The moderator nodded his approval as the audience clapped politely, perhaps not quite getting it. One person who did seem to be getting it, fully, was New Man, who’d leaned forward as her short speech progressed, gazing at her with admiration and appreciation as though to say: Where have you been all my life?
“Anyone else on the panel care to comment?” the moderator prompted.
“Yes,” said New Man’s editor, who had too much gel in his slicked-back hair and was wearing a skinny suit that was just the slightest bit of shine shy of being sharkskin. He hooked a manicured thumb at New Man as he said, “Well, my most important job is making sure this guy gets to places like this on time.”
New Man’s editor laughed at his own joke, and the audience laughed with him, clapping as The Woman and New Man exchanged tight smiles.
“I think getting this guy here on time is an endeavor we’re all appreciative of,” the moderator said. “After all, he is one of our most popular bestselling authors!” The audience roared their approval. “Thanks for coming, everybody! ‘Dystopian Among Us’ starts in twenty minutes!”
Everyone on the panel rose from their seats, heading off the stage.
The Woman turned to her author, who immediately hugged her, The Woman hugging her right back.
“I just love working with you,” the author said.
“It’s mutual,” The Woman said.
“How did I ever get so lucky?”
“Please. The pleasure is all mine.”
“Will I see you at the party later on tonight? Please tell me you’re coming. I need you there. You know how I hate those things.”
“I promise. Don’t worry, I’ll be there. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
As the author moved off, The Woman sensed a presence behind her. Turning, she was startled to find New Man standing there, but not in an unpleasant way, not like a candidate lurking behind a rival in the hopes of intimidating that rival during a debate. Rather than speaking to his own crowd of waiting admirers, he’d clearly been waiting eagerly and patiently to speak to her. Tall as she was in her heels, standing up, he was even several inches taller. Despite his suave demeanor, he almost looked nervous, which became apparent when he spoke.
“Hey,” he said, “that was, um, that was really amazing what you said up there.”
“Oh, well, thank you,” The Woman said, feeling unaccountably flustered. She was used to feeling confident in her work and that whatever praise she garnered for it was well-earned. “I think that—”
But before she could finish stating just what exactly she did think, New Man’s editor—who’d himself turned away from his author upon completion of the panel to see what other big fish there might be to fry—pounced, as though his radar had immediately shot all the way up.
“Hey,” he said with a smile that was more a warning than a welcome, “you’re not trying to poach my author, are you?”
The Woman was stunned silent by this accusation, while New Man looked at his editor with cool exasperation.
“Nobody is trying to poach anybody,” he said. “Why don’t you hit the food table and I’ll join you in a moment.”
“All right, buddy, but don’t take too long,” New Man’s editor said; and to The Woman: “Always a pleasure!”
The Woman nodded along as though she shared that sentiment, but you could tell she wasn’t really feeling it.
Once his editor was out of earshot, New Man turned his interest back on The Woman.
“You started to say, ‘I think that,’” he said. “I’d really like to hear more. In fact, I’d like to hear more about everything that you think.” He made a facepalm motion. “Oh, god. That was too much, wasn’t it? Like, totally smarmy, right?”
The Woman nodded, but inside, she was charmed. It was endearing that someone whose public persona was embodied by a James Bond–like suaveness could become flustered by her.
“Let me try again,” New Man started. “Is there any chance you’d let me buy you dinner tonight?”
Here, she hesitated. “Your editor already accused me—unwarrantedly, I might add—of trying to poach you. I fear if you had dinner with me instead of him, it might tip his paranoia right over the edge.”
“And I’d invite him to join us, but I happen to know he’s already made other plans. He’s a bit like that, always keeping his eye out for something better. Honestly, you’d be doing me a huge favor, since I hate dining alone.”
“Oh, I’m sure there is no shortage of booksellers and librarians who would love to have dinner with you.”
“Perhaps, but I liked what you said on the panel and was hoping to get your professional advice . . .”
The restaurant he took her to that evening was not at all like Nick’s, which, over the course of three years, was pretty much the only restaurant The Man had ever taken her to. This restaurant was upscale—a see-and-be-seen sort of place—and yet it was clear from the maître d’s comments that New Man had called ahead, arranging for an intimate table where they could see but not be seen. As they walked to that intimate table, it was further clear that both had taken care with their appearance, everything a step above the business attire common to book fairs; a strong effort had been made. Well, she did have that party to get to later. He probably had his own party to get to as well.
At the table, New Man confidently pulled out her chair for her and, graciously, she let him.
Drinks ordered, New Man opened the conversation with, “You know, I really did love what you said today, about what you see as the editor’s role.”
“And I meant every word of it,” The Woman said.
“I could tell that you did,” New Man said appreciatively. “It strikes me that some might think it odd that I should be so enchanted by your stated desire to be invisible. But, of course, you strictly meant that editorially—I know we just met but already I can’t imagine you being invisible in any other way—and it further strikes me that one must have a wonderfully healthy level of self-confidence to have the attitude you do.”
The Woman smiled at the compliment, her self-confidence on vivid display, but said nothing.
“Oh gosh,” he groaned. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I? Trying too hard? Coming on too strong?”
The Woman smiled, holding her index finger and thumb so close, there was barely any space between them.
He groaned again. “That’s what I thought.”
“Maybe you’d get in less trouble if you stuck to business, leaving the personal compliments out of it. This was supposed to be strictly a business dinner, wasn’t it?”
“Right you are: business.” He cleared his throat.
“In my experience,” New Man continued, “editors usually want to put their own fingerprints on everything, trying to achieve the exact opposite of what you said your goal is—editorial invisibility—so that afterward, they can tell people that the author would be nowhere without them.” He paused. “I do know that’s a sweeping generalization and that not all editors are like that, that most are good people doing their jobs earnestly, most falling somewhere along the vast continuum between the Svengalis at one end of the spectrum and all the way at the other end, you. But there are enough Svengalis to leave me with the occasional bad taste.”
They paused as the waiter came to take their food orders.
After the waiter departed, New Man continued with a rueful look at his wine, “And then there’s my editor . . .”
“Yes,” The Woman said, knowingly and yet noncommittally, “I’ve met him.”
“You know,” New Man said, “I’ve loved everything about my publishing experience.” He took a sip of his wine before setting the glass down and toying with the stem between his fingers. “Except for that.”
“What are you saying?” The Woman asked, still noncommittal.
“What if I told you,” New M
an said, “that I want to be poached?”
The Woman was on full alert now, but said nothing, waiting.
“What if I told you I wanted to be poached by you?”
The Woman started to smile. One of the most successful novelists in the world wanted to work with her? What editor wouldn’t be flattered by that? But then the smile froze.
“That’s exactly what your editor accused me of. We can’t be having this discussion.”
“Then how about if I tell you a story about another author. Would that be OK?”
“Not if it’s of the ‘I have a friend who’ variety when everyone knows the ‘friend’ is the person speaking.”
“It’s not like that at all. Do you know who Robert Ludlum is? Or was? Since he’s dead and yet books keep coming out with his name on them.”
She rolled her eyes, but not unkindly. She worked in publishing, she loved books, of course she knew who Robert Ludlum was: one of the greatest spy novelists of the previous century.
“Right,” he said, looking embarrassed. “Of course you do. Anyway, an old bookseller once told me a story about him. Apparently, he was a customer of hers. And she said that despite all the riches his bestsellers had provided him with, it was her opinion that the one book that made him happiest was the more humorous one he’d written earlier in his career. That it was her further belief that he’d have been happier if he could have done more of that.”
“So, what are you saying? That you want to write spy novels? Or humorous fiction? But you do neither.”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m saying I’m tired of doing the same stupid pet trick over and over again, no matter how lucrative. I’m saying I want to do a different stupid pet trick.” He leaned forward here. “Look, I don’t want to do anything drastically different. I don’t want to completely reinvent my own wheel. And I’m not complaining about the lifestyle that being successful has blessed me with. But I am saying that I do want to write books with more depth to them.”
The penny finally dropped. “And your editor isn’t supportive of that.”
New Man pointed his trigger finger at her. “Got it in one. Not only is he not supportive, he doesn’t want it at all! He says it would, and I quote, ‘spoil the brand.’”
“But you’re not talking about wanting an entire genre change, are you?”
He shook his head.
“You just want to write with more depth. Who could object to that?”
New Man shrugged. “Tell that to my editor.” He paused. “Or better yet, be my editor.” He paused again. “You know, I’ve read several of the books you’ve edited. It’s such a wonderful range of books you’ve worked on. I’m a huge fan.”
The Woman hadn’t sought this out. She would never have sought this out. But it had come to her. And what could be more attractive to an editor than a stupendously successful author wanting to write even better books and believing that she was the best editor to help him do so?
“But what about your contract?” she said.
“That’s the beauty of it: I’ve delivered all the books I owe them,” New Man said. “The latest book I attempted, the one I really wanted to write, was my option book. And since my editor already said no to that, that they’d prefer I write something else ‘more on brand’ . . . ”
“I’m not entirely comfortable talking about this any further right now. Perhaps, if you really are serious about this—”
He nodded, vigorously, almost like a puppy.
“If you are truly serious,” she said more forcefully, “then have your agent get in touch with me. And we’ll see what happens from there.”
And that was that.
Over their food, they talked about other-than-publishing things: families, hobbies, life.
At one point, he not-so-subtly asked her if she lived alone.
“Yes,” she said.
“I do too,” he said.
“Well,” she added, “except for Gatz, but that’s only on weekends.”
A handsome eyebrow was raised. “Gatz? Is that your . . . son?” He didn’t say it like it was a problem, more like just a matter of curiosity.
“Of sorts.” She laughed. “Gatz is my dog, a border collie. I share custody of him with my ex.”
“And how does that work?”
“Better than you might think. Do you like dogs?”
“Of course,” he said, his finger going to the tiny scar beneath his eye, the finger-to-scar move an occasional tic. “Who doesn’t love dogs?”
An hour later, they sat over the remnants of an exquisite chocolate dessert—one plate; two forks—laughing.
“I hate to cut this short,” The Woman said, sounding truly regretful, “but I promised I’d at least make an appearance at the party my publisher’s throwing.”
Disappointment flashed across his face. “Do you have to?” he said, sounding equally regretful.
“It’s tempting to punt, but I can’t. I promised the author I was on the panel with today that I’d go. I specifically don’t want to let her down.”
“And that’s why I want you to become my editor.” No longer disappointed, now he looked inspired. “But here’s a thought: Would you mind if I tag along? Perhaps you could even introduce me to your publisher? It would all be strictly professional.” He paused, then flashed a brilliant smile. “I happen to love parties.”
“That,” The Woman said, meaning every word, “would be wonderful.”
* * *
* * *
Oh no! was my first thought when The Woman finished speaking. New Man loves parties? What worse quality could he possibly have?
But just as soon as the panic set in, rapidly thwacking my tail against the floor, quickly, I told myself to cool my jets. It was just a work dinner. He was an author, she was now his editor, it was all just business.
Her friends had been hanging on every word as she spoke. I’d been hanging on every word too; so much hanging, I’d forgotten to go after the drips of nacho dip. Seeing the error of my ways, I quickly made up for lost time.
“Well,” The Redhead from the Art Department said, “he sounds like a lot more fun than the last guy!”
I sneered quietly at this, getting riled up, feeling my hackles rise.
“The last guy”? She made it sound like they were nothing. They were together for three years! Plus . . .
The Man was plenty of fun! He loved to take long walks, he was great for cuddles on the couch, and he was never too tired to throw a ball or a Frisbee just one more time. Or a hundred. What more could anyone want from a guy? OK, so maybe some of his more sterling qualities weren’t always discernible to other humans, but . . . The Man was plenty of fun!
Anyway, like I said, the stuff with New Man was just business. Even though they were officially broken up, I was sure The Woman wasn’t looking to replace The Man romantically—they were meant for each other!
“But he’s going to be my author,” The Woman told The Redhead.
Ex-actly.
“I can’t date my author,” The Woman said, firm, decisive.
Before I could seek out more nacho dip drips, a resounding chorus rang out.
“You’re right!” The Blonde said.
“Of course you can’t!” The Redhead said.
“Of course you can!” said The Brunette from Accounting, who, if you asked me, should’ve just stuck to her numbers.
The others all stared at her, which, from The Blonde, was more of a glare.
“What?” The Brunette said. “Oh, come on. Yeah, I get it: Me Too and all of that. But it’s not like the typical editor/author relationship with the editor being in a position of power over the author. No editor is in a position of power over an author who’s that successful.”
Still, the others stared and glared at her.
�
��What?” The Brunette said again. “Doesn’t anyone else believe in true love? What if this guy turns out to be her soul mate? The love of her life? Should she ignore the possibility of true love just because of what others might think?”
Oh, I didn’t like where this was going, at all.
I thumped my tail to express my displeasure, wishing they could hear the thoughts running through my mind:
No! No! Of course you can’t! Think about the potential lawsuits!
“It’s not like it’s illegal,” The Brunette muttered.
Damnit. Then how about ethics. Has anyone here ever heard about ethics? Well, think about—
“Well, it’s all moot, since that is not going to happen,” The Woman said firmly. “I know I started this all by saying I thought I met someone, but now I don’t know why I put it like that. It’s strictly business, and it’s going to stay that way.” She paused. “So, who has read the book?”
Not me! I’m just here for the wine and conversation! I thought with a deep sense of relief. And I was relieved. Deeply. Because if The Woman was changing the subject back to the book that I was sure none of them had read, she wasn’t serious. And if she wasn’t serious, there was nothing for me to worry about.
“I have!” The Blonde said to The Woman. “I was fascinated by the symbolism in Marissa’s character . . .”
Poseur, I thought with a yawn, as I settled back in over my front paws. I bet you got that from reading Goodreads reviews.
Still, while on the outside I may have looked yawningly nonchalant and all settled, on the inside my mind was racing.
And the dejected, distracted gaze on The Woman’s face didn’t help.
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