“What’s with the avatars?” I ask, as I enter Jayne’s office, which at least is gratifyingly wall-to-ceiling with my book covers. She grins.
“Don’t you just love them?” she says. “Marketing overordered, and we decided to keep them. We call them the Flat Williams. You’re our favorite two-dimensional character!”
She’s laughing as she drops into her desk chair,ha ha ha,until she sees I am not joining her but instead smiling thinly, standing with my hands clasped behind my back.
“Oh, come on,” she says. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost your sense of humor. I’ll send you home with some.” She beams up at me as the receptionist comes in with my coffee. “Now tell me the fabulous book idea.”
“Thank you, dear,” I say to the girl as she leaves. She’s spraddle-legged, which is too bad but also lends itself to some interesting possibilities.
Relenting, I sit and launch into my elevator pitch for the new novel, which I admit is unformed yet, but I know I can execute and polish. “So there you have it,” I finish. “Still under construction, but basically: historical fiction, dual timeline, revenge across the centuries. With a clowder thrown in for good measure. That’s the working title, by the way.The Clowder.”
Jayne has been listening with rapt attention the entire time I’ve been speaking, tugging on her earlobe. Now she asks: “What’s a clowder?”
“A group of cats,” I say. “In this case, an ironic nod to the thing men have always called women. A certain part of their anatomy, anyway. And a love letter to those women, my angry female readers. Like the ones in the pink knitted hats.”
Jayne stares at me a minute longer, then claps. “Bravo. Billy Corwyn plus histfic is every editor’s dream.”
“Plus cats,” I remind her.
“Plus cats. You’re going to reinvent the blockbuster.”
I bow my head modestly.
“Frankly, I’m relieved,” Jayne adds. “I know I can count on you to pull a rabbit out of the hat last minute, Billy, but this time you were cutting it close.”
“I just like to keep things interesting.”
“Well, cut it out. I’m too old for that.” She grins, her full-wattage white smile. “You writers are a major pain in the ass between books. Hangry vampires looking for a fix.You’ll do anything for a new idea.”We both laugh merrily,ha ha ha, as if what she said weren’t completely true.
We go over a few business details: the numbers onLambent Souls, extremely pleasing, no surprise there, I’ve earned my bonus and then some. It’ll be a merry Christmas! I promise to deliver a written synopsis forClowderby next week—“I’m not a hundred percent on the title,” Jayne admits, “I want to run it past marketing. I don’t want people to hear it asChowderand think it’s a cookbook. But conceptually? Grand slam home run.” 500K print run to start. Pub date this time next year. I’ll lead the catalog as always. Of course I’ll continue to work with my current publicity team, all the senior publicists and book reps. This is all satisfactory. “Good Jayne,” I say when we’re done. “The best Jayne. Now, the really important question: When’s your next vacation so I can take you fishing?”
“Let’s talk about it after the holidays,” she says. She glances at her watch. “Crap, I forgot to order. What are you hungry for?”
“I’m good,” I say, to Jayne’s surprise. “Go go go.”
“Are you sure?”
“Get out of here. Go charm foreign publishers.”
As we stand, I say, “Is Patricia in?” I mean Patricia Miller, Simone’s editor, and I know very well she’s in because I follow her on social media. Like Jayne, Patricia will be in house until late tonight, putting out every fire she can before setting her away message and jetting across the pond to Frankfurt.
“She should be back from lunch,” Jayne says.
“Great, then I’ll just say hi on my way out,” I say.
Patricia’s office is literally next to Jayne’s, and the door is partially open. I rap on it with a knuckle. “Knock knock,” I say. “Guess who’s here.”
Patricia is at her computer with glasses on and frowning as she looks up, the screen mirrored in her lenses, but she takes them off as she stands to greet me. She’s as elegant as Jayne is messy, an Erté lithograph come to life. Smooth black bob, ever-red lipstick, Chanel No. 5.Tressoigné. This office is where all the posters of Simone’s book covers live, and I avoid looking at them, instead bending to hug Simone’s diminutive editor. Air kiss, air kiss.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” Patricia says in her husky voice.
“You look edible, as always,” I tell her. “Adorable! Editorable!”
“Same old Billy,” she says. “What are you doing here? I thought you were on the road.”
“Just finished. And came in to bend Jayne’s ear about my latest idea.”
“Which isen fuego,” Jayne says from the doorway.
