‘Kim, can you come through? We’ve got a crisis.’
It was eight thirty in the morning. Brooke hadn’t even taken her jacket off when she noticed the manuscript of her magical slush–pile discovery Portico sitting in the middle of her desk. It had a coffee ring on the cover plus a bright yellow Post–it that read: ‘Buy this. Cheap. Mimi.’
Kim came running into Brooke’s office. Ever since the editorial meeting, Brooke had been trying, unsuccessfully, to reach Eileen Dunne, Portico’s author. She seemed to have disappeared in a puff of green smoke.
‘Hi Kim, where are we on tracking down Eileen Dunne?’ She waved the Post–it at her assistant. ‘Just got this from Mimi; looks like it’s getting serious all of a sudden.’
Kim nodded. ‘Yes, I was trying the author all last night and this morning, but I finally spoke to her a few minutes ago. She’s been out of town. Seems very nice.’
‘Especially since we probably got her out of bed,’ smiled Brooke, plumping up the vase of roses that David had sent her the day before to finally put Saturday night’s spat behind them. Neither Alicia nor Matthew had been mentioned since and she thought it best to keep it that way.
‘Well, that’s good news, can you get her on the phone for me … ’ she began, but the look on Kim’s face made her stop.
‘Oh,’ said Kim, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘Eileen told me she’s being represented by Vanessa Greenbaum, so it’s probably best if you speak to her in the first instance.’
The news was like a body blow to Brooke. The smile dropped off her face and she sat down in her chair.
‘Vanessa Greenbaum,’ she gasped. ‘How? When did that happen?’ Her eyes strayed back to Mimi’s note and a feeling of panic rose in her stomach.
Kim flipped open the diary she had tucked under her arm. ‘On Friday the fifteenth you asked me to phone Eileen and suggest she get an agent. I recommended Vanessa, Jane Grubman at IAA and Larry at Authors Inc.
Brooke stared at Kim, hoping it was a nasty joke. ‘Ohmigod. You recommended three of the toughest negotiators in New York?’
Kim nodded earnestly. ‘You said Eileen needed an agent, so I thought it would be better for you if your authors had prestigious ones.’
Brooke took a deep breath. Kim was efficient and super–keen, but she had an awful lot to learn about the publishing business. She wanted to shout at her, but Brooke knew that Kim had no idea what she had just done.
‘We’ll talk later,’ she mumbled, shooing Kim out of the office and putting her head in her hands. Vanessa Greenbaum was fierce, the master of the deal. She took on very few clients and was famous for getting six–figure deals for all of them. Breathe, breathe, she willed herself. She flicked through her Rolodex and dialled Vanessa’s number with a sense of dread. This was the part of her job that she hated.
‘Vanessa, hi. It’s Brooke Asgill. How are you?’
‘Brooke Asgill,’ said Vanessa. ‘This is a nice surprise. Didn’t think you’d still be working.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘Brooke, you are America’s most famous bride–to–be. That sounds like a full–time job in itself.’
‘Well, remind me to take a long holiday when it’s all over.’
Vanessa laughed a little too enthusiastically. ‘Well, congratulations on your wedding. I hope your favourite agent is going to get an invite, and if you ever want to publish your memoirs, I’d be happy for us to talk.’
‘Actually, that’s why I’m calling.’
‘Fantastic!’ said Vanessa, her enthusiasm real this time.
‘No, not about me. About a slush–pile script that came into me a couple of weeks ago. I believe you’re looking after the author.’
There was a pause and a rustling of papers.
‘Ah yes, Eileen Dunne. I was going to call you this week. Incredible book, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up when I read it. In my thirty years in the business that hasn’t happened very often but with Portico – phew! This is the real deal.’
Brooke was experienced enough to know she was being set up. It was just agent’s hyperbole; in fact Brooke seriously doubted that Vanessa had read more than the first few pages. Eileen Dunne already had serious interest from a publisher; for an agent it was a no–brainer. Who cared what the book was like?
‘When a book is this good, obviously I want to go straight to auction with it,’ continued Vanessa briskly. ‘But the author insisted I give you first look.’
‘I’m glad,’ said Brooke, trying to sound bright although her heart was pounding. ‘I did rescue it from Yellow Door’s slush–pile after all. And I think one of our assistants recommended you to Eileen.’
There was a long pause which suggested that what she had just said cut no ice.
‘So you are interested?’ said Vanessa finally.
‘Well, I’ve only seen the first few chapters. I also gave it to Mimi Hall who liked it as well,’ Brooke replied, trying to keep her voice casual. It was a game: agent bigging up the manuscript as if it was literary gold, editor down–playing their excitement. It was like a lover’s dance.
‘How about I give you twenty–four hours to come up with a pre–empt?’ said Vanessa smoothly.
‘Did you have a figure in mind?’ asked Brooke, the words sticking in her throat.
She was not a tough negotiator like Mimi, who could eat even the fiercest agent alive. For someone who had been brought up in a very wealthy family, she was uncomfortable talking about money, and haggling over advances with agents actually made her feel physically ill. It was certainly not what she’d signed up for when she first started at Yellow Door as an editorial assistant with the dreamy notion that life in a publishing house would be spent leisurely reading books. Vanessa gave a low laugh down the phone.
‘It’s a trilogy with enormous crossover appeal. If it went to auction it could go to seven figures for a three–book deal.’
Seven figures. A million dollars, minimum. Brooke swallowed as quietly as she could.
‘I’ll need to talk to Mimi about this one.’
‘Fine. How about we put in a call for five p.m.? I want to drop the manuscript to other editors by tomorrow lunchtime.’
Brooke put the phone gently back into its cradle. She felt nauseous. She was not confrontational by nature and wondered what would happen if she offered Vanessa the maximum advance she could. Seventy–five thousand was her limit as a commissioning editor. Vanessa would probably break a rib laughing. Steeling herself, she picked up the manuscript and walked down the hall to Mimi’s office. The corner room was by far the best office on the floor. Bright morning sun was streaming in through the floor–to–ceiling windows, along with the unmistakable sounds of a normal New York morning: road–drills, beeping taxi–cab horns. The bustle and energy of the city served as a welcome juxtaposition to the hush of the Yellow Door workplace.
‘Come in,’ said Mimi at Brooke’s timid knock on her open door. For a moment, Mimi didn’t even look up from her notebook. She tucked her dyed black bob behind her ears and placed both palms on the table before she favoured Brooke with eye contact.
‘Brooke. Good,’ she said. ‘Have you spoken to the Dunne woman yet?’
Brooke held the manuscript in front of her like a shield. ‘I’ve just spoken to her agent.’
‘Agent?’ said Mimi, looking up with alarm. ‘I thought you said this one was slush.’
‘It was, but it looks like she’s got an agent in the meantime.’
‘That’s unlucky,’ snapped Mimi, her voice accusatory. ‘Who is it?’
‘Vanessa Greenbaum.’
‘Fuck,’ said Mimi, her expression concerned. ‘So how much is that bitch trying to squeeze out of us?’
‘She’s putting it out to auction tomorrow, but we have first refusal.’
‘What did you say? You do know we can’t go any higher than forty thousand dollars?’
‘Each?’ asked Brooke hopefully.
Mimi looked at the ceiling. ‘For th
e whole trilogy,’ she snapped.
‘Well, it seems that Vanessa is looking at something considerably higher. She mentioned seven figures.’
‘What?’
Mimi stood up and started pacing behind her desk. Against the bright light she looked silhouetted.
‘If you’d have acted as soon as I said I was interested in the fucking script, we wouldn’t be in this position,’ she muttered. Brooke could read between the lines of Mimi’s angry frustration; she had seen this before. Mimi believed in the book, she could see its potential, but she didn’t want to pay a penny more than she had to for it.
‘Did you call Vanessa?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Call the author, ask if she’s signed a contract with the Greenbaum Agency. If she hasn’t, make her an offer directly.’
Brooke shook her head. It was hugely unethical to say the least, possibly even actionable should Vanessa choose to claim – not unreasonably – that she had already begun negotiations on the deal.
‘We can’t do that,’ protested Brooke.
‘Oh yes you can,’ said Mimi brusquely. ‘Do it now and let’s get this wrapped up by the end of the day.’
When Brooke left the office, her heart was thumping. To stitch Vanessa up would blacken her name with one of the most respected agents in New York. Mimi might have the arrogance to do it, but could she? And anyway, it wasn’t Mimi who had to suffer the consequences. Sitting back down behind her desk she took a few moments to do some breathing she had learnt at yoga class. It did nothing to calm her down. She was trapped. If she defied Mimi, she risked being frozen out in the department, and if she went straight to the author, Vanessa Greenbaum might well use her influence to put an end to her career in publishing. She longed to phone David to ask his advice, but he was on his way to Darfur to film a documentary for the network. Feeling the beginnings of tension headache, she tapped out an email to Edward Walker.
Hi Edward,
Mimi and I both love the slush–pile manuscript. Remember we discussed it – New Harry Potter? Author now with Vanessa Greenbaum so advance may go high. Authorization to pay up to four hundred thousand dollars?’
She pressed send and took a long swig of water from the bottle on her table, her hands trembling as she twisted the top off. She hadn’t felt like this in a long time. Perhaps never.
She jolted when she heard the ping of her message inbox.
If you think it’s that good, yes. Edward.
She snatched up the phone. ‘Vanessa, it’s Brooke.’
‘Glad you don’t hang about. What’s your offer?’
‘Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.’ Brooke pressed her hand onto the table as she said it. As she lifted it up she could see an imprint of her fingers.
Vanessa snorted. ‘Come on, Brooke, don’t insult me. You know what I said earlier.’
‘Two hundred and fifty in today’s climate is a great offer, Vanessa. You know how difficult young adult books are to call. For every J. K. Rowling or Stephanie Meyer there’s a thousand others in the remainder bin.’
‘I have my client to think about.’
What would Tess Garrett do? thought Brooke, picturing her steely, slightly frightening new publicist.
Brooke cleared her throat. ‘Your client sent her manuscript to Yellow Door and we’d already made contact, in fact we were going to make an offer directly to Eileen today. Unless you have actually signed a contract with Eileen, I think our lawyers can argue that we have precedent. You don’t want to lose your commission, do you? Fifteen per cent of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money, Vanessa.’
There was a long pause, so long that Brooke was beginning to think Vanessa had already hung up.
‘I can’t consider anything below four hundred thousand dollars,’ she said finally. Brooke could imagine her sitting in her midtown office in her Armani trouser suit, her mouth pursed into nothingness.
‘Three hundred thousand,’ said Brooke. ‘We’ll allocate a six–figure marketing spend to make sure it hits retail with a splash.’
‘And three hundred thousand would just be US rights?’
Brooke wondered how far she could push it. ‘Three hundred thousand. Three–book deal. US rights only,’ she said firmly.
‘I’ll need to talk to my client.’
‘I have our legal department calling me in an hour. My superiors want me to go direct to Eileen.’
‘I don’t want to sour our relationship Brooke,’ said Vanessa, her voice cold.
‘Neither do I.’
She put down the phone and exhaled. Every nerve–ending in her body seemed to be tingling. What have I done, what have I done? she thought to herself. It was far, far beyond anything she had ever dared do before. But she had a sneaking suspicion that maybe, just maybe, she had outgunned the mighty Vanessa Greenbaum.
‘Who’d have thought it?’ she thought, feeling a little giddy. She sat there watching the phone, fearing to take her eyes from it. When it rang after five long, painful minutes, Brooke jumped an inch off her chair.
‘It’s Vanessa. You have a deal.’
Brooke sank back into her chair, whizzed it round and suddenly shouted, Yippee! She’d just joined the big boys. And it felt fantastic.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Tess slipped the chunky wooden ring onto her middle finger and held her hand up to admire it. The polished walnut nub was the size of a pingpong ball and shone in the sunshine, its size and shape making her hand look dainty and elegant. The Broadway street vendor was busy putting silver earrings into tiny plastic bags, so she tapped him on the shoulder.
‘How much?’ she asked, her hand already rummaging for her purse.
‘Forty dollars,’ he said, shaking a long brown ponytail over his shoulder.
She knew he would take thirty dollars, but what the hell? She had a sudden romantic notion that he was a struggling artisan jewellery–maker by day, but a gifted modernist artist by night, and she felt almost altruistic handing over her four crisp ten–dollar bills. Supporting the arts, she thought with a smile. True or not, the ring went beautifully with her Seven jeans. Very downtown. Crossing Broadway onto Spring Street she spotted a lovely old yellow ice–cream van parked on one of SoHo’s cobbled side streets. She bought a red current waffle cone and took a big satisfied lick. Overnight the weather seemed to have turned and today was Manhattan’s first warm spring day. How could you be down on a day like this?
Not even her disappointment over Dom could ruin her mood today.
This weekend was supposed to be Dom’s first visit to New York to see her, as part of their transatlantic pact to each spend one weekend a month in their respective cities, but the arrangement had fallen at the first hurdle when Dom had called to say he had to be in the office all day Monday – the editor had called a conference about redesigning the travel pages. At first Tess had felt upset and let down, jilted even. She had spent her first two weekends in New York rushing around trying to get everything organized for his visit. Finally her new apartment in the West Village was now straight and ordered, her clothes all out of suitcases, her possessions removed from the FedEx cardboard boxes. It didn’t quite feel like home yet, but at least it was a solid, familiar base from which to properly explore the city.
But maybe, she thought with a pang of guilt, maybe it was for the best. As a travel editor, Dom was extremely familiar with most major cities, plus he had a tendency to show off about his knowledge. It might actually be more fun to discover New York herself, finding her own hidden little corners, uncovering her own secrets, which she could share at a later date. And she had to admit she had loved the selfish indulgence of her day so far, with no one to please but herself. She had woken up late and taken a solitary brunch in Pastis in the Meatpacking District, a short walk away from her apartment. She had sat there nursing a latte, watching with fascination the glamorous women dressed in skinny jeans and Chanel sitting in huddles, laughing, drinking coffee, and picking at food.
It was a different New York to the one she had first sampled almost a decade ago when she and Dom, in their first summer as a couple, had got two cheap bucket flights to Newark, New Jersey and caught the Amtrak into Penn Station, right next to Madison Square Garden. It had been July, which she now knew was the worst time to visit New York, but back then the stifling heat made it even more exotic. They had stayed in a hostel on One Hundred and Fourth Street, bought hot dogs in Central Park and pizza slices at Sbarro. ‘One day, we will work in Manhattan,’ they had decided as they stared out at the view from the top of the Empire State Building. Ten years later, Tess had made it: she was finally living the dream.
Glancing at her watch, she was shocked to see it was already 4 p.m. The day was going too quickly; it was always the way when she was alone, she thought. She was enjoying being outdoors, feeling the sun and lazy spring breeze on her face, but passing the Angelika Film Center on West Houston Street she was tempted to go inside. After walking for so many hours her feet were aching – and anyway, how long had it been since she had been to the cinema? She read the screening timetable behind the ticket booths. There was a Woody Allen film she’d read about – terrible reviews; then there were a couple of films that were part of the Macedonian Film Festival and a Brazilian foreign–language film that she was sure was excellent … but not today. But then her eyes stopped on The Pact, a low–budget horror film that had picked up buzz at the Sundance Film Festival. Looks like fun, she grinned.
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