Steven Rowley - The Editor

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The Editor: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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‘Delicately observed’Sunday Times‘Laugh-out-loud funny and searingly poignant’ Taylor Jenkins Reid, author of Daisy Jones and the SixOne of PopSugar’s ‘Buzzy Books to Read This Spring’‘A sweet and charming novel, perfect for fans of Jackie O and Rowley's first novel, Lily and the Octopus, alike’ PopSugar_____________________________________________________________After years of struggling as a writer in 1990s New York City, James Smale finally gets his big break when his novel sells to an editor at a major publishing house:none other than Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. Jackie, or Mrs. Onassis as she's known in the office, loves James's candidly autobiographical novel, about his own dysfunctional family.As Jackie and James develop an unexpected friendship, she pushes him to write an authentic ending, encouraging him to confront the truth about his relationship with his mother. But when a long-held family secret is revealed, he realises his editor may have had a larger plan that goes beyond the page… ____________________________________________________________Find out why readers have fallen in love with The Editor:‘What an excellent read this is! Beautifully written, with a sad yet poignantly beautiful ending’ Gillian F‘I devoured in just a couple of sittings, only breaking for sleep and work!’ Kath B‘I loved it – I couldn't wait to find out what happened next’ Katrina P‘What a clever, gorgeously written story!’ Kate H‘With a delightfully quirky storyline, great characterisation, wonderful wry humour and warmth, this book is an intriguing, thoughtful read. I loved it!’ Joy L‘A beautiful book, full of characters to appreciate and care for’ Lucy W‘I absolutely loved this novel – funny, moving, interesting and always entertaining!’ Yvonne C‘Made me laugh, made me think and then ultimately made me cry!’ Net A‘I laughed so much throughout this book; it’s beautiful and heartwarming’ Michelle H‘Bittersweet and charming!’ Siobhan D

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The room was warm, too warm, Russell thought, to share with a dead body, but no one seemed concerned. Guests wore their coats cinched tight at the waists, as if taking them off would obligate them to stay. In the back of the room a giant silver percolator was brewing coffee, and there was another kettle for tea. His mother, having had three cups black, did laps around the room like the women who exercised inside the Pyramid Shopping Center—mall milers, they called them—somehow connecting with anyone in her path and simultaneously avoiding everyone.

“Look at her,” Russell said, watching his mother’s path from his vantage point by the casket. “When this is over I swear I’m going to lock her in a room.”

“Who?” Sean tried to follow his brother’s moving gaze.

“Mom.”

“Mom? Why?”

“Why?” Wasn’t it obvious? She’s all they had left. He tugged at his tie. “Is it warm in here?”

“Very.”

Russell ran his hand across the closed casket; his father had it worst of all, stuffed inside in the suit he hated and wore only to church. Or maybe he had it best. If only Russell could give his father some air. “She has to answer some things.”

Sean offered his hand to the Speighs as they approached and gave him and his brother, the sons of Dick Mulligan, a solemn nod. “Thank you for coming.”

“Dick was a good man,” Mr. Speigh said, his nose twice the size it once was, not from the lie but from age. “It’s a shame what he d—”

“… what happened ,” Mrs. Speigh corrected, tugging at her husband’s arm. No one wanted to say it out loud.

“Your father had some of my tools …”

“Of course,” Sean said. Eventually they would clean out the garage.

“Another time, Arthur.” Fed up, Mrs. Speigh gave her husband a full yank, pulling him toward the door.

Sean waited until their old neighbors were out of earshot. “What things? What does Mom have to answer?”

“Questions! She has to answer questions. Without circling the room, without walking away. Face-to-face. It’s time.”

“Now? You think now is the time. In the wake of …”

In the wake of, well, this wake.

“YES.”

“And how will she answer them, these questions, locked in a room.”

Russell stared at his brother, his eyes red, cried out, but overrun with inspiration. “I’m going to lock myself in with her.”

And that’s when the idea for The Quarantine took hold. As his mother, on her umpteenth lap, passed the table with the cups and the saucers and decided they needed restacking. As Sean removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves like a politician hitting the campaign trail. As his sister, Fiona, held everyone’s hand and listened as the same drab stories were told again and again and again. As his own head throbbed with torment and heartbreak. A quarantine. Russell wouldn’t go home, back to California. He would stay in Ithaca, secured inside a room with his mother until there were no more secrets, until they knew each other as well as two people could. As two people with the same blood should. It was the only way he could make sense of the gunshot that took half his father’s face.

It needed to shatter everything.

Dreams Dreams: February 1992 Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Go Your Own Way: July 1992 Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Yesterday’s Gone, Yesterday’s Gone: November 1992 Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Everything Turned Around: December 1992/1993 Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three What Tomorrow Will Do: May 1994 Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Acknowledgments About the Author Also by Steven Rowley About the Publisher

картинка 3 ONE Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Go Your Own Way: July 1992 Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Yesterday’s Gone, Yesterday’s Gone: November 1992 Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Everything Turned Around: December 1992/1993 Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three What Tomorrow Will Do: May 1994 Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Acknowledgments About the Author Also by Steven Rowley About the Publisher картинка 4

She moves quickly and with purpose, threading the tight corridor between a hedge maze of cubicles and the string of office doors. Her stride is serious; I have a thousand questions, but the snap to her step suggests I should select only one. Maybe two. Nope, one . I try to take everything in, to remember the details—I’m going to want to recount them later, to relive this in my head—but we’re moving so fast. I see paper. Lots of paper. And push-pins, I think, colorful ones, tacked directly into the cubicle walls, holding calendars, schedules, memos, and important lists (more paper!) in place. Marketing standees announce titles as Coming Soon , and a parade of book covers framed like art hang evenly spaced on the walls between door-frames, following me down the hall as if I’m viewing them through a zoetrope.

“I’m sorry, where are we going?” Just like that, my one question wasted. And I hate that I apologize. I have been invited here and I need to act like I belong before they figure out that I’m the wrong guy. An imposter. A dupe.

Without looking back, she says, “Conference room. End of the hall.” Then, with barely a pause, “Would you like some water, James?” The sound of my name startles me. Hers is Lila. She told me, by the bank of elevators, where we were introduced. My agent’s assistant told me it was Lisa, but that’s typical Donna. Thank goodness Lila introduced herself before I had a chance to call her by the wrong name. That would have really started things out on the wrong foot. Lila has blond hair, but not so blond that you can’t take her seriously. I really like her shoes.

“No. No water, thank you.” I can’t imagine walking this fast with a glass of water and not sloshing it everywhere, on my sleeve, or—heaven forbid—down the front of my pants. “I’m sorry I was late.” Another apology, but this one is warranted.

“You were five minutes early.”

Was I? “I’m usually ten minutes early, so in that sense I was late.”

Lila ushers me inside the last room at the end of the hall. “Here we are. Conference room.” She stares at me, and for the first time I notice her clothes are impeccably tailored. She’s serious for a beige girl. That’s what I’ve heard people call a lot of young women in publishing. I’m not fond of the term; it reeks of an unnecessary sexism. They’re called that, beige girls, because they wear understated monotones and sweaters to match. But this girl ( woman! ) is a different animal. Power beige. Like a café-au-lait color, or camel or ecru.

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