2. Chapter Two
Chapter two
Inés
It takes a week for me to feel comfortable in her presence. To watch as she charms all my team, one by one. As she has long lunches with Harrison and my mother-in-law and all the big authors on the list.
She has an eye for talent, I'll give her that.
She knows which books are going to sell and which are going to get us good press.
She also has a good nose for scandal, which means she can see the stories that will be splashed across the news.
That, I'll admit, is not something I'm good at. But it's not a skill I want.
She sits in on my first author meeting of the week.
It's the Belford memoir, the one that has already been through three drafts.
He is a difficult man, a big Hollywood star, but his stories are so raw and honest that I'm certain they will resonate with the right audience.
And the way he tells them! I know if I can just get him in the right room with the right people, his voice will be enough to sell a million copies.
It is the kind of book I've wanted to publish for years.
And finally, we are close. The deal is on the table, and we have one final meeting to iron out the details.
I walk into the conference room with a little skip in my step, excited to show Margaux what I've been working on for so long.
Harrison is already in there, leaning against the window with a coffee, his sleeves rolled up.
Margaux is sitting at the head of the table, reading through her notes.
They both smile when they see me. Harrison kisses me hello.
"I'm looking forward to this one," he says. "You've been working hard."
I nod and smile, grateful that he recognizes that much.
The three of us take our seats. And then the author's agent walks in with his client.
It is my meeting, but I barely get a word in.
"Great to see you again, Mr. Belford," Margaux says, standing to greet him.
I stand too, and offer my hand, which he shakes while keeping his eyes on her.
"Likewise," he says. "I hear a lot about you from Hal."
My head snaps in her direction. Margaux Deneuve calls my husband by a name I've never heard anyone use before, not in all the years I've known him.
Not from his mother, not from his father, not from any author or editor or colleague.
It's a pet name, clearly, something old and intimate from before I existed in his life.
I look to him for an explanation, but his face is a blank canvas.
He doesn't see anything strange in this.
She is sitting in my seat, at the head of the table, smiling at me as if we are old friends.
It's Harrison who breaks the silence. "We're very excited about this book, Geoffrey. Inés here has done a great job."
I look at him, relieved that he has finally said my name.
But his eyes are already back on the manuscript, open in front of him.
I wait for him to tell the author what I've done, how I've shaped the story, but instead he says, "What did you think of Margaux's editorial suggestions? We all found them incredibly helpful."
Margaux beams at me, her gray eyes bright with excitement. I try to smile back, to look happy for her. But the room is spinning and I have no idea what anyone is talking about.
"Oh yeah," says Belford, and he looks over his notes, his pen in his hand. "The stuff about my mom? Yeah, that was great. Really clarified some things for me. Made it all much more cohesive."
"Excellent," says Margaux, looking down at her own copy of the manuscript, marked up in her neat handwriting. "And what about the suggestion of moving chapter eight? It really works much better as a flash-forward."
I can't breathe. She has written reader's notes for my book. The book I've been working on for months.
"I agree," says Belford. "And you're right about that other thing. With the ending."
"Yes." Margaux nods and taps her pen on the table. "It's so much more powerful this way."
They keep talking about all the changes she has made to the manuscript, while Harrison watches with a proud smile on his face.
And I sit there in silence. Waiting for him to mention me, to bring me into the conversation.
But he doesn't.
The meeting ends, and I walk Belford out to the elevators, as is my custom. His agent is already on his phone, typing away furiously. I shake Belford's hand and tell him how much I've enjoyed working with him. He looks confused.
"I haven't worked with you," he says, but he smiles like he thinks it's funny. "I mean, you're great and all. But Margaux... She really gets it, you know?"
I nod and force a smile. "Yes," I say. "She really does."
I stand in the elevator bank for a moment after he's gone, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
Margaux has won the first round. She's made her move, and now everyone in that room thinks she is the genius behind the Belford memoir. She's done exactly what I would do, if I had no morals.
But the worst of it is, she was good. Her notes were sharp, insightful, well written. The book is better because of them.
I'm not even sure if I can be angry at her. She did her job well. Too well.
My hands are shaking as I walk back down the hallway. When I get to my office, I sit at my desk and close my eyes, trying to calm myself.
But all I can hear is Harrison's voice, saying my name. As if that's enough to make it okay.
I know what this is. I've seen it before, in other places, with other women. It's not personal, I tell myself. Margaux wants what I have. She's come to take it.
The only question now is how far she'll go. And whether anyone will stop her.
***
The next day I come into the office early, as usual. I need time to myself before the team arrives. Time to think. But when I open my door, Margaux is already sitting at my desk, her long legs stretched out in front of her.
"Bon matin, Inés," she says, as if it's perfectly normal for her to be here.
"What are you doing?" I say, trying to keep my voice calm.
"Just catching up on some reading." She holds up a manuscript. "This new book we acquired. Very interesting. Not quite there yet, but I'm sure with some work..."
"That's my job," I say, putting my bag down on the floor. "I'll read it and send my notes."
"Oh, no need." She smiles, her cat-like eyes fixed on me. "I already took care of it. Harrison will be so pleased."
She stands up and walks around the desk, holding out the manuscript. I take it from her, my hand trembling.
"You've got a good team here," she says, leaning against the doorframe. "Very loyal."
"Yes," I say, opening the manuscript to see her notes in the margins. They're good, damn it. Just like with Belford.
"But I think you're the real star, Inés." She reaches out and touches my shoulder. "Harrison is lucky to have you."
I pull away from her. "Why are you here, Margaux? What do you want?"
Her smile doesn't falter. "Just to help out. That's all." She looks around the office, at the shelves of books and framed photographs. "It's a lot of work, keeping all this together. Harrison needs someone he can trust... someone who knows what he needs. Not just... a wife."
I feel like she's slapped me.
"Are you finished?" I say, my voice cold.
She nods and walks to the door. "For now, but we should really have dinner soon, Inés; Just the two of us." She pauses in the doorway, her hand on the handle. "We have so much to talk about."
She leaves me standing there, holding her manuscript, her scent lingering in the air. The scent of her perfume, which I suddenly realize is the same as mine. It's been my scent for years. And now she wears it too.
I sit down at my desk and put my head in my hands, trying to breathe.
I look to my desk, where I see the program for the big anniversary party coming up next month. The gala we are throwing for all our authors, to celebrate seventy-five years of Locke & Burgess. The event that will put us on the map as the leading independent publisher in New York.
I have been helping plan it for over a year. It was my idea to bring everyone together like this, to show the world what we've accomplished. But now, as I read through the pages, I wonder if I'll even be welcome at my own party.
I shake my head. Margaux was right about one thing: people around here are loyal. To Harrison, to me. I know that's true. We have built something together over the years, and we will continue to do so, no matter who joins our team.
I snap a photo of the program with my phone and text it to myself so I can make the changes tonight. Then I get up, put the manuscript Margaux left on my desk in a drawer, and start working on other things.
No matter how hard I try, my focus still slips. Every so often, I glance at the manuscript, knowing that if I were to read her notes, I would see the truth: that Margaux might just be better than me.
She is in my office, has read my books, and is taking over my job, piece by piece.
And no one seems to care but me.