Blind Submission (6 page)

“I have a message for Lucy,” I said, and Craig ushered me in. Lucy was sitting behind her desk, talking on the phone, and gave me a broad smile as I walked in. She was dressed in a blood-colored pantsuit with shoes to match. Her wild hair was restrained in a small knot at the back of her head. A large pendant, which looked very much like an amulet with a crimson stone in its center, hung from her neck. She gestured for me to come sit in a chair opposite her.

“Yes, my dear,” she was saying, “I understand how traumatic this surgery can be, but at least you'll have one kidney left, won't you? And think of it this way, for a couple of days you'll have no kids to distract you. And you can take your laptop with you—get a little writing done. You are due to deliver your first draft, you know. What do you think?” She paused for the response, her mouth turning down as she heard it. “But the anesthesia is a small part of the process,” she went on. I could hear an indignant voice on the other end of the phone rise by several decibels and Lucy looked at me, rolling her eyes. She covered the mouthpiece with one hand and as the voice ranted on she said, “What is it, Angel? Why are you sitting here?”

“Gordon Hart called,” I whispered. Lucy's expression changed abruptly to one of sharp concern.

“Why didn't you tell me?” she hissed, and uncovered the mouthpiece. “Listen, Lorraine, I have to go now. We'll speak later. No, Lorraine, I can't, I've got one of the most important men in publishing waiting to talk to me. Bye.” She hung up and turned to me. “What line is he on?” she asked, scanning the lines, none of which were lit or blinking.

“He's not on the line. He left a message.”

“You
let him off the phone
? Why? Do you know how important he is?” She stood up and held her considerable height over me. Flanked against all the white of her office, she looked like a large, open wound. She seemed so angry that for a paranoid second I thought she was going to slap me. “Get him on the phone. Now,” she said through clenched teeth.

“He said that he won't be able to give you a decision today,” I said breathlessly.

“Just get him on the phone,” she repeated. “We'll talk about this later.”

I felt myself skipping out of Lucy's office as if the soles of my feet were burning. On my way out, I caught a glimpse of Craig's expression. It was one of amused pity.

I walked-ran over to my desk and picked up the receiver on my phone, only to realize that I was completely clueless as to where to find Gordon Hart's phone number, or
any
phone number, for that matter. I searched my desk, looking for a Rolodex, and found nothing. I did, however, manage to sweep several piles of paper to the floor, spilling what I could only assume were vital documents. My intercom flashed and screamed.

“Angel. Get Gordon Hart. On the line. Now.” Lucy's angry voice penetrated my marrow. The useless and unwelcome thought that I was going to have to buy a better deodorant skipped across my brain.

“Uh, yes, I…just one moment, please.” I brushed some more papers out of my way. “Say, Nora, could you maybe help me find the phone number for—”

“I'm really busy,” Nora said, sighing. “But you might want to try turning on your computer. All the phone numbers are listed in the database.”

I gave her a look of disbelief. I hadn't even seen the computer behind the reams of paper. Surely she had the number in one of the Rolodexes she was so intent on searching. I couldn't imagine why she wouldn't give it to me.

“Angel!” Lucy's voice shouted through my intercom once more. “I can't talk to Gordon Hart now. If you've got him on the line, tell him I'll get back to him.”

As she finished this pronouncement, the phone started ringing again.

“You should get that,” Nora said. “Lucy wants
you
to answer the phone.”

“I know,” I snapped. “Thanks for your help.”

“Huh!” Nora favored me with a look of pure indignation and reached below her desk for something unseen. For a moment, I was sure she was going to pull out some sort of weapon, but instead it was a box of Slender-Aid diet protein powder, which she opened and proceeded to eat dry, with a spoon. I picked up the phone.

“Good morning, Lucy Fiamma Literary Agency.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line, punctuated by what sounded like heavy breathing. I tried again. “Lucy Fiamma Literary Agency. Hello?”

“Yes,” a man's voice (and a smoker by the sound of it) finally spoke. “Lucy Fiamma, please.”

“I'm sorry, she's on another line at the moment, can I help you?”

“She's reviewing my work,” he said, “and I'd like to know when we'll be able to discuss it.”

“Certainly,” I said. “May I have your name, please?”

“Peter Johnson,” he said. Proudly, I thought.

“Please hold,” I said, and put him in limbo. “Nora?” I couldn't help myself, I needed her. “Peter Johnson's on the line. Should I—”

“He calls every day,” Nora said, sniffing over her protein powder. “We keep rejecting him but he never goes away. His manuscripts stink of cigarettes. Ugh. He should really quit.” Two other lines began ringing simultaneously. “You'd better get those,” Nora said. “Lucy wants you—”

I punched Line 2. “Lucy Fiamma Literary Ag—”

“This is Lorraine. I need to talk to her now, please. Don't tell me she's on another line.” Lorraine sounded as if she were weeping.

“Okay, please hold, Lorraine.”

I punched Line 3. “Lucy Fiamma Agency.”

“Yes, this is Fabio and I'm calling to confirm Ms. Fiamma's dinner reservations for this evening at Baciare Ristorante?”

“Please hold.”

I stared at the three blinking lines in total dismay. The obvious choice was to put Lorraine (whom I assumed was the same Lorraine Lucy had been instructing to write through anesthesia) through to Lucy, but I was rapidly learning that the obvious choice wasn't necessarily the right one in this office. Occam's razor was turned on its ear here. I took a chance anyway and buzzed Lucy.

“Yes?” she said.

“Hi, Lucy, I've got Lorraine on Line 2 and Fabio from Baciare on Line 3?”

“Fabio!” she exclaimed. “Put him through.”

Right. Fabio went to Lucy and I punched Line 2, dreading the conversation I was about to have with the weepy Lorraine.

“Hi? Lorraine? This is Angel Robinson, Lucy's new assistant. I'm really sorry, but Lucy's on a ca—conference call at the moment and she really can't get off. But she asked me to tell you that she'll call you back the minute she finishes.” I didn't know where I was coming up with this and was vaguely surprised that I was able to lie with such ease.

“Sure,” Lorraine barked, and hung up in my ear.

Peter Johnson was still blinking on Line 1.

“Mr. Johnson? I'm afraid Ms. Fiamma's unavailable at the moment. Can I help you?”

“Have you read my book?” he asked, coughing into the phone.

“Actually, I'm new here, so I haven't had a chance to—”

“We can still talk about it,” he said. “Let me tell you the plot, if you've got a minute. It's a winner, I'm telling you. A real winner.”

“Why don't I take your number, Mr. Johnson, and I'll make sure to deliver the message.”

He coughed again and rasped out his phone number, promising that it was no trouble at all for him to call again and that he'd be happy to call tomorrow, and oh yes, congratulations on my new job at one of the finest literary agencies on earth. I hung up and stole a glance at my watch, sure that hours had passed since I'd first walked in at eight o'clock. I'd been there for exactly twenty-three minutes.

THE NEXT TIME I CHECKED,
it was after one. Pacific time, that is. There was one clock in the office and it was set to New York time. Anna had arrived at nine but was only marginally more helpful than Nora in showing me around the office. She was, however, intent on telling me every detail of her eating habits. Instead of learning where Lucy's call list was, I learned that Anna had consumed eggs and bacon for breakfast. Rather than explaining how the filing system worked, Anna chose to tell me that she was planning a Chinese chicken salad for dinner, and what did I think of honey mustard dressing? Every so often, she'd throw out a bit of useful information, like where the filing cabinets were located, for example, or where I could find the manuscripts that were slated for rejection and had to be sent back to their authors, but these were delivered almost as afterthoughts. At least, thankfully, when I managed to unearth my computer and turn it on, Anna was able to direct me to the various databases of names and phone numbers that I'd be needing.

Craig spent most of the morning wearing a path between his desk and Lucy's office. When he was seated behind his folders and files, he was all but invisible. Aside from the brief conversation I'd had with him in Lucy's office, he hadn't spoken to me at all.

Anna must not have heard that I was to be the first person answering the phone, because, unless she was on a call herself, she leaped at it every time it rang. Her conversations were loud and she giggled often. These were not personal calls, either, because she put several through to Lucy, but she spoke to everyone as if she were a long-lost chum. I answered a few calls of my own, more successfully than the first, but still felt uneasy about the Hart episode. Lucy had not emerged from her office, and I expected to be called onto the sparkling white carpet at any minute for screwing up. When my intercom buzzed at one-thirty, I actually jumped.

“Angel, can you come in here now, please.” Despite the
please,
it was clearly a command and she sounded none too pleased. I considered the possibility of being fired on my first day.

“Come, come, Angel. Sit down.” Lucy was perched on her white leather sofa, holding a manuscript. I recognized the mass of curling blue script on the first page. I sat down on the edge of her couch and she gave me a look I could only describe as a “once-over.”

“What have you come as, my dear?” she asked, her tone much less gentle than her words.

“Excuse me? Wha—”

“I mean, what are you
wearing,
Angel?”

I looked down at myself, as if I needed to be reminded of what I'd put on earlier, and saw a beige button-down shirt, jeans, and black mules. It was a very similar outfit to the ones both Anna and Nora were wearing. Obviously this was some kind of trick question. I had no idea what the answer was supposed to be.

“Um…”

“Oh, for God's sake, I don't have time for this,” Lucy said with exasperation. “I want to talk to you about this Italian book.” She handed me Damiano Vero's manuscript. My notes were clipped to the top and I saw that Lucy had written all over them. “Now, I gather that you really liked this, yes?”

“Yes, I thought the writing was great.” I scrambled to switch gears in an effort to keep up with Lucy's broad jumps in topic.

“Well, it
is
very good, you're right, but I have some questions. First of all, it's set in Italy.”

“Some of it.”

“Yes, it's set in Italy and Americans are very xenophobic. They may not want to read about Italy right now.”

“But what about
Under the Tuscan Sun
? Italy's always been seen as so romantic,” I said. “Besides, when he gets to this country, he really cleans up his act. It's kind of an immigrant success story in a way.” I was beginning to warm to the discussion. I'd almost forgotten about the files, the phone calls, and Nora's glowering looks.

“That's another thing. I don't think this should be a memoir. Memoirs—
especially
addiction memoirs—have become the wicked stepchildren of publishing lately. We're going to have to call this something else.”

I watched as Lucy furrowed her brow in concentration.

“Let's pitch it as autobiographical fiction,” she said finally. “That should cover all the bases.” She gave me a sharp glance. “You should be writing this down, Angel.” I looked down at my empty hands, debating whether or not to make a run for my desk for pen and paper. “Next time,” Lucy stated, “come in here prepared, please. Now, is he still addicted? That would make a great angle. We could get him into rehab, give him interviews from a hospital or something.”

“Actually, I think his point was that he's clean now.”

Lucy shot me a disapproving look. “Well, we'll see what we can do about that. Much better if he
hasn't
cleaned up. This book could
be
his salvation instead of the book being
about
his salvation. Yes, yes, that's
much
better. What does he do?”

“He's a pastry chef.”

“No, that's no good. Too many chef tales out there already. We're on the fourteenth minute of that story and the clock's ticking.” She paused for a moment, tapping her Waterman fountain pen against the pages on her lap. “We'll just say he's unemployed. Impoverished and addicted. That's much better. Heroin and pastry don't make a sexy combination. This stuff about the park is fabulous,” she said, flipping through the bent sheets. “Is the manuscript finished?”