Stabbing Stephanie (2 page)

“At least it's higher,” Daniel reasoned.

“Forget it. We don't come back. If we can't come to terms, we're done. Tell Arliss you'll give her a simple first-look option. And tell her you want an answer in thirty days, not sixty.”

He jotted some notes. “Will do. Thanks, Jane. Anything else I should be aware of?”

“Whoa, yeah.” She turned a few pages and tapped her finger on another clause she'd clipped, headed
OUT OF PRINT
. “You gotta watch these electronic rights. The way this thing's worded now, if the book is in print
in any form,
you can't get reversion of rights, and
in any form
includes electronic and print-on-demand.”

He gave her a woeful look. “All this new stuff gives me a headache.”

“Take an aspirin and learn it. It's important. Don't you see? The book could be sitting on a disk or on a computer somewhere, waiting to be printed out—and that would mean it's in print. Or it could be
available
to be manufactured, a copy at a time, by one of those infernal print-on-demand machines. That means the author would
never
get back the book, because it would always be in print!”

“So what should I ask for?”

“Change the definition of ‘in print'.” She gestured to the supply room, once Kenneth's office, where they now kept the contract and correspondence files. “Check the language I put in Goddess's contract with Corsair.” A few months ago Jane had completed negotiations for the autobiography of her biggest client, Goddess, the international pop star. “Basically it says that to be considered in print, the book has to be earning a minimum amount of money, even if it's only available through electronic or print-on-demand. If it's not earning the minimum, it's not considered in print and the author can get back the rights.”

He smiled appreciatively. “How do you know all this stuff?”

“I had a great teacher,” she replied wistfully, and her gaze unfocused.

She saw Kenneth, lanky, sandy-haired, with light green eyes, looking up from his desk at Silver and Payne, where they'd first met, he the literary agent, she his assistant. She would ask him questions not unlike the ones Daniel asked her, and Kenneth gestured for her to pull a chair up next to his so he could go over a book contract with her. And he had, paragraph by paragraph.

She laughed to herself. Later he had admitted he'd chosen the Simon & Schuster contract because it was the longest of any publisher and would take the most time. She was glad he had. She could have sat there beside him, smelling his lemony aftershave, for a dozen contracts.

Ironically, it had been after a meeting with an editor at Simon & Schuster that Kenneth had stepped out of that publisher's building on the Avenue of the Americas to hail a cab and been hit by a truck driver concentrating on his sandwich as he swerved to the curb. They told her he'd died instantly.

“Jane?”

She jumped. “Oh. Sorry.”

“You're thinking about Kenneth, aren't you?”

“Yeah.” She gave him a little smile. “But it doesn't hurt as much now. I never thought I'd be able to say that.”

Now it was Daniel's turn to look sad. She knew he was thinking about Laura, the fiancée he'd lost. But he had Ginny now, as Jane had Stanley.

“Subject change!” she declared. “How's the mail? Any big fat checks?”

He brightened. “Actually, yes. Bill Haddad's signing payment from St. Martin's.”

“Oh, yum. Can you get that right into the bank? I know Bill needs the money badly, and the commission will come in mighty handy for me.”

In truth, money hadn't been as much of a worry for Jane lately as it had been during the first two and a half years since Kenneth died. Several of the writers Jane represented had recently signed hefty contracts. Thanks to the commissions on those contracts, Jane would be in the Caribbean in a week and a half.

Remembering her visit to Up, Up and Away, she rose and grabbed her bag from the credenza. Glancing out the window above it, she saw the green, the branches of the oaks bending in the strong wind. She squinted, trying to see into the bandstand, but she couldn't tell if Ivor was inside.

She took her bag back to Daniel's desk and spread the brochures before him. “What do you think?”

“I think they all look like heaven. Does it really matter?”

“You sound like Barbara Kaplan. Yes, it matters. This vacation is very special to me, and it has to be just right.”

“If it were me, I'd choose Neptune's Palace. It's
the
place. Everybody's talking about it. But can you possibly get in on such short notice?”

She shrugged. “Barbara's not making any guarantees.” She laughed. “Erik—he works with Barbara—says I might have to sleep in the boiler room. But I think she could get me in. She's got connections there. She's just afraid I won't take any vacation at all.”

“I have no fears about that! I know you're dying to get out of here.”

She rose, gathering her brochures, and carried her bag and briefcase toward her office. “Nothing personal, but I am one burned-out literary agent. Oh—anything else interesting in the mail?”

“Publishers Weekly.”
Looking uncomfortable, he removed the magazine from the mail pile on his desk. “You might as well look at this now, get it over with.”

“What?” She moved closer.

He opened the magazine to the back and spread it open to the hardcover best-seller list. He pointed to the title in position four and read,
“In the Name of the Mother.
Roger Haines. Brownstone, $25.”

“Good heavens.”

“That's about what I said.”

She could only shake her head. She had once represented Roger Haines, had become more than just his agent. Ironically, what had caused their breakup was her urging him to rewrite that very book.

“I'm happy for Roger,” she said.

“Liar.”

“You're right. I'm not happy for him, and I'm not happy for his rat of an agent, Beryl Patrice, either.”

“All natural feelings, under the circumstances. After all, you told Roger you couldn't sell the book unless he rewrote it—and Beryl has sold it,
and
it's a bestseller. Beryl tried to hire me—another strike against her.
And
Beryl wanted Kenneth.”

“You really know how to make a girl feel good, don't you.”

“Well,
you
got him!”

“True, true,” she agreed thoughtfully, and let her gaze travel down the best-seller list. “Here—you missed this one.
Relevant Gods.
Carole Freund. Corsair, $27.95. How many weeks does this make? Twenty-three?”

“By my calculation,” he said happily. “Congratulations yet again.”

And this was a writer Jane still represented, a quiet, reasonable person who was almost finished with her second novel. “Thanks. I feel better now.”

In her office, she threw her bag onto her desk, which was covered with its usual heap of work.

Daniel appeared and placed the mail on her desk. “There's something fun in here.” He pulled out a manila envelope, opened it, slid out a color proof of a book jacket. The entire front of the jacket was a close-up of Goddess's pretty, young face, surrounded by her famous mass of light brown hair, on which sat a crooked crown, lavishly jeweled. She gazed provocatively into the camera, her lips pursed in a kiss. At the top of the jacket in bold letters was
GODDESS
, and in script at the bottom,
MY LIFE ON TOP
.

“Outrageous,” Jane said, taking the proof from him, “like Goddess. I love it.”

As Daniel departed, Jane stood the proof on her desk and regarded it. Simple but effective. The big-book look. And it had better
be
a big book, she reflected, since Corsair had paid Goddess an advance of $1.5 million for it.

She realized she hadn't checked in with Goddess in a few weeks to see how the book was coming along. More important, Jane needed to know how Goddess was getting along with the ghostwriter Jane had found for her—Carmela Gold, one of New York's slickest magazine journalists. Carmela was hip, innovative, and best of all, able to get along with just about anyone. Jane had felt that this last quality would prove invaluable in working with the sometimes-prickly Goddess.

Jane dialed Goddess at her town house on New York's Upper East Side. Goddess's Broadway show,
Goddess of Love,
was still the hottest show in town. Goddess had told Jane that doing the show took so much out of her that when she wasn't at the theater, she enjoyed just hanging out at her town house. Jane had pointed out that this was fortuitous, since Carmela would need to spend a lot of time with Goddess, interviewing her for the book.

Lately Carmela had been meeting with Goddess at the star's home three or four mornings a week. Carmela would use the afternoons to type up her notes and work on the manuscript, which she was leaving with Goddess in portions as she completed them, so that Goddess could read and comment.

Today was Tuesday. Jane checked her watch: almost 11:30. Carmela would probably have left by now.

A maid answered and said she would call Goddess to the phone.

“Hi, babe, how's it hangin'?” Goddess said in her bored-sounding monotone.

Jane could hear her chomping on gum, something Goddess never seemed to be without. “It's hanging very nicely,” Jane said, smiling. “How is yours hanging?”

“Never better. I was just reading some of Carmela's pages. Damn, I'm good.”

“You mean Carmela is good.”

“No, me. The book's coming out under
my
name, remember?
I'm
good.”

Jane shook her head. She'd handled a number of ghosted celebrity books, and inevitably the celebrity started to believe he or she had actually written the book. But she'd never yet encountered a celebrity who believed this
during
the writing process. It didn't really matter. Carmela wasn't in this for fame; she was in it for fortune—and the amount of money she was getting paid to ghost this book was indeed large.

“You're happy with the pages, then?”

“Mm-hmm! I've lived quite a life, if I do say so myself.”

“How did this morning's session with Carmela go?”

“She didn't come this morning,” Goddess said nonchalantly.

“Oh? Why not?”

“Because I told her not to. I can't keep up this schedule, so many mornings a week. I told her two mornings a week, tops. With the show and all, I'm pooped. And Corsair ain't payin' me enough to bust my tail the way I have been.”

Irritation rose in Jane, heating her face. While she was negotiating this deal with Corsair, she had pleaded with Goddess to let her hold out for a higher advance; but Goddess had wanted to close the deal and had instructed Jane to accept what had basically been Corsair's initial offer.

But Jane decided to point out none of this to Goddess. What good would it do? There were, however, other issues.

“Goddess, I've explained that Carmela needs as much time with you as possible. There's a very tight deadline on this book—Ham Kiels needs it by the end of the year.”

“That's more than a month away.” Goddess sounded bored.

“True, but Carmela needs time to
write
the book.”

“She is writing it. She brings me pages every day. They're basically fine. Jane, baby,” Goddess said, her tone growing more serious, “you need to chill out. You should hear yourself. Is anything worth getting so stressed over?”

Jane took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “How did Carmela react when you told her to come only twice a week?”

“I don't know.” Goddess's tone implied that what Carmela thought was of no consequence.

Jane would speak to Carmela. If she was happy with this, Jane was, too. “All right. Call me if you need me. I'll talk to you soon.”

“Mm,” Goddess murmured, and hung up.

Jane found her Rolodex at the back right corner of her desk, hiding behind the work pile, flipped it to Carmela's number in Greenwich Village, and punched it out. She got Carmela's machine, but when she started to leave a message, Carmela picked up.

“What's up, Jane?” Carmela snapped out in her deep voice.

“I was just speaking to Goddess. She told me she's going to be meeting with you less often.”

“Yeah,” Carmela said in a drawn-out whine, “I was going to call you about that. I don't know about this project, Jane. This woman is
very
difficult. Even when we were supposed to be meeting more often, she canceled half the meetings. When we meet, it's all I can do to keep her focused on what we're doing. And what's with the shoplifting?”

Jane knew of Goddess's penchant for pilfering. In fact, twice Goddess had swiped items for Jane—bottles of nail polish, though for what reason Jane had never divined.

“So she's a shoplifter,” Jane said, as if she were admitting that someone was overweight or snored. “She takes things. It's a problem she's got—we've all got problems, right? But, Carmela,” she said quickly in alarm, “you do know you can't put that in the book . . .”

“No, no,” Carmela said impatiently, “I'm not putting it in the book. Right now I'm not sure there's going to
be
a book. I can't get enough out of her. And when I give her pages to look at, she comes back with comments like, ‘I would never have worn a turtleneck.' ”