Blind Submission (13 page)

I FOUND THE OFFICE EMPTY
when I let myself in and realized that, despite the fact that I'd stopped for a cappuccino on the way over, I'd arrived ten minutes earlier than usual. I settled myself at my desk and flipped on my computer. There were multiple notes from Lucy in my in-box. At the top of the pile was her daily memo itemizing the tasks that were most important the moment she'd thought of them the previous evening, but that would probably change as the day went on.

 

Angel—

Today's Top Priorities:

 

1. Report on reader's reports.

2. Chase Elvis!!!!

3. Find salon (as in SF Chron) and make appt. (Where is my blue pen?)

4. I need complete list of all projects in development/in submission/due for delivery/pubbing in the next two months.

5. Calls!!!

It was a list of labors worthy of Hercules. The only items that were missing were “Kill Hydra” and “Clean Augean stables.” Which actually wasn't a bad idea for a business book for one of our authors, I thought. I made a mental note to run it past Lucy; something like
Twelve Tasks for Better Business
or
Twelve Rules for Commercial Success.

I wondered once more how Lucy was able to do it. How was it possible that she'd accumulated so much for me to do before the day even began? Not to mention the fact that I needed to crack the Da Vinci Code to figure out what each item on the list actually meant. I'd worked out that #3 was a request to make her a hair appointment at a salon that the
San Francisco Chronicle
had just named the hottest spot in town, but I couldn't quite grasp how she wanted me to chase Elvis. And, of course, the phone was already ringing.

“Good morning, Lucy Fiamma Agency.” My voice sounded gravelly and tired. I cleared my throat and heard his trademark coughing on the other end of the phone. Peter Johnson.

“Hello, Angel. How are you?”

I wondered when I'd become Angel to him. He'd always been meticulous about calling me Ms. Robinson before.

“I'm fine, Mr. Johnson, how are you?”

“Please call me Peter,” he wheezed. “I think we know each other well enough at this point.” He lapsed into another coughing fit. He had a point, I supposed, although it had been a few days since I'd spoken to him last. I couldn't remember exactly when I'd sent his most recent rejection or if there was one just about to go out.

“Okay, Peter. You must be calling about your manuscript. I wrote you a note and sent it—”

“No, no,” he rasped. “I got that. And thank you, Angel, for your kind words. But that's not why I'm calling.” He took a breath and choked on it, hacking once more into the phone. I bit my lip with impatience and a little remorse. My “words” on his last rejection letter had been anything but kind. I'd tried my best to imply, without being nasty, that Lucy would never accept his work for representation. Apparently, he hadn't quite gotten the message.

“I'm calling because I'd like to give you one more chance. I need to tell you something. I've—” He interrupted himself with more hacking.

I couldn't stop myself from sighing into the phone. He wanted to give
us
one more chance? What was he talking about? How many different ways could I tell him no?

“You know, Mr. Johnson, I really don't think—”

“Please hear me out,” he gasped, but I couldn't. I didn't know whether it was fatigue, impatience, or just irritation that got me, but I decided that it was time to put Peter Johnson out of his—and my—misery for good.

“Mr. Johnson, I think it's only fair I tell you that Lucy Fiamma has seen your work and it's just not right for her. She's not the agent for you. I'm sorry.”

“You don't understand,” he said. “You're not listening.”

“Please,” I begged him. “Do yourself a favor, don't send us anything else.” There was a quiet pause. For a second I thought he'd stopped breathing altogether.

“You're making a mistake,” he said. “And you are
not
Lucy Fiamma.”

“I'm sorry if you—” I began, but Peter Johnson hung up on me. I stared at the receiver for a moment, stunned. He'd always been unfailingly polite. But so had I until this moment. I felt a twinge of discomfort. But really, what could he expect? I debated looking up his phone number and calling him back, but the phone shrilled again and I picked it up, assuming he'd beaten me to it.

“Fiamma Agency.” I waited for the sound of labored breathing.

“Angel? Is that you?”

I was momentarily thrown by a woman's voice on the other end of the phone. “Uh…This is Angel Robinson. May I help you?”

“Angel, it's Elise.”

“Elise!” At that moment, I realized how much I'd missed her. Our daily confabs, swapping customer stories and discussing books, came rushing back to me on a wave of instant nostalgia. And it wasn't just the easy camaraderie I had with Elise that I missed, it was her good nature, her lack of hard edges, and her centeredness. I missed the quiet enjoyment of working for her. It had been less than two months since I'd last sat with her at Blue Moon sharing quips and coffee, but it felt like the farthest reaches of the past.

“How are you, Angel? I haven't heard from you since you left. I thought I'd catch you at home this morning, but Malcolm said you were already at work.” I'd forgotten that she knew Malcolm. I met him in her store, after all. She'd always been very protective of me when it came to him, telling me to watch my heart, not to give away too much of myself—even if he
was
one of the best-looking men she'd ever met. I'd almost forgotten all of that.

“I'm so sorry, Elise. I keep meaning to call you, but by the time I finish work, it's so late and then I don't remember…I'm sorry.”

“You don't have to be sorry, Angel, I just wanted to see how you were doing. How's the job? Tell me honestly. She treating you okay?”

“Great!” I said too perkily. “Busy, you know. We just sold an amazing book by a new author. You'd love it, Elise.” I wondered at my sudden desire to hold back the less pleasant details of my job to present the best possible face. Oddly, I felt as if Elise, who'd been both friend and mentor, had become an outsider.

“Really? That's wonderful, Angel. If I know you, you're doing an amazing job. I suppose you don't have very much free time, though, do you? I was hoping maybe we could get together for lunch or coffee. I've got something to show you—well, give you, actually. I found it when I was clearing out the store. I think you'll find it very interesting.”

It was a nice idea, but I'd never be able to find the time to have lunch with her unless I took a vacation day, and Lucy had made it clear that I didn't have any of those coming to me for at least a year. Even the weekends were booked solid with reading.

“Maybe I could call you when I get home? We can set something up then.” I was eager to get her off the phone before Lucy caught wind that I was on a personal call. “I'm so glad you called, though. It's great to hear from you.”

“Are you sure you're okay, Angel?”

“I'm fine, great. I'll speak to you later. Bye, Elise.” I hung up the phone and exhaled so hard, spots started dancing in front of my eyes. Elise was the second person I'd hung up on in the space of ten minutes. I sensed that this was to be a day of extremes.

“Angel!”

I startled and jumped at the sound of my name. I turned my head in the direction of her voice and had to stifle a gasp. Lucy was standing in the doorway of her office, clad only in a large, fluffy white towel.

“Glad you're finally here,” she said. “It's going to be a very busy day today. I need you to start making calls now.”

I couldn't answer, paralyzed by the sight in front of me.

“Is there a problem, Angel?” she asked.

“Um…”

Lucy shifted her position and the unthinkable happened: The towel sprang loose and fell to the floor before she could catch it. I lowered my eyes instinctively but not before the vision of her nakedness seared my retinas.

“Goddamn it!” I heard her curse. And then, “My calls, Angel! Now!”

FIVE

I SAT AT MY DESK,
head down, eyes glued to my keyboard, for several minutes after I heard the click of Lucy's office door shutting. That was as long as it took for me to try, and fail, to erase the image of a naked Lucy from my brain. I wasn't exactly shocked at her lack of modesty. Like many memsahibs before her, Lucy didn't think much about revealing herself to her servants, and I'd often arrived at the office early enough to see her in various states of undress. This was the first time that I'd actually seen her unclothed, though, and it was a little much to take on an empty stomach. Perhaps I was just exhausted, I thought, working so many concentrated hours on so little sleep that I'd started hallucinating. Yes, that was it—I'd imagined the whole thing. But why, then, were the details so remarkably clear? It appeared that my vision had breast implants, for example, and I couldn't understand why my brain would choose to hallucinate those. The back of my throat was dry and scratched as if there were something small and sharp poking into it. I felt a little dizzy and slightly nauseated. I needed to drink something. As I bent toward my purse for my water bottle, my intercom buzzed, shrill in the empty office.

“Angel!”

“Yes, Lucy?”

“Why am I not yet on the phone? Is nobody working in Manhattan today? Some sort of holiday I'm unaware of?”

“No, Lucy. I mean, yes, I'm—”

“Did I not ask you to begin calling several minutes ago?”

So I hadn't imagined it. I waited a second, almost hearing the impatient thrum of passing time.

“Angel, is there something wrong with you today?”

“No, Lucy.”

“Then why the
fuck
am I not on the phone at this moment, Angel?”

There was something about the way Lucy cursed, some sort of stiff nuance she placed on the word
fuck,
that took all the teeth out of it. It wasn't as if Lucy couldn't sound nasty, far from it. She could make almost any word sound like the vilest epithet when she placed the right venomous emphasis on the syllables. But she shaped those words like daggers herself, they didn't start that way. Words like
shit, fuck,
and
bullshit,
which she used with intermittent frequency, were already loaded, but I never recoiled when she cursed—unlike the times when she hurled my own name at me like a weapon.

“I'm sorry, Lucy, I'm calling right now.” I moved to pick up the receiver on my phone.

“Too late! Put the phone down and come in here now, please, Angel. There's something else I need to discuss with you immediately.”

“Okay.”

“And bring your reading.”

I realized I'd started perspiring. I could feel beads of moisture on my upper lip and the soles of my feet were tingling. It took me a second to identify the combination as my body's own response to fear.

I gathered up the
Blind Submission
manuscript and a pad of paper to take notes. Malcolm's novel stared up at me from its position in my bag. In a fit of guilty impulsivity, I grabbed it and added it to my stack. My morning at the office was already so strange and unsettling that trying to push my boyfriend's book hardly seemed uncomfortable. I knocked on Lucy's door, standing outside for as long as possible before she shouted, “Come
in,
Angel!” and I had to enter.

“I'm quite serious when I ask if you need medical attention today, Angel. First you walk in on me when I'm practically naked—please try not to do that again, by the way—and now you are just standing there. What is wrong with you?”

I took a deep breath and looked over at her. She was fully dressed, wearing a brown leather vest with a matching skirt, a chunky turquoise necklace, and a bright yellow turtleneck. The outfit did nothing for her complexion, but it was so much better than what I'd seen underneath. I could feel relief flooding my body like warm water. I was so relieved, in fact, that I decided to let her maintain the illusion that
I'd
walked in on
her.
It appeared she was capable of embarrassment after all.

“I'm so sorry, Lucy,” I said. “I guess I'm a little tired today. I haven't been getting much sleep lately.”

Lucy scrutinized me for a moment, one eyebrow arching, as if she was trying to decide between two responses.

“What you do in your
private
life is entirely up to you, Angel,” she said, and again I noticed her particular talent for making the mundane obscene. “But I must insist that it not infringe on your job,” she continued. “I'm sure you can understand my feelings about this. Perhaps you should save your late nights for the weekends, hmm?” Malcolm could certainly attest that my late nights had nothing to do with anything private and everything to do with the office, but it didn't seem wise to mention that with Lucy's eyebrow still arrowed in my direction.

“Right,” I said.

“Although,”
she said, stretching out the syllables, “I suppose you're young, aren't you? And there's a boyfriend, isn't there? A fiancé, no?”

“Yes, but—”

“No need to be prudish, Angel. Not for my benefit. Just the two of us girls here now.” She grinned. “Angel, you're blushing! Well, isn't that sweet?” That seductive tone had worked its way into her voice again. Was she flirting with me? I had no idea how to respond. I was sure that the burn on my cheeks was deepening to a nice shade of scarlet. “You must be an angel after all,” Lucy was saying. It sounded like a quote, but I had no idea from where. “All right, sit down,” she said abruptly. “Let's get to it.”

I sat-fell into Lucy's white couch and she left her desk to come sit beside me, turning so that her softly booted knees were just touching mine. I made a show of reassembling the manuscripts on my lap so that I could shift away.

“Not yet,” she said, watching me shuffle the papers. “We have another matter to go over first.”

“Okay,” I said, pulling my notepad closer.

“No,” she said. “No notes for this conversation. In fact, Angel, I'm going to have to ask you to keep this in strict confidence. This is a very sensitive issue and I wouldn't be discussing it with you at all if I didn't feel I could trust your judgment completely.” She grinned at me again, showing all her white teeth. They seemed shinier than usual.

“Of course,” I said. “I mean, of course I won't say anything.”

“It's about Anna,” she said, and stopped, waiting for my response.

“Okay,” I said.

“I'm wondering,” Lucy continued, leaning in closer, “if I should let her go.”

“Oh,” was the only response I could muster.

“The thing about Anna is that, although I believe her heart's in the right place, she's just not that sharp. Do you know what I mean, Angel?” Her tone implied that I should not only know what she meant, but that I should agree. I wasn't happy about the position that put me in.

“Um,” I said, stretching for time.

“Don't be coy, Angel. I know for a fact that you've noticed what she misses with the reading.”

“Well, I—”

“And, frankly, I'm not confident that she's detail-oriented enough for her other work, either. Although that could be fixed. The reading is the lifeblood of this office, Angel, I'm sure I don't need to tell you that. You can't train someone to have an eye. And that's what you have, Angel, it's why I hired you despite your naïveté and obvious lack of experience.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you.” Had I just thanked her for insulting me or had I agreed with her about Anna? The conversation was fast getting away from me.

“Now, Angel, even though I rely on your judgment, you cannot be the only person in this office with an eye for what will sell. I need every member of my staff to be as sharp.”

“Right.”

“Craig has plenty of responsibility outside of the reading, so I can't expect the same kind of volume from him. And Nora, well, that's another topic altogether, isn't it? I'll have to address that later. But Anna is clearly falling down in this area. So, my question to you is: Do I let her go? Do you feel the quality of her reading is getting better or worse?”

“Oh, Lucy, I'm not sure I'd be the best person to help you decide…. I mean, I…” I trailed off and looked down at my hands, as if what I should say next might be written there. It occurred to me that Lucy might be fashioning another one of her tests, along the lines of the “Do you put the author or editor through to me first?” question from my interview. Perhaps this was her way of separating the girls from the women? Some sort of office
Survivor,
perhaps? If that were the case, it was a particularly distasteful test. Lucy was waiting for an answer and I opened my mouth to speak. What came out of it next was a complete surprise to me.

“I don't think her reads are getting any better,” I said. “I was just thinking this morning how she seems to be rejecting most of her manuscripts without really reading them carefully.”

“Yes,” Lucy said, and leaned back into the couch, an unpleasant grin spreading across her face. “I thought as much. So your recommendation would be to let her go, then?”

“No, I didn't—”

“You're pretty confident, aren't you, Angel? Only here a few weeks, and already you're suggesting I fire one of your superiors.”

Up to that moment, I could safely say that I'd never felt my jaw drop. But it fell open then, independent of any will on my part, while the words that came to my mind—
What are you talking about?
—remained tangled and unspoken in the back of my throat.

“Oh, don't look at me that way, Angel,” Lucy said, waving her hand.

“You've got the killer instinct. That is not a disadvantage in this business. However, you'll have to put a leash on your ambition for a bit longer. I'd like to give Anna a chance to redeem herself. In fact, I'd like
you
to give her a chance. I want you to work with her, Angel. Let her know what she should be looking for and what she's missing. I've invested quite a bit of time and money in that girl, and I'm not willing to throw it all away just yet. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said, although I didn't.

“Of course, I'll have to let her know that she's in a probationary period as far as the reading goes. We'll have a staff meeting when everyone gets here—draft a memo about that, please—and then perhaps I can see you and Anna together in my office.” It wasn't a question.

“What time would you like to have the staff meeting?” I asked. Lucy looked over at me as if I'd lost my mind.

“The usual time, of course, Angel.”

This meant that I'd have to make one up. We hadn't really had an organized staff meeting since I'd started the job.

“Now,” she said briskly, “this brings me to my next point, and I have to say I'm somewhat disappointed in you, Angel.” She reached down and plucked a manuscript from a pile on the floor. I recognized it as Shelly Franklin's novel,
Elvis Will Dance at Your Wedding.
So that's what “Chase Elvis” meant, I thought, and was seized with a quick panic. I'd given Lucy the manuscript weeks ago, but in the heat of Damiano's auction and everything else that had happened since I'd read it, I'd forgotten to ask her about it. I'd forgotten to anticipate, remind, and otherwise order Lucy's thoughts—a failing she was sure to pounce on.

“This,” she said, waving
Elvis
in front of me, “is one of the very manuscripts you feel is better than Anna has given it credit for. Why, then, has it taken
so long
to get to me?”

“But—” I began, and stopped myself before I could say something stupid. I
had
given it to her right away, I just hadn't remembered to remind her of that fact. I couldn't figure out if I was guilty or innocent. “I did pass that on to you a while ago,” I finished weakly.

“But I'm only seeing it now!” she exclaimed. “How do you account for that?”

Several insubordinate responses flashed through my brain, but I opted for the safest path, which was just to say, “I'm sorry, Lucy, I thought you'd read it already.”

Lucy stared at me for a second, her gimlet eyes flashing, and then moved quickly to another thought. “Fine,” she said, “I'll let it go this time, but really, Angel, you need to be more careful. I don't have to tell you. Anyway, let's just discuss this piece—and give me the short version, Angel, we're running out of time here.”

“Um, well, it's…uh…” I remembered the manuscript well, but it was a struggle to pull the words out of the thickness in my brain. For one flashing second, I was sure I was going to pass out.

“The
short
version, Angel.” Lucy leaned toward me so close that for the first time I could see that she had tiny lines around her mouth into which her brick-colored lipstick was bleeding. I was starting to feel that Lucy was about to eat me like a predator with its fallen prey and I forced myself out of my haze.