If she were in his shoes (a battered pair of loafers she dearly wished he would replace), she would be tempted to take to bed with a box of sprinkled doughnuts and knock off writing for a few weeks. But Aaron was extremely disciplined, a quality she admired. A few times she’d taken a peek at his writing. Aaron could spend several paragraphs describing the way sunlight fell on the floor of a room, whereas in the same space, Laurie’s main character would have endured three major life upheavals. In fact, Aaron’s writing was paced the way he made love, slow and methodical.
She took the glasses from his nose, removed the book and kissed his cheek. “Sleep well,” she said. She turned out the light and prepared for sweet dreams with her handsome scribe beside her. The news about Canine Cupid could wait.
Thirteen
Aaron’s briefcase was so stuffed with composition papers it looked like it swallowed a watermelon. A week ago he began a new semester at Metro Atlanta University, which would severely eat into his writing time. He planned to spend the next couple of hours grading, his least favorite pastime.
Yet Aaron was whistling Stravinsky’s “Rite of Spring” and feeling upbeat. The reason for his cheery mood was that Laurie surprised him with morning love-making. Nothing kicked off his day better.
Aaron sat at the kitchen table and pulled out the first paper. He gave it an initial cursory read and said to Dusty, “Don’t even think about eating this one. It would give you severe indigestion.” He slipped Dusty a bite of jelly toast and seized his red pen, preparing to do battle with syntax so mangled it jangled his brain.
Five papers in, the phone rang and Aaron ignored it. The landline seemed to exist for a single purpose: to allow telemarketers and shysters to harass people. The phone had an audio function that announced callers in a mechanical voice and often it botched the pronunciation.
Today it was saying, “Rite Er Plant. Rite Er Plant.”
Wait. Was he hearing correctly? Not Rite Er Plant, but Writer Plant. Was it possible his literary agent had changed her mind about him?
Aaron jolted from his chair to answer it.
“Aaron Mite here.”
“Aaron?” Andrea said. “That’s odd. I guess I misdialed somehow. I was looking for Laurie Lee.”
“You have the correct number. Laurie’s my girlfriend. We live together.”
“I had no idea. Is she available?”
“She’s at work. May I take a message?”
“Tell her to call me ASAP. I’m certain she’ll be getting other calls from agents, but urge her to call me first.”
Ha! As if Andrea was in any position to ask him for a favor.
“Maybe,” Aaron said. “If you tell me what this is all about.”
“She hasn’t told you? Three film studios are fighting over the rights to her novel, Canine Cupid. Jennifer Lawrence is attached to the project.”
“There must be a mistake…How would a film agent discover Laurie’s novel?”
“Just have her call me, will you?”
The phone rang steadily the entire afternoon. The calls were for Laurie, and all were either editors or agents. The film agent also called and said a deal had been negotiated with Weinstein Company.
When Laurie got home, Aaron told her the news. She was so startled she swayed in her sandals and had to sit down on a living room chair. “I honestly didn’t think it would go through. That’s why I didn’t tell you—”
“How did this happen?” Aaron said.
Laurie could barely get the story out. Something about frenzy and pitch. It all sounded foreign to Aaron. Never had he heard of a novel being sold this way. (Not that he was an expert at such things.) But, according to Laurie, Canine Cupid wasn’t even finished. And talk about your silly titles.
The next day Laurie was composed enough to speak to the editors and agents that left messages, but the decision of how to proceed overwhelmed her. Aaron found himself in the position of adviser to his girlfriend, a traditional male role he enjoyed. She wanted to pick the editor who gave her the best terms and not bother with an agent. Might as well eliminate the middleman, she said.
Aaron was a newbie to the business of publishing in many ways, but he knew this much: A literary agent was likely to broker a much more lucrative deal. Despite the fact that Andrea had dropped him, he knew she was well-connected and known for her superb negotiation tactics.
Laurie heeded Aaron’s counsel and hired Andrea. To Aaron’s astonishment, Andrea almost immediately sold Laurie’s partially finished book at auction for a staggering figure. Aaron was under the impression that the publishing business moved at the pace of the Earth’s tectonic plates. That obviously was not true when dealing with a desirable property. Ironically, the publishing house who won the auction was W&W. As a condition of the deal, the company asked Laurie to cease selling novels herself.
The book contract was quickly inked, and W&W arranged for Laurie to fly to New York City to meet with all the key people in the publishing company. Laurie asked Aaron to come with her. When he agreed, she expressed her gratitude by making his favorite dish of chicken and dumplings and serving herself as dessert. (Whip cream and maraschino cherries were involved.) Afterward they showered and fell into bed. Aaron was moments from falling asleep when Laurie said, “Does my book deal bother you?”
Dinner and sex had been extremely satiating, thus nothing was bothering Aaron. He told her so.
“You’re sure?”
“Very,” he said. He was trying to keep conversation to a minimum because he was exhausted.
She scooted closer to him and wrapped her arms around his back. Her breath was hot on his neck. “You’re incredible. Because some guys might feel threatened by my success.”
Moments later he heard the soft whistle of her breathing and knew she was asleep. Aaron was suddenly restless. He felt her last statement suggested a misunderstanding about their respective statuses.
It was one thing to find success writing genre fiction, but it was much more difficult to achieve recognition in the world of literary fiction. And he objected to her use of the word “threatened.” Did the success of McDonald’s McRib threaten a Michelin four-star restaurant? Not that there was anything wrong with a McRib; it could be tasty in a pinch, but it was certainly not memorable.
Then again, he remembered Ross saying that certain genre fiction writers were making great strides in the elevation of their prose. At the time he’d questioned his statement, but maybe there was some truth to it. Perhaps Laurie was one of those rare genre writers, and that’s why her work was commanding large amounts of money and attention. And who knew? Maybe, one day, Aaron could motivate her to transcend her genre. She was, after all, a true original.
Fourteen
From: Brandi Barrett
To: Aaron Mite
Subject: US Magazine
Hi Professor Mite,
So I’m in your eng. comp. class. 3rd period? Anyway I was reading US Magazine and guess who I saw? I literally had a heart attack when I spied my fav teacher’s face. J Your girlfriend’s very pretty. Do you want me to save my copy for you?
Brandi
Laurie was stretched out on the mattress wearing a pink nightgown trimmed in marabou. She favored theatrical nightwear and had even bought Aaron a piped pair of pajamas and a paisley robe with lapels. The ensemble looked like it belonged in the costume room of a Noël Coward production. (Aaron had always slept in a t-shirt and boxers but he frequently wore the pajamas to please Laurie, marveling that they had a breast pocket.)
She was so engrossed in a rom-com she didn’t notice Aaron until he climbed into bed. He could tell it was a rom-com, because there was a falling-in-love montage of characters walking in the rain, feeding each other brownies, and knocking over furniture while passionately kissing.
She turned the TV off. “Sor
ry. Wouldn’t want you to catch chick-flick cooties.”
“Have you heard of a periodical called U.S. Magazine?” he said.
“U.S. as in United States?”
“Maybe. Supposedly you and I were in it.”
“Oh. Us Magazine.”
“Is it true? Do we appear in this publication?”
Laurie bit her bottom lip. “How did you know about Us?”
“A student, who should have been reading something loftier, saw it. Were we in it or not?”
“Remember when that photographer caught us coming out of the Strand?”
On their recent trip to New York the only time Aaron and Laurie were able to spend together was a quick trip to the iconic bookstore the Strand, and, yes, Aaron did remember the flash of a photographer’s camera as they left the bookstore.
“May I see a copy, please?” Aaron said.
“I’m not sure if I have that one.”
Aaron knew W&W had been sending her packages every week with all the publicity she had received. A thick envelope arrived yesterday.
“Please let me see it or I’ll get it myself.”
“Okay,” Laurie said reluctantly. She slipped out of bed and returned a moment later with a glossy magazine in hand. “It’s a lot of nonsense.”
The magazine was a supermarket tabloid, and a Post-it stuck out of the page. Aaron turned the slick pages until he came across a photograph of Laurie in a white dress, her teeth and hair almost as bright as the garment. Aaron was at her side.
Celebrities: They’re Just Like Us
Laurie Lee, white-hot W&W romance scribe, slipped out of the Strand Bookstore with an unidentified male.
Laurie nuzzled him, her lips scraping over his five-o’clock shadow. “You’re so much more to me than an unidentified male.”
Aaron had taken off his glasses to retire for the night, but he put them back on. They helped him think.
“This isn’t good news.”
“I know. I’m sorry. You probably don’t like seeing yourself in this type of magazine.”
“That’s not what I’m concerned about.”
“By the way, you’re much more handsome in person.” She walked her fingers across his chest.
He placed his hand over hers. “You’re not listening. This isn’t about me; it’s about you. They’re calling you a celebrity.”
“I know. Isn’t that the craziest thing? Of course, my publicist loves it. And they’re going crazy back home. Delilah said I made the front page of the Swainsboro Forest-Blade.”
“Is that what you want? To be a celebrity? I thought you were a writer.”
“Well, I am a writer. It says so right here in the caption. ‘Romance scribe.’” She tapped a tangerine-colored fingernail against the page.
“But the press isn’t promoting you as a writer. They’re promoting you as an object of desire. Before you know it, men’s magazines will be courting you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m an author, not a centerfold model. And even if they did ask me, which they won’t, I’d never agree. My grandmother would surely come back from the dead if I did that.”
“I worry that your identity as an author is being drowned out by your…” Her nightgown was diaphanous, and he could discern her nipples, pink and erect, through the flimsy fabric.
“Aaron?”
“Sorry. I temporarily forgot what I was going to say. I worry that your identity as an author is being drowned out by your white-hotness.”
Laurie pounded her pillow and several feathers drifted into the air. She had an entire pre-slumber routine of sheet smoothing and pillow molding before she went to sleep. “I don’t think that’s true. I think they’re just trying to get people familiar with me.”
“I’ve seen this before with literary authors. A writer’s good looks outshine his or her work.”
“Well, it’s different with romance writers; they’re supposed to be glamorous. Barbara Cartland never got in front of the camera unless she looked like a queen, and Danielle Steel is always perfectly coiffed and Sophia Nash…Of course you’re not familiar with these authors, but trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”
Aaron thought this had nothing to do with glamour and everything to do with sex appeal. Laurie was an extremely good-looking woman, and if the press continued in this vein, her writing would always be secondary, until people might forget what came first.
“I think you should talk to your editor about how you want to be portrayed in the media.” He didn’t know how effective that conversation might be. It seemed as if publishers would do almost anything to sell books.
“You’re sweet to worry about me, but honestly, I think everything’s going to be fine. You seem wound up. Would you like a massage before bed?”
He knew this was Laurie’s way of changing the subject, and even though he was still agitated, her offer was hard to resist. Her massages usually started out therapeutic and gradually evolved into something considerably more erotic. But that didn’t mean the discussion was forgotten, just temporarily tabled.
Fifteen
From: Bernie, assistant to Andrea Durban
To: Aaron Mite
Subject: Checking in
Hi, cowboy. You still writing? Can’t stop thinking about your novel. Your characters are haunting me. Things are going downhill at the Writers’ Plant. Andrea just took on some self-published twinkie with big tits who can’t write her way out of a paper bag.
Bernie
From: Aaron Mite
To: Bernie
Subject: Re: Checking in
Regarding the twinkie. She’s my girlfriend.
Respectfully,
Aaron
A few minutes after, Aaron’s phone rang and it was Bernie.
“You’re serious? Laurie Lee is your girlfriend?”
“Correct.”
“Congratulations. That’s one pretty lady and hey, I’m sorry about the twinkie comment.”
“You also said she didn’t write well. True?”
Bernie paused for a moment. “You haven’t read her work?”
“No. I’ve not. Have you?”
“Hell no. But that’s because romance isn’t my thing. I like the heavy-hitting literary guys and gals. Like you.”
“Then how do you know she can’t write well? Are you making assumptions because she’s a genre writer?” It occurred to him that, in his defense of Laurie, he was beginning to sound like Ross.
“Uh, not exactly…Some people around the office have mentioned that her writing chops might be a little…You know what? I shouldn’t be talking about this. Privileged information and so forth, especially since you’re her boyfriend. And she’s hardly the only author who can’t…You know, sometimes there are other factors that sell books, and in this case, the film sale absolutely sealed the deal. In movies it’s more about the idea than the execution.”
“I see. Do you have access to what she’s written?”
“No. Sorry. Why?”
“I want to read some of her work and judge its quality for myself. She used to sell self-published novels but W&W asked her to stop.”
“Give her a Google and you’ll probably run across some bootleg copies.”
Aaron kissed Laurie goodbye before she left for her very last temp job. She’d decided to become a full-time writer, and had also recently dropped out of nail school. (Or flunked out. Aaron wasn’t quite sure which was the true story.)
After she left, Aaron downloaded a copy of Laurie’s latest novel written before the W&W contract. It was called Don’t Mess With Tex. (Where did she get her titles?) It took him only an hour to read, mostly because he did a fair amount of skimming.
He had never seen so many clichés: eyes twinkled, bos
oms heaved, lips pursed. Men’s chins were chiseled, women’s waists were cinched and in the opening scene, the heroine looked in the mirror and admired her upturned nose and mischievous grin. (Despite Laurie’s claims to the contrary, he was almost certain she’d cribbed from the Romance Writers’ Phrase Book.)
Furthermore, none of her characters simply said anything; they growled, they roared, they purred. They also dutifully plodded through a series of improbable plot turns, and their problems were finally resolved courtesy of deus ex machina.
And yet, through all of the dreck, Aaron could discern some positive aspects. Laurie had an appealing and sympathetic voice, but it faded in and out like a weak radio signal and was sometimes lost completely in the wreckage of the work. The novel also showcased her sweet sense of humor, and her skill at crafting sex scenes. (This talent didn’t come as a surprise to Aaron.) But overall, the novel was a colossal mess.
He spent the rest of the day deciding what to do. It was clear to him the people at W&W saw Laurie as a commodity to exploit and had absolutely no interest in her as a writer. He couldn’t imagine that she’d improved much with Canine Cupid.
At five o’clock Laurie returned from her last day as a temp. This was usually Aaron’s favorite time of the day. If it was a writing day instead of a teaching day, the house had been quiet as a mortuary for hours, and Aaron was shut away in the walk-in closet like a pair of brittle bedroom slippers. But as soon as Laurie came home it was like a brisk aromatic breeze blowing in through the kitchen window. She brimmed over with chatter (“There was the most gorgeous sunset on the drive home”), opened and closed kitchen cabinets, kicked off her shoes, turned on the radio to a country station (“A new Dwight Yoakum song!”). But this afternoon he was dreading her arrival instead of anticipating it.
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