The Bestseller

by Olivia Goldsmith

  Then she turned to her favorite column—“Behind the Bestsellers” by Daisy Maryles.

  The talk at Davis & Dash has moved from a whisper to a rumble—and much of the noise is about who is behind which bestseller. Apparently, the latest Peet Trawley hit was not written by the late author before his death. Neither, we learn, was it written by his editor, Pam Mantiss. Facts seemed to indicate that Mantiss—who accepted a hefty payment from the estate to write the book—actually jobbed it out to Stewart Campbell, one of her midlist authors, who now threatens to sue. As if that wasn’t enough of an ethics problem, in the deceased-author category there is also talk about The Duplicity of Men, a novel that has been bumping the bottom of the PW list, hovering just below number 15, since its high acclaim. Apparently, Mantiss, sometimes known as Preying Mantiss for her tough deals, didn’t attempt to write this one—she merely takes the credit for finding it. Meanwhile, the deceased author’s mother tells us a very different story: that Mantiss was actually “rude and very negative about the book. She wanted it drastically cut.” (This, remember, from the editor who deemed Chad Weston’s book worth publishing.) Last but not least, there’s an unsubstantiated rumor that the big bomb of the Davis & Dash list—the highly touted but largely unsold In Full Knowledge—also has authorship in question. Jude Daniel, recently separated from his wife, is accused by her of purloining much of her work on that book, yet another Pam Mantiss volume. As a final note, we point out for those of you with short memories that Ms. Mantiss was recently dubbed Editor of the Year.

  The editorial torch does burn at Davis & Dash, although somewhat lower. Apparently, it was editor Emma Ashton who discovered The Duplicity of Men. “She took it from me when no one else would read it,” Mrs. O’Neal reported. “She recognized its worth and then fought to get it published.” This unsung heroine was also responsible for finding another of this year’s sleeper hits—A Week in Firenze, moving up our list to number three. The author, Camilla Clapfish, says, “Emma Ashton read my book in manuscript, and it was she who got it into print.”

  Holy shit! Emma bolted upright. This was unbelievable. Actually it was believable and the truth, so far as Emma knew, but how did Daisy Maryles know it? And what would Pam Mantiss say when she read it? Emma read the column all over again. It was a thrill to read her name, and to imagine everyone else reading it. Even Pam Mantiss. But tomorrow, Monday, was not going to be pleasant.

  “You little bitch, traitor! You fucking bitch!”

  Emma winced but didn’t recoil. “Stop it,” she said. “I told you I didn’t speak with PW.”

  “Right! And I’m the Virgin Mary! Nobody else knew all of this, nobody else! What did you think? This would get you my job? Is that it?”

  “Pam, I had nothing to do—”

  “Shut the fuck up! First of all, that’s not true; secondly, you went over my head to Gerald; and C, you’re fired! You were never very good, and now it’s clear that you were never even loyal.” Pam took a swig out of her ever-present Snapple and almost choked on it. Emma couldn’t help wishing she would. “What the fuck do I need you for?” Pam continued. “Just one thing—don’t expect a fucking reference, okay? Don’t expect a reference, because you’re not going to fucking get one! Or a going-away party. Or a chance to get sympathy from your fucking coven, you little witch. And forget about one of those sweet little corporate memos that explains how you are leaving us ‘to pursue other interests.’ You’re leaving us to get on the unemployment line, and that’s where you’re staying as far as I’m concerned.”

  Emma stood up. “Pam, I didn’t report any of the column to PW. It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not. I’m leaving. But the really interesting part is that it’s all true, the PW stuff. I wasn’t a hundred percent sure, but your anger validates it.” Emma took a deep breath. “In five years you’ve never thanked me or praised me. You’re smart, Pam. You’re very, very smart, and talented, but nobody is so smart that they don’t need a friend. I don’t think you have a single one.” Emma started walking to the door, her hands shaking, but she carried herself with dignity.

  “You cunt!” Pam screamed. Emma just managed to see the Snapple bottle fly past her right ear and shatter in an explosion of iced tea and broken glass on the doorjamb. She was sprayed with the brown liquid and a few bits of the glass, but she didn’t stop. She wiped her face off with her hand and didn’t even bother turning down the hallway toward her tiny, precious windowed office. Emma just walked past Heather and the crowd that had assembled, past GOD’s Little Acre and the receptionist, into the elevator, and out of the building forever.

  98

  I write for the same reason I breathe—because if I didn’t, I would die.

  —Isaac Asimov

  Judith sat in the dusty little turret room, the card table in front of her, Flaubert sleeping at her feet. She squinted at the laptop screen. She was on page seventy-two of her other book, and either she was insane or it was truly good.

  Each morning she seemed to go into a kind of writing trance. Time passed, but she wasn’t conscious of it. She only knew the flow of words that sometimes gushed, sometimes trickled, from her pen. It was a lyrical wave, like a tide that washed up, crested, and then ebbed, leaving her empty as a wave-washed beach.

  She patted her stomach. Of course, the possibility that she was insane was very real. Here she was, pregnant, broke, and about to be divorced, back in the dump she had lived in with her soon-to-be-former husband. And the odd thing was, she was happier than she’d been in a very long time.

  Well, not happy actually. Just more at peace. She had begun her new book because it was simply that or go crazy; that was the same reason she’d moved out of the other apartment. What she felt was probably a lot like the old joke about banging your head against the wall. It really did feel good when you stopped.

  Judith didn’t know how she would feel if In Full Knowledge had been a huge success. All the criticism of the book had been aimed at the parts she felt were weakened or compromised by Daniel’s rewrites. But the fact that it had failed made it somehow easier for her to move on. Daniel would eventually have to give her some of the money—Diana La Gravenesse had assured her of that. That was assuming that there was any money left. Apparently, Daniel had quit the department, and she had heard from Emma Ashton that he had not been given a contract for a second book.

  Flaubert woke up and stretched. He seemed happy to be back at their old haunt, and oddly enough, so was she. Without Daniel the place seemed larger. And she had to live here—it was the only place she could write. The landlord had actually welcomed her back, and Judith had enough money in their joint checking account to pay rent in advance. She’d also registered for the next semester at school and qualified for a student loan. She wasn’t sure if she would take a full course load, but she had enough money to go on until the end of the year and the birth of her baby.

  She didn’t know if it was a daughter or a son. And she didn’t care which it was, but her new book was titled To My Daughter. It was the book Judith had always wanted to write.

  Judith looked down at the screen of her laptop. She nodded. She was probably insane, she decided, but she thought her new book was truly good.

  99

  By and large, the critics and readers gave me an affirmed sense of my identity as a writer. You might know this within yourself, but to have it affirmed by others is of utmost importance. Writing is, after all, a form of communication.

  —Ralph Ellison

  Perhaps it was a failure of imagination, but Camilla had simply never imagined success on this level. Had someone once said it about Elvis Presley? That he had redefined how big “big” could be?

  She was temporarily living at the Gramercy Hotel after journalists had begun to ambush her in Park Slope. The guests at the hotel must think she was a nutter, the way she flinched in the lift. But it was all a bit too much. She needed the security of the front desk, as well as the operators at the switchboard to take her messages. These s
eemed to flow in a never-ending stream of pink message slips. People she hadn’t heard from in years, those she had known briefly, and some she’d never known, had never even heard of, were all calling for her time, asking for interviews, for her to speak at luncheons, at fund-raisers, to give signed copies of her books to charity auctions. Publishers Weekly had profiled her, Entertainment Weekly had run a full-page picture along with an article, and In Style was hoping to follow up the People coverage with a look at her home. Too bad she didn’t have one.

  What she did have, though, was an incredible amount of money about to be paid for the paperback rights to A Week in Firenze. Alex had made a brilliant deal: D & D got only 30 percent of the paperback money. In addition, there were a dozen publishing houses begging her, absolutely on their knees, hoping for a deal on her next book. Alex had taken care of everything beautifully—she’d even arranged a short-term loan until the money started to flow in, though Davis & Dash was quite willing to advance her money against royalties. It was funny, Camilla thought, that people were so reluctant to lend one money when it was needed and so eager to when it was not.

  She was over the moon, not just about the money or the reviews or the attention—which was actually rather difficult and embarrassing—but because she knew now that she had succeeded. Despite all odds, she would be allowed to live a writing life, and as Alex told her, her next book could be anything she wanted it to be. Happily, it was coming along nicely, though all of this commotion had certainly slowed her down.

  The phone rang and Camilla winced. It was only Alex. Alex was her lifeline, her banker, her investment counselor, and her organizer. “We’re riding the serpent, Cam.”

  Camilla never had a nickname and wasn’t quite sure if she liked having one now, but Alex was so protective and good-hearted, had done such a brilliant job, that certainly Camilla wasn’t going to object. “I just heard the news from the horse’s mouth: You’ve moved up to number one on the Times list. That means, by the way, another five thousand dollars this week.” Alex had structured Camilla’s contract with a lot of bonuses. Davis & Dash had not objected at the time, feeling that it was unlikely she would ever get them. But she was getting them all. She received twenty-five hundred per week for every week her book was on the lower part of the Times list and five thousand a week for every week it was number five or above.

  “You’re going to be a main selection.”

  “A main selection of what?”

  “That I can’t tell you yet. Both the Literary Guild and Book-of-the-Month are bidding for you. By the way, you get to keep half of the money. It ought to be another seventy-five thousand, at least. But that’s not why I’m calling.”

  Camilla giggled. Alex took such a delight in business that it was infectious. “So why did you call?” Camilla asked, just as she knew she was supposed to.

  “I called because Paramount, Warner, and Fox all want to turn your book into a movie!”

  “You can’t be serious? A movie about a busload of old ladies?”

  “Cam, they’re saying that you’re going to do for old women what Bridges of Madison County did for middle-aged ones. Olympia Dukakis, Shirley MacLaine, Anne Bancroft, and Joanne Woodward are panting for parts.” To the tune of “God Save the Queen,” Alex sang, “One million bucks for sure. One million bucks or more, less ten percent.”

  Camilla laughed. “They really want to make my book into a film? I can’t visualize it.”

  “Cam, you don’t know what the thing will look like when they’re done with it. It’s like putting your baby up for adoption: You can’t insist on the wardrobe and the schools—it’s not your baby anymore. If I make this deal, I suggest you hand the baby over and focus on your next one. Hollywood does what it has to do. For all we know, instead of a busload of old ladies, they’ll become a space capsule filled with orangutans.”

  Camilla giggled again. “I should like to see that, actually.”

  “So, we’re agreed? You sell the book to Hollywood.”

  “Absolutely,” Camilla said, hardly daring to believe it. Orangutans aside, it was almost a biblical thrill to imagine her characters being made flesh by actresses who would enact her story for people all around the world. Tears came to her eyes.

  “And Camilla?”

  “Yes?” Camilla asked.

  “Next week I think you’ll make number one.”

  100

  Everybody doesn’t have to be in the movies!

  —Samuel Goldwyn

  He’d been kept waiting in the fussy reception room for more than half an hour, and he was about to consider it an insult when Byron’s secretary appeared and hustled him into the inner sanctum. Alf looked, somehow, much smaller than the man Daniel had met in this office just over a year ago. “Well, Professor?” Alf said in a voice that sounded tired.

  Daniel needed some preliminaries. After all, it wasn’t easy to ask for a loan. “Well, Alf, I just wanted to know what you’ve heard from Hollywood. Have they got a script yet?”

  Alf looked at him. His eyes looked bloodshot, and the lids hung slackly, showing a watery, light pink flesh. “There’s no script, Professor.”

  “He couldn’t do it, could he?” Daniel felt his hope leaping. Despite the withering meeting with April Irons, Daniel felt there might be an opportunity here. He knew he could write a good screenplay. “Do you think there’s another chance?”

  “No.”

  The minimum price for a screenplay was $250,000. “But I know I can write a good script.”

  “Write a script? I was talking about another chance at a book! Forget the movie, Professor. There isn’t going to be a movie. Nobody makes a movie of a book that bombs.”

  Daniel paled. “But my option money.”

  “The option runs out in another few months, and I’m sure they won’t pick it up.”

  “But they were so interested,” Daniel sputtered.

  “Hollywood interest is like interest on a loan from your father—it’s completely waivable.”

  Daniel sat there trying to recover. It didn’t seem like a good time to ask for a loan, but since Byron had brought it up…“Do you think I might get a loan—you know, just an advance against royalties to help me out? Until I finish the next book.”

  “What royalties?” Byron asked. “There won’t be any royalties. I don’t think the book will ever earn out. And as far as the next book goes, I don’t think we could sell it unless you changed your name. But that’s a possibility.” He leaned back in his chair. He sighed deeply. “What’s the next book?” he asked.

  Daniel didn’t have a clue.

  101

  In this world, politics is like navigation in a sea without charts and wise men live the lives of pilgrims.

  —Joyce Cary

  “You’re fired.”

  “No, I’m not,” Pam said to Gerald.

  “Excuse me? I don’t think you heard me, and I’m certainly sure that I didn’t hear you correctly.” Gerald looked at Pam and for the first time allowed himself the luxury of showing his true feelings. “You’re fired,” he said. “I’m not firing you because you’re a slut, or because you slept with David Morton, or because you took credit where none was due. I’m not firing you because you gave away 70 percent of the paperback rights on the biggest hit of the season or because you bet on a losing horse. All of that is par for the course, Pam. I’m firing you because you tried to fuck me over, and that, Miss Mantiss, is simply not allowed at Davis & Dash.”

  “I’m not leaving.” Pam smiled.

  “Don’t be insubordinate. You’ve had a long run. You’ve gotten away with murder. Now take it like a man.”

  Pam’s smile became even more insolent. “I think that you’re the one who’s being fired,” Pam said. “I’ll only accept a dismissal from David Morton.”

  “You got it,” Gerald told her, and threw the letter signed by the chairman onto her desk.

  Pam looked at it in disbelief. “Surprised?” Gerald asked. “He didn’t like the
Trawley stuff. Edina nearly drove him mad. And he certainly didn’t like the PW article.” Gerald smiled grimly. “I also made sure he knew you’d slept with me as well as Jude Daniel. I think it hurt his pride.” Gerald laughed. “He thought you were his one true love. It’s sad to have to spoil a man’s illusions.”

  “You prick!” Pam yelled. “I’m not leaving.”

  Gerald walked to the door. “You shouldn’t have fired Emma Ashton,” Gerald confided. “Morton doubted my word until you did that. Too bad, Pam. Clear out by noon. Security will be up to be sure that you do.”

  Gerald strode down the hall. He had a lot of problems, but he would solve each one. He always did. He’d neutralized Pam: The PW article had given him the ammunition he needed to do that. He had gathered all the information on Carl—the limo use, the high expense-account spending. He’d be ready to present it when the time came. David Morton was beginning to doubt his own judgment, and Gerald knew he’d be able to keep his job as long as Morton realized there was nobody else who could fill it. Pam would never get it now, and Gerald had not groomed any other successor.

  He walked almost jauntily past Mrs. Perkins’s desk. “I’ll have a cup of Jamaican Blue Mountain,” he told her. But she looked up and shook her head.

  “Mr. Morton is in there waiting for you.”

  “In my office?”