Blind Submission (4 page)

“No, it's certainly not a bad offer,” Lucy was saying, “but this payout schedule is simply not going to work. Frankly, the author's no spring chicken, if you know what I mean. Is she going to live long enough to get this money? I can't say.” Lucy flashed me a toothy grin. I smiled back and turned my head, afraid to be caught eavesdropping, even though she was clearly speaking loud enough for me to hear every word. But some poor writer's fate was hanging on the outcome of this conversation and it just seemed wrong for me to know how it would all turn out before the writer did.

“No, I'm not implying that she's ill,” Lucy went on. “What I'm saying is that we might
all
be dead by the time this advance is paid out.”

I turned my attention to another shelf of books. A slim volume caught my eye. I recognized it immediately as
Long Shadows,
the one book I'd always said I'd want with me on a deserted island. It was a short but densely written novel about three generations of women who were all writers. Through the different voices of her characters, the author gave a layered, intricate account of women, history, and the writing process. I'd first read it in college and still kept my copy where I could reach it easily, just to thumb through it. It was the author's first and only book. I reached over, almost involuntarily, pulled the book from the shelf, and felt its compact weight in my hand. I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding and got a little light-headed.

I knew then that Malcolm was absolutely right about this being the perfect job for me. The author's mind was certainly where the seeds for great books germinated, but this was the place where they began to bear fruit. Without this agency, who knew how many books would have remained out of sight forever. I replaced the book on the shelf and realized that I really wanted this job. I'd been detached, even equivocal, when I'd first walked in the door, but after being surrounded by this flurry of literary activity for only a few minutes, I couldn't stop the flush of excitement from overtaking me. I wanted this job so badly I could feel my fingertips tingling with desire for it. I wanted—no, I
needed
Lucy Fiamma to hire me, and I scrambled frantically to come up with ways I could convince her to do just that.

Lucy was off the phone. “I see you've been admiring some of our books,” she said.

“Oh yes,” I said. “
Long Shadows
is one of my all-time favorites. I
love
that book.”

“Yes, that was a good one,” Lucy said. “One of my first. It's a pity the author only had that one in her.” She gave an exaggerated shrug. “And of course you've read
Cold!
?”

“Oh, of course. It's a brilliant book,” I said. “But you must know that,” I added.

“Hmm,” Lucy said, and rose from her desk. “Let me tell you a little publishing story, Angel. Since we're discussing brilliance. Of course,
Cold!
is a phenomenal book, no question, and would have done well regardless. But do you know what really made that book work? In terms of
market
?”

Several possible answers raced through my brain, but I settled for silence.

“What did it, I mean
really
did it, was the exclamation point on the title,” Lucy said triumphantly. “And
I
am the one who put that exclamation point there. Indeed.” There was a new note in her voice, something like, if this were possible, flirtatiousness. I was dumbfounded as to how to respond, but had developed an instant understanding of her fondness for exclamation points. I smiled like an idiot.

“Right,” she said briskly, as if snapping out of a trance, “let's get down to this. I'm really running short on time now.” She sat down on the couch and patted the space beside her. “I've looked over your résumé and your experience looks pretty good, but my concern is that you haven't had any direct experience in publishing.”

“Yes, but I—”

“Which could actually work in your favor,” she interrupted. “It means you have no preconceived notions about how things should work. Am I correct?”

I nodded mutely.

“Of course, in terms of
salary,
I'd have to take your limited experience into consideration. I'm sure you can understand. But let's discuss salary later, shall we?”

I couldn't figure out if Lucy meant that to be a rhetorical question, so, again, I just kept my mouth shut.

“I should let you know that this will be a very different environment than Blue Moon. As you've seen, we are very busy here. So you think you'd be able to juggle several tasks at once? Are you prone to feeling overloaded?”

“Oh no, I—”

“Well, let me ask you this. Say you're sitting here, answering the phone, and you get two calls at once. One is an associate editor at a small publisher you've never heard of who just wants to touch base with me. The other is an author whose book I'm about to sell. Say it's
Karanuk,
for example. Who do you put through to me and what do you say to the other one?”

I hesitated, unable to solve this Sphinx-like riddle with any kind of ease.

“Hurry!” she said. “You're not going to have time to mull this decision with two lines blinking.”

“I put Karanuk through to you and let you know that the editor is on the other line,” I said quickly. “Then I tell the editor that you'll be with her—or him—shortly.”

Lucy smiled again, showing all her gleaming teeth. I exhaled and felt my shoulders relax a little, confident that I'd given the right answer.

“Wrong!” she said. “
Always
put an editor through first, no matter how small. That's where the money is. Without publishers, we have no business. That small-time editor could be a big-time publisher tomorrow. It's happened before and it will happen again.”

“Oh,” was all I could think to say.

“But you're obviously an author advocate. That's very sweet.”

Craig had come back into the room in the middle of this interchange and seated himself with his pad once again. The two of them proceeded to ask me a series of questions, all of which seemed more or less standard, considering the position. Which books were my favorites? Why? Which popular books hadn't I liked? Why? What had I learned about publishing trends from my work at Blue Moon? How fast and how accurately could I read?

I answered all their questions with responses I'd prepared ahead of time, but part of me was removed from the interview and watching in dismay. I was quite sure I'd blown my chances with my answer to Lucy's editor/author question.

“Now…
Angel,
” Lucy said, my name seeming to stick in her throat before she forced it out, “I must, of course, ask you why you've decided to leave Blue Moon. Doesn't Elise treat you well?”

“Oh no, it's not that at all,” I said quickly. “Elise is wonderful! But she's closing the store.” I felt a pang of sadness just saying it out loud. “I guess you didn't know.”

“What a shame,” Lucy said, shaking her head. “Although I've often told her she needed to do more to keep up with the big boys. Too idealistic—that's Elise's problem. What a pity.”

“Yes,” I said, “it's a real—”

“We could talk all day, I'm sure,” Lucy interrupted, rising to her feet, “but I've really got to get back on the phone, and I have several other candidates to interview today. Really, we've had an overwhelming response from that ad, haven't we, Craig?”

“Overwhelming,” Craig rumbled.

“What I'd like to do is to get your take on a couple of manuscripts,” Lucy said. “Why don't you have Nora give you some things from today's mail and also something that we're working on now? She can give you the George proposal. I think that one would be good. You can drop off your notes if you like or fax them in. We'll talk again after that. How does that sound?”

“Great,” I said, and shook her hand once more. “Thank you so much.”

“Just one more question,” Lucy said. “You're not a
writer,
are you? There's no place for writers here.”

My mind stumbled over the irony of that statement while my mouth started forming an answer, but Lucy interrupted me once more. “I
have
made the mistake of hiring writers before. It doesn't work.” She shuddered, as if remembering a bad dream. “We represent writers here, we don't create them. Is that clear?”

I had no difficulty responding this time. Of all the questions Lucy had asked me, this one had the surest answer.

“I have no talent for writing,” I told her. “Reading is my passion.” I thought about Malcolm and felt strangely guilty, as if I was somehow betraying him and lying to Lucy at the same time.

“Good, good,” Lucy said, ushering me to the door. “What do you think of my office, by the way? Do you think you could be comfortable working in such a beautiful environment?”

“It's fantastic,” I said, and as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized what her office reminded me of, the image that had been nagging for definition at the back of my mind. Lucy Fiamma's office was very much like an igloo.

AT THE SOUND OF
Lucy's door shutting against my sweat-damp back, Nora and Anna simultaneously swiveled their heads in my direction. Nora looked completely wretched. Anna simply looked annoyed. Both of them raised their eyebrows, forming two sets of inverted parentheses, as if to ask me what the hell I wanted
now.
Standing next to Anna was a tall blond woman wearing a tailored gray suit and clutching a briefcase in one hand. She was, I assumed, the next “candidate” scheduled to interview with Lucy. She gave me a quick, questioning look as if to ask me what to expect, but I looked right past her. I meant to get this job and I wasn't about to offer someone else any help to take it from me, even if that help came from a simple smile. I turned toward Nora.

“Um…I…Lucy…” I drew back some of the oxygen that seemed to have been sucked out of my lungs and started again. “Lucy asked if you could give me some manuscripts from today's mail and the…um…the George proposal?”

Nora slid out from behind her desk and began riffling through a mail tub full of manuscripts. Anna got up as well, only to sit down again on the edge of the same desk she'd wrecked before. Both of them seemed to be intent on completely ignoring the woman in the gray suit.

“Guess it went okay in there?” Anna inclined her head toward Lucy's office. I smiled at Anna as politely as I could and hoped that would suffice as a response to the nosy question I had no intention of answering.

“This'd be your desk, you know,” Anna said, patting the papers underneath her rump. “It's the closest one to her.”

“Right,” I said. “That makes sense.” I looked away from Anna for a moment, not wanting to brand the image of her backside spilling onto the desk. If I managed to get the job, it wasn't a vision I'd want every time I reached for a Post-it.

“Does she want you to write notes? On the manuscripts?” Anna asked.

“Yes, that's what she said. And I'll fax them in.”

“Do you know how to do that?”

“How to fax?”

“No, how to write a report.”

“Oh. Well, I—”

“Make sure you put your name on it and the author's name. And what the genre is. The genre's very important.”

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

Anna turned toward Nora. “Don't forget to give her the George proposal, Kelly,” she said.

Kelly? Who was Kelly?

“I'm sorry,” I said to Nora/Kelly, “did I get your name wrong? I thought it was Nora?”

Nora/Kelly sighed heavily.

“It's my mistake,” Anna said, an air of smugness hanging around her like a low cloud. “Her real name's Kelly, but we call her Nora. Lucy feels that Nora is a better name for her. So she's Nora here. Sometimes I forget. Sorry.” Although she clearly wasn't sorry at all.

“I understand,” I said, although I didn't.

Nora/Kelly looked at me as if she'd like to vaporize me on the spot. “Here are a few random manuscripts from today,” she said through gritted teeth, “and here's a copy of the George proposal.” She shot a poisonous glance in Anna's direction. “You should keep them separate. You can give me a call before you fax them in. Or you can drop them off. But we'll need them back pretty soon.” I could tell she'd delivered this drill before. The phones were ringing and Anna had managed, once again, to vanish.

“I have to get that,” Nora/Kelly said. “Nice to meet you,” she added, and turned her attention to the phone.

“Um, excuse me?” I heard the gray-suit-woman say. “I have an appointment?” As I walked past her to leave, I thought I could see desperation flicker across her face.

When I opened the door and let myself out, the glare of daylight hurt my eyes. I hadn't realized how muted the light had been inside the office, even with all that whiteness. I felt weak and a little dizzy. A headache was starting to throb at the back of my skull. I clutched the manuscripts under one arm and my purse under the other and headed for my car, stumbling in the brightness like a drunk.