Blind Submission (22 page)

“For that matter,” Carol went on, “I'm very happy with the work you've been doing. You are a real asset to this agency, Alice.”

But not a good enough writer to be represented by you, Alice thought bitterly. What she said was, “Thank you, I appreciate that, Carol.”

“I'm giving you a raise,” Carol said, “and your own office. It's the small one next to mine, but it will be your own office. I think you've earned it.”

“I don't know what to say,” Alice said. “You're too good to me, Carol.”

“Just carry on,” Carol said. “You're doing a marvelous job.”

Alice left Carol's office and prepared to move into her own. Yes, she was grateful to Carol, but not in the way Carol thought. And she would carry on, but not in the way Carol planned. She would carry on skimming the cream off the top of incoming proposals and manuscripts. She would carry on raping Carol's files and slowly undermining the efforts of her staff. She would carry on sucking ideas from out of Carol's clients' heads and then convincing them that those very ideas were completely unmarketable. She would carry on playing Vaughn Blue as expertly as he played his own instrument. And she would carry on letting Carol think that her greatest ambition was to become just like Carol herself. Very soon, Alice's careful planning would bear fruit. And Carol had just made it easier for Alice to do what she needed to do.

 

NINE

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Quick question

Dear Ms. Robinson,

I hate to bother you on the weekend, but I am wrestling with what may be an important decision, and since you have been so very helpful already, I was hoping you could help me resolve it.

It occurs to me that my novel might be—or become—a little claustrophobic. What I mean is that the setting rarely strays from the inside of Carol Moore's agency. Do you think that this gets too confining? I was thinking that perhaps Alice could attend some kind of literary event outside the agency? Perhaps a book signing, for example. Or perhaps even a cocktail party honoring one of Carol's authors? That would add a little color and then the reader would also get a chance to see what Alice is like outside the agency.

What do you think?

With best wishes,
G.

 

I tapped my fingernail on the edge of my computer keyboard, debating whether or not to return G's message. I didn't want this author to think I was available 24/7 for editorial advice. Clearly, G didn't mind bothering me on the weekend—the e-mail was proof of that. On the other hand, G had known, somehow, that I'd check my e-mail on the weekend, so what was the point of pretending I hadn't? Once again, mystery G had managed to unsettle and irritate me at the same time. I wondered if I had developed some kind of literary stalker. Or was I just being overly paranoid? No, this was an author who knew just a little too much—who'd submitted manuscripts one too many times. I was almost positive now that it was Peter Johnson, only I hadn't yet been able to get in touch with him to confirm my hunch. The only twinge of doubt I had about my theory was that Peter Johnson wasn't really a good enough writer to have produced
Blind Submission.
But who knew—maybe all those rejections had actually sparked some kind of latent talent. Whether it was Johnson or not, though, it would have to wait. I turned off my computer and snapped it shut. I had a dinner to prepare for.

I DECIDED TO LET MALCOLM DRIVE
us to Lucy's house for dinner. I didn't know if Lucy was planning to serve anything alcoholic, but if she did, I knew I'd be partaking. I'd never been much of a drinker—anything harder than the occasional glass of wine in a restaurant tended to make me ill—but if ever there was an occasion that called for an altered state of consciousness, dinner at Lucy's house was it. Malcolm was happy to be the designated driver for this soiree, and he laughed when I told him why.

“I don't think I've ever seen you drunk, Angel,” he said, and winked at me. “Might be fun.”

“I didn't say I was planning to get drunk,” I told him, although I realized that I probably was.

Once we were in the car, I allowed myself a closer look at the clothes Malcolm had come up with for dinner. I'd never seen him dressed quite like it and didn't even know he owned such attire. Given his heroine worship of Lucy, though, it was entirely possible that he'd sneaked off and bought something just for this evening. His outfit looked like a cross between something you'd see in the pages of
Esquire
and
Cat Burglar Quarterly.
He was wearing a tight-fitting black silk T-shirt tucked into equally form-fitting black pants, which were neither jeans nor slacks but a happy blend of the two. All this was finished with sleek black loafers and
The Matrix
–inspired sunglasses. Altogether, his garb was slightly ridiculous, but it worked in a big way. The long-sleeved T-shirt outlined and clung to every line of muscle of his arms and chest, and the pants were not tight enough to be vulgar, but not loose enough to disguise what was underneath them. His thick blond hair and naturally tan skin nicely set off all the black he was wearing, and the perfect amount of stubble decorated his jaw. He was hot—no question about it.

After discarding several outfits as unworthy (and flashing back to my first interview with Lucy), I'd finally settled on the only black dress I owned. It was on the short side, the hem coming to mid-thigh, and cut so low in front that the angel-wing tattoo on my breast was plain to see and impossible to cover. But it was an excellent combination of casual and elegant and the best I could hope for, so I threw a gauzy scarf around my neck, draped it over my décolletage, and called it even. I hadn't gotten a haircut since I'd started working for Lucy, and had taken to wearing my hair in a sloppy twist in the office. It had gotten quite long and very curly, so rather than torturing it into some kind of fancy do, I just let it fall loose down the back of my dress.

Malcolm had purchased a big bouquet of red, yellow, and orange roses for us to give to Lucy and I held them on my lap as we drove into San Rafael. He was good with flowers and I couldn't argue with his statement “You can't show up empty-handed when someone invites you to dinner, can you?” but I felt somewhat put out, anyway. I should have remembered to get something, I thought, not to mention the fact that I was a more worthy recipient of those roses than Lucy.

“It's like taking coals to Newcastle,” I told him as I buried my nose in the blooms. They were exceptionally fragrant. “People send her flowers all the time.”

“Common courtesy,” Malcolm said. “And you're welcome, by the way.”

“So what do you think she'll serve?” I asked in a weak attempt to change the subject. I pulled down the passenger-side visor and checked out my reflection in the mirror. It was time to apply more lipstick.

“Who knows?” Malcolm said. “I'm sure it'll be good, though.”

“Why are you so sure? God, I hope it's not some Alaskan thing, like roasted caribou or whale ice cream.”

“Come on, you know she doesn't eat that stuff in real life,” Malcolm said.

“What do you mean, ‘real life'? She's all over the
Cold!
food. She tried to get Karanuk to write a cookbook once, did I tell you that?”

“Yes, you mentioned it,” he said. I couldn't see his eyes behind his super-cool shades and that bothered me.

“I told you about his new book, right?”

“Yep.”

“Did I tell you that he's going to call it
Thaw
? Like I suggested?”

“Really? That's great, baby.”

“Lucy says she's trying to talk him into coming up here for an appearance. Top secret. Like only half a million people will know about it. Can you imagine how many books that would sell? So far he's not biting.”

“Maybe
you
could talk him into it,” Malcolm said. “He seems to really like you from what you've said. That would be some coup, huh?”

“Hmm.” I pondered the scenario for a moment. Karanuk showing his face for even the briefest of appearances would be a bigger media event than J. D. Salinger showing up on David Letterman. I hadn't even thought of it as a possibility until Malcolm mentioned it, but planted now, the idea started to grow on me. It had weight, dimension, and infinite potential. At the very least, I could feel Karanuk out, see if he'd be amenable to the suggestion. It was worth a shot. I let myself drift into the daydream of a huge Karanuk book party. We could have ice sculptures that melted down during the event, signifying the “thaw” and the return to the unmolded shape of nature…. I bolted upright in my seat. I was thinking
exactly like Lucy.
It was as if she'd beamed the thoughts straight into my brain. I shook myself, literally, and looked ahead.

We were close to Lucy's house and I could feel the adrenaline surging as it did every time I approached the office. And then I realized that I wasn't driving. My stomach gave a sick little flip. I hadn't given Malcolm directions. How had he found his way here without them?

“Malcolm?”

“Baby?”

“How the hell did you get here?”

“I drove, love. You know, foot, gas, all that.”

“No, Malcolm, I mean, how did you find it? I didn't give you directions. And you've never been here before. Have you?”

“Shit,” Malcolm said softly.

“What? Tell me now.”

“Look, I'm sorry, Angel, I didn't want you to know…. I'm so stupid.”

“Malcolm, what the hell are you TALKING ABOUT?” I was yelling almost out of control, and I didn't even know why.

“I followed you, okay?”

“What?”

“A couple of times…When you first started working and you seemed so stressed out and I was just worried about you, okay? You were so tired—you're still tired all the time—and I just wanted to make sure you got there safely, okay? And it was always so off-limits, I wasn't allowed to call, to come take you to lunch, you know? Like it was some kind of white slavery ring or something.” He let out a nervous giggle, incongruous next to his outfit.

“But how did you follow me without my seeing you?”

“Angel…” He took a long and very dramatic pause. “You don't see anything except what's right in front of you or inside your head anymore. You're so focused, a herd of elephants could sneak up on you. Of course you didn't see me. I don't think you saw anything.”

He wasn't wrong. There had been many times I'd arrived at the office without remembering how I'd gotten there. But his following me—sneaking behind me—gave me a cold, nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I couldn't shake it.

“You know, Malcolm, I don't know whether to think this is sweet or just totally creepy.”

“Just trying to look out for you, Angel.” He let out a long sigh and pushed his shades back on his nose.

“Look out for me or spy on me?”

“Why would I need to spy on you? How does
that
make sense?”

“I don't know!” I said, my tension and frustration coming through my voice. “It's weird, okay? It's just a weird thing to do.”

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier, I should have,” he said. “I guess it
is
a little weird.” He giggled again and I realized I really didn't like the sound of it.

“Yes, it is. Listen, Malcolm, next time just—Damn, we're here already.” Malcolm pulled into Lucy's long, gravel driveway. I realized I'd never even looked at the front of the house before because I always entered through the back entrance. There was one other car in the driveway, a tired-looking Honda Civic. I happened to know that Lucy owned a silver Jaguar (I'd placed several calls to her mechanic, auto detailer, etc.), even though I'd never actually seen her drive anywhere, so I knew the car wasn't hers. It didn't belong to any staffers, either. Fabulous, I thought, a mystery guest. “I guess it's too late to back out now,” I told Malcolm as we got out of the car.

“Come on, A, this'll be fun,” he said, but he wasn't looking at me anymore. He'd fixed his gaze on Lucy's mansion and was striding toward it.

“Hey, want to wait for me?”

Malcolm turned slightly and hesitated. He looked annoyed. “I guess you want to give her the flowers?” he said.

“No, Malcolm, why don't you?” I said, shoving them into his hand. A couple of crimson and yellow petals dislodged and fluttered to the ground. Malcolm's eyes narrowed to gold slits. “What's wrong with you?” he hissed.

I chose to ignore him and stared at the front door, which was white, thick, and decorated with a giant silver knocker fashioned in the shape of Alaska, complete with Aleutian islands. I picked it up with some difficulty as it was incredibly heavy and let it fall against the door. There was no sound from inside. I tried again, still to no avail. I looked at Malcolm, telegraphing my instant panic with wild eyes. I could feel perspiration begin to seep through the thin fabric of my dress.

“You might want to try this,” Malcolm said, pointing to a doorbell on the jamb. “Clearly, the knocker is just for show.”

“Clearly,” I said, and jammed my finger into the bell. There followed a resounding ring from inside the house. “That must be our Angel,” I heard echoing toward me, and the sweat froze under my arms.