The Bestseller

by Olivia Goldsmith

  Camilla looked around. The apartment was still very spare—but she liked it that way. And there was less for Frederick to bump into. It was a discipline, learning to return everything to its place so that he wouldn’t trip or bruise himself. But if he could learn Braille, and he had, she could learn to be orderly.

  It was odd: Now that she had all the money she would ever require, she seemed to have very few needs indeed. She had sent a whopping big check and thank-you to Sister Agnus Dei and had bought herself some beautiful clothes. Other than that, she didn’t seem to have many expenses.

  There was the noise of a key in the lock. Frederick and Rosie came in. Rosie was his new love, and very beautiful. She walked sedately alongside him, her dark brown coloring setting off his gingery beard. “Hello, darling,” Camilla said, so that Frederick could place her. He turned to face her with a smile. “Hello, Rosie.” Rosie wagged her tail. Camilla had been careful not to become too close to the dog, even though she adored the chocolate Lab. But the bond between Frederick and his guide dog mustn’t be tampered with. He was dependent on her, and she must be dependent on him for approval as well as necessities. Only he fed Rosie, and she slept on the floor beside him.

  “Have a good day?” she asked.

  “Not bad,” Frederick told her. He put his hand out, and she took it and kissed his cheek. He moved her mouth to his own.

  “What did you do this afternoon?”

  “Oh, bumped into a few people,” Frederick said, smiling ruefully.

  Camilla groaned. Frederick still made every possible blind joke and pun. She thought someday that might pass.

  “How was your day?” he asked.

  “You tell me,” she said, and he moved to his accustomed chair, put his feet up on the ottoman, and waited for Rosie to lie down beside him.

  Camilla took out her new chapter and began to read. It was a part of their tradition, the life they were building together. He came home each afternoon, and she’d read her day’s work to him. After she finished, he would open a bottle of wine and they would have a drink, and then both cooked dinner. Tonight Emma was joining them, along with Alex. Craig and his new girlfriend, Judith, were coming too. Mrs. Ashton couldn’t make it—she was busy with their wedding preparations and seemed to want to make a much larger production of it than either Camilla or Frederick did. “As it’s the only legal wedding we shall have in this generation, I must be humored,” she had said. “After all, Emma refused to wear a bridal gown in her commitment ceremony, so you must let me buy one for you.”

  Camilla began reading, and Frederick listened attentively. He cocked his head to the right in that way that he had, and Camilla smiled when Rosie cocked her head too. Frederick let his long, beautiful hand hang over the arm of the chair and absently scratched Rosie behind one ear. Camilla looked at them, along with the beautiful room Frederick had created, especially the Canaletto on the wall behind him. Frederick had said that this was where his blindness had paid off—he would have fought not to hang the picture on his pristine walls, but as he couldn’t see it, he just considered that it just wasn’t there. Craig knew it was there, however, and stared at it longingly each time he and Judith came over.

  Camilla looked at the painting and then at Frederick’s attentive face. She had more than she had ever thought possible, and tears filled her eyes. Moments of joy were rare, so she savored this one. Remember it all, she told herself, so you can write about it. She had been so happy lately that it made her quite nervous. It might pass, but she’d enjoy it while it lasted. And then she’d write about it, because for some reason capturing life on a page was her talent, the thing that gave shape and meaning to her existence, the gift that had brought all the other rich gifts into her life. Tears filled her eyes until she couldn’t see the typed page in front of her.

  She’d been silent for a long moment. “Is that the end?” Frederick asked.

  “No, Frederick darling,” she told him. “There’s a great deal more.”

  Acknowledgments

  So many people contributed to this book that I had to put together an index. (I hope all of you actually read the book, but if you only want to see your name mentioned, just consult the back.) Special thanks, however, are due to those who were so supportive on a day-to-day, listen-to-my-whining basis. Thanks to: Paul (No Coast) Mahon, for his manic good humor, his wit, and his eternal, unjustified optimism and spirit of fun. Keep taking the medication, Paul! To Nan Robinson, a total piece of work, and I mean that in the nicest possible way. To Linda Grady, a great writer, a great friend, and a natural blond. To Diana Hellinger, who reads everything I write, comments, and doesn’t get angry when I don’t call her back. To Walter Mathews, for his patience, humor, and decorating advice. To Charlotte Abbott as well as her dog. To Jason Kaufman, with thanks for his unfailing good humor and patience, though I do miss the ponytail. To Jody Post, who keeps me in touch with reality. To Christopher Lehmann-Haupt, who generously took the time to explain so much about the job of the reviewer. To Howard Stern, for his brutal honesty about private parts of the publishing business and for making me laugh on grim mornings. To the brilliant Patricia Faulkner, who helped so much with Canaletto, art history, and the insider’s view of the guide’s world. To Phillip Gwen-Jones, for his insights on British class distinctions and background on the vagaries of the U.K. school system. To Rachel Hore, even though she didn’t name the baby after me. To Jane O’Connell, for being such a delightful, dedicated reader. To Kathi Goldmark, for being my music enabler (Don’t worry, I’m keeping the day job, Kathi). To Faith Sale, whose brilliant explanation of the role of an editor inspired and awed me. To Barbara Turner, whom I love dearly and who knows everything worth knowing. Hang in there, Binni. To Hugh Wilson, a writer, a director, and a total charm boy. To Michael Kohlmann, who gave me so many insights into the bookstore world. To Charlie Crowley of Grafton, Vermont, the perfect book buyer (he buys multiple hardcover copies as gifts). To the Palm Springs Writers’ Conference, for all the good times. To Gail Parent—you’re right, it is all high school. To Louis Baum, because I truly adore you and I like going to the Groucho. To Kelly Lange, sister-writer, and another natural blond. To George Craig, for his belief in authors, particularly this one. To Frank D’elia, who helped me stand on my own two feet. To Lenny Gartner, whose creativity dwarfs my own. To Jane Austen, because everybody’s been writing about her lately. To Sir James Goldsmith—you know why, “Uncle Jimmy.” To the mysterious but always witty Horace Bent. To Val Hudson, with thanks for the book party and apologies to the rug. To Dwight Currie, a fellow writer and a guy who never fails to make me laugh. To Melody Smith, for her endless galley slaving. To Ian La Frenais, for the inspiration I received from his masterpiece “Scotland: The Vital Market.” To Dick Snyder, for publishing me in the first place. To Sherry Lansing, for her continuing friendship and for buying the film rights to this book. To Liz Calder, most delightful and eminent of English editors. To Alexandra Elovitz, with thanks for your company, Big Girl. To Rachel “Where’s the cream?” Dower, for still loving me. To Ben Dower, as long as he stays close to the candles. To Jean Balderston, for her continuing generosity and creative support. To Paul “Badah” Smith, with love always. To Gerry Petievich, my brother sage and West Coast Muscle. To Ruth Nathan, because the feeling is mutual. To Gary Lefer, even though he wouldn’t marry me. To David Gandler, because I love what you write. To Anthea Disney, because you really get it. To Lorraine Kreahling, novelist, gal pal, and polenta chef extraordinaire. To Rick Harris, because we’re not in Constantinople and he is not my brother. To Norman Pastorek, who knows what he knows, with my deepest gratitude. To Scott Rudin, my all-time idol. To Harold Wise, the best physician a writer ever had. To Michael Elovitz, the best cook at Bonchino’s. To Karen Rosenfeld, for her company and dinner at Drai’s. To Neil Baldwin, a delightful fellow book lover. To William Walker, director of the New York Public Library, with thanks for the use of the hall. To Mark Piel, director of the New York Society Library, my home a
way from home. To Chuck Adams, for being such a good sport about his cameo in this book. To Amy Fine Collins, a constant inspiration. To John Bloom, for keeping me in the picture. To Maureen Egen, because we love the same movie. To Gordon Lish, for his passionate devotion to the written word. To Dori Berinstein, with love to Mitchell, Sammi, and Pooh. To Gary Magder, my new best friend. To Amy Hempel, for giving me reasons to live. To Jim Batte, because he services the independent bookstores and keeps me in stock. To John Baker, for his delightful wit and support of “New Voices.” To Carole Little, for extending her amazing hospitality to me and letting me enjoy her exquisite taste. To Alix Madrigal, because she was honorable and kept my secret—sort of. To Melinda Bargreen, for all those care packages. Keep off the plaids, kid. To Arlene Friedman, for knowing a Main Selection when she sees one. To Amy Kaplan at Baker & Taylor, for keeping me on the shelves. To Adam Schroeder, boy mogul, with special thanks for the posters. To Aileen Boyle, for being brilliant and putting up with me. To the brilliant Lynn Goldberg, for understanding what I’m all about. I bow to you, Lynn. To Roberta Rubin of the original Book Stall.

  Also, and with deep apologies, thanks to the unsung heroes of the book world: the sales reps who schlep to the independent bookstores and know not only what their publishers are selling but also what their bookstore clients need. Their love of books and their unfailing humor never fails to impress. I had a whole subplot around a book rep in this novel, but it wound up on the cutting-room floor. My apologies to all book reps everywhere but especially to: Linda Stormes, David G. Bowman, Steve Fischer, David Youngstrom, Rick Turner, Mark Hillersheim, John Crowell, Geoff Gibson, Gary Lawton, Jerry Marasak, James E. Murphy, Jennifer L. Petschke, Eric Svenson, Barbara Trainer, Bill Weller, Neal McNish, Kenneth W. Collins, Trish Keaveney, Fran Olson, Cathy Schornstein, Richard Starke, Katy Stone, David Tripp, Allan Winebarger, John Zeck, Mike Leonard, Gabriel R. Barillas, Jim Hankey, Diane Jackson, John McAndrew, Nancy Kellogg, Tierney Whipp, and the extraordinary Ann Lyons. Gook luck in Jamaica.

  Most of all, thanks to everyone else in the book world, particularly my readers. My experiences, bad and good, have been thrilling because they are all a part of the process of creating the things that have always been most exciting and precious to me: books. So, to all of you, recognized and unrecognized, thanks for letting me be a tiny part of the long history of publishing.

  Lastly, for those few I have felt it best to omit, I remind you of Alexander Pope’s lines:

  Satire’s my weapon, but I’m too discreet

  To run amuck, and tilt at all I meet.

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