Meanwhile, Betty laughed. “I wanted you to reassure me it wouldn’t.”
“Well, we’ll do our best, won’t we?”
“We’ll always be honest with each other,” Betty said, again in a tone that implied a prepared speech. “If you get pissed off at something I do as an editor, I want you to tell me.”
“And vice versa.”
“And vice versa. We have to keep the air clear.”
“Anyway, we don’t know. Ann might hate the book, and we won’t have to worry.”
“That’s why I’m calling. She read it last night. She’s willing to recommend we transfer the contract from Shadow.”
Patty stared at the polyurethaned floor.
“Hello?” Betty said.
“That’s it? It’s over?”
“Well, I’ve got to handle Shadow, make sure they don’t make a fuss. It’ll probably take until next week to make it official and start on the contract, but there should be no problem.”
“That’s great,” Patty said in a slow, astonished voice. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Betty answered with sly pride. “I’m really excited, Patty.”
“I’d better call David. He won’t believe it.”
“Sure. But call me back later, okay? We should go to a fancy lunch next week to celebrate. Maybe I’ll bring Ann along. We can go to the Four Seasons! Won’t that be fun?”
“Oh yeah,” Patty said. “That’ll be a real hoot.” She hung up and dialed right away, only she called Gelb. He got on instantly.
“Hello, beautiful,” he said.
“Lighten up,” she answered. “I want to tell you something. You know my friend Betty Winters?”
“Sure. Don’t worry. She can keep her job,” he said.
“I’m not worried about that. She’s recommended that a novel I’m writing, a serious novel, be published by Garlands. She says she’ll have a contract by next week.”
“That’s great,” he said, a little startled, but easily covering it. “Congratulations. What’s the book about?”
“Me.”
He laughed. “I like it already. Sounds like a big book.”
“If I see you, it’s only going to be because of this insane situation. I want you to know that. If that doesn’t bother you, okay, I’ll meet you in some seedy hotel. If that’s what you want.”
There was a pause. She heard nothing. No breathing. No chuckle. Then, solemnly, carefully considered, he said: “Okay.”
“You don’t care. It doesn’t make any difference to you why I’m doing it.”
“Of course it does, Patty.” he said in a hurt tone, but still very much in command. “But beggars can’t be choosers. I’ll take you on whatever terms I can.”
“Then it’s a deal,” she said, and hung up the receiver with a bang.
GARLANDS PROJECTS REPORT — BOB HOLDER
[Excerpt]
Initial hundred-page submission Fred Tatter novel. The Locker Room, being revised. Second part of advance released.
NEWSLIFE
[Excerpt from in-house Newstime publication]
The climax of Retreat Weekend was the hotly contested Editors versus Writers softball game. David Bergman, recently promoted to senior editor, hit a two-run homer in the bottom of the ninth to squeak out the 15–14 victory for the Editors.
GARLANDS DEAL MEMO
Shadow Books contract. Dark Dream, transferred to trade division for untitled novel. $5,000 advance. Author, Patty Lane. Editor, Betty Winters.
INTERNATIONAL PICTURES PROJECT MEMO
[Excerpt]
Tony Winters’ contract for Concussion canceled. Financial obligations are satisfied.
PART THREE
CHAPTER 13
“He has no self-esteem! Why are you bothering me? He’s the one! He doesn’t even know what to eat unless he checks with his I fancy friends!” Marion didn’t look in Fred’s direction or acknowledge in any way that he was present. She argued her case to the psychologist eagerly — a debating student scoring points. “It’s pathetic. Do you know what it’s like? To know that your husband will only like you if he gets permission from Town magazine?”
“This is such bullshit,” Fred said, and though he got a glance from Dr. Feldman, it was merely cursory.
“What about your friends?” Feldman asked.
“What?” Marion looked blank, almost frightened, as though caught in class not having read the assigned material.
“What do your friends think of Fred?” the doctor asked.
Marion stared at him, blinked her eyes, and swallowed hard.
“She doesn’t have any friends,” Fred said with a triumphant guffaw, a mean sibling tattling to the parents.
“That’s not true!” Marion snapped at him, really stung by the remark, her brows scrunching up in pain, her furious tone barely covering the hurt.
“Why do you think Fred says that?” Feldman said with his mild, abstracted voice, a slightly bored questioner.
“Because he likes to hurt me, that’s why,” she said, and then dissolved. Fred was amazed. Tears flowed down her face, her chest heaved, her hands covered her eyes. Feldman looked at him. Fred felt reproved by the doctor’s glance.
“It’s just the truth!” Fred squeaked. “I’m just telling the truth.” He leaned toward Marion, almost pleading for help. “Name one friend.” She sobbed louder, turning from him with horror and loathing. “I don’t know one! That’s all! Name one!” he cried, an innocent man being sentenced unjustly.
“You don’t let me …” she choked out between the sobs.
“What!” Fred spread his arms out in incredulous outrage, looking at Feldman for rescue. “Come on,” he said to the doctor with weary disgust, crying for the referee to stop these low blows.
“You don’t let me have any. All my old girlfriends were stupid. The people we used to know from college, losers.”
“This is fuckin’ ridiculous!” Fred said, turning to the wall, in the absence of a sensible person to look at.
Marion cried for a while, Feldman looked impassive, Fred stared off. When she quieted, Fred grumbled, “I don’t know what this is accomplishing.”
Feldman immediately spoke to Marion, almost squashing Fred’s words: “Why do you let Fred decide who your friends are?”
“She doesn’t! It’s bullshit!” Fred said.
“Is there anything Marion has said that you think is true?” Feldman asked, without his tone containing the challenge inherent in the sentence.
“About this?” Fred said, scrambling, knowing he was in trouble, caught in the backfield without a receiver to throw to.
“About anything,” Feldman said. “Do any of her criticisms ring true?”
“I don’t know — I can’t remember them all. There are so many! Everything that’s wrong with her life is my fault. Nothing is her fault! Her fucking job, our sex life, every fucking thing is my fault!”
Feldman looked at his clock and then back at Fred, somewhat balefully. “We have five more minutes and I want to talk a little about what we’re doing.” Marion and Fred both looked at him, surprised, so used to his role as questioner that declarative sentences were a shock. “This has been helpful, both of you coming in as a couple. But I think it’s getting …” He struggled for a word.