Wendy and Pam had started her with a radio program, and a good one at that, to see how she did. Since the Times review a lot had changed. They were going to send the tape to Elle Halle, who was considering a show about Terry. Opal was still turning down the tabloid shows, though Pam had begged, threatened, bribed, and even wept a few crocodile tears trying to get Opal to change her mind. But Opal had been firm: She’d do only the shows where the host had actually read the book and where the program was focused not on personalities, gossip, Terry’s suicide, or Opal’s supposed bravery but on The Duplicity of Men itself. Terry Gross’s “Fresh Air” on NPR was an intelligent program, and Opal would do Connie Martinson’s cable TV show, and Elle Halle, and that was it.
Now Ms. Gross turned to her copy of the book and began to read. Usually she asked the author to, but Opal had known she wouldn’t be up to it. Ms. Gross did it well. Opal listened to her daughter’s words spreading out over the airwaves, being communicated to tens of thousands, maybe even hundreds of thousands of people. It was hard to believe that this day had finally come. Opal was satisfied; she had done her job, and now Terry’s book belonged to the ages. It would find its own readership. It was no longer up to Opal. She could go home now.
“Opal O’Neal, it was a real honor to have you on,” Ms. Gross said.
“Thank you. Good-bye, Terry.” Speaking the name out loud to Terry Gross startled Opal again. She’d just said “Good-bye, Terry” over the air to thousands of people. Yes. Maybe it was time to say good-bye.
Terry Gross was saying a few more things into the microphone, and then, just before the ending of the show, there was some sort of commotion in the control booth, where engineers with headsets and Wendy Brennon were sitting. They couldn’t hear anything in the studio, but Wendy began to jump up and down, as if she had a trampoline instead of the silencing carpet under her feet. One of the engineers gave a thumbs-up sign through the glass, while the other scrawled a note across an unlined pad. Wendy held the pad up, and Opal looked across the microphone, the tangled cables, and the control console in front of her. “Duplicity a top contender for the Tagiter,” the sign said, and for perhaps the first time on National Public Radio, both the guest and the host were speechless.
85
I’ve always believed in writing without a collaborator, because where two people are writing the same book, each believes he gets all the worries and only half the royalties.
—Agatha Christie
Judith had searched the entire apartment, looked through Daniel’s desk and briefcase, gotten into his office on campus, and even snuck into Cheryl’s apartment, but she hadn’t found a single page or note on In Full Knowledge. She couldn’t believe it. How could all those drafts, all her notes, all the manuscript copy be gone? She thought back to the move. Had she packed up all her office papers, or had Daniel? Had they even brought them here at all? Had they thrown them out?
She felt sick, but it wasn’t morning sickness. That had stopped. She was sick from betrayal, loneliness, and abandonment. Daniel had been touring, calling her from Chicago, Los Angeles, and Dallas, and each time, all he had asked was whether she was still “being stubborn.” She was.
Judith protectively laid her hand over her stomach. Daniel was coming home tonight, and she would confront him. It had taken her all day to get her courage up. She had already called Diana La Gravenesse four times and gone over it with her each time. Even now, as Judith sat waiting for Daniel to walk in the door, she could barely believe that she was going to threaten him. But she agreed with Diana that this was the only way. Surely, in the end, Daniel would care about this child and his wife. A part of Judith hoped—no, believed—that Daniel would come to his senses. That he was only upset and confused by all of this new attention, and that in a little while, once he had adjusted, he would come around.
But Judith had to admit that Daniel hadn’t been himself for a long time. Once Daniel had been open, affectionate, responsible, and antisocial. The “new” Daniel was none of those things. He was secretive, cold, and undependable, and he seemed to love his new social life.
Judith sighed. Her palms and her armpits were damp. She didn’t want to have to do this, but what other option did she have? She couldn’t find the documents that Diana had asked her for. Judith thought of the checkbook in Daniel’s name. Even that had disappeared. Before he had left, Daniel had given her five hundred dollars and told her he’d see her in two weeks. He’d also reminded her there was another five hundred in their joint account, in case she decided to “go for the procedure.” Judith shivered. He hadn’t mentioned the Jude Daniel bank account. She supposed that she had nothing to lose in confronting Daniel and demanding her rights. But then why did it all feel so dangerous? And why, despite Daniel’s treatment of her, did she still balk at the idea of threatening him with legal action?
Judith wanted two things, and Diana La Gravenesse had pointed out that she might have to settle for only one of them: She might get to disclose her authorship, or she might get to stay married. Diana didn’t believe she could get both. She had left it up to Judith to make up her mind which one she wanted.
Judith would confront Daniel. She didn’t have a choice about that; she had to somehow. But she hoped that she could make him see reason. She wanted fairness, and credit for her work, but she also wanted Daniel and she was hoping that she could manage to do what Diana said was impossible—to have it both ways.
When she heard Daniel’s key in the lock, Judith moved a hand toward her hair—as if straight bangs would help her. One thing she knew: No matter what, she wouldn’t have an abortion. She wouldn’t kill their baby. And, crazy as it seemed, it was the baby that Judith felt she had to stand up for tonight. Somehow she could do what had to be done for the baby even if she couldn’t do it for herself. As the door opened, she told herself to be calm, to be firm but controlled. She told herself all those things, but she knew she wouldn’t succeed with any of them. All she could hope for was that Daniel’s feelings for her and his sense of fair play were still strong enough to make a difference.
“You waited up?” Daniel asked, casting a glance at her but walking right past her on his way to the kitchen. He dropped his bag on the carpet. Judith followed him. He looked exhausted, and for a moment Judith felt sorry for him. But that would only weaken her resolve, so she looked away while he took off his jacket, took out a glass, and poured himself some wine. He’d told her over the phone that he’d been drinking wine almost every night—once he’d even called her when he was drunk—and that was another one of the things about the “new” Daniel that worried her. Jewish men didn’t drink—it was one of the reasons she had married him: She’d known she’d never have to face one of those screaming scenes her father used to perpetrate on her family when he was intoxicated.
“Daniel,” she said, and even to her her voice sounded small and inconsequential. “We have to talk.”
“Wrong,” Daniel said, and sailed by her on his way to the bedroom. “I have to sleep. I’ve never been so tired.”
“Stop,” she told him. “We do have to talk.”
He turned and looked at her. “Judith, I explained to you once, but I will explain to you again, I have nothing to say to you until after your abortion.”
Judith felt the tears rising along her lower lids. “I’m not talking about that” she said.
“Then I’m not talking at all,” he told her, then turned to walk into the bedroom.
“Daniel! I’m going to sue you if you don’t give me credit for the book.”
He spun around, his mouth open, his eyes big. Surely now he would see how insane this had all become. Judith braced herself, prepared for him to either yell or break down in tears. But Daniel did neither.
Instead, he began to laugh.
Judith watched him, thinking at first that he might be so overtired that he was hysterical, and he was, but not in the way she first thought. Daniel laughed and then kept on laughing, his face crinkled up. The lines she’
d always considered so handsome showed beside his eyes. He was laughing so hard that his wine almost spilled on the wall-to-wall carpeting. “You’re going to what?” he finally asked.
“I’m going to sue you if you don’t immediately contact Davis & Dash, in writing, and acknowledge my coauthorship.” There, she’d said it and she’d said it right. She took out the document that Diana La Gravenesse had supplied. “Here,” she said, “you have to sign this.”
Daniel reached out and snatched the paper from her, spilling more wine and making bloody blots on the carpet as he did so. He looked at the paper in disbelief and then back at her. “Well,” he said, “haven’t you been a busy girl.” He shook his head. “Busy, but stupid.” He paused as if considering. “Yes, we could describe you that way.”
Judith’s lip trembled, but she didn’t move. Diana had warned her he might get nasty. “My lawyer is pretty smart,” she said.
“Oh, yeah. Brilliant. Sniffing out a bestseller and working on the come. Lots of brilliant lawyers work for free,” he sneered. He threw the wineglass across the room, where it fell against the couch and rolled off, spreading its bloody stain in a wide arc. Judith winced.
“Daniel, can’t you be nice? You know that I wrote the book. Can’t you just do the right thing? Can’t we be the way we used to? Please, Daniel.”
“Please, Daniel,” he imitated and added a sneer. “What exactly do you want to be like it used to? You want to be broke? You want to go back and live in that dump? You want me to be wasting myself teaching morons all day long?” He turned his back on her and walked to the bedroom.
“I want you to love me. And I want you to be fair. Just tell the truth. That I wrote the book.” Daniel turned to her, and his expression, almost a snarl, frightened Judith. Involuntarily, she took a step backward, almost stepping on Flaubert, who was crouched at her feet.
“The book was my idea,” Daniel growled. “I thought of it. I picked the subject. And I told you what to write. You never would have done it except for me. And you didn’t even do it well. I had to edit every word. And even then, Davis & Dash rewrote it again. It’s my book, and I won’t be publicly humiliated or called a liar.”
“Then I will sue you.”
Daniel looked at her—simply looked, but his eyes grew small with anger, or contempt, or something even more unpleasant. Then he laughed. For a moment, only a moment, Judith thought that they might end this fight—this most horrific argument—the way they used to end all their tiffs: with a joke, a laugh, and forgiveness. But, as usual, she was wrong. “Don’t you have a clue?” Daniel asked. “Don’t you have the slightest fucking clue? Do you think that I’m as stupid as you are?” He picked up the wine bottle and held the long neck up to his mouth and drank. Then he put down the bottle and stared at her. “You’re talking like a child,” he said. “Just try to sue. I have the entire book written in my own handwriting, complete with cross outs and corrections.”
“In your handwriting?” Judith echoed.
“In my handwriting. In a dated journal. Which I read aloud in some of my writing groups. To which I added notes with their comments. All would testify on my behalf. I have Cheryl, who typed the manuscript for me, with my handwritten corrections because you did such a bad job. She’d testify to that. I have everyone from Don Kingsbury to Pam Mantiss who can testify, and will testify, that they saw me writing. What have you got? Who have you got? People here already think you’re crazy. They’ve seen your scenes in restaurants and at parties. I’ve told them how jealous you’ve been. They’re convinced that you’re neurotic, envious, and agoraphobic—and that you live in a fantasy world.
“And the other people at Davis & Dash think you’re nuts, too. Remember the spectacle you made of yourself at the Chelsea party? You think they won’t testify on my behalf? They have lawyers who do nothing but this kind of work, coping with nut cases and scam artists all day long. So sue. It will make us even. ’Cause I’m suing, too. I’m suing for divorce.” He turned and headed for the door. “By the way,” he said, “don’t try to get any of the money. I’m going to make sure the court knows how you stood in my way at every point on this book. How you drained me. You never worked. You just sat on your ass while I sweated blood. So that you deserve none of the income. They might not agree completely, but in the meantime, I’d suggest you get a job at the 7-Eleven and try to work for a living.” He paused. “Oh. And about the divorce. Forget it. I want an annulment. And I’ll contest that the baby is even mine.”
Judith started to weep, and Flaubert began to growl again.
“Shut up,” Daniel said, but Judith didn’t know which of them he was talking to. He just turned and slammed the door.
86
I have never begun a novel without hoping that it would be the one that would make it unnecessary for me to write another.
—François Mauriac
“It’s unbelievable!” Alex Simmons said. “I had to pull an awful lot of strings.”
Camilla didn’t know what the proper response was, so she said, “Thank you.” But she had quite a few doubts. She certainly didn’t want to discourage her agent, but she had given up. She’d had to. Looking ahead and working on her next book was the only way to be sure that her heart didn’t break. Will had told her that, and it was good advice.
“Camilla, I’ve been working so hard to keep A Week in Firenze on the bookshelves.”
Camilla sighed. “When and where is the interview?” she asked.
“They want to come to your studio.”
“You mean, they’re coming to Park Slope? But the flat is a tip.”
“A tip?”
“You know, a garbage dump,” Camilla said, remembering to translate into American.
“That’s the point,” Alex said. “They want a dump. The whole angle here is ‘little penniless English girl makes good.’”
“Don’t be mad. How have I made good?” Camilla asked. “The book has failed. I’ve failed.”
“If you ever say that out loud again, I’ll come there and rip your heart out,” Alex said, and the tone of her voice was convincing. “None of my clients fail. It’s too early in my career to have any failures,” Alex barked. “You are a critical success. Americans root for the underdog. It’s a standard People story. They just plugged you in because somebody over there owes me a favor.”
“But isn’t that the magazine that always has a scandal or a tragedy on the cover? Do people who read it buy books? Do they read?”
“They move their lips when they do, but they all have credit cards and a Barnes & Noble located conveniently nearby.”
Camilla shrugged. “It sounds rather undignified and futile,” she said, “but of course I’ll do it. And thank you, Alex. You’re a wonderful agent.”
“I want that in writing,” Alex said. “Anyway, I’ll get back to you with the day and date. They’re talking next week.”
“You’re going to be in People? You’re kidding? That’s fabulous.”
“Is it?” Camilla asked Craig Stevens. He had taken her out to dinner at Rain, a restaurant that made her think of the South Seas and sweating planters back in the days of the British empire. Not that they were sweating. Though the restaurant was done up in rattan and mosquito netting, the ceiling fans were pushing only cool air that had clearly been conditioned. It was all rather posh and funny, Camilla thought, but the menu looked interesting and the bar scene more so.
“People magazine is big,” Craig said. “Giant. Jesus, I wish I could get Will into People magazine.”
“Well, maybe he could knock on my door and they’d put him in the picture.”
“Oh, great,” Craig said. “A literary Kramer.”
“Kramer?” she asked. “What did he write?”
“A coffee-table book,” Craig told her. “Anyway, Camilla, this might make a big difference to your book sales.”
Camilla shrugged. “I think it’s a lot like our Hello magazine. Rock stars and their wives at home, a duchess who’s d
one a cookery book, and endless stories on Paula Yates and Princess Caroline of Monaco. I don’t see how it will sell a single copy.”
The waitress appeared and they ordered. Craig reached across the table and took her hand.
“Camilla, I don’t know how to do this without seeming to harass you.”
“Do what?” Camilla asked. Craig, who was always so smooth and funny, seemed speechless and ill at ease. Her hand felt good in his. For a moment, Camilla wondered what it would be like to kiss him. She knew he was a big flirt and had a string of girlfriends. She could understand why.
“Listen,” Craig said. “I don’t want you to feel that I’m asking this because you work for me or that you have any obligation or that I expect anything of you. I just really, really like you.”
“I like you, too, Craig.” Camilla knew what was coming and didn’t know what to do.
“Yes, but do you like me in that way?”
“Which way?”
Craig groaned. “You’re not making this easy for me,” he said. “I’m asking your permission to make a pass at you. I’m not harassing you, and I don’t expect it or demand it or anything like that, but I certainly would like it if you like me, you know, feel attracted to me sexually and would sleep with me. Is that clear enough?”
“Oh, I see,” Camilla said and blushed. “You’re being politically correct.”
“Yes, and to put it in your terms, it’s a damn bloody nuisance.”
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