She didn’t take offense.He was too good a friend, and besides, the excitement in his voice was what she had come for.“Those crap magazine pieces have been my bread and butter for the past few years, since nothing I’ve written for you has set the world on fire yet.But this could do it.”She took a breath.“I only have the first few chapters, and they’re in pretty raw form, but they’re yours to see.”
Arlan snatched up his pencil and jabbed it toward the chair.“And close the door.No one hears this but me.”
Hillary closed the door and, in a cloud of composure, took a seat.“In March, there was a20/20piece on John St.George.Did you catch it?”
Arlan shook his head.
“It was interesting,” she told him.“Highly favorable.Glowing, actually.It portrayed John as a pillar of the community, a philanthropist, an entrepreneurial genius.”
Arlan rolled the pencil back and forth.“From what Ihear, the genius part might fit.His stores are hot.How many are there now?”
“Five.The newest are in L.A.and London.”
“Some pretty heavy names buy his stuff.”
“Heavy names have heavy money, and what better way to spend it than on jewels?They’re the ultimate luxury.Not that John buys jewels with the money he makes.He buys plaques on the sides of buildings, recognition for his name, and goodwill.He buys favors.”
“Sounds political.Next thing you know, he’ll be running for office.”
Hillary went very still.“Not if I have any say in it.I know him, Arlan.I know the man; I know his family.I know his fears and his obsessions, and I know of things he’s done over the years that would put that20/20piece to shame.There’s a whole other side to John that no one knows, a whole other story.You want a hot book, that’s it.And I can write it.”
Arlan sat just as still as she for a minute.Then, in a flurry of movement, he opened a drawer, took a handful of something, and palmed it into his mouth.“Sunflower seeds,” he mumbled, brushing several from his shirt.As an afterthought, he raised his brows and lifted the bag from the drawer.
She shook her head.
He helped himself to a few more, then closed the drawer.“You’ve been personally involved with the man.”
“Some of the best things are done by writers who are personally involved.The bestseller lists are loaded with books by a son or a daughter or a spouse, ex-spouse, or mistress.”
“That makes for pretty strong biases.”
“And pretty strong reading.For years you’ve been telling me that my work lacks fire.This won’t.Believe me.”
Arlan hesitated.He was rolling the pencil again.“I believe you.But this smells commercial.Your other work has been intellectual.”
She tossed a glance at the ceiling.“So you say.”
“The critics said it too.”
“And what good did it do me?How many copies did we sell?”
“It takes time to build a reputation.Those books were a beginning.They were intellectually exciting.”
"This one will be, too.”She leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the arms of the chair.“Don’t you see?That’s my skill—to pull deeper meaning out of something seemingly shallow.That was what my biography of Dorothea DeBlois was all about.Her name meant nothing.She was a newspaper colunmist whose work had been buried.But she wrote things before 1910 that are right on the mark today.And there were good reasons why she saw things the way she did, reasons that had to do with the times and her family and where she lived.That was what I was able to bring out in the book.That was where the excitement came from.”
Recomposing herself, she looked Arlan in the eye.“I can make the same kind of excitement with this one.The book will sell because of who it’s about.The20/20segment is proof of that.John is a marketable commodity now, only I have a unique angle.I can offer insight into the man and his mind.I can analyze him in ways that no therapist could because John would never open up toa therapist.But he’s opened to me.I’m the one to do it, Arlan.”
He was interested.She could see it in his eyes.Still he held back.“How long have you known John St.George?”
“The first time I set eyes on him, I was twelve.The first time I talked with him, I was fifteen.I was seventeen when we became friends.I’m forty-four now.You figure it out.”
Arlan arched a brow.“Friends all that time?”
“Enemies on occasion.All friends are.”
“And lovers?”
“I didn’t say we were lovers.”
