Page 24

Chapter Twenty-Four

My cell rings at exactly 5 p.m.

I already know who it is: Marcus may be a 5 a.m. kind of person, but VV is an it’s-five-o’clock-somewhere type of person.

“I asked for three blue cheese olives!” VV is saying when I pick up. “Martini math is very simple, young man, three blue cheese–stuffed olives, drained and patted dry. Three ounces of quality vodka—four if you want to get lucky—one ounce of good vermouth and one teaspoon of olive brine. If you can’t do that, then a tumbler of Four Roses, straight up.”

“Where are you?” I ask. “It sounds like the subway.”

“I’m trying some new hipster bar frequented by all the young blood in publishing,” VV says. “I’m trying to stay current, but I feel like I’m in an episode of Euphoria . Everyone is wearing a napkin and drinking Red Bull. The bartender thinks I’m harassing him. What is wrong with your generation? You act like every joke is a nuclear insult on your entire being. You don’t think Seinfeld was funny. What are you going to do when you’re my age and you have no sense of humor to deal with every ache and pain and downpour of crap life has to throw at you?”

“We’ll google the answer,” I say.

“Ha! Anyhoo, I wanted to avoid Liber so I didn’t run into Marcus.”

“Why?” I ask. “What are you up to?”

“I found the ideal manuscript for your dastardly plan.”

“You did?”

“When you said Houdini the other day, I remembered a manuscript I received a couple of years ago from a magician’s assistant, and my assistant, Leo, dug it up,” VV says. “It’s about a magician who uses that old trick to make his assistant disappear onstage. You know the one. He says, ‘Abracadabra!’ or whatever magician’s say—you know, they freak me out, don’t you, along with clowns?—but I digress. She’s supposed to disappear through a trapdoor onstage, but his incantation brings back an evil spirit while the assistant goes back in time and pops up onstage with Harry Houdini and is witness to his mysterious death.”

“That actually sounds kind of good,” I say.

“Exactly!” VV yells. “I thought I’d discovered the next Stephen King when I read the first chapter. I called the author and asked for exclusivity and the rest of the manuscript.”

“And?”

“It was a nightmare,” VV says. “A cosmically, comically horrific nightmare of a book. The author has chapters that are supposed to be set in the 1920s but everyone is using cell phones and driving Teslas.”

“Was it supposed to be…?” I ask.

“No!” VV roars. “It was not supposed to be funny, ironic, dystopian, time traveling. It was just plain ol’ bad. I mean, there’s a chapter told from the point of view of the protagonist’s cat. It makes no sense at all. But if one were to just send a first chapter—say Marcus used that to tempt your parents—then I could see them going all in.”

“It sounds perfect. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Yes, you do,” VV says. “I’m about to read your manuscript, and I trust it’s going to be as good as you think. That will be your thank-you to me. That, of course, and a movie deal, so I can actually make some money off of you. If your manuscript is as good as you believe, I will be calling you again to celebrate with an even bigger martini. And, if it turns out to have a cat—or be anything like Cats —I will kill you before Marcus has a chance, I promise you that.”

I hear her take a sip of a drink. “This martini is horrible! Four Roses immediately. Emma, I have to go. A young editor from Hachette is making out with a not-so-young editor from Macmillan. One of them is married. Both of them have a manuscript I sent them. I need to go say hello just for fun. This place is suddenly taking a turn for the better! Leo should have already sent you the manuscript, and I’ll be in touch about yours.”

Before VV hangs up, I hear her say, “What’s your name? And please don’t tell me it’s Arlo or Beck, or some hipster monstrosity.”

* * *

“You did it,” Marcus says to me a few days later. “I’m impressed. The manuscript is believably brilliant in the beginning and ludicrously awful after that. We can tease the opening and when the galleys are finally sent, critics will kill it before it even has a chance. Then I can turn the final page on the Pages.”

I gulp hard. Guilt swallows me whole. This is all becoming very real.

“I’m glad you’re pleased, Mr. Flare. But I’m worried about embarrassing the author. I didn’t think it would go this far for some reason.”

“Oh, my God, Emma. I didn’t think you had remorse. Bury that emotion right now.” He inhales. “Leave it to me when it gets to that point. I’ll get the author to sign an NDA, pay them handsomely, tell them we’ll use a pen name on the galleys so no one will ever know and that I will consider their next novel as a thank-you for their willingness to play along. Any publicity is good publicity, right? You should know that by now.”

“I understand. And no remorse.”

“I think I do want to hire you, Emma. It will be the nail in the coffin for your family.”

“Well, I have turned down every other offer except for yours and my parents’,” I say.

“Good girl! Go ahead and take your parents’ offer,” he says. “You’ll be the only one I retain on payroll.”

“I will,” I say.

“You’re just like me, Emma, whether you like it or not.”

He hangs up, and I call Jess.

“You know it’s almost Shark Week on TV?” I ask. “The things you learn by watching TV at five in the morning.”

“I’m not following.”

“I’ve hooked the fish, Jess,” I say. “The shark is on the line. He quite literally bit on the manuscript I sent him. He told me to take the job with Mom and Dad. He said I’d be the only employee he retains.”

“It’s time,” Jess says. “Book your ticket to New York. We’ll celebrate your new job with Mom and Dad at the Hamptons house, and we’ll celebrate the manuscript discovery with Marcus at Le Pompeux. That just seems fitting, doesn’t it?”

“And then?”

“We have to get the shark on the boat without getting eaten alive.”