Bestseller. Olivia Goldsmith
about getting published because maybe, just maybe, they shouldn’t be published.
Judith had done her best with the book, but she wasn’t sure if it was true. Of course it was fiction, though it was based on an incident from real life. But the truth of research was not what Judith was thinking of. She—with Daniel’s help—had created Elthea from her own imagination, and she wasn’t sure that Elthea was true—not in the way that great characters had been true for Judith. Growing up, nothing had been more important to Judith than reading: She had widened her horizons, escaped her boredom, found her friends, and experienced life through books. Now she wondered if she had contributed, in a small way, to that long list of heroines that for her included Jane Eyre, Anna Karenina, Elizabeth Bennet, Dorothea Brooke, and a dozen contemporary ones whom she had loved. Judith knew she was no Flaubert, no George Eliot. But if she wasn’t a genius, she didn’t want to be a liar, and she was afraid that she might be. She had had to do things—write things—because Daniel demanded it. He said it made the book more commercial. But Judith was torn. Aside from Daniel, books were the only thing Judith truly loved. She would hate to betray either one of them.
Daniel was buttoning his shirt—one of the few French-cuffed shirts he had. He fumbled with the cuff link. She had bought those for him for his birthday, and she smiled to see him use them. He rarely wore a formal shirt, preferring his oxford cloth button-down or flannel ones. Judith sat up, about to get him his jacket, but he slipped into his good woolen trousers and was out of the room before she could manage to untangle herself from the duvet. She met him in the hallway, where he was angrily discarding the polyethylene and struggling into his jacket. He had a new, beautiful briefcase waiting at the door. When had he gotten that? she wondered. And how would they pay for it?
“Boy, you look good,” she said. And it was true. Daniel rarely bothered to dress up, but he looked adorable in his good clothes. Now he didn’t say anything—he just looked at her, and all of her sexy, adorable feelings vanished. Judith looked down at herself, in her creased, bedraggled nightgown and her tousled hair. Her cold bare feet—never pretty at the best of times—looked almost blue on the dark linoleum. She saw Daniel take her in, and she saw herself through his eyes. It was not a pretty picture.
“I’ve got to go,” Daniel said. He picked up his new briefcase, pecked her on the cheek, and was gone.
Daniel took the train into New York. He wanted to use the time to review the manuscript and check, once more, Cheryl’s typing job. But it was very competent, very professional. Cheryl was a much better typist than Judith would ever be. Daniel wondered what else she was better at. What was the Thomas Wolfe line? “I can always find plenty of women to sleep with but the kind of woman that is really hard for me to find is a typist who can read my writing.” Daniel almost laughed. The train clacked along, the car occupied only by Daniel and a few lawyers on their way from Albany. Daniel wondered idly if he needed a lawyer. He would ask Alfred Byron today.
Alfred Byron was one of the movers and shakers among the heavy New York literary agents. Along with Mort Jank-low, Lynn Nesbit, Owen Laster, Binky Urban, Esther New-berg, Andrew Wylie, and less than a handful of others, Byron was famous for making seven-figure deals. Daniel had had the audacity to invite Byron up to the school, first to speak on a panel and then, later, to chair another one. Daniel had been as surprised as anyone that Byron had accepted, but the old man seemed flattered and showed up. It still surprised Daniel that some people were so easily conned by a little attention from academia. Because, apparently, the invitations had been enough to ensure this meeting. And not many unpublished writers got in to see Alfred Byron. He represented Susann Baker Edmonds and a few other commercial megazoids. Not exactly “writers”—more like people who filled pages that other people bought by the millions of copies.
Daniel looked at the manuscript. Was this a megazoid in the making? “In Full Knowledge by Jude Daniel,” had been typed in large, boldface letters by the obliging Cheryl. Daniel winced guiltily. He reminded himself that he hadn’t done anything he wasn’t supposed to. He may have encouraged Cheryl, but wasn’t that a teacher’s job? And he had not asked her to type this for him. She had offered. It wouldn’t change her grade. She was going to get an A anyway. He hadn’t done anything wrong.
Then why did he feel so guilty? I am allowed to have feelings, he reminded himself. As long as I don’t act on them. And he hadn’t. He hadn’t acted on them. That was the important thing. He hadn’t told Judith, either. Not about meeting Cheryl for coffee or getting Cheryl to retype the manuscript or …
Well, he hadn’t told Judith about this meeting. Maybe he should have. But why get her hopes up for no reason? It wasn’t as if he was lying to her. Not at all. He was doing this for her, for both of them, and if he failed, if he was shot down or rejected, there was no need to share that humiliation with Judith. It would only depress her, and God knows, she was depressed enough.
Daniel knew the manuscript was his ticket out of the endless, unrewarding life he’d somehow gotten stuck in. And he knew he had to get out.
“Daniel, Daniel, good to see you,” Alfred Byron roared as he pumped Daniel’s hand. Everything about the man was loud. “Please, Professor, come on into my office.”
The office was wide, as Byron was, and somehow it seemed almost too perfect—rather like the way a movie would depict an agent’s office. There were floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves with glass fronts on three walls, a dazzling antique Persian rug, a leather-covered worn chesterfield, and an enormous desk that was almost as ornate as Alfred Byron was himself.
Even the dust and piles of manuscript seemed placed for effect. Byron wore a strange suit—a kind of dark green color with odd reddish brown pinstripes that looked to Daniel like strings of dried blood. Well, didn’t most writers think of agents as bloodsuckers? The suit was double-breasted with a pocket handkerchief in a paisley print protruding from its pocket. His gray-and-white striped shirt with a white collar was set off by a blue polka-dot tie. It was a very bad imitation of an English gentleman, and it certainly didn’t fool Daniel Gross. The name didn’t fool him either. Alfred Byron had been born Al Boronkin, but Daniel didn’t mind any of the man’s affectations, because Byron was a money player and Daniel wasn’t in this for the art.
Byron sat behind his desk and placed his hands wide and flat upon the sea of mahogany that was his desktop. “So, Professor, what can I do for you? Another seminar, perhaps? I have an idea for one. I thought we could forget some of this sensitive, lyrical bullshit and talk about commercial writing. Let’s tell your little kids what really works. I could put together a panel with some of my clients. Only first-rate. And I could get Publishers Weekly to—”
“It sounds really interesting, Alfred,” Daniel interrupted, forcing himself to use the old charlatan’s first name, “but I really didn’t come here about a seminar. I mean, not this time. I thought that we could talk about this.” He pulled the manuscript out of his new briefcase and set it down in the middle of Byron’s huge desk. Daniel looked up at the agent’s face quickly enough to see his smile fade. Daniel could almost hear the thoughts of dismay behind Alfred Byron’s wide forehead. “Not another schmuck with a manuscript,” he was thinking. But Byron quickly recovered, replacing his consternation with a cold professional smile.
“Well, well, what’s this? You have been busy. A book, huh?”
“It’s not what you think,” Daniel began lamely.
“It’s not a book?”
“What I mean is, it’s not the kind of book you think.” Daniel looked directly at Byron and tried to muster as much force and belief as he could. “It’s a page-turner, Alfred. I swear to God it is.”
The agent nodded his big head sagely. “I’m sure it is, Professor, I’m sure it is.” Byron turned the book toward him but only glanced at the title page. Then he raised his white winged brows. “Jude Daniel?” he asked.
Daniel was about to explain that he had written the book with Judith, but the coolness in the room was so disconcerting that he couldn’t muster up the strength to do it. What sounded lamer than a book written by an untenured college professor? A book written