Haunted
Page 12
Melanie thought that Ray had a chance because he actually understood that genre trappings had little to do with that bastard Masters' success: it was the scope and humanity of said bastard's work that had taken him, along with a handful of other authors, over the top. Melanie wanted to help Ray get there, first because he was the best writer she represented; second, because he was her current lover. He didn't quite have that prick Masters' natural talent for either activity, but he was young and had stamina. With luck, he'd learn.
"...just not quite our kind of writer," Harry was saying.
"When you accepted my invitation, I assumed you wanted to talk about Ray's proposal," she said as the drinks arrived. She sipped her wine spritzer, then ran her finger around the rim of the glass and waited expectantly.
"Melanie, Meat's a good writer, but it's too generic for Dorner. Too much science fiction razzle dazzle." His lip curled up as if he smelled something bad. "Too techy. But, if you could get him to write something set here, on earth, and in the present, I'd very much like to see it. I'd especially like to see a UFO proposal." He smiled thinly. "Lots of sex and humiliation. That's very hot now, you know."
"I know." Melanie sipped her drink slowly. That was all the editors were talking about this year. Last year it was serial killers, next year they'd probably have hard-ons for medical thrillers. The disgusting truth was that having a feel for coming editorial hard-ons--"trends" was just too nice a word was what could make your name as an agent if you didn't already have a best-selling author to help you fly. And since that best-selling S.O.B. David Masters would fall into her bed but not her agency, she'd decided she'd have to make it the hard way.
Besides, she had to admit, Harry had a good idea with the UFO thing. "Ray might go for it," she told him truthfully. "I'll call him first thing tomorrow." She lifted one eyebrow. "So, Harry, who else can I sell you?"
"You can sell me David Masters."
"I wish I could," she said sourly. "You'll have to talk to Georgie Gordon about him."
"So steal him. I thought you and Masters were... "His voice trailed off suggestively.
"We were." Tempted to spew invective about that she-snob Gordon, she decided to take the high road instead. "You have to understand how David thinks. Georgie discovered him and stuck with him while he was slogging around in mid-list. He's very devoted to her. Very loyal." She heard the sneer in her voice and tried to force it away. "I suppose that if I had discovered him and he left me for an agent he had a personal relationship with, I'd feel very used." Whenever she said that, usually silently and to herself, she understood David better, which made it harder to feel hurt and angry, which was how she preferred to feel.
"My dear Melanie," Harry purred. "You're a charming woman. Seduce him away from Georgie and Randall House, bring him to me, and you'll have million dollar clients dripping from the diamonds you'll wear on your fingers. I guarantee it."
Christ, she thought, when the booze finally hits him, it really hits. She reached across the small round table and patted his hand. "Darling," she said, falling into perfect Manhattan Bitch, "I'd love to hand him to you, but David has these annoying scruples. He doesn't like to mix business and pleasure."
"Scruples? Who needs them?" Harry rose, a little unsteadily.
"Please excuse me. I'll be back in a moment." He walked carefully in the direction of the restrooms and Melanie took the opportunity to pour her spritzer into a potted plant she'd sat by for that very purpose. She should have poured out more of the first two drinks, but Rosenberg had proven himself to have the bladder of a large, ocean-going mammal and she never had a chance. She waved at the waiter, who was taking another order and as soon as he approached, ordered another round.
A moment later, watching Harry lumber back, she regretted not telling the waiter to leave the booze out of her spritzer.
The bearlike Rosenberg still walked with the confidence of a nearly sober man. This could be a long, long night. "So, how can you get me David Masters?" he said as he slid into his seat.
"If Georgie falls off a cliff, I might have a shot at him." She hesitated, then asked the question she really wanted an answer to. "Why aren't you talking to Georgie?"
"Simple. Masters won't move, and Georgie's in too tight with Randall House to want to pressure him. Besides Masters, she's got Hall and Cory over there."
"That's only three biggies," Melanie said doubtfully. Normally, she'd recall exactly who Georgie had at Randall, high and low, but the wine had clouded her mind.
"Three constant bestsellers. Three who bring down more than a million a book," Harry said. "Then she's got a raft of occasional bestsellers, the six-figure crowd."
Melanie nodded. "If I could get him, what can you offer that Randall House can't?"
"More money. A guaranteed promotion and publicity budget. Higher royalties--"
"Unfortunately, David's world doesn't revolve around money. Don't get me wrong, he likes it, but he's perfectly content with two or three mil a book." She took a sip of wine. "He'd be content with less than that, to be honest. And, as for the other things, well, I'm afraid he's probably quite content with what they do for him at Randall House."
"Well, what does he want?"
She snorted. "David already has exactly what he wants. He has Joanna." That was his editor. "He's as loyal to her as he is to Georgie." Melanie made a face. "He always points out that she bought his first book and stood by him through the thin times."
"God, spare me the loyalty shtick." Harry looked at the ceiling.
"The agent's loyal to Randall for her own ambitiously greedy reasons--" he smiled smarmily "--not that I don't have the greatest respect for that sort of thing, mind you. And the writer is blindly loyal to his editor." He finished his drink. "Masters should give me a chance. I'll wager I can outdo Joanna Scanlon's best author-coddling any day of the week."
"He likes the way she edits, too, Harry," Melanie said dryly.
He nodded. "Because he doesn't know any better."
"She's good, Harry." Melanie had writers with Scanlon, too, and her own loyalties to keep.
"I know. I trained her." He sat back. "That sounded terribly arrogant. Forgive me."
"I know you're a hell of an editor, Harry, you don't have to sell me. I saw the unedited Tarnmeyer manuscript. I know you practically rewrote the thing. It was brilliant."
"Thank you." Harry's smile slid across his face like a slow-moving snake. "However did you get a copy of that, my dear?"
"Tarn sent it to David for a quote."
"He did?" Genuine surprise showed in Harry's eyes. "Why would he do that before the galleys? He knows we'd send it to Masters at that point."
She chuckled, low in her throat. "Exactly. His cover letter said that he wanted David to see it in its original form before, and I quote, his 'editor gets hold of it and tries to rewrite it because all he is is a frustrated writer.' " What the hell do you think you’re doing, telling him this? Mortified at her own lack of discretion, she felt her face heat up. "My turn to apologize, Harry. That was a bitchy thing for me to say." She let out a throaty little laugh. "I've had a little too much to drink."
This time, Harry reached for her hand. He didn't pat it, he took it and held it. "Don't apologize. I can outdrink most any agent. And, believe me, I already know Tarn's a prima donna. So, let's get back to David Masters. I want him. You need him. I think we should work together to meet the challenge."
She stared at his hand on hers. Half the male editors in town were gay and here she was, stuck dealing with a drunken hetero who could do wonders for her career. His finger moved lightly over one knuckle, then he became aware of her gaze and withdrew his hand. "Sorry, I'm a little smashed myself."
Melanie felt one of those proverbial lightbulbs go off over her head. "Harry, let's talk about Joanna Scanlon."
"Shoot."
"Joanna started at Dorner as a junior editor. David was one of her very first buys."
The right side of Harry's mouth crooked up
expectantly.
"David left Dorner for Randall House because he wanted to stick with Scanlon." She sat back and looked him in the eye. "Your house didn't know what they had. You let him get away."
"I believe I heard something to that effect," Harry said, his smile growing.
"So if Dorner were to hire Scanlon away from Randall, your house would have a much better chance at acquiring David."
"What about Georgie?"
"Ultimately, she'll do what her author wants." She smiled coyly. "If she won't go for it, David would have to make a choice--his beloved editor or his beloved agent." Melanie, you’re a drunken bitch! Still, she liked the idea of making him choose, although she knew that wouldn't mean he’d bring his business to her. "Harry," she continued, "you wouldn't be his editor, but you could get the glory by bringing David here."
"Well, that's almost as good, isn't it?" Harry beamed at her. "Melanie, I. like the way your mind works. How long have you been in business now?"
"Just four years."
"That's not long." He paused, studying her. "You've built up quite a list. You're going places. I might be able to throw a new author your way, a guy who sent a manuscript over the transom. I bought it. It's a political thriller and it's going to be big stuff. We're ready to buy another book, and he's looking for an agent. You interested?"
"You bet."
They discussed a little more business, then argued politely over the bill. Melanie was relieved when Harry finally snatched it away. Emerging from the Oyster Bar, they were suddenly drowned in the humid evening heat. Melanie's beige silk dress immediately started to stick to her skin and, as she tried to adjust it, she nearly collided with a group of luggage-wielding Frenchmen heading into Grand Central Station.
"I'm going to Gramercy Park." Harry said as he steered her away from the tourists. He began hailing. "Care to share a cab?"
"No, thanks. I live the other way, near Sixth and Fifty-Second I'll walk."
"You're sure?" he asked. A taxi pulled up and he opened the door. "We can go by your place first."
"Thanks, but no. I really want to walk."
"You're the boss." He kissed her lightly on the cheek, then slid into the cab. "I'll be in touch."
Still slightly thick-headed, she walked slowly through the oven-like heat to Sixth, then took the train to 48th. She walked from there, stopping at a little market at Fifty-First for a bottle of orange juice, mainly so she’d have an excuse to pet the big black and white store cat, Pretzel. She needed a cat of her own, she decided as she turned west on the next block. A moment later, she was in her building and riding the elevator up to the twelfth floor. She needed company; if not a cat, then a parrot or something. She hated living alone.
Unlocking her door, she was immediately assailed by stale hot air. If she had a pet, she told herself, she'd have an excuse to leave the air conditioner on while she was at work. She closed the drapes, turned on the air and stripped down to her slip, then took the bottle of orange juice and sat in her old easy chair directly in front of the refrigerated air. She held the chilled juice bottle between her breasts, rolling it back and forth, then moved it higher, over her shoulders and neck, across each cheek. Finally, she unscrewed the cap and drank greedily from the bottle. The wine had dehydrated her and she felt thick and a little drunk, and she had the beginnings of a headache.
"You behaved abominably tonight," she said aloud. "In fact, you were a complete ass." She looked around the dimly lit little room and wondered again what it would be like to have a cat come and greet her when she got home. Nice, she thought. The apartment was just too lonely.
She'd moved here when she'd left David last January, and the place still made her think about him. That bastard! A single, stupid, tear escaped and rolled down her cheek. Maybe she should move.
No. That was foolish. But so was she.
When they'd met, just before he hit the big time, neither knew what the other did for a living. David claimed to be a school teacher, which was true, though he didn't bother telling her he'd been able to quit his full-time job, and only subbed now and then to make ends meet. When she asked him what he liked to do for fun, he said he got a kick out of writing, never mentioning he'd published several books. When he asked Melanie what she did for a living, she lied, afraid that he'd inundate her with horrid manuscripts if she said she was a literary agent. She told him she was a hair stylist. She smiled, remembering the night he'd suggested they play "naked barber." He never said a word about the bald patch she left on the back of his scalp, probably because of her lack of attire. He must have suspected something wasn't quite kosher, though.
A few months later, when the truth came out, David wasn't offended. In fact, he found it very nearly hysterical, and loved to tell the tale. He told Georgie, whom she had no right to dislike, and the overworked agent soon sent several promising writers her way. He told Joanna, who recommended Melanie to a few new writers, and soon her business had grown to where she could pick and choose.
Shortly after Dead Ernest made the bestseller list, she tried to pressure him into dropping Georgie Gordon in favor of her agency and was hurt when he refused, even though, on some level, she admired him for it. "I don't mix business and pleasure," he'd told her gently. She wished she'd listened and tried harder to understand, wished she hadn't been so oversensitive and arrogant. Most of all, she wished she hadn't told him that if he wouldn't switch, that meant he didn't love her enough to trust her. She knew now that it had been a stupid, juvenile thing to say.
But she had made the threat and she felt obligated to follow through on it. He softly said he was sorry she felt that way and that remark made her so furious that she'd responded by telling him to fuck off, in just those words. Then she'd called him names. She'd regretted it ever since and that was why she hated him: he'd had the audacity to remain reasonable in the face of her irrationality. It was humiliating.
Amber had told her he'd forgive her if she apologized. The girl had begged her to do so. But she couldn't. She didn't think she could ever even look him in the eye again.
It's amazing how much I've matured in six months. In that time, the self-protecting anger had receded--it still flared, as it had tonight, but not like before. Intellectually, she had understood his reasons all along, but emotionally, she was just beginning to get it. "David," she whispered. "Oh David, oh David, you fucker, I miss you."
Tears flowed freely and orange juice dribbled down her chin. What a sight I am. She had the career, the contacts, she would get her bestselling writers sooner or later, she knew that, but she didn't have David. When they were together, they'd called themselves Lord and Masters, and they thought they were the perfect couple.
"God," she sighed, and turned her thoughts back to this evening.
She'd done something not quite respectable in plotting with another editor to get Joanna Scanlon to move to Dorner. Or had she? Scanlon was a big girl. Maybe she'd done her a favor. Maybe she wanted to leave Randall, or maybe she'd use it to get a counteroffer and a nice raise from her current employer. That certainly wasn't bad.
It seemed bad though, at least in motive. She had no business manipulating David--it certainly wouldn't make her feel better about herself. What should I do?
Her first thought was to call David, but if he even had a phone yet, she didn't know his new number. Maybe she'd ask Joanna to lunch and fill her in… Maybe she wouldn't.
"God, never mix business with pleasure," she moaned. "Masters, you were absolutely right about that." She rose and padded into the bathroom to brush her teeth and down some aspirin, then went back to the living-room and dragged the futon off its frame, unfolding it between the air conditioner and the chair. She stripped to the buff, snagged an afghan for later, and lay down, letting the chill air dry the sweat beneath her breasts, enjoying the feel of the breeze shrinking her nipples into hard buttons as she thought about David and how he knew exactly how to twist them between his thumb and forefinger to drive her absolutely . . .
Ray Blaisdell's voice oozed into her ear. "Melanie, baby, you didn't call."
"Sorry. It was a long night, Ray."
"What did Rosenberg say?"
Not now, please, not now. "He had an idea. I'll call you tomorrow and tell you about it."
"Tell me now. Does he like my proposal?"
Oh, God. Never mix business with pleasure. You’re a slow learner, Melanie. "He says it's not right for Dorner, but he had another idea and I'll tell you about it tomorrow."
"That asshole. Tell me now, babe. I can't wait, it'll drive me crazy."
"No, Ray." Anger started to rise. "Tomorrow. I'm exhausted. I have a headache."
"How about if I come over and massage it away for you?"
"Not tonight." She felt lonely, but not for him. "Not tonight. I'll call you in the morning. I'll have to check my schedule. Maybe we can do lunch."
"I'd just like to do you. Meat misses you."
Ray, only twenty-six, had long dark blond curls, arrogant features, long fingers and an amazing penis. In fact, she thought dryly, he likes talking about his penis almost as much as he likes using it. And he adored its nickname, but what he lacked in savoir faire, he made up for in enthusiasm and in a pleasant obsession with giving her multiple orgasms whether she wanted them or not. All in all, except for the arrogance, which was actually not that bad, he was a great guy, she told herself. A catch.
But he’s not David. "Tomorrow night I'm all yours," she said with little enthusiasm. Why couldn't she get over that damned Masters?