Chapter 10
“And if Pennington is going to be the type of institution that throws out empty promises without actual performance, then my client and I will not be able to stand idly by . . .”
“Yes, Diann,” I say over my shoulder. “But if you recall, we were able to get Annabelle’s work included in both the Gardens and More and Ladies Tea Society magazines just last month.”
I’m listening as I stand at the window centered between my desk and Lyla’s, watching the scene below through faded, fringed lace curtains. The historic street is covered with equally old and beautiful Victorians, all with wide porches and gabled roofs, baby-blue porch ceilings and bay windows. But it’s not the beauty of the elaborate gingerbread trim on the whimsical yellow house across the street I’m distracted by at the moment. It’s Will. With his hand ever so gently resting on the back of Ms. Pennington’s coat as he walks her down the cracked sidewalk off the street and opens the door of her car for her to slip in.
I smile to myself as I watch the car turn on and him stand there silently, hands in his pockets, waiting as she drives off for some meeting or other.
Suddenly there’s a tug on my shirt and I swivel my head to look down, brought back to the present as my author’s literary agent continues her monologue on speakerphone.
Lyla, from her seat, mouths, “I need your opinion.”
“Let’s not be coy about it, Savannah,” Diann continues. “We both know Annabelle’s release was included in a mere roundup, and both of those publications have a tenth of the subscriber list of Landscape and Leisure. But Oswald Makers, on the other hand, was featured in . . .”
Oswald. Poor sweet Oswald never has a clue how much drama his success causes us. Our publicist, Marge, sends out all our titles to the same relevant magazines and publications. It’s not our fault that the editors always snatch up Oswald’s newest titles and only occasionally want to include anyone else’s. And if I had a dollar for every time my authors’ literary agents got on the phone bright and early the morning after whatever publication released . . .
“I would be happy to ask Marge to email you the list of magazines she is sending Annabelle’s latest out to,” I say, while across from me Lyla clicks between two graphics and points.
I shrug. From my vantage point, they look identical. “They’re the same,” I mouth back, which clearly, from her expression, was the absolute wrong thing to say. Her blue eyes get a bit of fire in them as she jabs one long pink fingernail at the text of one graphic, clicks over, then jabs her finger at the other.
“The point is when my client decided to make the move from Sutnam Press, we were under the impression Pennington believed strongly in the potential of Annabelle’s manuscripts. But instead of fulfilled promises, all we have seen the last few months has been favoritism for particular clients—”
“I don’t know,” I mouth as Lyla jabs her finger from one identical graphic to another faster.
“—two rounds of edits with far too many unreasonable asks for changes—”
“The left,” I throw out, seeing that Lyla is on the brink of exploding.
“—cover design that was far below the quality we expected—”
Lyla, who was at maniac Energizer Bunny level two seconds prior, halts. Her eyes go from manic to scarily calm in the matter of a second. She holds out her hand for the phone.
Oh no.
I don’t dare not hand it over.
“Ms. Brightside, hi.” Lyla snatches the phone from me, jabs one fingernail on the key to turn off the speakerphone, and cradles it against her ear while swiveling in her own chair toward the wall. Her fingernails begin clapping furiously as she types on the keyboard about three hundred words per minute. “This is Lyla in Marketing and Design. Yes, I’m looking over the cover I created for Annabelle at this moment. If you’ll look at the cover-test results we gathered compared with Annabelle’s last cover with Sutnam—which was actually a stock photo also seen on amateur-level business cards and cosplay blogs with five visitors per month—you’ll see that . . .”
I leave Lyla to her scary rant and swivel back in my chair. I’ve finished most of my duties for the week, aside from the ever-present backlog of proposals and queries filling up my in-box. With one quick glance back to Lyla—who is clearly going to be occupied for a few minutes, and almost undoubtedly face some remedial meeting with the boss this afternoon—I rise.
Time for another visit to the ARC room.
I furtively pick up my purse, which is heavy, given it’s holding a fourteen-inch laptop these days, and pull the strap over my shoulder.
“No, no, I’m not implying you’re a sham of an agent exploiting the goodwill of your clients, Diann,” Lyla continues and I slide out into the hall. “What I’m saying is you’re a sham of an agent exploiting the goodwill . . .”
One minute and twenty-two seconds of short pleasantries and slinking through halls, and I push the door open to my little hideaway. My heart thuds a bit louder as I hear the old metal filing cabinet squeak and give way at my push. I only left here four hours ago, but my book is all I’ve been able to think about these days. A week solid of passing notes back and forth through the manuscript, sometimes two or three times a day. It’s fairly remarkable, too, that so far I haven’t raised any suspicions or spotted any clues that would raise suspicions of my own. But then, everyone does tend to hole up in their own offices during the day, slipping in and out for the occasional meeting and coffee break but otherwise left fairly to themselves. As far as I know, only Lyla has raised a brow at me, but that’s because she’s my officemate. And as far as she’s concerned, I’m on antibiotics for my “special problem.”
My eyes are already searching the Post-It on top for his writing. For the newest log. And sure enough, I spot it.
You’re up.
And exhale.
We have a system.
The ARC room is mine from eight to ten, noon to two, four to the end of the workday. He can take the rest, and neither of us can show up or leave within ten minutes of our designated times. It was about four days into this writing back and forth that the topic came up. It was lunchtime, and I had just run up to the room, a bowl of potato salad in one hand, nothing but wild hopes and dreams in the other, and was opening the door to the ARC room when I saw all the lights were on. Faintly I heard the squeal of the filing cabinet at the far end, and without waiting to see any figure pop out from the corner, I darted for the hall. Needless to say, my next note was on the topic, laying out a set of rules.
I don’t know why exactly he went along with it.
Maybe because he, too, wanted to remain anonymous in this little exchange of words, as I do, considering I’m writing, as Ms. Pennington likes to say, “material on par with stuffing cotton balls in one’s mouth” during work hours, at a publishing house that cares so much about serving upmarket fiction it actually has in its mission statement the goal to “overwhelm the population with quality stories, so as to delete from society that which is replete with twaddle.” There is an asterisk beside that sentence and a footnote at the bottom of last year’s yearly summit stating: “Specifically remarking upon thrillers, magical realism, mysteries, historical fiction, westerns, dramas and—above all—romance in all forms.”
Or maybe he didn’t want to reveal his identity in case I turn on him and get him in trouble, considering that while nothing is stated in any rulebook (obviously), every time I come here it feels a little like jumping over caution tape.
Or maybe because he wanted to set clear boundaries on when the room was his, because like me, he feels like it’s his own little oasis.
Or maybe, just maybe, he, too, found the whole thing to be a bit of extra fun—like the joy of slipping notes back and forth in middle school. It wasn’t about the words that were actually snuck back and forth back then that made passing notes special; nobody really cared to know “What did you eat for lunch?” and “I ate a turkey sandwich. U?” It was the method that was fun. The knowledge that you passed off a note, however trite it might be, and it was bound to be returned with an addition or two just for you in just a few minutes.
I don’t know if he feels that way about our notes.
But I sure do.
And the things we learn from each other in our correspondence aren’t really revolutionary either, although it certainly feels that way.
Things just come out as we jot our comments over a scene. Personal facts. Stories. He reads voraciously—far beyond the requirements of the job. Went on vacations as a kid to some old, beaten-down cottage off the coast of Rhode Island. Was bullied for a chunk of time in middle school before he hit a growth spurt.
And each little story, each little fact, feels like a zing. A little nugget. A gold star.
Already I’m flipping through the pages of the manuscript as I move to the beanbag. At a glance I can see he’s addressed a couple of notes on character development in chapter 7 (evidently pushing a puppy off the couch is a real red flag for character likability), which I’m looking forward to addressing later this evening. But today’s zing comes with the newest addition on page 65.
Yesterday he left the oh-so-gently stated comment about my character’s first date: The fact that your character calls this “the best night of her life” over stale rolls at a 2-star restaurant is more ironic than Ms. Pennington’s ever-present belief that “Medieval poetry is the way of the future.” I responded by asking him what his genius idea was for a first date, and while he overlooked any response on the topic this morning, he seems to have circled back to it. And for a first, the answer is so lengthy he’s added a Post-It note to the side to make room.
The perfect date depends on the people involved. If she enjoys fine food, then I’d take her to the Catbird Seat. If she enjoys music, then I’d take her to the Schermerhorn Symphony Center. The perfect date doesn’t have anything to do with me. It’s entirely about finding a setting that highlights who she is and seeking to learn about each other within that amenable atmosphere.
I roll my eyes at this answer and click my pencil until the lead peeks out. This is exactly the kind of thing I am trying to avoid in my book. Every protagonist in the romances I read seems to be an undervalued, secret child prodigy who bakes award-winning apple pies, surprises everyone (including herself) with fluency in three languages, has a library full of classical literature she knows by heart, and volunteers at the homeless shelter in her spare time. No female lead is normal. They’re all ruby-lipped Victoria’s Secret–level models with the talent of a hundred lives combined just waiting to be swept into the arms of their heroes.
Yes, but what about dates with average human beings? I write. I think back. What about with girls who spend every day working in a job they aren’t stellar at? Who live off oatmeal-square cereal as it’s the only thing they can afford? Who spend most evenings either going to some charity event their family has coordinated, watching some movie sandwiched between their sister and sister’s fiancé, or slaving away in my room writing this stupid book that apparently is so flawed nobody will ever read it?
I stop, staring at my own words, then flip my pencil around.
I can’t write that. It’s much too personal.
And besides, I’ve even made the critical error of switching from the hypothetical “their” to a most definitive “my.”
It’s unprofessional.
It’s cringy, even.
But then, as I hold the eraser of the pencil over the words, I hesitate. Because a part of me does want to know: What about me?
What would somebody think of a person like me? Who, out there in the world, would think I was special enough to make the heroine in their story?
Or am I to be only the protagonist of my own?
I hesitate for another long moment and then flip the page. I’m going to leave it. Leave it and see what he says.
I work through the rest of the notes, taking pictures of the comments I need to address in my manuscript that evening, replying to comments and adding questions of my own.
I’ll have you know I actually owned a cat named Whiskers when I was a kid, and yes, he really did bark like a dog and was immune to catnip. That’s a real thing.
Well, if her ears are allergic to earrings, like mine, then I really do think it’ll be a nice touch for him to notice and . . .
No. I’ll concede that being able to season your own pots is a good skill, but honestly, it’s not something to brag about . . .
By the time I’ve finished, I’ve learned a few more things about my mystery editor. He’s tall, not supremely so, but enough to know offhand a few places to buy smart suits with extra length. He is actually dyslexic, a surprising issue that very few know about. And he doesn’t think my manuscript is hopeless.
I know because at the bottom of chapter 7 there are new words.
This is good. Do more of this.
The first positive comment. The first positive comment amid a slew of critiques.
I feel myself smiling as I lean back in the chair, sunlight streaming through the window highlighting a thousand dusty particles dancing around me. The light has changed, I realize, looking up from my page to the wall opposite, where about two dozen simple wooden frames hang, each showcasing an autographed title page of a book. It glints on the glass so roughly I blink, the room that bright haze just before the world goes cool and dark at the end of another day. I stand and realize my knees are achy.
How long have I been up here?
I check my watch. Four fifty-two p.m.
Then my steps. 8588.
I hurry through the ARC room, hesitating at the door to the hallway as I try to remember if I shut the filing cabinet door in my haste. I’m fairly certain I did, but as I turn back just to be sure, doorknob in hand, I stop dead.
Sam from Contracts has stopped and is looking at me with a startled expression as if he, too, is caught in a trap.
“Sam.” I let go of the doorknob. “Hi. How are . . . you?”
Sam smooths his tie and flashes a smile. “Good. Good.” There’s a beat of silence as we both look at each other.
Sam?
I never noticed how tall he was before. I can’t help but glance down at the hem of his trousers. Six feet? Six one? Does six one qualify someone as needing to order special lengths?
But surely not.
Not Sam. Giselle’s ex, Sam.
Aside from one lackluster dinner date with Sam my first week on the job two years ago, I can’t think of a single other instance when we’ve spoken alone. The date had proven we were so incredibly ill matched for one another that we spent a solid twenty minutes talking about the weather just waiting for the bill to arrive. Ever since, we have both mutually skirted around each other. Keeping things professional. Giving the polite nod in greeting here and there, discussing in one group setting or another a contract when necessary, but never anything more.
After all, while he’s nice-looking enough, I never felt that spark for him.
He never really felt that spark for me.
We were just two single people of similar age, with reasonably similar interests, who thought it was worth a shot to see where that door led.
Which, for the record, was nowhere, unless you wanted to count it leading to a fractured relationship with the resentful, ex-girlfriend boss.
No, that date only opened to a cinderblock wall.
Right?
“Well . . . I’d better get . . . that . . . book,” he says, edging around me.
“Oh yes. Good plan,” I say, although in reality I have less than no clue as to what he’s referring to. I move out of his way, jutting my own thumb backward while trying not to trip on my heels. “I’d better get back downstairs too. For . . . dinner with Lyla . . .”
He nods fervently, as though he agrees this is absolutely riveting and essential information, and turns around. The second he is out of sight I stride down the hall.
Sam. Sam?
I can’t help but feel a wave of disappointment, although I don’t really understand why. So . . . so what if Sam is my mystery editor? That wouldn’t change anything. He’s . . . helping me with a project just as well. His points are valid. I’m finally able to work through my manuscript. This is a win-win here. I haven’t lost anything.
But if that’s so, why do I feel like something’s lost? The magic deflating slowly like an expired balloon?
It doesn’t matter, I tell myself firmly. And besides, it’s too early to tell.
Right. Because our lawyer Sam routinely has to go up to check out advance copies of books for his contracts.
Sure.
Again, not that it matters.
At all.