Lynn Hulsman - Summer at Castle Stone

“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.