Chapter 5 MARCEL
Chapter 5
M ARCEL
“No way. Absolutely not. And the very fact that you’ve made me come in on a Sunday morning to discuss it is offensive.”
Marcel folded his arms over his chest and lifted his chin defiantly. Across the table in the luxurious office at Baxter Books, Bob Gunton regarded him with wide eyes as he drummed his fingers on the wooden surface.
“You should have thought about that before the little number you pulled last night, don’t you think?”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“What do you mean, it wasn’t that bad? For the love of god, Marcel! You insulted that girl in front of the world! One of our authors no less!”
“I didn’t insult her. I just gave my opinion on the chick lit she churns out, that’s all.”
“Romance novels,” said Alex, who was sitting next to Marcel.
“No one asked for your opinion. Have you been on Twitter today?” asked Gunton, unbuttoning his polo shirt.
“No,” lied Marcel.
He had, of course, but he wasn’t about to admit in front of his editor and his agent that he had read the—not insignificant—series of tweets branding him as chauvinistic, misogynistic, arrogant, ignorant, a snob, an opportunist, and even a failed author following his heated “debate” with the shiny new Siobhan Harris. He had lost followers, and most people seemed to have taken her side, not that any of that mattered to him. What really annoyed him was that the little princess had had the gall to accept Wright’s proposal without a moment’s hesitation. Had she no dignity? Not even a smidgen of self-respect? Was she so convinced of her own worth that she would presume to write in collaboration with an author with years of experience under his belt and commit herself to writing in a genre she wasn’t even familiar with?
Siobhan Harris @siobhan_harris 13h
That’s a FABULOUS idea, @letitia_wright! I’d love to write that novel. As long as @InvisibleBlack has what it takes to accept the challenge, of course #CrimePLUSRomance
Marcel hadn’t replied, nor did he need to. He sensed that getting involved with these two women would send him tumbling into a nosedive that would see him writing about some multimillionaire and his eccentric sexual proclivities. So, thanks but no thanks. Much as this Miss Harris’s insinuation that he was a coward rankled—and it rankled more than he cared to admit—he had no intention of giving in. Did nobody realize how ridiculous it sounded? A romantic crime novel. Had the world suddenly gone mad? Twitter users had congregated into two groups, #TeamCrime and #TeamRomance, according to their preferred genre. The results were fairly even, to be honest. Until #TeamCrimePlusRomance came on the scene, championed by that busybody Letitia Wright, and things started to spiral out of control.
Now even Reese Witherspoon was clamoring for this lousy novel.
“Well, you should take a look,” Gunton snapped. “And while you’re at it, apologize to Siobhan and anyone else you’ve offended. The Comms department has forwarded me a complaint from the Delaware Color Blindness Association.” Marcel furrowed his brow. “You’d better hope they don’t sue,” he moaned, raising his hands helplessly. “I should be playing golf in Chelsea with my brother-in-law right now, you know that? Jeez!”
“I’m not planning to apologize to anyone, Bob. Forget it,” countered Marcel.
Gunton shook his head and met Alex’s gaze.
“What do you think?”
“I ...” He turned to face Marcel. “I think you should do it. You should accept Letitia Wright’s challenge.”
“What the fuck, Alex? Siobhan’s a rookie! A rookie who writes romance novels!”
“Marcel, you aren’t looking at this the right way. Listen, this morning I exchanged a few emails with Bella Watson, Siobhan’s agent. I don’t know her personally, but I get the feeling she has a sharp nose. Just a few weeks after she discovered Siobhan on WriteUp, she had managed to get Baxter Books interested in a complete unknown and secured her a tasty offer; let’s at least concede that Watson knows her stuff.” Gunton nodded his agreement. “See, I’ve done a bit of research. I gather her novel is selling well. Isn’t that so, Bob?”
“Very well indeed. I spoke to her editor just a few minutes ago. They think the next reprint might have to be three times the initial run.”
“Really? So, Siobhan ‘One-Hit Wonder’ Harris is going to single-handedly save the American publishing industry from its current mess, huh? Wow! I’m impressed. Anyone can write these days,” Marcel retorted.
Alex narrowed his eyes.
“Be as sarcastic as you like, but she has a lot of what it takes to become a mass sensation. How many debut authors do you know who can pack the room in a bookstore like McNally Jackson?” Silence. “Exactly, none. In fact, Watson told me there were so many people who couldn’t get in that they’re having to organize another two events next week. And her Twitter numbers are impressive, you must have noticed. So however new she might be, it’s in your best interest to associate yourself with her.”
An ironic smile flitted across Marcel’s lips.
“It would be rather more in my interest to associate myself with Beyoncé. Can you get me her number?”
“I doubt Jay-Z would be amused. Anyway, I’ve been following the hashtags,” Alex continued. “Almost everyone who commented was in favor of you two writing a novel together. In fact, the vast majority want her name to come before yours on the cover, although that doesn’t matter right now. You know what this means, Marcel?”
“That readers are idiots and are happy to let Letitia Wright decide what they should read?”
Gunton snorted.
“Readers are anything but idiots. And Letitia Wright is a visionary, so we’re going to listen to her. If she thinks this would be a success, then so do I. You’re doing it, Marcel. Period.”
“I don’t give a damn what Letitia Wright thinks!” exclaimed Marcel. At that moment, the fury that had settled in his stomach started climbing to his throat. “I’ve been writing crime novels for fifteen years. I’m one of the most respected authors in this country. And most importantly, I work alone. Far from the spotlights. In anonymity. Are you really asking me to do this? It’s humiliating, for fuck’s sake.”
“Marcel,” said Alex. “ The End of Days didn’t go as well as expected, you have one hell of a creative block, and your reputation ... Well, let’s just say you didn’t come out of last night’s exchange very well. Getting into a Twitter spat with Siobhan Harris was a terrible idea, but what’s done is done. Hey,” he added in a conciliatory tone, after a brief pause, “maybe this will turn out to be a good thing. Every cloud has a silver lining, as they say.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve been at the self-help books again.”
“Working with her could help you improve your image.” He swept his hand sideways as though visualizing the hypothetical headline that accompanied this highly promising future. “Marcel Black: from the depravity of crime to the redemption of love.”
The editor whistled.
“I like it. The marketing is all yours, Shapiro.”
“Thanks.”
“Please. Don’t make me laugh.”
“Think about it, Marcel. An experienced crime novelist writing under a pseudonym, an author of romance novels who’s new on the scene but very popular, and a commission for a romantic thriller. It’s out of this world! It’s ... metaliterature!”
“Metaliterature. Huh. You’re fucking with me, right?”
“Nothing like this has ever been done. It could be hot shit.”
“I said no.”
“I’m afraid you’re in no position to negotiate,” said Gunton. “Might I remind you that you haven’t fulfilled your contract. You still owe me three novels, and it would appear that your ideas have dried up since you killed off Knox. So you’ll have to let yourself be guided by others for a bit.”
Marcel clenched his jaw. The thing that hurt most wasn’t the certainty that his prestige would plummet if he took part in this ridiculous experiment. The fact was that his editor was right.
He had hit a rough patch. There was no denying it.
“When you light a fire, it’s up to you to put it out. You’re going to apologize, and you’re going to write that novel. Or I could sue you for breach of contract. Or accidentally reveal your identity.”
Something inside Marcel quivered like barely-set Jell-O. He turned in his chair and faced his editor.
That old bastard was a cunning fox.
Alex flapped his hands dissuasively.
“Bob, I don’t think we need to go that—”
“Are you threatening me?” Marcel asked.
The editor held his gaze for a few moments. Then he composed a disingenuous smile and said:
“Of course not, my friend! As they say in detective novels, I’m just applying a bit of reasonable pressure.”