Blind Submission (18 page)

Lucy had me fixed in that stare of hers again. “Yes,” she said. “You owe me, Angel. You certainly do.” She seemed to mull this for a moment and then snapped back into the mode I knew so well. “Now, let's get on with it. I don't even want to think about how much time we've wasted on this.”

My heart sank at hearing Malcolm reduced to “wasted time.”

“What we need to talk about,” Lucy went on, rising from her desk and striding over to her couch, “are
these.
” She picked up two manuscripts from the pile on her coffee table and held them out. One was
Blind Submission
and the other was
Elvis Will Dance at Your Wedding.
“Now,
this
is how you should be using your talents, Angel. Come on, sit down.”

I settled myself on the couch, trying not to sit so close that we were touching. “My first question,” she said, pointing to Shelly Franklin's novel, “is can you make this one work? Because if you can, it could be one of those literary darlings. Well,
I
can make it one of those literary darlings, at any rate.”

“That was my thinking, too,” I told her. “The author's willing to work, definitely, so I think—”

“Good! Make sure she has an agency contract by the end of the day.” She tossed the manuscript at me and I caught it before it could slide off my knees to the floor. “Now, this…” She trailed off as she glanced over my original notes for
Blind Submission.
“…is very interesting.” I was surprised to see actual excitement on her face.

“You like this one, Lucy?”

“Is there a reason I shouldn't?”

“Well, the writing's a little weak…I thought…”

Lucy raised her eyebrows in an exaggerated expression of surprise. “The writing is not overly literary, if that's what you mean. But I think the style suits the concept here, Angel. And I believe this has the potential to be an extremely commercial novel if it's presented correctly. Didn't you mention
The Nanny Diaries
in your notes? In any event, it would be nothing for you to retool the writing, would it, Angel?”

“Well, no, I suppose I could—”

“Of course you could.” She leaned in close to me, her green eyes probing mine. “But yes, I like it and I find it most amusing that it's set in a literary agency. Don't you, Angel?”

She was leading me somewhere, but I couldn't tell where. My growing sense of discomfort told me that it wasn't a place I wanted to go.

“It's interesting,” I said. “But what about the fact that books about publishing don't usually do well?”

“Nothing sells until it does, Angel. That's the rule of this business. Who cared about the Inuit before Karanuk? Did anyone, aside from myself, believe that
Cold!
was hot? You have to make it happen, Angel.”

“Well, that's certainly true,” I said. “But how do you feel about this anonymous thing? It's a little cloak-and-dagger, don't you think?”

Lucy's smile looked like an incision in her face. “I'm willing to play along,” she said. “It might even add some glamour…some danger…to the package. The anonymous author worked for
Primary Colors,
didn't it?”

“Yes, but his
agent
knew who he was, right?”

She sat up straight and her demeanor changed again. She'd run out of patience. “Why am
I
trying to convince
you
?” she barked. “Didn't you give me this novel in the first place?”

“Yes, but—”

“Has the author contacted other agents, then? Have we lost it already?”

“No, in fact—”

“Well, then, get on it, Angel.”

I tried to stand, but Lucy reached out and grabbed the fabric of my sleeve as if to pull me back down. The movement took both of us by surprise and she let go as quickly as she'd reached for me. “Is there anything else you want to tell me about this novel, Angel?”

“I don't think so,” I told her. I still didn't know what she was driving at, and it was starting to make me very anxious.

“Are you sure? Nothing to tell me about the protagonist? The assistant who is also a
writer
and who sends in her own work
anonymously
?”

I stared at her for a moment, my mind a complete blank, but then it finally hit me—hard. “You don't think
I
wrote this, do you?”

“You needn't sound so shocked, Angel. Isn't that what you'd think if you were in my position? And it's not as if something like this has never happened before. I can't tell you how many aspiring writers I've had to wade through in this office. I didn't think you were one of them. But if it is you, I'd advise you to tell me now. Because I'll find out, Angel. You know I will.”

“Lucy, I have no aspirations to write, none at all.” I was almost laughing at the absurdity of it. “I can't write, anyway! I'm hopeless at it.”

“Well, I don't believe
that,
” Lucy countered. “Nobody who understands writers the way you do would be a hopeless writer herself.”

I shrugged and offered her a limp smile. “What can I say?” I offered. “I love books. I'm a reader. I can't write, Lucy, that's the truth. And I certainly didn't write this.” I waved the manuscript in front of me. Lucy tilted her head to one side, studying me, the movement giving her the look of a large bird. She removed one glove and then the other, placing them carefully on the coffee table in front of her.

“I hope you're not upset about your boyfriend's novel, Angel. Are you?”

Lucy's look had changed to one of concern and I wondered whether or not it was genuine. I decided that it was.

“I'm disappointed,” I told her, “but not upset.”

“I may have been a little harsh earlier,” she responded, “but, Angel, you realize now how very difficult it is to sell even excellent projects. There's just no room for those that don't have at least the potential to be great. I hope you know that had I seen any possibility in that novel I would have considered taking it on.”

“I do,” I said.

“I see so much potential in
you,
Angel. I hate to see you squandering your talent. I'm looking out for
you,
dear. I believe you have an extremely bright future ahead of you.”

Dear?
Since when had I become a “dear”? But I believed her. Her tone was suddenly so soft, soothing, and laden with feeling that I wouldn't have been surprised if she went on to tell me she loved me.

“Thank you, Lucy.” My voice cracked over the last syllable of her name. Her unexpected burst of sentiment had actually choked me up.

“I am investing in
your
future, Angel. I do hope you realize that. You have a wonderful opportunity here—so much room to grow.”

I wondered again if she truly meant what she was saying, but there was nothing in her tone to suggest otherwise. “Thank you,” I repeated because I'd lost track of what she'd said and this seemed like the only appropriate way to respond.

“Well, all right then,” she said. “You'd better go back to work.”

I left her office thinking I'd be able to do just that, focus on my work and shrug off my guilt about Malcolm's rejection, but I was mistaken. When I got back to my desk, the second chapter of
Blind Submission
was waiting for me in my e-mail in-box.

I WAS WIDE AWAKE,
editing Shelly Franklin's novel, when Malcolm let himself into my apartment after his shift that night.

“I need to talk to you,” I said.

“Mind if I take a shower first?” he answered. “It was a very long night and”—he sniffed the sleeve of his white shirt—“I think I've got at least seven different wines on my shirt. I stink.”

I didn't want to wait. I had to talk to him about Lucy before it could fester in my brain any longer. “It's about your novel, Malcolm.”

Malcolm sat down on one of the two chairs in my apartment, not on the bed next to me. I could see resignation lining his features but also, under that, a small glow of hope. I hated that I had to extinguish it and hated that he'd put me in the position of having to do it.

“What about it?” he asked.

“Lucy gave it back to me today. She's not going to represent it.”

“I know,” he said. “I thought maybe you were going to tell me she changed her mind.”

It took me a second to realize why he knew and then it came back to me. Lucy had said she'd called him. Like a good author, he'd put his phone number and address on the cover page of his novel.

“Why didn't you tell me she called you, Malcolm?”

“Haven't exactly had the chance, have I?” A twisted, mirthless grin spread its way across his mouth. “You're not what I'd call available these days, Angel.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” I put down Shelly Franklin's manuscript and capped the red pen I held in my hand. I needed to get up, but I was too tired to move. I was feeling very defensive and didn't think my bed was the right arena in which to deflect an attack. Malcolm was leaning back in the chair, his legs spread out in front of him. He looked worn out and exhausted but stubborn and ready to fight.

“You're a little caught up in work, aren't you?” he said. “Always so damn busy, so very, very important. Anyway, Angel, it doesn't seem as if you're particularly interested in what happens to me and my career. I think being rejected by your boss makes that pretty clear. If you'd taken just a little time out of your fascinatingly busy schedule to give your
fiancé
a little help—to
read
his damn book—like you give to every other nobody-writer who sends in a manuscript, perhaps it wouldn't have been rejected in the first place. Did that ever occur to you?”

“Fiancé?” I asked. “When did you become my fiancé?”

“Is that a joke, Angel?”

“No, it's not. When it suits you, obviously, we're engaged. But I don't remember having a discussion about this recently. When is the last time we talked about our future, anyway?”

Malcolm sat up in the chair, his face darkening with anger. “That's not really the point, is it, Angel? I think you're only bringing this up now to get out of taking responsibility for what you've done. You shafted me and you don't want to admit it.”

“What are you talking about? The only reason I applied for this job in the first place was because of you.”

“You might want to rethink that,” he said softly. “It seems to me you've got a whole other agenda working here. I don't—” He stopped and looked down at his hands, flexing them. He cleared his throat. “I don't know what's happened to you, Angel. Since you started working at that place, you've become a different person. I mean, even
Lucy
cares more about me than you do. At least she took the time to call me.”

“Don't read too much into that!” I snapped at him. “She did that for me.”

“See what I mean?” he said. “You're becoming a real bitch.”

We were both stunned silent after that one. Malcolm and I had disagreed from time to time, but we'd never had a fight like this. And we had never even come close to name-calling. He might as well have slapped me. I felt tears, hot with anger, welling in my eyes. If he was affected by them, Malcolm gave no indication. He stood up and headed over to the door. “I can't deal with this,” he barked, and stalked out, slamming the door behind him.

FOR A LONG TIME
after Malcolm left, I lay staring at the door as if I could erase the last hour by sheer force of will. My eyes filled, emptied, and filled again. The Malcolm I knew was sweet and loving and, for the past two years, had been my best friend. I didn't recognize the angry, bitter person who had just left my apartment.

The phone rang and I leaped up, convinced it was Malcolm calling to apologize, or to tell me that he loved me, or that it had all been a huge misunderstanding.