Page 9

Chapter Nine

This ain’t no pizza joint.

Liber is as wondrous, mysterious and powerful as my dinner companion.

“Right this way, ma’am.”

An impeccably dressed front-of-house staffer escorts me to a table in the dimly lit, historic restaurant whose name means “Book” in Latin. It’s the place where every literary star of note eats, where agents take authors to celebrate a new deal. Publishers wine and dine novelists whose books just hit the New York Times bestseller list. Industry insiders gather to share the latest dirt over forty-dollar martinis and old-school wedge salads.

I take a seat at the table, which is covered with a white tablecloth. A candle flickers in the center. Delicate china gleams.

A tuxedoed ma?tre d’ appears from the shadows to retrieve the napkin off the table and place it gently across my lap just as another server materializes to fill my water glass.

The ma?tre d’ clasps his hands behind his back and says, “Your server will be with you immediately. But may I let him know if you’d care for a drink to start?”

He gestures to the wine list on the table.

“Yes, thank you,” I start. “I mean, no, I can’t. I’ll wait for my guest.”

The ma?tre d’ bends at the waist and whispers into the cool, hushed air, “Ms. Vandeventer will most certainly have a drink.” He pauses. “Or two.”

He stands and gives me the slightest hint of a smile.

“I think I should wait,” I say. “Proper etiquette. I’d hate to be dismissed before I’m even interviewed. I mean, you can’t show up drunk to an interview, can you?”

“With Ms. Vandeventer? Yes!” He winks. “Good luck, ma’am.”

“Thank you.”

He is gone like a whisper.

I fidget with my napkin and nervously sip my water. I’ve grown up in atmospheres like this and yet have never felt entirely comfortable in them. Everyone has such an air of confidence. They believe that they belong here. I always felt a bit like the rescue puppy who got tossed in with a bunch of purebred dogs.

In prep school, I was not as popular as the pretty girls. I was newspaper editor, the girl the other girls begged to let them make over, the girl in every teenage romance movie who simply needed to take off her glasses and let her hair down and then— boom! —she was every guy’s fantasy.

In college, I was not that girl—the stereotypical one who was rushed by every sorority on campus—despite my mother’s urging to do so. She pulled strings to get me invited to the best parties, even accompanying me and wearing the appropriate sorority letters—but after she left, I didn’t rush any of them.

“Fine, don’t have the quintessential college experience,” she told me, the same words she said about my time at prep school. “Be an independent .”

She said the word as though she were tasting bad milk. An independent. Alone in the world. I know she simply wanted me to have the experience she wanted and never had, but she could never say that to me.

And now?

She wraps herself in the cloak of independence—I mean, isn’t that what she is? The leader of an indie publisher that claims to think and do things differently—or is that merely a front? Has my mom always just wanted to sport sorority letters?

I feel a tap on my shoulder.

“Ms. Vandeventer?”

I turn and begin to stand.

“Jess? What are you doing here?”

It’s my sister standing behind my chair.

“I have a meeting,” she says. “I take it you kept your meeting with that monster VV?”

“You want to talk about monsters?” I ask. “I’m not the one who left Michigan without saying goodbye. Your departure was more shocking than Brexit.”

She ignores me and looks around the restaurant. “Welcome to Liber,” she says. “This is sort of my second home.”

I try not to roll my eyes. I want to be a bigger, better person. I’m just not there yet. When they return to their rightful place, I notice Marcus Flare sitting in a booth across the restaurant.

“You’re not…?” I start. “And I’m the one meeting with a monster?”

“He needs to stay on top,” Jess says. “I’m willing to help.”

“Have some dignity, Jess. He’s gross. He’s like Godzilla but with more bluster.”

“He’s misunderstood.”

“Climate change is misunderstood,” I say. “Marcus Flare is not misunderstood.”

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Jess says, changing the subject. She looks me up and down. “You actually look nice.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say. “You sound like Mom.”

“No ponytail. Nice makeup.” She eyes me up and down. “Speaking of Mom, did she dress you?”

I nod. Jess laughs.

“She’s good,” Jess continues. “You should keep this going. It’s nice to see you looking and acting so professionally.” She stops. “At least to everyone but me.”

“Ah, women supporting women, as Babe said. Just look pretty, ladies! That will get you the job instead of your talent.”

“God, you’re so sensitive . I was just trying to compliment you. And it’s true. It may be a double standard, but it’s a standard for a reason.” Jess looks around the dark restaurant. “I’d wish you good luck, but I don’t want you working in a coven with that witch.”

“And I’d wish you luck, too, but I don’t want you working with publishing’s version of Harvey Weinstein.”

“You’re making all of that up in your head,” Jess says. “He’s never been called out publicly.”

“No, he’s never been caught because he has all the power and money.” I glance over at him. He waves sweetly. “And something is going on between Mom and Dad and that troll. I don’t trust him, Jess. And you know I have good instincts.”

“You have a vendetta, Emma. Let it go. Business is business. I mean, you’re the one dining with a snake.”

“Better than dining with a snake pretending to be a dove,” I say. “I prefer people who are as they appear.”

Jess glances around the restaurant nervously. “Well, I better go before…”

“ I arrive?”

Vivian Vandeventer—legendary head of her eponymous literary agency, VV Lit—appears out of nowhere. Her look has never changed over the years. She is Katharine Hepburn come to life as a lit agent, wearing her trademark black pantsuit, Valentino belt wrapped around her shockingly tiny waist—a gold V buckle letting you know who she is lest you ever forget—plus a diamond ring the size of Saturn that she received as a gift from Liza Minnelli for taking her on as a client and making her memoir a monstrous bestseller.

And, speaking of planets, her hair is flame red. In dimly lit Liber, VV’s head resembles Mars. She is wearing Iris Apfel frames that engulf her face, and a kooky collection of necklaces that makes you wonder if it’s her age that is making her bend slightly at the waist or the sheer weight of her jewelry.

“Vivian,” Jess says, voice chilly. “I’m shocked I didn’t hear you coming.”

She leans out to air-kiss her.

“Still kissing oxygen, are we?” VV says. She grabs Jess by the shoulders and plants a kiss on her cheek.

Jess’s eyes grow into saucers, and she starts to wipe her cheek but stops.

“What can I say?” VV says. “I’m like cilantro. Some people love me, some people hate me.” VV looks at me. “Your sister and parents have never had a taste for me.”

Jess places her hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t get in bed with the devil, Emma.”

“Ditto,” I say.

Jess looks at VV. “Vivian.”

She turns and struts across the restaurant like a lioness on the prowl who happens to be wearing an impossibly high heel. When she’s seated, VV blows a kiss to her and Marcus Flare.

“Well, that had all the warm fuzziness of a slow dance with Dracula,” she says. VV glances over at my sister’s table again. “I bet they’re having red meat tonight. Extra bloody.”

Our server appears.

“Oh, hello, Lionel. My usual please. What will you be having, Emma?”

“Oh, water’s fine.”

“Water is not fine,” VV says. “You’re not a fish. Although we do drink like them in publishing. And you’re a new college graduate, so don’t play all innocent with me. I may have graduated when prohibition was law, but I still drank.”

“I’ll have what she’s having,” I say.

“Very When Harry Met Sally ,” VV says with a laugh. “If you have two of what I’m having and can still hold a conversation, you’re hired!”

I laugh. “Thank you for doing this. I really appreciate it.”

“So let’s get real,” she says as the waiter scurries away. VV puts her elbows on the table, places her head in her hands and stares at me through her glasses, her eyes enormous as if she’s using a TikTok filter to magnify them. “Are you here as a fuck-you to your parents, or are you serious about working with me?”

I choke on a mouthful of water.

“I would never do that.”

“Sure you would.”

She raises an artificially dark brow over the rim of her glasses.

“Yes, I would,” I say, “but I’m serious, which is why I reached out to you against their wishes. Look, I don’t know exactly what I’m doing right now, or where I’m going, but I love books. I’ve loved books my whole life, thanks to my grandmother. I love the books and authors you represent. And I feel like, despite your history with my parents and The Mighty Pages, it’s perhaps what I should be doing.”

She eyes me closely and then sits back in her chair.

“I didn’t know your grandmother personally, but I feel like I did,” VV says out of the blue.

I look at her, not understanding.

“You didn’t know?” she asks, looking pensive. “Were you even born yet? Time flies. Well, your parents trotted out her hard-luck history when they started The Mighty Pages—grew up poor, lost her husband at an early age, ran a boardinghouse, opened her home to those in need and those wanting to read. It was quite the story in the entertainment rags.” VV lifts her hands and her voice.

I think of what I shared with Marcus Flare on the beach.

Why did he act like he didn’t know any of this?

“A new publisher that really cares about books,” VV continues, releasing a throaty laugh. “Your parents left out the part that she was richer than Croesus, of course, but they raised a ton of money and got top-notch clients. I still have no idea why your grandmother would give Phillip and Piper so much money on what I always considered to be a vanity project, other than she really did love books and perhaps saw this as her legacy. But she was never involved with it. They never wanted her involved, it seemed to me. Now methinks that your parents’ literary baby is all grown-up but still having trouble walking. Your parents present quite the image, as you know. Your mother could break her leg, but she’d still wear Manolos and strut about town without so much as a limp.” She glances over at Jess and Marcus. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if those two were cooking something up to keep The Mighty Pages relevant. I’m just worried your parents are going to get desperate and toss out the baby with the bathwater.” VV laughs again. “That’s an idiom much older than you are, my dear, considering you’re still a baby.”

My heart races. VV senses my anxiety.

“Don’t worry,” she continues. “I don’t know anything at all. People think that publishing is all about books, but it’s really one-third gut, one-third gossip and two-thirds booze.”

Our server arrives with our drinks.

“Your martinis,” he says. “And, by the way, your math doesn’t add up.”

“Neither will my tip, Lionel, if you keep eavesdropping and taking so long with my drinks,” VV says. “My God, is the bartender now squeezing his own potatoes to make the vodka? Is that the new trend these days? I can hardly keep up with the fancy ice cubes and cocktails that smoke.”

“No, Ms. Vandeventer,” Lionel says. “He had to wait for the truck to bring more vodka. You drank it all last night.”

VV tilts her head back and roars like a dragon.

“God, this is why I love Liber. Now, you go to restaurants and pay two hundred dollars for a chopped salad and glass of shitty rosé, or the martinis are in two-ounce Dixie cups, and the server never returns to your table but expects a 30 percent tip.” VV looks at Lionel. “I want the sea bass, and Emma will have the same. And tell the chef you have my permission to break his arm if he cranks that saltshaker more than twice, got it?”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

VV lifts her glass.

“To women who do it all on our own!” she says. “Men talk about pulling up their bootstraps, but we still do it wearing SPANX, hose, bad bras, high heels…” VV glances over at Marcus “…and outwitting men who stand in our way and never give us credit. Cheers!”

“Cheers!” I say.

I take a sip of my martini. VV laughs.

“Your eyes are as big as mine now,” she says.

“Strong,” I cough.

“Well, I like strong drinks and strong women. No time in this life for anything less. And I like to know the people I work with. I want them to be genuine and honest. I mean, I ask the same of publishers who are merging, how will that impact my authors, their books and lives? I ask every editor and publisher I consider working with if they’re committed for the long term. Your parents have always been a bit like portraits behind museum glass.”

I nod in agreement. VV continues.

“I want the editors and publishers with whom I work to love not simply the books I send them—with all their heart and soul—but also my authors. I think your parents never liked me because they felt I was crass, but I’m just direct, probably like your grandmother was. No secrets. I tried to send them some submissions that were both literary and commercial in the beginning, but they were always very coy with their plans and budget, and very modest with their advances. I understood that. They were just starting out, you don’t want to overpay, and I was willing to support that vision. But then I saw the way your parents lived, their offices, and I didn’t like the dichotomy. I remember a lunch I had right here with your mother, and I asked her directly about that, and she looked at me as if I had two heads and told me that business was much different than personal life. She told me VV must stand for ‘very vicious.’ But all I wanted was complete transparency. They stopped responding to my calls and emails, so I returned the favor. I refused to send any of my clients to them. I mean, everyone knows your parents are a bit snobbish in life and literature. They enjoy being elitist. The parties, the authors, the hobnobbing. But I think they’ve forgotten why they got into this in the first place: A chance to make a difference.”

VV glances over at my sister and Marcus.

“And I worry eventually they’re going to have to get in bed with someone who will promise to keep their lights on, but it will actually be a dark day of reckoning for them. So, my dear, why are you here? Against all their wishes?”

“I’m not the cover of a Mighty Pages novel,” I say.

“What are you, then?” she asks.

“The insides,” I say. “All the words and feelings. Art is pure. Isn’t that the state which we should always seek to exist?”

Vivian shakes her head, smiles and lifts her glass.

“In theory,” she says, “but life is like the East River. We may fall into it all clean and shiny, but we get dirty fast. Do you want to know what’s pure in life, Emma? Good liquor, great books and Ivory soap. That’s it. Oh, and love, if you can swim through all the pollution to reach it.”

She takes a big sip of her drink and continues.

“Now, let me get down to brass tacks. You’d be an agency assistant, Emma, a job that doesn’t pay shit, but it does pay big in feels. And I know you’re loaded, so you don’t really need the cash right now, and that’s a win-win for VV.” She laughs. “Seriously, I pay well when you earn your stripes. You have to work your way up, Emma. Essentially, I’m a gatekeeper for the publishing industry. And you’d serve as my gatekeeper. Agents seek to find the best books they can and rep the best authors they can. My career has been built on finding those books and authors before anyone else, or taking on great books other agents have rejected. You’d be a first read for authors who are querying VV Lit. Are their query letters professional? Do the initial pages of their manuscripts capture your interest? Are they right for whom we represent? Do their manuscripts have potential? If so, you forward to me or one of the agents on my team.”

“Wow, I didn’t realize all of that,” I say.

“Wow is right. It’s a lot of not-so-glam grunt work. You’d follow up on contracts and royalty payments, serve as a liaison with our foreign rights agents, work closely with the publishers and editors to make sure they have what they need.” VV peers at me through her glasses. “But you’d get to read. A lot. And possibly discover the next big thing. You’d learn the business from the ground up. You would work your way up eventually to become an agent like me. You’d get to publish the books you love. And I think that’s exactly what you want. You received a great education, you already know the business, and I respect anyone who bucks their family and follows their dream. You’re like a unicorn.”

Her choice of words fills my stomach with both butterflies and rocks.

“I’ve always been fascinated by this side of the business,” I admit. “It’s sort of the magical part readers don’t know exists.”

“It is magical. To read a book before anyone else and see its potential. Oh, Emma, I still get goose bumps when a first page calls to me.” VV leans across the table, her necklaces landing loudly atop her bread plate. “So how did your interviews go? What do you think of the world of book publicity?”

“They were…” I stop, searching for just the right word. “Enlightening.”

“Meaning?”

“It just feels frustrating that a certain few books and authors get all the attention and money, and the vast majority of wonderful books do not,” I say. “They just disappear into the ether.”

“No, they don’t, Emma. Bestseller lists and public notoriety are certainly wonderful for branding and sales, but they don’t define the worth of a book.” VV smiles as if a distant memory has returned. “That book was still written from the heart of a writer who had a story that called to her, a story she had to write to make sense of the world. That book was still published with great love. It will remain forever, long after we’re all gone. And if it touched even one reader somewhere, if it changed her world in some way, isn’t that enough? I wish the world were equitable, but it’s not.”

“I feel being a book publicist today is kind of like going to battle with a pencil as your sword and one shiny nickel as your shield.”

“Another great analogy,” she says. “Maybe you should be a writer.”

I duck my head.

“Oh, God,” VV says loudly, causing tables of diners to turn and look. “You do, don’t you? You actually want to be a writer. That’s why you’re here!”

VV lifts her arm and snaps her fingers, shockingly and surprisingly loudly. Lionel looks over, and she points at her glass.

He nods.

VV looks at me, so intensely I feel as if I’m going to disintegrate under her fun house–eyeball gaze.

“Just please tell me you’re not that daughter of a famous singer who goes on American Idol and is tone-deaf,” she finally says.

“I don’t know.”

“You do know!” she says. VV points at her head and her heart. “You know it here, and you know it here.”

She wags a finger at me and polishes off her drink. I look at mine. I’ve barely started.

“I’ve already written a novel. I think it’s good.”

“Would your grandmother love it?”

I nod. “I think she would,” I say. “It’s about family, and sisters, and romance. It’s really an ode to her and the books we used to read together. Good ol’ summer beach reads. I’ve read fiction my whole life, and I’ve never read characters like I’m writing. Characters like my grandma. Kind, hardworking women who get knocked down by life and get up and soldier on with as much faith, grace and dignity as they can muster.”

VV stares at me. “Then I think I need to read it.”

“Oh, no. I didn’t ask you here to run an endgame.”

“I know that,” she says. “But I still think that’s ultimately why you’re here. Call it irony, or call it fate. In the end, we all forget the origin story.” VV lowers her glasses and gives me a close once-over. “Speaking of origin stories… I have to ask you the same question again. Are you here as a fuck-you to your parents, or are you serious about working with me? Either as an assistant or writer?”

“I already told you…”

“No, be honest. Do you want me to try and sell your debut so you have your full-circle gotcha moment? I mean, it’s a great story.” VV alters her voice to sound like an ominous narrator. “Author’s parents own a snooty publisher, but it’s a book her parents wouldn’t publish because they look down on its genre, so author approaches enemy agent to sell debut, agent—being the world’s best agent—performs Hail Mary, and author screams in family’s face, ‘Told ya so!’”

“No, no,” I stammer. “I promise.”

“I think I struck a nerve,” VV says. “So, aren’t you the least bit curious about what your parents think about your novel? I mean, they’re writers. They’re publishers. They’re…”

“I don’t think I could survive that criticism.”

VV reaches out and takes my hand.

“Emma, this world is filled with judgment, especially for writers, from those we love and those we will never meet,” VV says, still holding my hand. “Philip Roth once told a young Ian McEwan, ‘Write as if your parents are dead.’ You cannot authentically share your soul and story when you are always looking over your shoulder.” VV glances over her shoulder. “And, by the way, Philip Roth could make Marcus Flare look like the Pope in real life and fiction. His female characters never interacted with one another. They always needed a man around to give their scenes intellectual heft.”

“The Bechdel Test,” I say. She looks at me. I explain.

“Another reason I should read your book.”

“I just don’t think it’s the right time.”

“Emma, sweetheart, you’re young, but Bret Easton Ellis and Mary Shelley were only twenty-one when they published their first books, which I think did just fine, don’t you? Margaret Atwood and James Joyce were twenty-two. Capote and Hemingway were twenty-four, and Joyce Carol Oates was twenty-five. Shakespeare and Alice Walker were twenty-six. Emily Bront? was twenty-nine. On the other hand, Laura Ingalls Wilder was sixty-five and Frank McCourt was sixty. What I’m trying to tell you via this literary history lesson is that you need to realize there is never a right time,” VV says. “There’s no right time to fall in love, there’s no right time to die, there’s no right time to write a book, there’s no right time to let your baby bird test its wings and fly into this very scary world. That book should just explode from your soul, and it will at the exact right time.” She takes a breath. “But, Emma, there is always a wrong time.”

“How do you know the difference?”

“You’ll know,” she says. “You’ll know when to hit Send if you have the courage. But just know most never do. And just know those two times—the right time and the wrong time—will blur the longer you wait. One night, you will walk into your kitchen decades from now, bone-tired, and glance at your microwave clock. It will be 10 p.m., and then it will finally hit you.”

“What will hit me?”

“That it’s too late.”

VV’s second martini arrives, and she dives into it as if it were a pool filled with vodka.

“How would you describe your novel, Emma?”

“It’s women’s fiction,” I say. “Heartfelt family fiction.” I look over at Jess and Marcus Flare. They are in a serious conversation. “But I hate to categorize it.”

“Readers really don’t care about genre and things like that,” VV says. “Our business does. Publishers need a way to market and sell books in this oversaturated world. Readers do have favorites—genres, authors, themes, characters—and we need a way to hang our hat on those hooks. It’s a catch-22.”

“But why are books written by men typically classified as fiction or literature, and when women write a book it’s called women’s fiction, chick lit or romance?”

“Because this is a patriarchy!” VV yells. “Didn’t you learn that in college? In one of your classes? From your grandmother?”

VV nods over at my sister’s table and continues.

“Look, Marcus Flare is the patriarch of feminism, a wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing. Take it from me. I’ve been around long enough to see it all, and I can sniff a wolf a mile away. He is someone who thinks he’s too macho to write romance or women’s fiction. It’s a story older than Greek mythology. Although I’m sure ol’ Marcus there would likely claim he invented that genre, too.” VV winks at me. “So what are you going to do to change all that? This world doesn’t need another shy, demure woman. It needs someone who believes in herself, stands up for herself, just like your GiGi. It needs someone who speaks and writes her truth and changes the way we think about books that are written by, about and for women.” She takes another sip. “So, Emma Page, what are you going to do to change all that? Talk is talk. Action is action. I’m a woman of action. Do you want to be an agent who finds those writers, or do you want to be one of those writers?”

I stare at her, then at my sister and Marcus Flare.

VV begins to hum the music they play during Final Jeopardy.

“I want to be one of those writers.”

“Cheers, then!” she says. “If it’s in your blood, like vodka is in mine, there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re cursed.” She lifts her glass. “And blessed.”

I lift my glass and take a huge sip. And then another until my martini is mostly gone.

“Well, you certainly drink like a writer,” VV says with a laugh, motioning for Lionel to bring me another. “Now, let’s go write your happy ending, shall we?”