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I grabbed a tote bag that advertised one of the books we’d published, Microwave Meals for Fast Family Suppers, and stuffed in all of the supplies I’d need for the Book Expo. “You should look into tissues, Brooklynite Poser. What man under the age of 75 uses handkerchiefs. Who are you, my grandfather?”
“Who are you, Woody Allen? You are so neurotic. And not in an entertaining way. You really should see someone about going on Paxil or Lexapro. Or at the very least some Xanax. Here, let me give you an Ativan.”
“No! I don’t need medication.” I threw duct tape into my bag for the Javits Center, along with a stapler, some breath mints, and some sticky notes.
“Agree to disagree,” he said, sweeping the last half of my breakfast into the trash can. “At the very least, you need to get laid.”
“What I need is for you to take your Ativan, your non-prescription vanity glasses, and your stupid Confederate soldier beard away from my desk.”
“Fine, but don’t come crying to me the next time you need someone to run down to FedEx or get Lizbeth a table for lunch somewhere that matters.” He half-hopped down off my desk and headed toward his end of the giant room of cubicles.
“Wait!” I hated myself for what I was about to ask. “What suit?”
“Oh, you’ll see,” he said, still walking. “And when you do,” he called over his shoulder, “you’d better not ask me for an Ativan, because the answer’s no.”
Huffing from the run over, I pushed through the glass doors of Global-Lion Literary’s inner office without stopping at reception.
“Hey,” I heard from the girl at the desk, as I took in the view of my agent’s tweed-covered back from across the room. Squaring my shoulders, I strode purposefully toward her, determined to leave with what I came for.
“Brenda!” I shouted. “Thanks for fitting me in. I wanted to ask you about…”
“Tsst!” my agent hissed, pointing her coral-colored talon at my chest. Then she brought it to her lips, shushing me with a scowl.
I recovered from my tunnel vision to notice Ray Diablo sitting in the wing chair next to her desk. He was wearing one of his trademark bowling shirts, this one embroidered with bright-orange flames. I don’t know how I could have missed him.
“Naw, it’s OK Brenda,” Ray said, standing up. “I’m on my way out. You can take your next meeting.” He gave me a smooth smile. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“I’m Shayla Sheridan,” I said. “I’m a big fan of your cookbooks,” I lied, shaking his hand. “I heard you lost your co-writer,” I blurted. I hoped I’d phrased that with diplomacy. Everyone in the Puck Building had heard he “lost” his co-writer the night he fired her in a screaming fit at his book party. “I just co-wrote Smoothie Skinny for Tilly Auslander, and I’ve written several Dumbass Guides…”
“Ray, she’s early,” Brenda cut me off, and shot me a warning look. “Sit.”
“I have a lunch with the people from Channel E.A.T. I’d better head out anyway,” he said, still holding onto my hand. “Do you have a card or something?”
“No, she doesn’t,” Brenda said. “If you need her, I know where to find her.”
“All right then,” he chuckled. He took a card out of the back pocket of his jeans and handed it to me. “Here’s where you can find me. You know, if you need me.” He looked me straight in the eyes, and paused there for a second. “Later, Brenda,” he said, and walked out the glass doors. The phone on the desk rang.
“Brenda Sackler,” she proclaimed. She waved me toward the empty rolling chair at the desk beside hers. No wing chair for me. Obediently, I sat down.
I was pumped with adrenaline from making speeches in my head to plead my case, and my interaction with Ray had only thrown fuel on the fire. I could feel the fight rising up in me. Keep a cool head, I thought to myself. Don’t do anything rash. Act like a grown-up, and this will be your time.
I knew I had a winner of a concept, I just knew it. But we needed to strike while the iron was hot, and I was so sick of waiting for my turn to be noticed. Right now, the phrase “New Adult” was being splashed around the pages of the New York Times like vinegar and oil over ladies’ lunches. Every book aimed at females aged 13 to 30 was being billed as the next New Adult hit. The funny thing was, no one even knew what New Adult was yet. If I got in the door now, I’d be one of the definers.
I’d get booked on public radio shows to expound on what the phrase New Adult meant in publishing, maybe sit on panels with that bookish darling of Tin House Magazine, the Hotchkiss dropout who wrote that thousand-page novel. Maybe I’d wind up hosting a show on MTV called New Adult featuring all the former child stars who now did art films in order to be taken seriously. The time was mine to become a writer whose name people knew. My name, not my father’s.
What I banked on was this: I had a million-dollar idea. A true “high concept.” No one had yet thought to leverage the concept for non-fiction, and I was the perfect candidate to capitalize on the trend, even though I knew deep in my gut that I was neither cutting edge nor particularly adult in my dealings. But I could write. And I could research.
Not to mention I grew up in New York City, Mecca for all proper New Adults. It’s no accident the Manhattan Girls series of novels starring 18- to 22-year-olds takes place here. I went to high school here, I went to Sarah Lawrence, and I interned here. I was tossed head first into the selection-or-cut interview process with my first private preschool on the Upper East Side when I was four. The fact that I didn’t always mesh with my cohort was beside the point. I had a pedigree.
Brenda was silent with the phone smashed to her ear, tapping a pencil against a cup of the blackest, thickest coffee seen this side of hell. I scanned her desk for my proposal.
It was freezing in the climate-controlled skyscraper. Yeah, so it was close to the end of March, but when it’s still spitting snow, people need the heat on. The chair leather froze my legs through my thin tights. Stupid work dress. Temporarily distracted by the cold, I eyeballed the cozy-looking deep-red pashmina draped on the coat rack next to Brenda’s desk. That’s precisely the kind of thing a stylish, professional New York woman keeps on hand. Luxe, upscale, useful. One could drape it around one’s shoulders during a business meeting and still look modern. Or, when called to a sudden business dinner at a fancy restaurant, one could pair it with a matching MAC lipstick, and seamlessly take one’s outfit from day to evening. I wanted that pashmina more than any physical object I’d ever laid eyes on.
Why was I never prepared? You know those girls who have band-aids, a sewing kit, a compact umbrella, and a light cardigan sweater tucked into their chic shoulder bags? I’m not one of them. I’d left the office for this meeting carrying a brown suede Le Sac purse from my last year of high school, containing exactly my phone and my wallet (no hairbrush), and a plastic grocery sack in which I carried an overdue library book and a pair of shoes that needed heel taps. I’d grabbed the sack without thinking and now I was stuck with it.
“No,” Brenda said. “No, no way.” She opened a file on her desk and scrolled through the pages like she was in a race. “No!”
I tried to catch her eye to let her know I’d be right back. There was a Starbucks in the swanky marble lobby downstairs, and I figured if I just popped down to grab a giant extra-hot latte, I might survive. Plus, I knew I’d need the caffeine jolt if I was going to make it through an afternoon at Book Expo America. I could feel Brenda not looking at me. Like a waiter with too many tables, she had thrown up an invisible wall to deflect my raised eyebrows and head jerks.
“No!” she barked at some poor schmoh on the other end of the line.
Resigned, I told myself it couldn’t be longer than a few more minutes. I’d use the time to psych myself up.
I mean, she had to love my idea, right? I’d researched like a maniac, edited and re-edited it. I even paid that grad student ten bucks an hour, which I cannot afford, to proofread it. How could Brenda not shop it around to every editor in town?
I could just picture it. There would be a bidding war, I’d get a huge advance, and finally finally I’d have my name on the cover of a book. That would show Hank I was a real writer. And Jordan Silver. And that snivelly little Matty from my office.
I glanced at the clock on the wall. If she didn’t get off the phone soon, there’d be no time for Starbucks. Panting with nerves, I grabbed a rubber-band ball and rolled it around Monica’s desk. Monica Bigelow is Brenda’s partner, and like Brenda, she represents the books of a stable of well-known chefs including that sexy vegan woman with the dreads and the guy who all but invented gastro-science.
“What part of ‘Monica’s not reachable in Nepal’ don’t you understand? I’m the decider.” Brenda snapped. “It’s her daughter’s wedding, and she hasn’t taken a day off in five years. I told you I’m handling her contracts until she’s back, and I say no. We’re not using that drunk hack to write Tom O’Grady’s book. Tom’s a goddamn celebrity chef! He and his fiancé were Europe’s Kathy Lee and Regis.” She paused. “Whatever, Europe’s Beyoncé and Jay-Z then. It doesn’t matter, they were goddamn household names!” She listened for a second or two. “I know the show’s not on the air anymore. I know London’s not New York. I don’t care, “Health and Happiness Matters” was big news as a lifestyle show. People won’t forget it any time soon. Rumor has it that it’s going back on the air, and there’s talk of it coming to America. The point is, Tom agreed to a cookbook deal based on having first refusal on the writer, and your washed-up lush couldn’t meet a deadline if it shook his hand and asked him to dance!”
The sticky ball I was rolling around caught on the corner of a manila file folder. TOM O’GRADY, the tab said. I glanced at Brenda before easing it open. It held magazine clips, menus, press photos, and a bio sheet. ‘Personal and Confidential,’ the top of the sheet read.
Brenda swung her chair around toward me. I snapped the folder shut.
“Well, my 1 o’clock is sitting here, so this conversation is over,” she said into the phone. Finally, I thought, it’s my turn. I flashed her my most grateful smile. “What’s my final answer?” she asked, incredulous, holding the receiver about a foot from her face, and glaring at it. “No!” She stabbed a button on the phone and threw it onto her desk.
“So Brenda,” I began.
“I’m going to pee,” she said, standing up. “Hang tight.”
I watched her stride through the glass door into the outer office where the interns sat. An idea lit up my brain, and it was like seeing God. I could be the one to write Tom O’Grady’s book! Before I could think, I slid the folder into my grocery bag. I noticed the outline of it through the plastic, I realized. I needed to mask it. In one quick motion, I grabbed the pashmina off Brenda’s rack and shoved it in on top of the folder, tucking it around the corners.
Oh, man, I thought, prickling under my arms despite the arctic temperature. I’m going to get arrested, and then I’ll never make it back in time to catch the van to the Javits Center. The time! I sneaked a look at my phone for the time. 1:10. I turned off my ringer in case snotty little Matty tried to track me down. I had to get this show on the road. Luck was on my side. Brenda was barreling towards her seat. She must pee as fast as she talks. I pushed my grocery bag under my chair with my foot.
Landing heavily in her chair, Brenda shook her head at me. “I read your proposal about the New Adult guide…”
“Did you?” I asked. “Did you read it?”
She ignored me. “My final answer is no.” She turned back to her computer, turning sideways to me.
My heart sunk. “Why not?” I tried not to whine. “It’s smart, it’s on-trend, and you cannot say my sample chapter isn’t well written.”
She sighed a curt sigh. “If I start sending it around to editors, the first thing they’ll ask is what kind of traffic you have on your blog…”
“I can start a blog!”
“Even so, Shayla, these kinds of books get their sales through promo junkets and press tours.” She continued to scroll through her email. “I’m not saying the idea isn’t good, but look at you. You’re not right to be the face of it. Do you really see yourself on camera, charming the pants off Matt Lauer on a morning show at 6 a.m.?”
“It’s MY idea. I have written a good chunk of this particular book.”
“What I’m saying is, I can’t see you as a guest on some pre-Oscars show giving fashion and dating advice on the red carpet. Look at the state of you. You’re about as polished as a grad student from Bennington College. You write well, but why would anyone follow your advice if they don’t dream of being you? It’s aspirational. If you really want to do this, get a makeover, spend a year clubbing and getting your picture in the Post, try to go out with someone with name recognition, and maybe publish sexy, edgy articles like, I don’t know, like the ones in The Frisky.”
“That’s bullshit! It’s about the book. It’s a great idea and great writing.”
“I have a better idea, but you’re not going to like it,” Brenda said.
I braced myself. “Go on.”
“Why don’t we give this book to some hot celeb’s daughter? Like an au courant reality TV star or actress from an acting dynasty family? Or a poor little rich girl who grew up in high society, who needs to ditch the dog in her purse and prove to the world that she has substance?”
“How does that help me?”
“You would write it!”
“I don’t want to co-write my own book.”
“Not co-write, ghost-write. It would never work with your name on the cover.”
“No, it’s my idea, it’s my book, and it’s going to get my career started. It has to.”
“Well, I can’t represent it. Editors will want to know why they haven’t heard your name.”
“They haven’t heard my name because I don’t have a book out yet! That’s what a debut author is…new.”
“It’s a chicken-egg thing. Maybe in a year, if you build up a following.
I knew talking to Brenda about my book was hopeless. I had five minutes before I had to tear out of here and get back to meet the work van. I girded my loins, ready to make a bold proposition. “All right, then, let me co-write Ray’s next cookbook.”
“You know I can’t let you write for Ray Diablo. He’s big, big money and you don’t have a track record.” She stopped tying for a second and looked at me. “Do not call him behind my back.”
“I wouldn’t!” I said, sure that my face read as guilty. This whole meeting had been a disaster. I was about to leave with less than I’d come with. How could I possibly tell Maggie that Brenda suggested I ghost-write my own book? I had one more card to play before I folded.
“If you can’t let me write Ray’s book, let me write Tom O’Grady’s.”
She turned her chair to face me. “How do you know Tom O’Grady?”
“I’ve been a big fan of his since that show, uh, “Happiness…and To Your Health.” I trained my eye on Brenda to see if she was buying this. “Watched it all the time during my vaca…um, summer abroad in London. Besides, I love his recipes for like, Beef Wellington,” I said, naming the first dish that popped into my head, “and Turkey Tetrazzini,” I fumbled along, wondering if I’d gotten the name of that dish right.
She sat very still for a moment, wheels turning, then sighed. “He wants to break the contract and not do the book. He feels he lost control of the last book deal. The writer and editor didn’t know how to handle him. They let him think he was in charge.” Brenda hacked twice then. I think she was laughing. “Anyway, I pushed everyone on this new deal and it’s hanging by a thread. We’re already balls-deep in pre-production. The pitbull of an editor over at Parson Turner Publishing is counting on this book for her upscale, gourmet list. Tom O’Grady just needs to see it’s in his best interest to let the book people do our job and spin this into a package. He’s a chef, not an author. And what should he care, if it’s lining his pockets?”
“Maybe he wants to make sure his stamp is on it.” My mind whirred, trying to take in the whole story from every angle.
“It’s going to take more than Turkey Tetrazzini to please that bitch-on-wheels editor. The cover-brief buzzwords are ‘upscale,’ ‘nouveau,’ and ‘deconstructed.’ They’ve hired a photographer with a huge price tag, put it on the calendar, everything. I’m not going to look good if he drops out.”
“So, let me write it!”
“He’s been very difficult. After the book he hated pubbed, and some other stuff happened in London, the scuttlebutt is that he mistrusts slick, big-city types.”
“You just finished telling me I’m the opposite of a slick, big-city type.”
“You’re from New York. That’s a black mark. He didn’t get along with the last two writers we put forward to save this project. He wasn’t getting them recipes, he wasn’t keeping Skype appointments…”
I checked the wall clock. If I left in one minute, there might be a chance I’d make the van. “If I can get him on board, do I get my name on the cover as co-writer?”
She sighed. “Don’t get too excited. Even if you write the book, it has to be approved by Parson Turner. We don’t know how it’ll fly in the States; it’s mostly for the UK and Irish market.”
I knew a delicate moment had arrived. I smelled that she was going to say yes, if I just didn’t blow it. “But if I can get this written, you’ll give me cover credit?” I took a breath and pressed on. “And a 50/50 deal on advances and royalties?”
She looked resigned. “I can only try, but I think this one may be dead in the water.”
Yes!
“And if I deliver this book, and the editor loves it, which I know she will, will you consider giving me a crack at Ray Diablo’s next one?”
“Shayla, Ray Diablo is big potatoes…”
“I said ‘consider.’”
“Sure,” she said, with an eye roll. “I’ll consider it.” Time was ticking. I really had to get back to the office.
“So, about How to Be an Adult…”
“Don’t push it,” she cut me off. “Your dad’s cute but not that cute.”
I jumped to my feet, realizing it was better to quit while I was ahead. “Thank you so much for this chance, Brenda.”
“Tom still has to agree.”
“I’ll hunt him down and pin him to the ground if I have to.” I smiled, sharing the joke.
She didn’t smile back. “Just get it done.” She swiveled her chair back to face her screen. I waited for a beat, but apparently the meeting was over. I gathered my purse and bag, and hurried out, not bothering to say goodbye.
Rounding the last corner to the HPC building, I surveyed the street for the van as I ran. None. I didn’t dare slow down to pull out my phone and check the time, instead I hurtled my body through the revolving door and into the lobby. Flashing my ID badge at the desk, I pushed through the turnstile and yelled, “Hold it!” at the bank of elevators. Safely inside, I pressed my back to the wall, shut my eyes, and tried to breathe.
I hustled to my desk, looking around to make sure Matty or any other gossipy assistants weren’t hovering around. God, I hated it here. I’d been spanked for working on outside projects before. If I made this call to Ireland quickly and discreetly, I could have this deal sealed before I left for BEA. I didn’t need international calls on my phone bill. Money was tight enough as it was.
I pulled out my stolen folder. All I knew about Tom O’Grady’s was what I’d just overheard in Brenda’s office. I had my work cut out for me, I figured, to craft a best-selling cookbook featuring nothing but a bunch of beef stew and boiled potato recipes. And if he was the other side of the pond’s answer to Regis Philbin, the elfin, 80-year-old talk-show host, the food was going to have to be the focus.
I looked at the time on the desk phone. 2:05pm. All that rush was for nothing. I should have figured they’d be late. I could just see my boss’s back end through the crack in her open door. She was rooting around in a box of books on the floor. As soon as I made this call, I’d check in and let her know I was back from lunch. I’d offer to call the van service to see if they were en route.
Opening my folder, I saw a fact sheet on Tom O’Grady, clearly prepared by a publicist. Born in County Wexford, Ireland, attended hospitality school with an emphasis on culinary arts, then did a course at Ballymaloe Cookery School when he was only 17. A stint as a sous chef at La Gavroche in London, worked a year under Alice Waters in San Francisco. Impressive. Back to London, where he had his own place for a while in Soho, called Wild. Currently head chef at Grange Hall, the Michelin-rated restaurant on the grounds of Castle Stone, situated in the same village where he was born.
I punched in the number of the restaurant. I’d leave my name and number, then the ball would be in his court. I flipped through the folder as I listened to the tinny connection and the unfamiliar abrupt buzzing rings.
Date of birth…whoa, wait. He’s only 33? I shuffled the papers, looking for more facts.
“The Grange Hall. Can I help?”
