Bestseller - Olivia Goldsmith

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alternative approaches were possible. Security guards were usually surprisingly lax at elevator banks when a little old lady, dressed neatly, smiled and told them she had an appointment with a name they knew upstairs. It was only once Opal got herself into the reception area that the trouble began. Since she didn’t really have an appointment with Ann Patty of Crown, Arlene Friedman of Doubleday, Faith Sale at Putnam, or Sharon DeLano at Random House, when Opal got to the reception area she tried a few different techniques. Occasionally she insisted that a mistake had been made. Sometimes she admitted she had no appointment; she said that she was somebody’s mother and she’d just wait. Because of her age and her innocent look the girls at the desk occasionally only raised their eyebrows or shrugged and let her sit there. But most had told her waiting was impossible—she couldn’t see the editor without an appointment, and no, she couldn’t even wait. So now Opal pretended she had an appointment and that she was deaf or stupid when they told her she didn’t. It was humiliating, but time had given her this gift: Years ago she would have been far too shy and embarrassed to pull any of these routines.

      Opal surprised herself with an amazing lack of concern about appearances anymore. Perhaps it was just age, or her pain. Maybe it was wisdom. She knew that being polite, that doing things the right way, following all the rules, hadn’t helped Terry at all. And Opal no longer cared about herself. So, when one or another of the receptionists had called security and had her ejected. Opal hadn’t been the slightest bit embarrassed. She had simply consulted her list and gone on to the next publishing house.

      Many of the publishers were on multiple floors in one tower. The towers seemed to be clustered along Sixth Avenue, Broadway, and Third Avenue. Opal used the rejection letters as a start, though she didn’t try any of the same names. Instead she went publisher by publisher, building by building, floor by floor. She made daily phone calls and went to the library to research every editorial name she could. Sometimes she would happen on a chatty receptionist who would tell her the names of the editors on that floor. Opal surreptitiously wrote them down for future reference and sat waiting for any of them to walk in or out. But the depressing fact was that once she had cornered one, she was almost invariably told that “we don’t read unsolicited manuscripts” and was asked to leave. The chatty receptionist would look at her, stricken and betrayed. Each time that happened Opal had left, only because she didn’t want to jeopardize the receptionist’s job. But each time she vowed to herself that she would be back.

      Today, on the ninth floor of Simon & Schuster, the receptionist had let her sit for a long time simply because she hadn’t been able to get through to Michael Korda’s extension. Opal had picked his name because he was editor in chief and most likely to have an engaged phone. That had worked, temporarily, at a couple of places. Now, it seemed, the woman had forgotten all about Opal. She was too busy on a long personal phone call with someone named Creon—-or something like that—who didn’t seem to want to meet her later that night. So when a tall, good-looking, middle-aged man walked through the double glass doors and interrupted the phone call to inquire if a package had been delivered. Opal heard the black woman tell him, “No, Mr. Adams, nothing’s come for you.” Opal jumped up and walked across the carpet to him.

      “Mr. Adams?” she asked. “Could I speak to you a moment?”

      The man looked at her, his face pleasant and open.

      “You are Charles—Chuck—Adams, the senior editor, aren’t you?” Opal asked. Her research had paid off. He nodded and smiled.

      “Well, I have a book here—I mean, a manuscript—that I would like you to read.” The smile faded from the tall man’s face, but Opal continued. “Don’t worry,” she tried to reassure him. “It isn’t mine.” Opal had learned already that it was certain death to say you had a book of your own you wanted read. “I’m sort of the agent for it,” she explained. Mr. Adams nodded. “My daughter wrote it.” A mistake. The man’s face stiffened. Darn it! She shouldn’t have mentioned that Terry was a relative. Opal could see the indulgence on the man’s face. He wasn’t unkind; he seemed truly pained at their encounter.

      “I’m sorry. We have a policy of not accepting unsolicited manuscripts.”

      “How can a person get a book published if nobody will read it?” Opal snapped. But the man had already turned his back and walked toward the doors leading to the inner sanctum where, she thought bitterly, he would be safe from little old ladies with manuscripts.

      Well, Opal shrugged, he couldn’t be expected to buck corporate policy. Or to believe that her attempted submission was different from the rest. At least he had not thrown her out or called security. It could have been worse. Opal took her seat again. But now the receptionist had—finally—noticed her and was getting off the phone.

      “You don’t have an appointment with Mr. Korda,” she said, sounding indignant. “You don’t have an appointment listed at all.”

      Opal opened her eyes as wide as she could but kept her seat on the banquette. “Well, I’m certain it was for today,” she said. “Why don’t you call back and see if they could fit me in for just five minutes? I did come all the way from Bloomington, Indiana.”

      The woman narrowed her eyes, trying to size Opal up. But Opal simply sat there, as calmly as she could, the heavy manuscript cutting off the circulation in her legs from her knees down. “I’ll wait,” she said brightly, and—after another minute of eye contact—the woman shrugged. “I’ll just wait,” Opal said again, more softly. And she would. She would wait for as long as it took.

       You ask for the distinction between the terms “Editor” and “Publisher”: an editor selects manuscripts; a publisher selects editors.

       —Max Schuster

      Emma Ashton sat behind her desk, which was completely stacked with manuscripts, galleys, memos, and the paper detritus that threatened to engulf her. She was as busy as a bad outfit, answering Pam’s correspondence as well as her own. She picked up the letter on the top of the stack.

      Dear Ms. Mantiss,

      I am genuinely shocked that something as fickle as personal taste—which Duchamp about seventy-five years ago suggested the intelligent person put in a cupboard when viewing any work of art in case of infantile prejudice—can dictate something as important as publication. I am surprised and saddened that people in a position of relative power can have such limited perceptions. Can you suggest another publisher whose “personal taste” my Cunning Beautiful Bitch may suit? It’s a novel that deserves an audience. Thank you.

      Emma almost laughed. She’d have to answer this bitter, disappointed woman who had written to Pam. But what was the point? Emma sighed. The woman was a nut case, as well as a truly terrible writer. She believed that “personal taste” shouldn’t affect an editor’s choice of what to publish. What, then, should? It still amazed Emma that so many people attempted to write books with so little encouragement and so little talent. She used to agonize over these, but now she’d just send out another terse letter.

      Emma had piles of other letters, papers, cover art, reader’s copies, and actual books all over the edges of the carpet and on the shelves of three walls. Why had she ever thought that editorial work would be elegant and romantic? She had to smile.

      Actually, Emma remembered why. When she was nine years old an important speaker had come to Larchmont Grammar. All of Emma’s third-grade class had assembled in the library and been addressed by An Author. She was a large woman with a huge head of gray hair, and she talked about Her Life As a Writer; what it was like to put together the mystery novels she was famous for. But for some reason, the nine-year-old Emma had not been taken by the idea of writing books, even though she loved to read. She merely listened politely, interested but not inspired. It was only when one of her classmates raised her hand and asked what happened to a manuscript after the writer was finished with it that Emma perked up. “Well,” the lady explained, “I send it in to my editor, a woman who sits in a big office in a tall skyscraper in New York City. She

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