Blind Submission (12 page)

I put Anna out of my mind, rubbed the cold out of my fingers, and started hitting the keyboard.

 

Title: BLIND SUBMISSION

Author: ?

Genre: Fiction

Reader: Angel

This is an interesting piece. It came in unsolicited through the mail, but the author, who is anonymous at this point, lists no phone number or address and only has an e-mail address as a contact. I suppose this adds some intrigue, since the novel is set in a literary agency (!!!), but it also means we know nothing about previous publishing credits, etc. My guess, judging from the writing, is that there aren't any. The author didn't provide us with a synopsis, either.

What this novel seems to be is something of a reverse “insider revenge” novel or, as the
New York Times
calls it, “bite-the-boss fiction.” Here, instead of having a bitch-from-hell boss and a long-suffering assistant, we've got a manipulative assistant with a hidden agenda—something like
The Nanny Diaries
or
The Devil Wears Prada
but darker and told from the other side. I think the idea has potential, but I've got a couple of concerns. One is the setting. While I like the idea of setting a novel in a literary agency (the fact that it's close to home notwithstanding), the conventional wisdom is that books set in the publishing world don't sell. My other concern is the writing, which just seems a little stiff. And, although it feels as if the author also wants to come out right away with mystery and intrigue, the pacing is slow and the characters don't really stand out, especially the main character, Alice, who is supposedly “a woman with secrets.” The writing is not particularly descriptive and, when it is, the descriptions are awkward. “The sun looked like cold butter,” for example. The dialogue, too, seems a bit forced.

However, while these aren't minor details, they are workable. I think we should ask to read more (the author says there
is
more) to see if the pace picks up and if the writing gets stronger. If the author is willing (and able) to revise, this novel could be quite promising.

 

By the time I printed out the report, the small clock on my desk read 6:30
A.M
. Lucy had succeeded in training me to function on New York time, and I couldn't help thinking that people in that city were already at their desks and working. Time was getting short. I had to be at the office at eight and I had a half-hour drive ahead of me. The last manuscript in my pile, a memoir from an Alaskan hairstylist titled
Perm-or-Frost,
was going to have to wait. I didn't have high hopes for it, anyway.

As usual, the sound of my morning shower and hair dryer did nothing to interrupt Malcolm's slumber. Watching him sleep had become something of a pattern for me. Before I started working for Lucy, he'd spent an average of four nights a week at my apartment, but since my first day, he'd come over every night, whether he was working late shifts at the restaurant or not. Not that this meant we were actually spending more time together. It was more like we were spending more time
next to
each other. My nights were consumed with reading. Malcolm watched TV. Or slept. Or pointedly reread his own manuscript.

Malcolm's novel; another thing I was going to have to deal with soon, I thought. Despite his protests that I was the major beneficiary of my new job, Malcolm had wasted no time in bringing his hefty manuscript over to my place. Of course, he hadn't demanded, or even suggested, that I take it to Lucy, oh no, he'd just sort of placed it on the floor beside the bed, so that I could “look it over, you know, to give it the final polish.”

Right around the time of the
Parco Lambro
auction, Malcolm casually mentioned, “You know, whenever you want to take a look at my manuscript, Angel, please feel free. You've clearly got the magic touch.”

“Let's wait a bit,” I told him at the time. “It's too early for me to—”

“I'm just
saying,
Angel, if you want to look at it—”

“Right, of course.”

“And I've started working on something else, by the way.” He gave me a canary-eating cat smile and dropped his voice to a seductive whisper. “I'm really excited about this new one.”

“Really? That's great.”

“You're an inspiration to me, Angel. Since you've become the Mistress of Literature, I've been very productive. And notice, I'm not asking you to look at this new one.”

“I know, Malcolm. I'll look at
Bridge of Lies.
I promise.”

But I hadn't looked at it and wasn't sure I wanted to. Malcolm had stopped mentioning his book over the last week or two, but his silence felt heavier and more demanding than his “suggestion” that I read it. I knew I'd have to give it to Lucy at some point, but what would she think if this novel turned out to be less than stellar? And what if she gave it to Anna to read? I shuddered at the thought. There wasn't going to be an easy way out of this one. I felt a tiny flicker of resentment flare in the back of my brain. I couldn't help wishing that Malcolm hadn't put me in this position so soon, despite the guilt that wish brought in its wake. After all, if it hadn't been for Malcolm, I wouldn't even have this job. And, despite its challenges, I really did love my job. I'd never worked as hard in my life, but I'd also never experienced the kind of anticipatory rush I felt every time I sat down at my desk. Working for Lucy was…
extreme
seemed a fitting word. And with extremes, you had to expect both big highs and low lows.

I searched my closet for something presentable to wear and, as I did every morning, cursed Lucy's no-jeans policy. My new schedule didn't allow much time for things like laundry, so my wardrobe offered little in the way of acceptable items. I grabbed my last pair of borderline-clean pants and threw them on. I had no time or inclination to give myself a final inspection in the mirror and told myself that it didn't matter. In all the time I'd been working there, there had not been a single visitor to the office.

I heard Malcolm stir and sigh as I gathered my purse, manuscripts, and keys. I bent down into an awkward kneel by the bed so that my face was level with his.

“Hey,” I whispered. “I'm on my way out. See you later?”

Malcolm smiled, his eyes half-closed, and reached out his arm to cover my shoulders. I could feel the enticing warmth of his skin through my shirt. He brushed the tips of his fingers across my cheek.

“Mmm, you smell so good,” he said, deepening the corners of his smile. He pulled a strand of my hair free and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. A lewd gleam crept into his eyes. “Got a minute before you leave?”

“I really, really don't,” I told him, and hoped that the regret in my voice sounded genuine.

“You sure, Angel?” he said, pulling me gently toward him. Our lips met for one moment before I lost my balance and slipped off the edge of the bed, dropping my purse and keys and kicking paper as I tried to find purchase on the floor.

“Baby, are you okay?” Malcolm looked down at me, laughter dying in his throat as we both saw that I'd fallen on his manuscript, tearing a couple of pages and flipping the rest across the floor.

“I'm so sorry,” I said, quickly shoveling it back into place. “I just—”

“It's okay,” he said. “Leave it.” His smile had vanished and his voice had gone cold. I could hear everything he wasn't saying as clearly as if he'd been yelling it at me.
Go ahead, step on my work. That's what it means to you. That's what I mean to you.

“Malcolm, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—”

“Better go,” he interrupted. “You'll be late.” He turned away from me and burrowed under the covers.

“Malcolm—”

“Don't let it worry you,
Angel.
” His voice, muffled by sheets, was almost a growl. “You've got more important things to do.”

I allowed myself only a second to debate whether or not I should attempt to make things right by falling onto the bed next to Malcolm and burying my face in his neck. But I
was
going to be late and my desire not to be overwhelmed my desire for him. I'd have to make time later, I told myself, and gathered my things once more. And then, fighting with myself all the way, I collected Malcolm's pages from the floor and put them in with my pile. At the very least, I owed him enough to take the manuscript with me, even if I wasn't ready to give it to Lucy yet. If he heard me rustling, Malcolm gave no indication, and then I was out the door. It wasn't until I was already on the road that I realized I'd forgotten to say good-bye to him.

UNLIKE ALMOST EVERYONE I KNEW,
I loved my morning commute. I felt as if the time I spent in my car was the only real time I had to myself—the only time when I didn't have to answer phones, respond to memos, or talk to anyone else. For a half hour in the morning and a half hour in the evening, I allowed myself just to think—to sort through the minutiae of my days and organize it all appropriately. It usually went all to hell once I set foot in the office, but that wasn't really the point. What was important was that I got a few uninterrupted minutes to just let my mind trip and wander wherever it wanted.

It helped, of course, that I had attractive surroundings to look at while I drove. As soon as I crossed the line out of Sonoma County into Marin, the dry, rural feel of Petaluma gave way to lusher scenery on either side of the road. The closer I got to San Rafael, the greener and better tended the streets became. San Francisco's famous fog was romantic and all, but I didn't mind trading it for the warmth and sunlight on the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge.

As I wound my way through the exclusive real estate that was San Rafael and my guilt over Malcolm's manuscript started to fade, my mind latched once more on to the anonymous novel, which was sitting next to me on the passenger seat, its presence as large as that of any person. It occurred to me that the author might have sent the manuscript out to several literary agents. If it
had
gone out wide and I hadn't chased it quickly enough, I'd risk some pointed wrath from Lucy. Nothing got Lucy more excited or more irritated than when a potentially hot author had his or her manuscript circulating among several agents. Of course, the fact that an author
had
interest from other agents went a long way to making that author hot, regardless of the potential book's content.

And hot was what Lucy wanted—what Lucy craved. Immediately after the sale of
Parco Lambro,
she'd circulated a memo (which I'd drafted ten times before she approved it) that said,
While our recent auction was a success, we cannot afford to sit back and take a break. We need to redouble our efforts to bring in more of the same. This office cannot support all of you without a healthy flow of cash. Remember time is $$$!!!! I expect you all to use yours wisely.

Of course, I suspected that none of us was making the kind of money that would drain Lucy's coffers. My own probationary salary was barely a living wage after taxes. I'd done a little research and discovered that even starting salaries at New York publishers were a little higher. Elise had been paying me a little more, but I'd expected to take a dip in salary when I started working with Lucy. I just hadn't realized how lean things would become. Lucy had, however, called me into a meeting with Craig in her office after
Parco Lambro
and, with a great flourish, presented me with a bonus.

“I believe in incentives,” Lucy said. “And although some might say that this is a foolish move, I believe you've earned this. And
I trust you,
Angel. Craig? Will you do the honors?”

Grimacing as if he'd eaten something rotten, Craig handed me a check for one thousand dollars. “Congratulations, Angel,” he said. “And just so you know, there are no taxes deducted from this check. This is not part of your salary. You'll have to pay taxes on it separately.”

“I—I don't know what to say,” I said.

“‘Thank you' is always appropriate,” Lucy offered. “There's more where that came from, Angel, if you know how to get it.” She took a dramatic pause. “And I think you do.”

Of course I did. Like Skinner and Pavlov before her, Lucy was conditioning me. Every time I pressed the right bar, I'd get a fat check. Find another Damiano Vero. That was the message, but it wasn't one that Lucy needed to send. The desire was already alive in me. There was something surprisingly seductive about the rush of excitement
Parco Lambro
had created in me, and it wasn't about the money. It was very much like a drug, I thought. The intensity faded soon after the event, but enough of the memory remained to make me want more. I supposed it had to be the same for Lucy and was at least part of what gave her that insatiable drive.