Susan and Jimmy O’Brien and Emily, who did the photocopying and helped cover the phones. And Craig of course. Working with Craig was exciting and sometimes difficult: His extraordinary energy made him volatile—sometimes he yelled and even threw things—but so vibrant and interesting. He had also started romancing Camilla, though she didn’t tell Alex about this. Camilla didn’t know if she’d accept Craig’s overtures or not. She was tempted, but there was something about his nervous energy, his aura, that warned her of potential disaster.
“How’s the apartment?”
“Rather dreadful, really. I feel buried alive there.”
“That isn’t good.”
“No. I can’t seem to sleep there.”
Almost as bad as that was the fact that Camilla simply couldn’t write there. Perhaps it was the rejection, the disappointment of her book sales—or lack of them. Perhaps it was the overwhelming silence and bleakness in her Park Slope apartment. Or perhaps it was the money worries, which never seemed to cease. Whatever it was, Camilla was having trouble turning ou
t even a page or two a day.
“Camilla, you have to be able to write. It’s a necessity.”
“Yes, I know.” But the next morning, and the next, and for all of the next week she couldn’t. She sat at her desk, stared at her pad, and nothing came at all.
Camilla sat with her notebook in front of her on the café table. It had taken her almost a month—a month of sleepless nights and nightmares—but she had found, at last, a place where she could work. She had gone to the superstore around the corner from Citron Press and spent four hours at one of the tables in the coffee bar. Somehow, the noise and bustle around her became a comfortable, comforting hum, and Camilla found that she could move forward easily. When she got stuck she simply got up, walked down the few steps that led to the rest of the bookstore, and wandered through its enormous space, picking books off the shelf and reading a few bits; then refreshed, she would return to the café and sit down for another stint of writing. If she walked to the superstore right after she left Citron Press, she could work from two until six or even seven.
The only bad thing about the superstore was that they didn’t seem to carry her book. She’d told Craig about it, and he had laughed. “Of course they don’t carry your book,” he’d said. “Your last one didn’t sell more than ten thousand copies.”
“But there wasn’t a book before this,” Camilla said.
“Catch-22,” said Craig. “You can’t get a job without experience, and you can’t get experience without…A store like that doesn’t bother to take chances. They’re looking for volume sales, authors with a proven track record. They’d rather carry two titles that each sell a million books than two million titles that sell one each.”
The Bestseller Page 53