Lynn Hulsman - Summer at Castle Stone

“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.