Authors: Christina George
The Publicist (3 page)
His eye fell to the picture on his desk. A smiling blond woman was hugging two young boys. The picture was taken almost twenty years ago but it was his favorite. They were happy then. The boys were young and he and Carolyn were still in love. When Carolyn got pregnant again, they were overjoyed, Mac hoped for a girl and when the doctors told him that his wife was, in fact, expecting a girl, he was elated. But this pregnancy didn’t go as smoothly as the other two. In her third trimester, Carolyn was experiencing pre-term labor and was ordered to stay off her feet. Mac organized it so that he was either home with Carolyn and the boys, or the nanny was there to make sure Carolyn got the bed rest she needed. But then there was an emergency at the office that Edward said only Mac could handle.
A quick phone call to the nanny who promised to come right away, and Mac was out the door. A few minutes later, one of the boys, spinning in circles and laughing in the living room, lost his balance and fell against the corner of their sleek metal coffee table. Wailing uncontrollably, Carolyn rushed to pick him up and comfort him. When the nanny finally arrived, she found Carolyn on the floor crying and clutching her stomach, and the older boy calling 911. The paramedics rushed her to the hospital, but the doctors couldn’t stop her labor. Isabella was too tiny to survive. She died an hour after her birth. Mac never forgave himself for not being there. Carolyn retreated from him and no amount of therapy could bring her back. As if Mac wasn’t carrying enough of the burden, she also blamed her husband for leaving her alone. Where was he when she needed him? Their precious, tiny Isabella had struggled to live but finally gave up and ever since, the pieces of their marriage died with her. Year after year crumbling further until there was nothing left. Carolyn was cordial like a roommate but right after they lost Isabella she insisted on moving into the guest room until she could get her head together. She had slept there ever since. That was nearly twenty years ago.
Therapy had helped for a while but then Carolyn had sunk back into a deep state of disrepair. She lived for their boys, her tennis game, and her garden. Beyond that she cared about little else. Mac was nothing more than a footnote on her life.
It was shortly after the ten-year mark of losing their daughter that Mac began reaching out to other women for comfort. He did it once, just to see what it was like to feel another woman move beneath him. To caress her hair and her skin. At first his actions had disgusted him. He swore he’d never do it again until he realized he started craving the feel of another human being and soon he faced the fact that he couldn’t live without it, not ever again. Divorce for Carolyn’s Italian Catholic family would have been the last straw on her sanity, so Mac never brought it up. They remained the dutiful couple all the while Mac pursued other women. But he never fell in love. That was his rule. He could have fun, they could go on trips and spend romantic weekends making love in an antique four-poster bed but that was the extent of it. The women he was with understood that and when they didn’t, or when they asked more from him than he could reasonably give, he would end it, afraid of getting too tangled in the emotional side of his affairs. He was also careful to outline the rules of the game: no touching in public, no hand-holding, and absolutely no public displays of affection. But when he was alone with a woman, he made them forget their half-relationship and made her the center of his world. Mac wasn’t proud of the life he’d carved out for himself but after years of no longer being in love with his wife, nor she with him, he convinced himself that he did it to survive a marriage most people would have crumbled under. And a broken home wouldn’t have served his two boys either who were thriving at two of the best colleges in the country.
His thoughts drifted to Kate. She was special. Feisty, hardworking, and smart. It was a lethal combination for Mac and he knew he needed to be careful. He was keenly aware that Kate was just the kind of woman who could get Mac to break all of his rules. He had seen her around the office quite a bit over the years, but over the course of the last six months she’d been assigned to more and more of his titles. He looked at the picture of Carolyn again; wishing things could have been different. Wishing they could have had the family they had talked about in college and stayed madly in love till the day they died. They promised each other the night before their wedding that they would be together forever. Ironically, they probably would be, only it was not how Mac had expected it to be.
.
In 1969 Morris & Dean published an iconic best seller called
The Fall
. It was written by Allan Lavigne, a timid but wildly talented writer. In order to get the contract, MD signed him for a two-book deal; the next book was due the following year. But 1970 came and went and no book. Forty years later the second book still hadn’t arrived, but if it did, MD was obligated to publish it. Clive Morris, one of the founders of the company, was so fond of Lavigne’s work, he had his attorneys put together an ironclad contract that no amount of legal wrangling could get them out of. So Lavigne became somewhat of a legend around MD, the only author with a two-book contract who had yet to deliver on his second title. No one believed they’d ever see the book and Allan was still living off of whatever residual sales came from the first book, the movie, and the foreign rights that had been sold off years before.
Kate met Allan one day while she stopped to get Chinese food in the East Village and without realizing who he was, struck up a conversation with him. That was almost three years ago and they had been friends ever since. Allan lived in a small, stuffy, fourth floor walk-up. The stairs were getting harder and harder for him to navigate and he swore to Kate that one of these days he would move to the country and live in the cottage he’d always dreamed of owning.
Kate had studied Lavigne’s work in college, writing her creative thesis on his only book. When she realized who she befriended, she decided not to tell anyone at MD, lest she become the butt of their jokes as well. The poor little publicist helping the author who lost all creative spin. But Allan hadn’t lost his creativity, Kate was certain of it. During her weekly visits to his apartment, she’d make sure his food was stocked, that he was taking his blood pressure pills, and that he was writing. He promised her he was and would occasionally tempt her with a paragraph or two from his second book. The truth was, Allan was as afraid of another success as he was not living up to the expectations of the reviewers who would surely decide his fate. His first book had taken him by storm and his life had never been the same. Now he was a forgotten footnote on the literary world and he feared another book would either send him to the bottom of the book barrel or launch him into a spotlight he no longer wanted to be a part of.
Kate walked up 22
nd
Street to Allan’s apartment. Her arms were heavy with groceries she’d picked up knowing that if Allan had shopped, he’d probably forgotten to get anything green, fresh, or healthy. When Kate arrived, she found Allan’s door ajar and the aging author on the phone. Kate let herself in, trying not to startle Allan, who sat in his easy chair, cradling the phone. He spotted Kate and smiled, “Listen, Nicholas, I need to go, Kate’s here. I look forward to seeing you next week.” Allan clicked off the phone and getting up from his chair, he hugged Kate, which had become their greeting. “Katie, good to see you, how are things in your world?”
Kate smiled, she loved Allan. He was at once her friend, mentor, and confidant. She respected his insight and wisdom. His advice related to her career or books she was working on had been spot on. Allan could sniff out a good title and knew almost instinctively what would sell in publishing and what wouldn’t. Even though he had abandoned anything to do with the literary world years ago, he would frequent his library to read copies of
Publisher’s Weekly
and keep up on all the latest goings on in the industry.
“I’m good, well, now I am. Things are much better.”
“Tough week, I know. But you solved the Haley situation. Good job.” He winked. Kate smiled; his approval meant the world to her. While they talked, Allan helped her unload the groceries. It was almost five and Kate noticed he was still in his bathrobe.
Allan suffered from occasional bouts of depression that he refused to get any help for. It was all Kate could do to get him to take his blood pressure medicine on time, he refused anything else. “Just a bit blue.” He’d say and brush it off. But Kate knew better. Growing old alone in a busy city that favored socializing wasn’t easy. Allan had a few friends; most of them lived outside the city and rarely visited. His nephew Nicholas, who lives in Santa Monica, would fly out every six weeks or so to visit his uncle but that was the extent of his family. His sister had died years before, leaving his nephew to care for an uncle he barely knew.
“So, Nicholas’s coming for another visit?”
“Yes,” Allan smiled, “I hope you get a chance to meet him someday. He’s a good kid, you’d like him.” A soft smile pressed to Allan’s lips. He was forever trying to fix Kate up with people he met. Most of them were too old for Kate, or unemployed writers—the last thing Kate needed in her life. Someone else with a book to sell. Kate wanted to meet someone who wasn’t in the book business; the industry was far too incestuous and having someone who knew everyone she knew just seemed a tad too close for comfort. She’d tried dating in the industry and each time it had failed, badly. Not only that but when it ended, everyone knew, and in a few cases, her flagging love life ended up on a blog or two. Galley Cat, a widely read industry blog had been discreet enough to stay away from break ups but she knew it was only a matter of time before love-fatalities ended up there as well. If they did, she was certain to be one of them. Kate had the knack of picking perfectly wrong men for her. But not just wrong, wrong by anyone’s measure, even her old high school friend Sofie who she now only heard from when she pinged her on Facebook. Sofie used to “grade on a curve,” but even her lower-grade-point-average couldn’t justify some of Kate’s choices in men. So Kate set her love life aside and decided to focus on her career, which was going, although at times she wasn’t sure it was headed in the right direction.
“So, will you come by and meet Nicholas when he’s in town?” Allan asked, pulling Kate from her thoughts.
“I’ll try, Allan.” She offered, “Now let’s make sure you take your meds.”
.
Sales meetings were held each Wednesday at MD and everyone from the sales departments to the editors in charge of the new titles to the marketing and publicity departments were required to attend. The meetings were long and often painful. Despite MD’s willingness to back the titles they worked with, not every book was paid equal attention. With all the titles they published each year, it just wasn’t possible. At times, Kate hated the meetings, especially when she had a special connection to an author, as she did with Janet Easter who wrote the kind of romance novels that were believable and ended happily. Janet never used a single cuss word or sex scene, but she still managed to leave the reader fulfilled. Kate wasn’t sure how she did it but always marveled at her work. Kate had worked with Janet almost her entire career at MD and was astonished that despite the sales Janet pulled in for her books year after year, she was never considered an MD star, just one of their long list of authors, a stable as it were of “sure sells,” Janet was a sure thing. After forty-five books she had a following and an almost guarantee of sales for each book. MD didn’t see why anything more had to be invested in the author; she was working off her own momentum. Also she wasn’t sexy, her books were sweet but not racy; not the kind that “made the list” as the best seller lists were often referred to.
Over the years Kate and Janet had become friends. Kate knew all the goings-on with Janet’s seven children and as many grandchildren. Kate had once asked Janet why she didn’t succumb to a flashier style of writing, to which Janet replied “I don’t want to write anything I’d be ashamed for my grandchildren to read. Frankly, I don’t know how Jackie Collins sleeps at night…”
Kate doodled on her lined pad, waiting for the meeting to start. Mac walked in and took the empty seat beside her, which he often did. She liked Mac, despite his rumored reputation. She found him to be honest and sincere and, of course, dangerously handsome. Kate loved to watch the sales staff, which was largely female, try to sidle up to Mac, or smile sweetly from across the room. Mac tended to ignore open displays of flirtation. Kate assumed he was classier than that, or perhaps he was just more careful. If the rumors were to be believed, he clearly was.
Mac leaned into her; she could smell his cologne which was almost intoxicating: “So what’s new in Katie’s world….?” His voice was soft and almost seductive; he was so close, she could feel his breath on her neck. He voice carried the slightest hint of an accent that revealed the truth about Mac. He wasn’t from New York originally, but then again, who was? Everyone seemed to collect on this island from all over the world.
“Just keeping busy, eager to hear what tomorrow’s review of Sasha’s book will be like. I wish they hadn’t been so tightlipped about it.”
At that moment, Edward Sherman entered the room, or as he was often called, “The King”. Edward was a graying man of sixty-five, a legend in the industry, and CEO of Morris & Dean Publishing. It was rumored that he could sniff out a bestselling book from a sea of unedited manuscripts. If Edward wanted to publish it, you could bet it would hit the list. But there was a time or two when even The King would pick a book that just couldn’t carry its weight and on the rare occasion when something didn’t hit the mark, it was quickly forgotten amidst the other wildly successful titles. Edward carried himself like the New York royalty he was; one of the few people who could say he was born and raised on the Island. He often joked that there was no world outside Manhattan, well, no world that mattered anyway. He lived with his wife of almost forty years on the Upper East Side, in a sprawling and expensive apartment overlooking his favorite city in the world. Edward came from old money and good breeding. He had an air of dignity that was only marred by an occasional wrist slapping when he got too close or too friendly with one of his female co-workers; something that Edward did whenever the mood struck him. And often, considering his status, he got exactly what he wanted. The minute he did, however, the girl would vanish. Either into the bowels of the company or some far-flung publishing house no one had ever heard of. Sex with Edward Sherman was not a corporate climb but a descent into professional oblivion. Still there were women who were willing to risk it, who were enamored with the idea of being close to power. And Edward was powerful. A single call could get him anything from dinner with Madonna to golf at a private club with whoever was currently residing at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
