CHAPTER ELEVEN
Tony knew he would have a tough time convincing his boss, Robbie Todd, Editor-in-Chief, to see a best-selling author who was pretending to be a nobody. Not because Marie was pretending to be a nobody. No, it would be tough because his boss was completely out of her mind. Since book publishing was a tough business, Tony didn’t know if Robbie being a nutcase worked for her or against her.
But he had his theories.
He had a hard time believing he was even doing this...if only he wasn’t so damned mixed up! He liked Marie a lot, and he’d sure love to get her between the sheets, but when it came to how she felt for him...total blank. He had no idea. In fact, he strongly doubted she was aware he had a penis at all.
Hell with it. He could do this for her, regardless of how he felt. And he wasn’t the sort of man who did favors with strings attached.
While he tried to convince her, Robbie was lining up her daily dose of medication and vitamins on her spotless desk blotter. There was exactly one piece of paper in her in-bin. Her out-bin was empty. The office was as barren as a cell, and she appeared to be caught up with her work—a near impossibility in the publishing business.
“I’m telling you, Robbie, this is a great writer.”
“How’s that therapy app working out for you?” Robbie asked without looking up.
“It’s the biggest waste of company funds since you pushed for monthly physicals.”
Humming, she said, “A healthy staff is a productive staff.” She suddenly straightened, and her eyes went wide with alarm. “Is there a bee on me?”
“No. So, let’s talk about this new writer.”
“No manuscript, no meeting.”
She put her head down on the desk, her cheek against the blotter, and flicked the first in a long line of pills into her mouth, then sat up straight and chewed placidly, like a cow.
He was so used to his boss’s oddities, he barely noticed. “She’s had some experience. And she’s brilliant, Rob. Intense and brilliant. Ten minutes of your time. Let her pitch.”
“She knows we’re small and she wants us anyway. She doesn’t have a manuscript but she expects a meeting with the Queen.”
“That’s an honorary title. You aren’t actually royalty.”
“Not since the coup.” Robbie pushed her masses of dark hair back from her face, flicked two more pills into her mouth in rapid succession, then crunched them up and swallowed. “Let’s keep reality out of this for a moment, shall we?”
“Don’t we always?”
“I say this woman has something up her sleeve. Is there a bee on me?”
“No.”
“You wouldn’t come see me if it was a standard new author pitch. She’s hiding something, and you know what it is, and for some nasty reason, you’re keeping it from me, the greatest editor who ever lived. Ergo, it’s probably something I don’t want to get anywhere near. And you would know that.”
Flick. Crunch. Swallow.
“Unfortunately, you wretch,” she continued, “you also know I’ve got a curiosity bump the size of Washington State. So, she can have ten minutes. Starting right now.”
He turned and sprinted out of her office, racing down the hallway until he came to the reception area. Marie was waiting for him, dressed in her absurd costume, reading what appeared to be one of the volumes from “The Encyclopedia Britannica”. A quick glance confirmed she was reading the letter M.
He screeched to a halt in front of her. “Ms. Hhermann?”
“Marie.”
“Marie. My boss is waiting to see you.”
She slapped the book shut. “Excellent, Mr. Freeman. I can finish reading about marmosets later.
“Please call me Tony. This way.”
He ushered her into Robbie’s office, noticing without surprise the extreme change in the room. Gone were the neat little lines of pills; now the desk was covered with galley pages. The phone kept beeping, but Robbie, intent at her work, didn’t answer it. She’d taken her laptop out of the closet and was intent on the screen. Controlled chaos.
“Robbie, this is Marie Hhermann.”
“I need a manuscript.”
Marie nodded, then seemed to realize Robbie couldn’t see her because she still hadn’t looked up.
“Of course. How about an outline and three sample chapters by the end of tomorrow? I can send it right to your E-mail account, or courier over a hard copy.”
Robbie raised her head. Marie smiled at her. “Of course, I couldn’t produce more than three sample chapters without discussing the possibility of an advance. But there’s time for that later.”
“How very...professional of you. What did you say your name was again?”
“It doesn’t matter who I am. What matters is what I produce, yes? ‘The use of language is all we have to pit against death and silence.’”
“Joyce Carol Oates.”
Marie, who’d been opening her mouth to give the quotation’s source, stared at Robbie like a diabetic stares at ice cream, then beamed.
And speaking of staring, Tony was doing his share. Marie was awfully spectacular when she smiled. Hell, who was he kidding? She was spectacular, period.
“It’s not necessary to use a courier.” Robbie scribbled something on a business card and handed it to Marie. “That’s my direct e-mail. I’ll expect something by the end of the day tomorrow.”
“Of course. Thank you for the opportunity to pitch.”
While walking her to the door, he asked her to lunch. And to his amazement and delight, she accepted. They ended up going to Hoolihan’s, which, as it was well past lunch time, was nearly empty.
He couldn’t get over the change in her. The sullen, depressed woman he had seen before was gone. A smiling, laughing charmer had taken her place.
“Your boss is incredible. Imagine, an editor who actually reads.”
“You mean, reads the sort of thing you find appropriate.”
She snorted and took a sip of water. “I mean, reads books without pictures.”
He watched her, amused. “Do you have an eye infection?”
“No.”
“I only ask because every time I’ve seen you, you’ve had dark glasses on. Even indoors.”
“It’s...uh...to shield my vision from the state of the world. I’m very sensitive, you know.”
“‘Where there is no vision, the people perish.’”
She stared at him, then slowly took off her sunglasses. She would look beautiful if not for the two letter openers sticking out of her bun, the hideous black clothing, and the tobacco leaf sticking to her upper lip.
“I’m—I don’t know that one. Where is it from?”
“The Bible. Proverbs. You see before you a proud graduate of Catholic high school. But I’m about to sorely disappoint you—I can’t remember the chapter, or verse, or where the text appeared on the page. Aren’t photographic memories great?”
“But if you don’t remember the page number and such, then you don’t—”
“No, but my mom does. Used to drive me crazy when I was a kid. Never, but never, ask that woman to help you with your homework. I’m lucky I made it through senior high without choking her.”
“Consider me warned. She must be proud. You turned out all right.” She paused, then lightly touched him on the wrist. “In fact, I’d say you turned out great. You really helped me out today. Thanks a lot.”
He swallowed hard, then tried to break the tension. “You can make it up to me by picking up the tab.”
She laughed a little and drew back. He dabbed sweat from his forehead with his napkin when she wasn’t looking. He couldn’t believe he was nuts about a woman who ran around in disguise trying to fool his crazy boss, who pretended she was a smoker and wasn’t a best-selling author.
“My mom really likes—would really like you.”
“Why?”
“Because. Actually, what she’d do is try to set us up. She’s been after me to get married for years.”
“Oh, God, mine too! Like a marriage license is going to solve all my problems. Like picking out china is going to improve my outlook on life.”
“Exactly. There’s more to life than saying I do.”
“Right!”
“The lone wolf. Answering to no one. You can come and go as you please.”
She rapped the table with her knuckles. “Come as I please, go as I please.”
“Sure, it gets a little lonely at holidays...and on birthdays...and practically every weekend...”
“Cut it out. Traitor. So what?”
He shrugged and picked up the dessert menu.
There was a long silence while she studied him. “Actually, my mother’s got this dumb idea that I’ll never find anyone because I’m still in love with my high school boyfriend.” She paused, appearing to think it over. “The annoying thing is, she’s right. I think about him—this guy—all the time. But he thinks we’re good friends. Which we are.”
He smiled through his disappointment. “But you want to be good naked friends.”
She laughed. “Well...yeah...”
“Well. Good luck with that. And to head off the awkward silence that’s about to descend, I’m going to change the subject. What kind of book do you want to write?”
“Something evocative, yet meaningful.”
“If you’re going to write for us, you have to actually think about this stuff. ‘Evocative, yet meaningful’ won’t cut it.”
Her eyes widened with surprise. “You’re sure different from the people at my old...um...job. The only time they noticed me was when I tried to deviate from the norm.”
“Deviate from the norm? You? Never happen.”
“All they cared about was junk,” she said bitterly.
“Oh, I don’t know. There’s a lot to be said for junk.”
“There’s no place for junk on bookshelves.”
He managed to look unknowing, though he finally had an idea what her problem was, and where she was going with this. “Junk on bookshelves, huh? You mean like comic books and TV Guide ?”
“And romance novels.”
Oh, boy, he thought. Time to jump in with both feet. “Actually, my mom’s a big romance fan.”
“Your mom and half the world. It’s disgusting.”
“Yeah. Reading for fun. A real abomination.”
She picked her purse up off the floor, wrenched it open, and irritably stuffed her glasses into it. He winced when he heard the small crunch.
“Please! Did you know that all romance novels have to have a happy ending? It’s the rule. No realism, please, we only want Disney endings.”
“Well, Disney with sex...”
“And the hero has to be older, preferably by ten years or more, preferably richer than God. And the heroine has to be rescued. And God forbid if you try to inject a little realism into the books, like HIV or drone bombings.”
He shook his head. “That’s not true anymore. In the seventies, maybe...besides, I think some people have a little too much reality in their lives. Maybe once in a while it’s nice to sit down with a book that’s going to make you feel good. What’s the harm?”
She slammed her hand on the table hard enough to make the cutlery jump. “The harm is, forty-nine percent of all paperbacks sold are romance novels. Almost half! One out of every two!”
“What the hell is your day job—census taker?”
He was trying to hold his temper, but it was tough going.
“Don’t mock me. Those figures mean almost nobody’s interested in what’s going on around them. They just want to read about Rachel and Brad and will she Save-It-For-The-Marriage-Bed? It’s idiotic.”
“You would have made a great Eva Braun. Why don’t you go blow up a book warehouse or something? Make you feel better, force people to read the books you want them to read. God, I—”
‘Can’t believe I liked you’ was what he was going to say, but that obviously wouldn’t do. So he didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he glared at her, which worked out nicely because she was glaring at him. They both stood and threw their napkins down at the same time.
“No you don’t!” she snapped. “You insulted me . Stay here. I’m walking out on you .”
“Like hearing you rant and rave about people making their own choices wasn’t insulting? I’m walking out on you .”
She gasped. “Don’t you dare!”
“Watch me.”
“Fine.”
“Fine!”
They stormed away, taking different routes from the table but running into each other at the doorway. Tony shook a finger under her chin and was about to continue lecturing her about the evils of censorship, when he was interrupted by the waitress, who appeared like a genie, waving the bill.
“And...who gets the check?”
“Eva over there. Careful she doesn’t set it on fire if she doesn’t like the way you added.” With that, he left—angry at her, and even more angry at himself for being so blind.
Stomping down the street, he noticed other pedestrians getting the hell out of his way, which suited his mood just fine. He reached into his coat pocket and yanked out his phone, then irritably stabbed out a number.
It rang twice, and then—thank God!—she picked up. “Carol Simms, M.S., M.D., PhD, PhD, speaking. What’s up, doc?”
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into having lunch with that jerk!”
“Dad? I thought you and Mom were going to give it another try.”
He nearly walked into a street light. “Uh...this is Tony Freeman.”
“I know. Just messing with your head. Which, by the power vested in me by the American Psychiatric Association, is not only fun, but totally profitable. How’d lunch go with the Empress of Erotica?”
“It’s worse than I thought,” he said glumly. “She’s a closed-minded snob.”
“Yeah, but she’s totally salvageable.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, she’s with you—Mutch and Munch—to try and improve her self-image. She doesn’t get why other people like reading what she hates writing. That’s not snobbery. That’s someone who doesn’t feel good about herself and takes it out on everyone else.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do about it?” he whined.
“Be her agent. Help her sell the manuscripts she cares about.”
He nearly choked at the absurdity of the idea. “She doesn’t need me.”
“Wrong, oh bastion of insecurity.”
“I’m not insecure!”
“Scared to death, then.”
“Is that supposed to be a professional opinion, you twit?”
He heard the distinct sound of popping bubblegum. “I know you are, but what am I?”
“Goodbye, Carol.”