Bestseller

Susann knew she was at a nerve-racking place: Realistically, she knew that being at the top so long simply meant it was sooner that she’d fall. But Susann liked the top. She wanted to stay there. She prided herself on being a number-one bestselling author. From out of nowhere to number one: She’d been one of the very few to make the leap.

And Edith had watched her climb. Back when both of them worked together as legal secretaries, Susann had brought in her stories, page by page, and Edith had devoured them, always asking the question sublime to any writer—“What happens next?” It was because of that enthusiasm that Susann—just plain Sue Ann then—had kept writing. If not for Edith, Susann would surely have quit. Because it had been hard, so hard, to work all day and spin stories at night.

It was still hard. Now a bestseller, a number one, was expected of her. Now, at last, she was paid an enormous advance for her stories.

Susann paced the length of the pool again and turned to look out at the horizon. “Any mail?” she asked.

Edith shook her head without even looking up from her knitting. “Nothing important.” Edith handled all the bills, forwarding them to Susann’s accountant to be paid, and all of the fan mail, sending customized responses. Actually, the only thing Edith didn’t handle for Susann was Kim and her begging letters. But Susann hadn’t heard from Kim lately. She would like to think that perhaps her adult daughter had finally begun to behave like an adult, but from long experience she doubted it.

Susann rubbed her hands as she paced. The sun on them felt good but freckled her skin. She looked around. It was still so hard. Her work had bought her this villa, the beautiful furniture in it, the Rolls parked in the garage, the services of Edith and the French couple who cooked and cleaned and drove for her. But it hadn’t bought her daughter’s love or happiness. And wasn’t Susann slipping? She pulled her arthritic fingers through her artfully streaked blond hair and walked back to the chaise. She crossed her legs and her arms and told Edith crossly that she was through for the day.

Edith gave her a look and shrugged her rounded shoulders. The woman would have a dowager’s hump in no time, Susann thought distastefully. “AH right,” Edith said, but Susann knew it wasn’t all right. She had a deadline, Edith knew she had the deadline, and Susann always delivered on time. Her books came out each Mother’s Day, as regular as jonquils in March. But this one would be different. It would be on the fall list. Her publisher demanded it. And she would not disappoint them.

Almost two decades ago she and Alf had been among the first to spot the hole in the marketplace between the heavily promoted spring list and the most important fall offerings. When her first successful book came out fourteen years ago, Alf had taken advantage of the women’s market just waiting there at Mother’s Day, and it had made her name.

It had also made her a rich woman. Well, not the first book. Of course she’d gotten screwed out of that deal. Each year since she had followed up the success of The Lady of the House with another Mother’s Day novel, and with Alf’s help, each one had sold hundreds of thousands of copies in hardcover and millions in paperback. She’d become a tradition among some women—daughters giving mothers a Susann Baker Edmonds, and now their own daughters gave them copies. Three generations reading her uplifting stories. Yes, she felt proud of what she’d accomplished. She’d become famous and wealthy, and Alf had become her full-time agent and taken over her affairs and fired the incompetent lawyer who’d given her first book away. They’d retained a PR firm. Her name popped up regularly in the columns. Four of her books had been made into television miniseries, and another three were optioned. She was the most profitable woman novelist at her publishing house, and they treated her appropriately.

But there was the rub. Susann put her hands over her eyes to shield her face from the sun. She was the most profitable women’s writer, but there were all those men out there, turning out their techno-thrillers, their legal-suspense stories, and those other testosterone-driven books, all of which were being made into feature films by those bastards in Hollywood who ignored middle-aged women. It was so unfair. Susann had never had a movie made of any of her books. Women would go to see Crichton movies and Grisham movies and Clancy movies, but men wouldn’t take their wives out to see a woman’s saga. Women’s books were only good enough for the pink ghetto of television. And without the extra heat that films generated, it was getting harder and harder nowadays to keep a bestseller up at the top of the list. So this new one would come out in the autumn. Would it help? There were one hundred and fifty romance titles released each month. As if that wasn’t enough, most tried to interest book buyers, stores, and readers with all kinds of giveaways and undignified trash. Joan Schulhafer of Avon Books had put it succinctly when she said, “We have a higher nicknack-per-author ratio than any other genre.”

Edith was gathering up her steno pad, her bag of pencils and yellow Post-it notes and paper clips. She was taking off her reading glasses, putting them in her skirt pocket and putting her sunglasses on her sun-burned pink nose. In the last two decades, while she worked with Edith, Susann had married, divorced, become slimmer, younger-looking, better dressed, and blond. While Edith … Edith hadn’t changed at all, except to age. She looked like a drone. It actually frightened Susann, partly because—even though she looked at least a decade younger—Susann knew she was actually four years older than Edith. And Edith knew it, too, being one of the few insiders who knew Susann’s real age.

Hell, Edith didn’t just know her real age (fifty-eight), she knew her real name (Sue Ann Kowlofsky), the real number of marriages Susann had been through (three), the real number of face-lifts Susann had had (two), and even where she kept most of her money (the island of Jersey). Edith knew all the sordid details about Susann’s daughter, Kim—the drug rehabs, the DWIs, the bad men. Perhaps that was why Edith so exasperated her. Edith had neither improved herself, nor did she seem impressed with Susann’s improvements. There was no softening mystique “between them. And Susann didn’t like living without mystique. She had become dependent on her publicist-generated bio, Alf’s respect, the publisher’s kid-glove handling, and the aura that fame and wealth had given her.

“Alf ought to be back soon,” Susann remarked. “I have to get dressed. We have a dinner party tonight.” Edith didn’t much like Alf, and the feeling was mutual.

“The chapter’s more important than the party,” Edith said. “It needs work.”

Susann felt her temper rising, but she bit back the words she wanted to spit and, instead, gave Edith one of her best smiles. “Why don’t you see what you can do with it?” she asked.

Edith stood, finally, and shuffled off the terrace into the house. Susann got up and crossed to the balustrade, leaning against it and looking out toward the water. The autumn sun slipped behind a cloud, and Susann, clad only in a bathing suit and chiffon cover-up, shivered. The problem was that as tacky and annoying as she was, Edith was right. The new book was not only coming slowly, it was coming badly. And there was no room for shoddiness. At this point in her life Susann could not afford to slip out of the golden circle of bestsellers and back into obscurity, back to Cincinnati. The very thought made her shiver again.

The women’s fiction market was changing. Alf said it was moving forward and might leave her behind. But without her books, without her fame, without the money that she brought in, where would she be? Who would she be? What would Alf do if her business fell off ? Managing her had made him, but as he’d taken on other clients, hadn’t his interest in her waned a bit? Would even Edith stick with her if all of this ended?

Susann closed her eyes, shutting them tight despite the crow’s feet. Plastic surgery still couldn’t do anything about crow’s feet, though it had erased the bags and tightened the sags under and over her eyes. Still, good as she looked, young as she looked, slim as she looked, Susann clutched the railing with her arthritic hands and knew she was just a fifty-eight-year-old woman, frightened and alone.

4

What no wife of a writer can ever understand is that a writer is working when he’s staring out of the window.

—Burton Rascoe

Judith stared out the window, looking up from the typewriter on the card table she was using as a desk. She was alone, except for Flaubert, who snorted and whimpered in his sleep. Judith wondered if the dog was dreaming. She stretched in her chair. From her seat she could see King Street and a tiny corner of the state university campus. A girl was leaning up against the brick wall of the student center, and, as Judith watched, the dark, lanky young man who was standing beside her leaned in, encompassing her with his hands. Then he quickly kissed her on the mouth. The girl laughed and tossed her head. Even through the dirt of the windowpane Judith could see the white flash of her teeth.

It seemed so long to Judith since she’d been a student, even though it was only two semesters ago. And it seemed even longer since Daniel had kissed her that way. Perhaps he had never kissed her that way. Daniel was not what anyone would call the spontaneous type. Brilliant, yes. Ambitious, definitely. But spontaneous … No, Judith could never remember Daniel kissing her like that.

Of course, he hadn’t been free to kiss her on the campus, she told herself, trying to be fair. Judith always tried to be fair. She remembered reading somewhere that her name came from the Old Testament, that Judith might have been one of the judges, or perhaps she was just in the Book of Judges. Something like that. Daniel would know. He knew everything. So why was she being so critical? Judith felt confused. When she sat up here, working on the book, she sometimes let her mind wander, and she didn’t always like where it led her.

Below her, in the sunlight, the young man bent and picked up a backpack, swinging it easily onto his shoulder. He said something, and Judith could see another flash of teeth from the smiling girl. When was the last time I smiled, Judith wondered. Well, she reminded herself, I’ve always been a serious girl.

And theirs had been a very serious affair. After all, Judith had been a student and Daniel was her teacher. Not only that, he was married. Of course, his marriage had already been troubled for some time. Daniel was an honorable person, so he told her right from the beginning, and he had told her that he was deeply attracted to her. He thought she had talent—real talent—and that someday she could be a successful writer.

No grown man had ever paid that kind of attention to her. She had blushed with pleasure and confusion. And she had accepted his praise and his offer to go out for a cup of coffee. “You’ll be a successful writer,” he’d repeated, and there, under the table in the coffee shop, he’d taken her hand and squeezed it. Writing was her dream, her secret ambition. She’d never told anyone, much less a college professor, that she wanted to be a writer. They would laugh at her. But Daniel hadn’t laughed. He knew her secret, and he encouraged her.

She’d believed him, and here she was, actually married to him and working away, 279 pages into the manuscript. It wasn’t exactly the book she had planned to write. Not art. Not even close. It was a book they were sort of doing together. Not exactly for the art of it, and not exactly together, but … well, they needed the money now.

Her parents had been furious about Daniel, about his religious background, his marital status. They had threatened to sue the school and had cut her off without a penny. Not that Judith really cared. They’d always been well-off, and her father had always used money to control them all. That was probably why she’d gone to a state college in the first place. He’d been livid that she hadn’t applied to one of the Seven Sisters schools. But Judith, in her serious way, had told him she was sick of exclusivity and didn’t care about money.

Daniel didn’t care about money either. It was one of the reasons she loved him. At first she’d even been afraid to tell him that she was one of the Elmira Hunts. Daniel hated capitalism and inherited wealth. He told her that straight out. Like her, he believed in a meritocracy.

But now they were short of money. Really short. Daniel had to pay alimony and child support. So they were writing this book for their future, a book that could be commercial, that could make them some money and free Daniel from teaching so he could get to do some serious writing. Then she’d have time to get back to her first novel, the one that Daniel had praised so highly.

Judith heard the apartment door slam. Flaubert jumped up.

“I don’t hear you!” Daniel’s accusatory voice floated up the stairs from the kitchen. He often came home between classes for a sandwich and a quickie. Judith sighed. It just all seemed different now, when sex wasn’t forbidden but expected. Somehow the romance was—well, not gone exactly, but lessened.

“I don’t hear you,” Daniel called again. He loved to hear the sound of her old typewriter. He thought it was quaint that she refused to use a word processor. He called her his little Luddite. Judith wasn’t sure what that meant, but she’d never asked.

Now she gave Flaubert a settling pat and shouted out to her husband, “I’m thinking. Sometimes I’m allowed to think.” She immediately regretted the snappish tone in her voice.

Daniel hopped the three steps up to the little room in the turret that Judith used as an office. He wasn’t exactly handsome. He was a little too small, a little too tight-featured. But with his steel-rimmed glasses, his curling black hair, and his grin, he had an insouciance that always affected her. He was so different from her cold, controlling father. Even now, she couldn’t believe that she had attracted him. He’d graduated from Yale! And he’d been on scholarship. He’d spent a year at the Sorbonne. Daniel Gross was really educated, and Judith knew that her mediocre grades at the Elmira Academy did not measure up to Daniel’s prep-school education. He’d already read everything, and he’d even met some of the writers who wrote the great books he taught. His two courses on contemporary American literature were always overregistered. In her first semester Judith had actually been shut out of it. She almost smiled. Imagine that! And now she didn’t just get to admire his pepper-and-salt tweed jackets and his hand-knitted sweaters and his perfectly rumpled corduroys, she got to live with him and make love to him. I am happy, she told herself, looking up at him. I am very lucky and very happy.

Daniel approached her and put a hand on either shoulder. Flaubert growled, as he always did when Daniel touched Judith, but she told him to hush. Daniel’s hands were small, but his fingers were powerful, and he gently gripped the tense muscles in her neck and shoulders. “So, how’s it coming? Daydreaming, or have you got a junior case of writer’s block?”

She smiled at the little pun. Judith hadn’t graduated. She left last year, her junior year. Somehow, after Daniel, the degree didn’t seem important anymore. And as Daniel pointed out, what the hell use was a B.A. in English from a SUNY school? It was, he joked “as good as a one-way ticket to Palookaville.” Judith knew there were few teaching jobs anyway, and she had no interest in reading Silas Mamer with a class of hormonally challenged seventh-graders. No; she wanted to write, and she wanted to be taken seriously, and Daniel was helping her to do both.

“Have you made the changes to chapter eleven?” Daniel asked. Although the plot was basically her idea, Daniel had worked it into an outline, and it was that outline she was working from. He’d given her a schedule and insisted she produce six pages a day. Each evening he read and reread the pages she worked on and corrected them, edited them, and made suggestions. She spent the following day making his changes and getting on with the new stuff.

“No, but I finished chapter twenty-four. Only two to go!” She looked up at him, hoping for a smile of surprise at her industriousness. But he only reached for the pages and started to read. Silently, his eyes devoured the first page, then the next one and the one after that. She tried not to squirm while she Waited for his reaction.

“Okay,” he said. She colored. From Daniel, that was praise. “This looks okay. I’ll take it with me, back to class.” He stopped and looked at his watch. “In fact, I better go. I need some prep time.”

Judith stood up, trying not to let her disappointment show. A quickie was better than nothing at all. “Are you sure?” she asked. And tentatively she snaked her hand around his back, letting it rest on the tweed of his jacket just above his buttocks. She moved her hand lower. Through the scratchy fabric she could feel his round little behind. But Daniel kept his eyes on the chapter, then folded it in half, and—giving her a quick peck on her cheek—turned to go. No quickie today.

He ran down the three little steps and into the kitchen. She followed him, as lonely as a kid in a grammar school hallway, watching as he grabbed his beat-up leather briefcase and stuffed the new chapter into it. Flaubert stood beside her, his tail wagging as Daniel rebuckled the case, put it under his arm, and then—just as Judith felt completely let down—reached over and hugged her. “You did good,” he said and gave her a big kiss on her forehead-just as if she were a little girl. She smiled with pleasure. “See if you can get to those chapter eleven corrections this afternoon,” he told her, and Judith silently nodded her head.

5

Someday I hope to write a book where the royalties will pay for the copies I give away.

—Clarence Darrow

Gerald Ochs Davis tapped the mouse twice and sent the new chapter off to the print queue. He had—finally—succumbed to the lure of technology and had allowed installation of a sophisticated PC, which was housed in a mahogany neoclassic cabinet. But he had drawn the line at having a clattering printer in his office. He leaned back in the tall, leather-upholstered chair and shot his cuffs so that they protruded out just the appropriate inch and a quarter beyond his perfectly tailored blazer sleeve. He wore a Patek Phillipe wristwatch—he called thin as a small novella. In discreet white thread his initials were embroidered on the inside of his white cuffs. He looked down at the monogram—GOD. He allowed himself a very small smile.

His friends would consider the inside, white-on-white monogram just another one of his small idiosyncrasies. All endearing—at least to his friends. His enemies, and they were legion, would simply chalk it up as another one of his nasty affectations. But Gerald knew his enemies, and following the Arabic advice, he kept them close to him. He also knew why they hated him: simple jealousy. Gerald had had the good fortune to be born into a wealthy, prestigious family, he had had the fun of being thrown out of the very finest prep schools, he had bedded, married, and divorced (not always in that order) four of the world’s most beautiful women. As if that wasn’t enough, he now not only ran one of the oldest and certainly the largest publishing company in New York City, but he also wrote some of its most touted books. Not to mention having the coveted corner table reserved for him in the Grill Room of the Four Seasons every day of the week he was in the city. Gerald’s life was full and rich, and he understood that those with a more paltry portion were, naturally, envious. It came with the territory.

And quite a large territory it was. Gerald looked around his office, an enormous room almost fifty feet long, which contained not only his magnificent English Regency partner’s desk but two separate seating arrangements, a floor-to-ceiling library of first editions, a massive window with a view across to the Chrysler Building and the East River, as well as an original Chippendale conference table that seated eighteen—in original Chippendale chairs. Aside from the large and luxurious bathroom (complete with sauna), his suite also consisted of a small private dining room, another conference room for larger groups, an impressive reception area, and two secretarial offices. In fact, his offices took up so much space in the building and were so luxuriously appointed that many of his employees referred to Gerald’s floor as “God’s Little Acre”. It was virtually an acre of space—Gerald had once had it measured—and at eighty-two dollars a square foot, it was probably the most expensive executive suite in all of the city. That made Gerald smile, too. In an industry noted for its lack of frills and style, Gerald had more than his share of both.

But there were complications and tragedies in a life of such privilege. Gerald got up from his desk and checked himself in the Duncan Phyfe mirror that hung between two windows of the south wall. He adjusted one eyebrow. His hair, all of it, was false, glued on every morning. Gerald suffered from alopecia areata, a disease that had rendered him totally hairless from the age of three. Some doctors thought it hereditary, others felt it was psychologically based, the product of an unloving home. Gerald didn’t know the reason. AH he knew was that each morning he put on his wig, his eyebrows, and even his upper eyelashes.

There was a knock at the brass-inlaid door. Gerald ran his hand across his eyebrow, smoothing it, and called out. Mrs. Perkins appeared, the printout in her hand. “Do you want this now?” she asked.

Gerald’s good mood evaporated as he eyed the manuscript pages in his secretary’s age-spotted hand. The woman should do something about those. “Yes,” he said curtly. “And I’d like some coffee. Jamaican Blue Mountain.”

Part of Mrs. Perkins’s job was to grind and brew Gerald’s dozen or so daily cups of coffee. And he was very particular about his coffee. He had given up red meat, dairy products, other fats, cigarettes, and even—with great reluctance-red wine. But he’d be damned if he was giving up his caffeine. He planned to live forever, but he wanted to be alert while he was doing so. And if he was going to drink coffee, he was only going to drink the best coffee. Only Gerald and the Queen of England bought Jamaican Blue Mountain in bulk. At sixty dollars a pound, it was expensive, but there was a line on Davis & Dash’s annual budget that read “executive office canteen supplies,” and Gerald’s exorbitant coffee bill was buried in there. To Gerald there was nothing that heightened the pleasure of a luxury more than not having to pay for it himself.

Because, despite his six-figure salary and his seven-figure bonus, Gerald was always short of cash. This came of living well in New York City and of having three expensive wives, two of them exes, along with four children in college, as well as a demanding mistress to support. Even Gerald, long used to profligate spending, could be shocked by his current monthly expenses.

Part of the problem was that Gerald had been raised among the very, very rich and moved among the very, very rich but was, actually, himself, only moderately well-off. His family’ had created no trust funds. Gerald’s only sinecure had been the publishing firm, his stock, and his job at Davis & Dash. But his father had sold the firm when Gerald was a young man, and although some of the family still retained shares, Gerald’s portion of the sale money had been spent long ago.

Since then, unforeseen by Gerald’s now aged father, the company had been sold again, and yet again. This last time it had been acquired by a major communications conglomerate. Davis & Dash was the corporate jewel in their crown. Through all of the acquisitions, while other heads rolled, Gerald had managed to keep his above water. After all, he was a member of publishing royalty, he was the Davis of Davis & Dash. He knew everyone in the business, and he brought in the top money-making books, not to mention the most prestigious (though not always profitable) authors. No one would dare to fire Gerald Ochs Davis. He was a resource of the firm as important as the backlist. He knew it, and so did the corporate moguls, Philistines though they were. Gerald was, after all, the most well-known publisher in New York.