Chapter 6 SIOBHAN
Chapter 6
S IOBHAN
Leaving the subway on Seventh Avenue, she was met by a brilliant blue sky. The buildings glittered in the sun as though vying to capture the attention of passersby: Top of the Rock, or the Chrysler, the most iconic building in the city, with that extraordinary Art Deco crown and spire and its eagle gargoyles. Having arrived a half hour early, she decided to engage in a bit of window-shopping. The usual Sunday inertia doesn’t affect New York, not ever. The same weekday tide of people who stride along briskly with their gym bags and king-size coffees can be found heading at a more leisurely pace toward MoMA or the High Line. The traffic moves just as slowly, the ventilation grates still spit out steam, the air buzzes with phone conversations, and restaurants are packed at brunch. As she approached the imposing tower of Baxter Books, her heart was pounding so hard it felt like she might burst. Before entering the building, she took a deep breath. She had to stay calm, at all costs.
Or appear calm, at any rate.
The night before, Bella had called to wish her luck.
“Text me when the meeting ends, and we’ll get together.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
“I wish I could, but I can’t. Marcel Black’s identity is a state secret known only by his editor, who is now your editor too, and his agent; that’s why they called you in on a Sunday, because it’s the only day when there’s no one in the office.” Bella paused dramatically. “Don’t worry, okay? Bob Gunton has a very good reputation as an editor. You’ll get on fine with him, you’ll see. And anyway, you have me.”
“I know, I know. And I’m grateful to you. It’s just sometimes I think all this is too much for me. It’s going to be hard to meet these crazy expectations and even harder to bring them back down to earth. Hasn’t this all moved too quickly?”
“Have faith in yourself.”
Ding! The elevator door opened on the eleventh floor. As she had been instructed by the weekend security guard, she turned left, then right, and then continued down a long, carpeted hall to the room where they were waiting for her. She gave two light knocks on the door and focused on projecting confidence. After a few seconds, a middle-aged man opened the door. His face was nondescript; he had salt-and-pepper hair, skin the texture of leather, and the deep furrow of a worry line down the center of his forehead. She recognized him as Bob Gunton. They had held an informal video conference a few days earlier. Marcel Black had finally accepted the idea of writing a novel together; before meeting him in person, however, she had to sign a confidentiality and nondisclosure agreement. Siobhan received a rather draconian document in which she agreed not to reveal any details about Black’s identity or about the project they would be working on together over the next few months. Breaking this agreement would have serious legal and financial ramifications for her. She couldn’t help but wonder about the reason for all this secrecy. Who was Marcel Black? Was he someone important? Perhaps his decision to remain anonymous was simply in line with the philosophy of other artists like Banksy, Daft Punk, or Elena Ferrante, who prioritized the work over the creator. Gunton had also sent her a draft contract for the novel, which set out her share of the advance—$75,000. Woweeee. Nowhere did it state how much Marcel Black would pocket—although she had guessed that it would be at least double. “Check over the draft before we sign the contract. If you have any concerns, we’ll sort them out in advance,” the editor had instructed her. The only doubt Siobhan had was whether they had made a mistake with the figures. Seventy-five thousand dollars was more than she earned in a year.
“Thanks for coming in on a Sunday,” Gunton said as he opened the door fully. “I know it’s rather unusual. But then, it’s fair to say this isn’t exactly a usual situation.”
“No problem. Sunday is as good as any other day to talk about books.”
“Well said,” he agreed. “Now then, before we venture into the lion’s den, I need to be sure you don’t have any recording devices on you. I know, it’s surreal,” he added, “but no precaution is too small for him; he’s got an unhealthy obsession with it. Please don’t take it personally.”
“Don’t worry. I left my purse at the security desk in the lobby, and there’s nothing in my pockets.” To confirm this, Siobhan patted her hips, sheathed in a pair of tight jeans. “I trust I don’t have to show you inside my blouse too.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary. Okay, ready?”
“I was born ready.”
What a liar.
The room was vast. In the center was a huge table with several chairs on each side and four bottles of San Pellegrino with the corresponding number of glasses arranged on a tray. One wall was floor-to-ceiling glass. The gaps in the typical aluminum office blinds offered a tempting glimpse of the breathtaking views beyond. A second man approached her. He was younger than Bob Gunton, around forty. He wasn’t exactly good-looking, but he had a pleasant face.
“Alex Shapiro, literary agent,” he said. Then he handed Siobhan his card. Do people still use cards? Wasn’t that, like, twenty years ago? she thought. “Congratulations on your first novel.”
“Thanks, that’s very kind of you.”
She heard a sarcastic laugh issuing from the opposite corner of the room, with a dry timbre of authority that caused Siobhan’s heart to freeze.
“And this is my client, the famous Marcel Black.”
Siobhan directed her gaze toward the only window with the blind raised. A ray of sunlight refracted off the glass and dazzled her, although perhaps it was something else. The silhouette, facing away from her, was cut out against the light in a way that prevented her from seeing clearly. She squinted and approached slowly.
“Siobhan Harris,” she said, extending her hand. “Pleased to ...”
When he turned around, the atmosphere in the room became so unbearably hot that Siobhan felt like lava was flowing through her veins. “My god ...,” murmured Siobhan. “You’re ...”
She couldn’t take her eyes off him. He seemed to be lit up from within by some unknown energy source. Naturally, the fact that he was taller than the Empire State Building also helped.
“Black?” he asked.
“Sexy,” she replied without thinking. And immediately clapped her hand over her mouth.
Shit, shit, shit.
A sensation of overwhelming shame spread through her like acid on metal. Marcel Black raised an eyebrow. The man’s intensely dark eyes fixed so firmly on hers that she couldn’t bear the pressure.
“Are you always this direct?” he inquired. His voice was gravelly and had a melodic Southern lilt.
Siobhan swallowed before replying.
“No. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I suppose my subconscious betrayed me.”
“The subconscious doesn’t ‘betray,’ it just gets rid of our inhibitions to express our innermost thoughts. In other words, if you said I’m sexy it’s because that’s what you think.”
She snorted.
“Do you care what I think?”
“Not in the slightest. In fact, it was you who focused on my physical appearance to begin with,” he replied with an odiously triumphant air.
So, in addition to being handsome, you’re arrogant, a smart-ass, and a full-blown jerkoff; great.
Alex cleared his throat.
“Now that we’ve all been introduced, why don’t we take a seat and get down to business? I’m sure we all have a lot to talk about.”
“Good idea,” agreed Bob. “Some water, Siobhan?”
She gulped down her water. Was it just her, or was it infernally hot in this room? A river of sweat flowed incessantly from the nape of her neck down her back, but she had to tolerate it, because Marcel Black had sat down opposite her and was watching her without blinking, as though analyzing her every movement. She felt helplessly exposed.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty.”
“You look younger,” he said. “Are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?”
He asked the question with a chilly haughtiness that she was starting to get used to. But Siobhan wasn’t about to let him unsettle her.
“To begin with, it would help if you told me what I should call you.”
“You can call me Marcel.”
“I’d prefer to call you by your real name if you don’t mind. It’s not much to ask, given that we’re going to be working together. Don’t you agree? Besides, I’ve signed a confidentiality agreement that’s longer than War and Peace , so your secret is safe with me.”
Despite the visible pulse in her temple, she was proud of her steady tone of voice. Surely her Tolstoy reference must have won her some brownie points with this asshole.
He shrugged.
“That’s my name.”
“Oh. Well. I wasn’t expecting such astounding originality. Marcel what?”
“Dupont,” he answered, not without a certain reticence. “And don’t even think about repeating it, even in your sleep.”
“Ha. I wouldn’t dream about you if I was under hypnosis.”
Marcel shaped his lips into a regal smile. The kind of smile that would be attractive if its owner wasn’t such a prick.
“I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you.”
Siobhan rolled her eyes.
“My god, you’ve got a big one, you know that?”
“Pardon?” he asked, blinking exaggeratedly.
A fresh wave of embarrassment flooded over her from top to toe.
“Your ego! I mean your ego,” she clarified. “Anyhow ... I think we got off on the wrong foot. Siobhan Harris.” She extended her hand for the second time that morning. “I’d be lying if I said, Delighted to meet you .”
They studied each other for a second, the longest second in history, before shaking hands with notable discomfort. Siobhan was all too aware of the warmth of his skin when they touched and immediately released his hand, as though a spark of electricity had jolted her. The warmth was still there, coursing through her, even after they had separated.
“You seemed more mature on Twitter,” he said with a note of superiority that made Siobhan dig her nails into her palms.
“No one asked you, Doctor Phil.”
Alex, sitting in the chair next to his client, exhaled loudly.
“Oh my lord ... I need a whiskey, and it’s only eleven in the morning,” he murmured, massaging his temples in exasperation. “Can we talk about the contract?”
“For once, and without wishing to set a precedent, I agree with you,” said Gunton, who was seated at the head of the table. He took some papers from a file and passed them around. “Here’s your copy,” he said to Siobhan. “Since I’ve already sent you both the terms, let’s focus on the delivery date.”
“Before that ...” Siobhan became aware of three pairs of eyes turning to her. She concentrated on Marcel’s and continued: “I want you to apologize for the other night.”
Marcel interlaced his fingers behind his neck and leaned back. The posture highlighted the muscles beneath his elegant black shirt. Broad shoulders, strong arms, firm torso. He definitely didn’t look like the kind of man who spent hours at the computer. His features—those piercing eyes, the cute dimple on his chin, the defined jawline covered by two days’ worth of soft stubble, the naturally expressive eyebrows, and that small depression between a nose as shapely as it was haughty and his insultingly sensual lips—were just too beautiful. But there was something about this man that went beyond his appearance, a kind of power that enveloped him like an invisible cloak. A magnetic aura that eclipsed everything else. And he smelled so good ... in a way that struck her as familiar, strange as that might seem.
If he wasn’t such a self-important jerk, he would be perfect, she reflected. And immediately hated herself.
“You want me to apologize? Very well, I will.” He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, suggesting that he admitted his mistake. Far from it. “I’m very sorry that crossing paths with you on a stupid social network will have disastrous consequences for my career. Happy?”
“If you find this so distasteful, why did you accept Letitia Wright’s challenge?”
“Why did you accept it?”
“I asked first.”
Something sparked in Marcel’s gaze, a tiny reflection in the depths of his pupils. Then he half laughed. The permanent sneer on his face made it hard for her to tell when he was being ironic and when he was being serious. Although Siobhan suspected that sarcasm was part of his DNA.
“Maybe I’m just a bit of a thrill seeker.”
She nodded as she clenched her fists under the table.
“Heavens, what a dark and twisted mind.”
“Thank you, princess.” The half smile returned in all its glory. “The New York Times said as much in its review of my last novel.”
“I didn’t mean it as a compliment. And please don’t call me princess.”
Bob intervened at that point.
“Children, children ... let’s play nice, please. What if we put the Twitter incident down to a simple misunderstanding? The main thing is that Baxter Books is going to bring together two of its authors on an unprecedented project. You are free to write whatever you please. As long as it isn’t offensive, of course,” he added. “Oh, and it should be inclusive, ideally; that’s the kind of story that sells these days.”
Marcel let out what sounded like a gasp of indignation.
“You editors! You talk about diversity as though it’s just a box to check on a list of good intentions,” he said, berating him.
For the first time that morning, Siobhan agreed with him.
“I think what Bob means is that fiction can be a way to address situations lacking adequate representation,” Alex said.
“Exactly. Apart from that, the only thing I care about is that you keep to the deadline stipulated in the contract. Page four,” said Bob, tapping the documents.
A feeling of general irritability settled in the room before a strange chain reaction started: Alex, who had already started to review the papers, raised his eyes and exchanged a silent glance with Marcel; Marcel looked at Siobhan; Siobhan looked at Alex, and he closed the circle with Gunton.
“End of September? That gives them only three months, Bob. With all due respect, I don’t think that’s realistic.”
“Depends how you look at it. I understand it didn’t take Siobhan long to write With Fate on Our Side . Or am I wrong about that?”
She didn’t like being used as an example because she knew exactly what would happen next.
“You’re not wrong, but the thing is ...”
Marcel shook his head, his eyes issuing sparks.
“You don’t get it, Bob,” he snapped. “It’s wonderful that Little Miss Speedy Pen can type up her fairy tale in five minutes, but I’m not going to allow my name to appear on the cover of some tearjerker crap that’s sold on the supermarket shelf. Three months isn’t enough to plan a crime novel under the best of circumstances. Even less so if I have to take the time to explain the basic rules of the genre to the cowriter.”
“Might I remind my cowriter, in case he has forgotten, that the novel has to be romantic too,” said Siobhan.
Type up.
Fairy tale.
Tearjerker crap.
Why did he hate romance so much? Despite that, he wasn’t wrong. How could they write a novel in three months when they couldn’t stand the sight of each other? How could an inexperienced writer like her meet the expectations of such a demanding author? And there was another small detail to consider, one that no one had mentioned yet: Siobhan worked full-time. How would she find the time to work with this man?
Suddenly, the editor’s face clouded with annoyance.
“Jesus, Marcel! I’m offering you a very generous advance, and you do nothing but complain like a spoiled child.” He rubbed his face in his hands. “I’m fed up with your capriciousness. Sort it out however you like, but I want a decent manuscript by the end of September. Period.”
“You mean a manuscript that pleases Letitia Wright.”
Gunton ignored him.
“What do you think, Siobhan?”
Despite all her reservations, her career was on the line. She knew there was only one answer.
“I’ll do everything I can to make it work.”
“Finally, someone showing a bit of common sense! Do you have any concerns about the contract?”
“Now that you mention it ...” Siobhan flipped over the document and pointed at a figure: “Is this correct? I mean ... isn’t seventy-five thousand dollars too much for an advance?”
“Oh come on!” said Marcel. “Where did they find you, princess? Neverland?”
“Can’t you at least try to treat me like an adult?”
“An adult wouldn’t make a dumb comment like that.”
Alex gave him a reproachful glare.
“Can I give you some advice?” he said, turning to Siobhan. She nodded. “Never tell an editor they’re paying you too much, or they’ll take you at your word. Taking things literally is common in this industry. No offense, Bob.” Bob raised his hands and shook his head. “Believe me, it’s not too much. A publisher like Baxter can afford it. Besides, it’s much less than Marcel usually gets.”
“That’s all I need,” he muttered. He seemed very sure of himself, while Siobhan struggled to clear her throat.
Alex Shapiro’s openness was comforting. Nevertheless, a twinge of frustration niggled at her. She had scarcely been there twenty minutes and she had been made painfully aware of how little she knew. Who was she trying to kid? She knew almost nothing about this business.
“Thanks for the advice.”
Alex smiled.
“Well, if there are no objections, let’s get on with signing this thing,” Bob said, handing Siobhan a pen. “I have tickets for The Phantom of the Opera , and I promised my wife I wouldn’t be late.”
“One moment.”
Bob sighed.
“What now, Marcel?”
“Seeing as I’m the one putting my reputation on the line with this ... publishing experiment, I demand a fairer division of the royalties. Ten percent for me and two percent for her.”
“But—”
“It’s nonnegotiable,” he said, implacable as a steamroller.
What a bastard.
“It’s okay, Bob. I understand,” Siobhan said. “I’m not doing this for the money, so I don’t mind if he takes the greater share of the profits.”
“In that case, you won’t mind if we make a slight adjustment to the advance, either? Four hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars for me, twenty-five for you.”
Siobhan felt the bitter taste of humiliation in her mouth.
“Wait. You’re pocketing four hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars and you’re haggling just to annoy me?”
She could feel a pulse in her temple again as Marcel tried unsuccessfully to hide the terrifying smile of a psychopath.
“Something like that.”
Bastard! That’s too good a word for him.
She sighed with pure exhaustion.
“All right. Twenty-five thousand dollars is still a more-than-generous amount for a new author.”
“Marcel, rein it in a bit, can’t you?” murmured Alex.
“Are you my agent or Miss Harris’s?” he said. “I’m not finished yet. Given that I am by far the more experienced of the two, I want a clause in the contract specifying that I decide on the working dynamic. And one more thing: I’m not leaving Manhattan.”
That was no surprise. Manhattanites were known for their unwillingness to leave the island.
“Teamwork really isn’t your thing, is it?” said Siobhan. “Do you have some kind of social phobia or what?”
“You got me,” he admitted. Then, he stood up so abruptly that the chair almost tipped over. He caught it by the back just in time and tucked it under the table. “Bob, make sure you change the figures and include that clause if you want me to sign this lousy contract. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m leaving; I’ve had enough for today. My agent will call you, princess. In the meantime, lay off the sugar.”
He slammed the door as he left the room, making Siobhan jump. The room fell silent.
“Does he always do just as he pleases?”
Alex looked at her almost pityingly.
“Ninety percent of the time.”
“And the other 10 percent?”
“He’s asleep. Some time ago I compiled all his eccentricities into an Excel sheet. I can send it to you. You know, so you can get used to him.”
How lovely.
Paige’s face appeared in the upper left-hand corner of her cell phone screen.
“Hey, hey, hey,” she said. “How was the meeting? I’m dying of curiosity.”
“Me too,” said Lena, in the lower right-hand corner. “Tell us everything.”
“Sorry, girls, I can’t breathe a word. If I break the confidentiality agreement, they’ll pluck me like a chicken. Mr. Black,” she emphasized ironically, “is obsessed with preserving his secret identity. It’s classified information.”
“Mr. Black? So he’s an old-timer,” noted Paige, as she checked for split ends in her attractive red mane.
“Well, no, not an old-timer.”
“So, how old is he?”
“I’m not saying a word.”
“But his age doesn’t reveal anything about his identity,” pointed out Lena.
“Could you at least tell us whether he’s attractive?”
“He can’t be,” said Lena. “If he was, he wouldn’t have maintained his anonymity. Appearance is only an Achilles’ heel for women—if you’re not good-looking, they dismiss you; too good-looking, and no one takes you seriously. But no one would call into question the literary quality of a male writer just because he’s attractive; on the contrary, his looks would be a wonderful strategy for selling more books.”
“Are you suggesting I’m not good-looking?” asked Siobhan, feigning indignation.
“Of course you are, Shiv. Although you don’t have that kind of over-the-top beauty that makes men dislocate their necks to look at you in the street. Thankfully,” she emphasized. “Yours is a more ... serene kind of beauty.”
“Serene.”
“Mm-hmm. Much less problematic. If you ever decide to leave the dark side to embrace the light, I have a bunch of girlfriends who would be happy to show you the way.”
Siobhan laughed.
“Hey, being straight is cool too,” Paige protested. “Can we focus on Marcel Black for now, please? Come on, Shiv, don’t leave us hanging. Is he handsome?”
Siobhan flopped back on her bed, holding her cell phone above her.
“Very. He’s very handsome.”
Paige squealed.
“I knew it! Didn’t I tell you both? Why do you never listen to my female intuition? Okay, so, on a scale of one to ten, how good is he?”
“Hmmm ...” Siobhan bit her lower lip. “Eleven. And he doesn’t look a bit like Philip Seymour Hoffman in Capote . You were way off the mark.”
“Eleven? Wow. Damn. Things are getting interesting.”
“In fact ...,” she said. “The moment I saw him I blurted out, ‘You’re sexy.’ It was mortifying.”
“Whaaaaaat?”
“Nooooo!”
“I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life,” she said, blushing as she recalled the scene. “He must have thought I’m some kind of crazy stalker who has no filter. And no wonder. Normal people don’t go around telling strangers they’re sexy. It just popped out. I suppose I wasn’t expecting such a hot piece of ass.”
“Okay,” said Lena. “Is this going to make it hard to write this novel together? I mean ... you know. The fact that you’re attracted to him?”
Siobhan let out a strangled laugh.
“To that joy-sucking narcissist? Me? Hell no! His looks were impressive, but I got over it as soon as he opened his mouth. He’s even nastier than he was on Twitter. You know what that jerk called me? Princess.”
Paige ground her teeth.
“What a cocksucker.”
“Handsome, arrogant, and rude. Bleurgh. He’s like the hero of an aughties novel, the kind that idealizes toxic relationships and characterizes women as emotionally dependent. No doubt he’s loaded too,” added Lena. “You know, you don’t have to go through with this. There’s still time to back out. No one would blame you.”
“The thing is I’ve signed the contract. And now we’ve got three months to deliver the manuscript. Three. Lousy. Months. I honestly don’t know how I’m going to do it. Oh god.” She sighed and covered her face with her hands. “Please tell me I haven’t made a huge mistake.”
“Of course not. You did the right thing,” Paige reassured her. “It’s a golden opportunity. You’re going to write a novel with an internationally renowned author! He might be a pig-headed asshole. But, in the Olympus of literary gods, this guy is Zeus.”
“More like Hades,” Lena said.
“But he hates romance novels! He says they’re sappy nonsense, and he doesn’t even regard it as literature. I just don’t understand why he agreed to do it. What does he get out of it?”
“Think of it as cross-pollination. He helps you make your name, and you help him make money, simple as that. You’ll find a way to manage the situation, you’ll see.”
“Have you heard of kairos ? In all lives, even the shittiest, the universe gives you at least one opportunity to change things. Kairos is the decisive moment that you can’t let slip through your fingers. Even if it’s only a very brief moment. And life doesn’t give second chances,” explained Paige.
“What is it with you and the Greeks?” Lena asked.
“Oh, I watched Troy again last night. What I mean to say is that this could be your decisive moment. So forget about the vertigo, okay? You have more than enough talent, Siobhan Harris.”
“Totally agree. Anyway, be careful. I don’t trust people who reject emotional relationships; it’s highly likely this guy is hiding some kind of trauma. Oh, and if he dares to cross the line during these three months, I’ll be sure to start a defamation campaign on the internet that he’ll remember for the rest of his days.”
“I’m all for that. I like fucking with people’s reputations,” said Paige.
When the call ended, Siobhan lay on her bed for a while, thinking. Marcel Dupont’s beautiful features burrowed into her thoughts again. What was his story? Why had he chosen to be anonymous? She opened Twitter and started inspecting his account. He hadn’t posted anything since that fateful night, nearly a week ago now. It was clear that she wasn’t going to find anything of interest there. She rummaged in her purse for the copy of An Ordinary Man , which she had bought in a bookstore in Union Square after leaving the meeting. Marcel Black’s first novel had run to nineteen editions so far. She stroked the cover gently, almost respectfully. She hadn’t read anything of his—she hadn’t ever read a crime novel, in fact—and she felt it was important to do so. If you can’t beat them, join them. She opened the book and took a deep breath. She was impressed by the opening line.
William J. Knox had everything and nothing at all.
How much of himself was there in those words? She read the first page. Then the second. Then, a few more, to the end of the chapter. She read another, then another. She skipped dinner to keep reading. When she finally finished the book, it was three in the morning. Her heart was racing. She was shaken, overwhelmed. The strength of his writing style had impressed her.
Marcel was good.
He was more than good.
He was brilliant.
And he was playing in a much higher league.