Blind Submission (11 page)

“Don't be ridiculous,” Lucy said. “I'm going to need both of you on the phones and then Nora when she gets here.”

“Okay,” Anna said. “And I've brought a pastry for you, Lucy.” A weird, almost-smile appeared on Anna's face.

“What makes you think it would be appropriate to
eat
during an auction, Anna?”

“Well, I wasn't…I mean, you could…” Anna's face looked like a puzzle on the verge of coming apart. I felt an unwanted stab of sympathy for her. A short, bright silence filled the room for an instant and then the phone rang.

“Got it!” Anna squealed, and ran from the room. Lucy gave me a Cheshire grin. “You may leave my office now, Angel,” she said. And then: “The Italian book. It begins.”

When I returned to my desk, there was an instant message from Anna waiting on my computer:

Feel free to take the Danish.

Thanks,
I wrote back,
I might.
Although we both knew that I wouldn't.

“Doesn't she look great?” Anna asked out loud.

“Who?”

“Lucy! Her outfit. She always wears white to her auctions. She says it brings her luck. I think she looks smashing.”

“Right,” I said. “Smashing.”

“And just a tip,” Anna sniffed. “Don't go into her office unless she calls you. Usually, she likes to be alone in there until the auction's over. Also for good luck.”

“Okay, got it,” I said, and picked up a ringing line.

“Good morning, Lucy Fiamma Literary Agency!” I realized, after the words were already out of my mouth, that I sounded almost hysterical. There was a distinctive coughing on the other end of the phone. Peter Johnson again. His timing was impeccable.

“Good morning. Ms. Robinson?”

“Mr. Johnson?”

“Yes!” he splutter-coughed into the phone. “You recognize my voice!” I stopped myself from telling him that of course I did. He called every day and I had somehow been assigned, after dispatching him on my first day, to be his personal rejection slip. If I hadn't answered his call, it would have been put through to me, anyway. Nora also slid his manuscripts over to me as soon as they arrived in the office, glad to rid herself of the task of sending them right back. Part of the problem with Peter Johnson was that he never failed to include a self-addressed stamped envelope with his submissions. He had to be answered. He also had to be rejected. His novels, or what we saw of them, ranged from bad to worse. They were tedious thrillers with rehashed plots and purple prose, and he seemed to have an endless supply of them for our review. The next one, he kept insisting, was the winner. But I didn't have time to hear about another one; I had to get him off the phone.

“Mr. Johnson, I'm going to have to call you back if that's okay. It's very busy here this morning.”

“I just need a minute of your time, Ms. Robinson. I've got something here I think is—”

“Great, we'll be happy to look at it when you send it in.”

“I don't think you understand.” He was breathing very heavily and I hoped he wasn't working himself into some kind of fit. “I have a book that Ms. Fiamma is
definitely
going to want.”

“That's great, Mr. Johnson. We look forward to reading!”

“Let me tell you—”

“Thanks so much! Have a great day.”

The moment I hung up on Peter Johnson, every phone in the office seemed to explode with sound, and they just kept ringing. I didn't even notice Nora slink in at seven, and at some point, Craig just seemed to materialize at his desk. As Anna had predicted, Lucy remained sequestered in her office, communicating with us via intercom or e-mails. She never sent instant messages and I began to think that either her computer hadn't been set up for them or she simply didn't know how. There was one tense five-minute period during the third round of bids when, with every line blinking, Lucy seemed to vanish from her office and none of us could get her on the line. Anna stated that Lucy was probably inside her house “centering herself.”

I placed several calls to Damiano as the day wore on and Lucy gave him updates on how high the bids were getting. I heard none of these conversations, of course, I merely placed the calls, but every time I got Damiano on the phone, he got more excited, awed, and, finally, disbelieving.

At about three o'clock, Lucy emerged from her office and stood, taller than usual it seemed to me, in the middle of ours.

“The deal is done,” she said. “That Italian pastry chef is now a very wealthy man.” Lucy had sold Damiano's book plus a sequel (she'd decided against the idea of a trilogy) for half a million dollars. The sheer magnitude of what she'd accomplished gave me gooseflesh.

Lucy clapped her hands briefly and then put them on her hips. “Congratulations, everyone. Well done.” She looked over at me. “Let's just hope he can deliver,” she said. “His new editor's about twelve years old. And she's no hand-holder.”

FOUR

Lucy Fiamma

Lucy Fiamma Literary Agency

 

Dear Ms. Fiamma,

 

It is here.

Although I am sure that you receive many such claims, I am writing to tell you that I am your next star author and am ready to take my place in your literary heaven. I do realize that this is a rather grandiose statement, but I have the goods to back it up.

Rather than wasting any more of your time with this letter, I am enclosing a few pages from my novel, BLIND SUBMISSION. I am convinced that once you read them, you will agree with me that this novel has the potential to be a huge bestseller. It's a real winner.

Should you wish to see more (and I know you will), please contact me at [email protected]

Happy reading!

 

BLIND SUBMISSION

Chapter 1

Alice wrapped her scarf around her neck to stave off the chill of the late winter morning. The pale sun looked like cold butter in a hazy sky as she raced down Fifth Avenue to get to the office by nine o‘clock. Alice thought about stopping for a coffee to warm herself and decided that there wasn't time. She had only been working for Carol Moore, New York's most successful literary agent, for a few weeks and it was important that she stay in her boss's good graces. It wouldn't do to rock the boat at this stage of the game. Later, when Alice made herself indispensable, there would be time for maneuvering.

As she rode the elevator to the fifteenth floor, Alice thought about how easy it had been to land this job. Before she'd been hired, Alice's only publishing experience had been serving lunch to editors in the Manhattan restaurants where she worked as a waitress. She had learned plenty by listening to their conversations as she leaned over them with plates and glasses, but none of that could be put on a résumé. So Alice had fabricated jobs on her application and had bluffed her way through her interview. Carol Moore was both tough and smart and Alice had been sure that her made-up jobs wouldn't pass muster. However, if there was one thing Alice had learned in her twenty-seven years on earth, it was how to lie well. She kept her secrets closely guarded under the blonde halo of her hair. Her fake experience passed under the agent's radar and she convinced Carol Moore to hire her. Of course, the part that was true, the part that had probably tipped Carol Moore over the edge, was that Alice was driven and ambitious and that she desperately wanted the job. What Carol Moore didn't know was
why
and, if Alice had anything to do with it, she never would.

When Alice arrived at the Agency, the office was already a hive of activity. The phones and faxes were humming as Carol Moore's well trained staff took their places at their desks. Alice observed her co-workers as she greeted them. There was Jewel, a tall, stunning natural blonde who could easily have made a career in modeling if she wanted to. According to Carol Moore, Jewel's good looks had always been more of a hindrance to her than anything else. Jewel was simply too smart for a career on the runway, Carol said. As a woman with secrets of her own, Alice found this difficult to believe and thought that Jewel probably had some sort of hidden disfigurement or weakness. Every woman had something in her past she was ashamed of. Alice planned to find out what this was and use it to her advantage.

There was Ricardo, Carol Moore's office manager. Ricardo was an extremely well-dressed and very handsome man who was, according to Carol Moore, as smart as Jewel. Ricardo kept the office lively with jokes and imitations of movie stars and was always very polite. Ricardo had a photograph of a wife and daughter on his desk, but Alice had looked at the photo and decided that it had come with the frame because the only woman Ricardo ever spoke about lovingly was Carol Moore herself. Yes, Alice thought, Ricardo too had something to hide. Everyone, Alice knew, had something to hide.

And then there was Carol Moore herself. Like Jewel, Carol Moore was very beautiful. Alice thought she had the look of an older Grace Kelly. Alice had researched Carol Moore before she applied for the job, so she knew that Carol had been a force in the literary world for almost thirty years, but she was carrying those years very well. Alice also knew that Carol Moore had grown up practically destitute and had worked very hard to obtain her position of power. And Carol Moore
was
a powerful woman. She represented famous writers from all over the world, some of them Nobel Laureates. When Carol Moore called, publishers listened. Alice was counting on that.

In their meager beginnings, Alice and Carol were similar. During her interview, Alice had implied, without ever seeming to, that she and Carol Moore shared a certain struggle. Alice was counting on Carol to feel drawn to her as a protégé and as someone Carol wanted to make in her own image. That would suit Alice very well indeed. Alice had cut off relations with her own mother long ago in an act of cruel finality and had never known much about what it meant to be a good daughter. But she was a quick study and planned to play on every maternal instinct Carol Moore possessed.

For now, Alice had positioned herself as close to Carol as she could. She hadn't minded at all that her title was that of assistant. For Alice's needs, her position was, at the moment, perfect. She was close to Carol, close to the files, and, most importantly, the receiver of all the mail that came into the office. On all three fronts, Alice had made excellent progress. Besides, Alice didn't plan to remain Carol's assistant for very much longer. She had started laying plenty of groundwork. Everybody Alice had ever known, both biblically and in less physical ways, who counted in any way or who could be useful in any way now knew where Alice was employed.

There was much excitement in the office when Alice took her place at her desk and began to prepare a list of the day's appointments. Carol Moore had just agreed to represent Vaughn Blue, an internationally known rock star. Vaughn was writing a memoir of his life in the business, much of which involved the sex and drugs that the music industry was known for. Although the book would tell all and name names, Carol Moore was most excited by the fact that Vaughn Blue was a brilliant writer. Vaughn Blue was something of a genius. He held a PhD, which he had completed before he broke onto the music scene, and his book would appeal both to celebrity hounds and book critics. The fact that he was one of America's sexiest men didn't hurt either.

Alice finished preparing her list and took it to Carol Moore who was on the phone and swaddled in Versace couture. Carol smiled at Alice and beckoned for her to sit on the chair opposite Carol's desk.

“I have a special assignment for you today,” Carol Moore told Alice.

“Terrific,” Alice said. “What is it?”

“Vaughn Blue is coming by the office to sign his contract at around noon,” Carol said, “and I'd like you to take him to lunch. My treat, of course. I'd love to go myself, but I already have lunch scheduled with a publisher who will probably want to buy Vaughn's book! So what do you say? How does lunch with a rock star sound?”

“Fabulous!” Alice panted. “I'm so excited!”

Alice hoped she wasn't laying it on too thick in an effort to conceal her distaste. Dining with one of America's sexiest men would have held much more appeal if that man wasn't also a writer because, in her deepest heart, Alice hated writers. This was one of her secrets.

That she was a writer herself was another.

 

I rubbed my eyes, taking them off the pages in front of me. The words had been slipping and blurring and I struggled to retain focus. It was very early and I was very tired, but I had to keep reading. This, after all, was “the bestseller” that had been promised by letter, by fax, and now by submission from our “next star author.”

After the author's admitted “grandiose” claims, I'd fully expected the manuscript to be awful. Because I thought I'd be able to reject it quickly, I hadn't even bothered to read it the night before, electing instead to get some much-needed sleep. But I was surprised to find that it wasn't awful at all. Strange, yes, and maybe even a little unsettling, but definitely not out-and-out bad. I read the cover letter again. There was no return address, no phone number, and no name. Was the anonymous-author conceit supposed to tie in to the novel itself? Or was it just to keep us interested enough to ask for more? I leaned over, stretching and touching my toes in an effort to get more blood flowing to my brain so that I could think a little more clearly.

It had been six weeks since I'd started working for Lucy. Every day of those six weeks had felt like an eternity in itself, but all put together they seemed to have raced by, giving me a strange split perception of the passage of time—a perception only reinforced by Lucy.

It had only been a few weeks since the sale of
Parco Lambro,
for example, yet she acted as if the auction were a distant memory. Although she'd sold two more projects since then, neither was auctioned or came close to generating either the excitement or the cash of Damiano's. Still, the first of those two, a comic novel about a vampire-hunting dog (“
The Dogs of Babel
meets
The Historian,
” as Lucy had pitched it), had sold for a respectable seventy-five thousand dollars and the second, a cultural history of lawn ornaments, had gone for fifty thousand. I'd brought both projects to Lucy's attention. The first had come directly from my reading pile and I'd rescued the second from a stack of rejections that were due to be returned when the cute photo of a garden gnome on the cover letter caught my eye.

But Lucy didn't seem to take much satisfaction from either of those sales and was getting edgy, asking every day if I'd found something that could compare to
Parco Lambro.
“It has to have power,” she told me. “Self-help is bread and butter and nonfiction's hit or miss. I need something that will make them cry. When they cry, you know it's going to be expensive.” I wanted to deliver for her. I, too, wanted to make them cry.

I passed my eyes over the manuscript in front of me again. It wasn't going to bring anyone to tears, I thought, and it needed some serious work, but it
was
different from anything else I'd seen lately. Despite its clumsy prose, there was something captivating and even subtly dark about it. And then there was the fact that it was set in a literary agency, something that added a whole other level of weirdness to it. The author's anonymity
had
achieved its desired purpose, I decided; it had gotten my—our—attention. The author had obviously submitted before, probably even to us, and had figured out how to keep from getting rejected instantly. And now I'd read the manuscript. And it wasn't bad. It had potential, I decided, and so I'd pass it on to Lucy.

While I booted up my computer to write the report, I gave a backward glance at my bed, where Malcolm was sleeping soundly. And why shouldn't he, I thought. Everyone but doughnut-makers and hospital workers were sleeping at this hour of the morning. My eyes itched with fatigue as I stared longingly in the direction of my pillow. Malcolm's body was a long shape deep under the covers. I could see only a bit of gold hair and the sloping edge of one cheekbone over the top of the fabric. It took a tremendous amount of will not to abandon my post and crawl in next to him. I didn't sleep until sunrise anymore, or even close to it. These predawn hours had emerged as the only time I had to get caught up on the avalanche of work that fell on me every day.

A big part of that catching up had to do with Anna. Her reading had become my reading and her reports were starting to become a big problem for me. I'd already rescued two good novels from the reject pile that she thought were “stupid” and “boring,” two of her favorite adjectives. She was, rightly, convinced that I was undercutting her opinion by championing her rejects. Anna felt that once she'd put the kibosh on a manuscript, my function as a second reader should only be to support her. Of course, Lucy had made me the second reader on Anna's manuscripts for the exact opposite reason. All this had served to deepen Anna's hostility toward me. When I wrote my own reports on her rejects, I had to get very creative, writing in a fashion that would seem to support Anna's statements without pointing out what she'd missed, while implying that she was completely wrong in her assessments without appearing to do so at all. It was starting to become an exhausting process. It occurred to me once again that Lucy should just take Anna off the reading list altogether. But it seemed to me that Lucy got some sort of weird pleasure out of the growing conflict between Anna and me over the reading pile. During my first few days at the office, when Anna had still been chatty with me, she'd told me that Lucy was “grooming” her to become another agent in the office. Considering the fact that Lucy seemed to find the very thought of another agent in the office repugnant, I suspected Anna was not only an inadequate reader but delusional as well. Besides, if Lucy wanted to groom anyone to be an agent, she'd look to
me.