Chapter 18
Bryony, please. Call.
I flip the phone over and slip it into my pocket, but not before Gloria sees who it’s from.
It’s a slow Thursday afternoon on Broadway (at least, as slow as Broadway can be), and a week since I left Jack and all the
chaos of the tour bus behind. I’ve spent the week at Gloria’s town house. Showed up out of the blue as soon as I stepped off
the plane, and without a word, she welcomed me in.
We haven’t talked much about it. She got the shortest version possible—just enough to appease her desperately curious mind—and
then we left it like yesterday’s egg salad sandwich on a concrete patio.
Her pink, tufted yard-sale couch is firm but still a hundred times friendlier than the tiny bunk bed on the tour bus, and
a thousand times friendlier than the loneliness of my own apartment. She has more cats than is reasonable (of course, that
definition varies by person) and more plants than she can possibly keep up with, so when I sleep it smells like I’m in a conservatory,
and when I wake up, it’s usually because a paw from a passing cat has ended up on my ear. And when it’s not a cat, it’s the
display of her indoor wind chimes as they jingle in the morning breeze. Gloria always keeps her windows open. It’s absolutely
a safety hazard, but she claims her cats will protect her. And to be honest, they might.
I’ve always liked the way Gloria keeps up her life.
She’s a carefree spirit, always has been.
She let me wallow in wind chimes and cat fur and down covers and magazines and takeout and a never-ending stream of emails typed madly to every editor and agent in town (it’s a maddening work of type and wait, type and wait) up until yesterday afternoon, at which point she returned from a deposition, dropped her stenographer bag on the floor, and declared cheerfully, “It’s time to get up!”
So here I am.
En route to 200 West 45th Street on Thursday afternoon for a matinee show of The Lion King because, as Gloria declares, “ Nobody can stay down with The Lion King .”
This is the show Gran took us to after Mom passed. Right when we’d first arrived in the city. I remember the moment Timon
and Pumbaa cracked their first joke. It was the first time I’d smiled in weeks. I remember seeing Gran watching me out of
the corner of her eye, and as it happened, I could see her body sink into the plush red chair with her exhale. Like she was
taking her first breath after too long as well.
The Lion King was the first reminder that we could get through this.
That life, while at times terrible, hard, and unpredictable, could never keep goodness from poking through the ground too.
So.
I said yes to Gloria.
Before heading to the show we ate at The Watchtower, one of the—according to Gloria’s fun facts—23,650 restaurants in the city. We ordered a full English breakfast and stuffed ourselves until we couldn’t eat a bite
more.
“You in pain too?” Gloria asks now, pointedly ignoring the message from Jack that just flashed on my phone. We stop at the
crosswalk to wait for the passing stream of taxis and buses.
“I should’ve kept the leggings on.” I tug at the waistband of my faithful corduroy skirt. “I feel like I’ve swallowed a whale.”
“The body knows what it needs,” Gloria says in one of her little quips, as though this solves everything. She often likes to say, “The body knows what it needs,” to justify everything from three pounds of mashed potatoes in a sitting to a gallon of ice cream. “Cravings are just urgent messages” is another.
“So,” she says.
Then she leaves off.
Lets the word hang in the air.
Waiting for me to grab it.
I purse my lips together.
The flow of traffic eases and I begin to walk with the crowd across the street.
It’s not until we are pulling out our phones again to scan the tickets—and we see two more messages—that she breaks. “How
many times has Jack messaged you?”
“I know no Jack.”
“But what? Has he called you five times in the past week? Ten?”
“I don’t know. I don’t keep track.”
Twelve calls a day. Every hour on the dot after eight.
The texts come less frequently, and when they come they are in spurts.
I do my best to keep my wits about me and not read them. Any of them. And the voice mail filled up after the first day. I
haven’t listened to those either.
“Aren’t you even a little curious? Just to hear him out... for a moment?”
“No,” I reply firmly, more firmly than I intended, actually.
The topic isn’t up for discussion.
It’s why I haven’t gone back home. On the chance he does drive over to my apartment, he won’t find me. Or at work. Considering Gran is expecting me to be off another week anyway, for those suspicious undisclosed
reasons she didn’t trust (rightfully, as it happened), he won’t find me there either.
I make a mental note to tell Gran the whole thing tomorrow.
Gloria looks a little chastened, and I add, a little softer, “I can’t even let myself entertain the thought I could talk to him, Gloria. This is what he does. He’s a master at persuasion. But the facts
are laid bare. He lied to me for a year with a straight face. No doubt the whole two years. I can’t imagine what he’s capable of.”
“I know. I just...” Gloria’s voice trails away as we sit in our seats. “I just... can’t imagine everything he’s done the past two years was because he was trying to use you. I’ve seen a thousand bad guys in court, Bryony. And let
me tell you, none of them joined bowling leagues.”
It’s painful to hear her speak like this, in his defense. It actually physically hurts my heart.
It’s best not to think. To keep the world in straight lines, black and white. To keep to the rules of common sense. And rule 1 is: People
who care about you don’t lie.
Surreptitiously I check my email a dozen times during the show.
While the giraffes are walking on stilts.
As Rafiki makes everyone laugh with her antics.
During the great, horrible scene of the final battle.
Nothing.
Not a single email from anyone.
Over the past week I have been spending half my time in self-loathing on the couch with a bag of chips and the other half
emailing every agent and editor under the sun.
That part has been... challenging.
Half the respectable agents in the world seem to be at Jack’s agency, and the other half seem to declare they are “not taking
on representation at this time” and follow the general “don’t call us, we’ll call you if we really want you” rule. Makes sense.
The world is crawling with writers, and with social media being so popular, all they have to do is plug in “person with a
million followers whom we can convince to write a book—or smile while we hire a ghostwriter,” and there you go.
And yes, I read and reread my contract a few times, and the most frustrating part of it all is, mum’s the absolute word on the only shortcut I could possibly take. I could be sued for every penny I have now and henceforth forevermore for
revealing to anyone ( particularly in writing) that I am Amelia’s ghostwriter.
And believe me, I’ve tried alluding.
But the challenge is, it’s nearly impossible to sound humble and successful at the same time with vague words. Without being
able to give specific figures, I just sound ridiculous.
It’s gone more or less like this:
Dear so-and-so,
My name is Bryony Page, and while my name is unpublished, I write in the genre of romance and there is a high likelihood you have read my books. And seen them on billboards.
And at the top of certain lists. For long periods of time.
I have a special project I’d love to discuss with you regarding my own manuscript. I’m pressed for time, so could you please
message me at your earliest convenience and we can discuss?
With warmth and thanks,
Bryony Page
No socials.
No website.
No backlist of books.
So. As you can see, I’m a real winner. I waffle back and forth in my methods, half of them like this, the other the opposite,
just in case.
Dear so-and-so,
My name is Bryony Page and I write books. I did have an agent up till recently, but he broke my heart and has proven to be a lying, cheating pig. But rest assured, I am capable of making you proud. I hope.
Please give me a chance.
Please, please, please please please.
Bryony Page
Again, no socials to refer to.
No website.
No backlist of books.
I mean, it’s really a wonder they aren’t pounding down my door.
As the curtain falls and the applause tapers off, Gloria looks over to me with hopeful eyes. Hoping to see that yes, The Lion King has cured everything. Every single problem in my life.
I fake the biggest smile I can muster for her sake and carry on clapping longer than most.
When she finally reaches for her purse, I do the same. Honestly, I feel like the couch is calling me.
“How about we pop by that little store that has all those candles before we head home? I’ve been wanting to get a few more
beeswax tapers.”
Gloria does not need more candles. No, Gloria needs a label maker and a storage bin so she can remember where exactly she
has her hundred tapers at home and no longer “pops in” to buy more candles once a week.
Honestly, though, I’m pretty sure she just likes having a reason to shop so much that she would just “forget” where the candle
bin was anyway.
I agree for her sake, and we make our way to Glow. Gloria insists we walk, despite the fact that it’s at least a forty-minute
stroll, and I’m fairly certain she’s masterminding the whole plan just to get some vitamin D on my face and fresh air in my
lungs.
The stretch does feel good, however. I’ll give her that.
My legs welcome the movement after the hibernation that has lasted the week and, honestly, most of the week before that. All those hours on the bus were constraining. People romanticize road trips, but the long hours confined to sitting or pacing the narrow five feet are enough to make the average person feel anxious and an outdoorsy person absolutely feral.
It doesn’t take too long to get off the beaten path, and once we tuck ourselves into the quieter strips of the city, I can
feel myself taking in deeper breaths. Letting my thoughts wander from the topic pressing on the forefront of my mind for the
first time in a long time.
Gloria turns us onto Mary Street, and I know she’s done it on purpose. I always love this street. Rows of townhomes in various
colors of brick with grand arches over bay windows and concrete decorations on front lawns. Little pots with lemon trees sitting
out for the summer by front doors and window boxes on second and third levels covered in dangling ivy. Ivory curtains pulled
back to showcase impressive living spaces. Artwork in big, gaudy golden frames.
These are the kind of people who wrap their TV in a golden frame and hide it among a wall of framed art. I’m certain that
half the people on this street end up going to the Boston Marathon each year, because every time we walk here tenants are
either going for or coming from a jog. Maybe it’s part of a clause on their HOA contract. Maybe below the section about mandatory
wrapping of TVs in gold frames it says: Must run twenty miles a week.
Gloria and I like to have conversations about the rooms, deciding which homes we’d take for ours. Critiquing the expensive
interiors as if we ourselves weren’t living in flats with electronic keyboards tucked underneath our beds. Considering quite
seriously if that color of oak around their banisters was the right choice when carpet covers our own floors. It’s always
a fun game.
Sometimes, after we’ve picked our own homes, we play the game again, but for others.
“Gran would absolutely pick that one, no question,” Gloria says fervently, pointing at the door with the golden squirrel knocker.
“She would not. She’d never go for that color brick. It’s pink .”
“It’s salmon ,” Gloria says.
“Just another word for pink.”
An older man at the house two doors down locks his door and descends the steps. “You’re both wrong,” he says, passing by.
“She says it’s strawberry gelato.”
“Thank you!” Gloria calls after him, and without turning, he drops his hand to his side for a little wave.
I imagine he gets this kind of thing a lot.
No doubt the pink versus salmon debate is a hotly discussed topic down on Mary Street.
I’m smiling slightly when I feel the vibration in my pocket.
And it jolts me back to reality.
To the angst.
To the reminders of what all is going on.
To the world outside debates of pink brick.
I pull out my phone, bracing myself as I pull up the notification. Calm down, Bryony. It’s probably a spam email about some “vital eye cream discovered in the algae of a mysterious lake.” Or a reminder that “with only four payments of $650, you too can own this deluxe water desk with real goldfish!”
But then my heart stops beating.
It’s from Florence Peters.
Dear Bryony,
I’m so sorry for rushing off the other day and thank you so much for reaching out—I was just thinking about how I wished I had your contact information to do just the same thing, so your message is convenient timing! It was lovely meeting you, and of course any client of Jack’s is a welcome friend of mine. Would love to talk more about this intriguing manuscript of yours. How about the three of us set something up? I can email Jack if you prefer we discuss through him. I’ll be traveling for a work conference at the end of next week but am fairly flexible until I leave on the 6th. Would you be free to squeeze in lunch beforehand? If not I can make myself available after the 12th.
Looking forward to it!
Florence Peters
Senior Acquisitions Editor
Brooks Publishing
“Make myself available.” Those three key words tell me everything I need to know.
Shift the power holder in the conversation.
Put a wonderful, terrific spin on it.
She wants to work with me. No doubt because of Jack and the clientele he picks up. We are little commodities to the world. Or perhaps,
better yet, he is a finder of unique and uncommon goods, and his job is to scour the earth picking up special little trinkets
full of possibility. All his trinkets (clients) are usually snapped up by publishers before the ink has dried on the author-agent
contracts.
I must be a rare find.
Florence must think that.
Heart racing, I’m whipping out a reply as fast as I can as all the while thoughts rip by in the back of my mind. Please don’t email Jack. Please don’t pause for a moment and decide to email Jack.
I know it’s unconventional talking directly to the author. Informing the agent of a meeting instead of working through him
to get something set up.
Agents get very particular about these kinds of things.
And editors tend to be very careful, at least in the beginning before contracts are made, to follow suit.
So all I can do is hope and pray she doesn’t go ahead and send Jack a respectful “heads-up, I replied to your author” email.
I feel Gloria over my shoulder shamelessly watching as I type. It takes me four rewrites, along with Gloria’s frequent “you
missed an s there—oh, I see now, never mind” backseat commentaries before I finally get it how I like.
“What d’you think?” I let Gloria look it over before I press the definitive Send.
She puts on her most serious face and gives it a long look. Honestly, if she had them, I’m certain she would pull out glasses
and put them on just to look intelligent. “I think it’s perfect. And perfect timing too. Send.” She blows out a happy breath,
beaming at me. “What a relief, huh?”
“Well, we still have a few months before Gran announces closing, but agreed,” I say, my eyes going down the lines one more
time. “It’s such whiplash in publishing. All slow, slow, slow until— bam— things move at the speed of light. To be honest,” I say with a jittery chuckle, “I was a little worried it would take much
more time than we had. I mean, of course I know this is all still a long shot,” I add, seeing Gloria’s face. “I’m not deceiving
myself—too much. But I really believe this can happen —”
“No, I mean I’m glad it’s happening for you , Bryony.”
Frowning, I look up. “What?”
“Because I couldn’t bear to see you out of both jobs simultaneously,” Gloria says, her voice softer.
I pause. “Well. There’s still hope. This is hope.” I point to Florence’s name on the email bar. “This is Florence Peters. She’s one of the best. If we can get a contract
to happen—”
“It’ll still be too late for The Bridge.”
I am so startled by her, dare I say, traitorous words that are delivered so calmly.
Of course it’s not too late. “No, if we just speed this along—”
“What do you think will happen? You’ll become a zillionaire overnight?” She smiles softly.
“No.” I frown. “I was hoping for something much more reasonable. I only need a few million.”
Gloria gives a choking laugh. “Right. Just a few.”
“Not from me . Not an advance . But if we had a spread all about The Bridge on the back, and an author’s note where I explain everything at the front, and
I really dig into it during publicity and marketing tours, then maybe word will spill around and enough of the right people could come forward, caring about the project, and—”
“Bryony.” Gloria puts her hand on my arm. Stills me. She takes a breath, letting the pause clear my head. “I’m happy Florence
is reaching out, but not because of The Bridge. For you .”
I can’t believe her there. I’m shaking my head. “See, I just can’t believe that. If you think that way, you lose. You lose
before you give it your all and really try —”
“Gran made the announcement.” Gloria presses her lips together. Eyes me solemnly. “She made the announcement last week while
you were gone. She said she didn’t think it right to wait any longer when everyone could start trying to get new employment
plans going.”
“But... but they’re still not closing until January.”
“October.”
“ October now?” I say with a sinking heart. “October?”
“It was the best she could do, she said. The building owner said he can’t let it for any longer than that. He said he could
let them have it for a few more months, but that’s it.” Gloria pulls a face. Drops a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Bryn.
I told Gran not to tell you.”
“Why?”
“We talked and... she heard that you were back and... well, we agreed that it would be best to wait a little while.
Recover from one blow before you get hit with another.”
“And if... and if all the teachers leave before then? If they find other jobs now?”
Gloria shrugs. “You know Gran. She told everyone to take care of their families. Themselves. She understands if anyone finds
somewhere else they can go and goes there. Actually, she’s already started writing recommendation letters.”
“And if enough teachers go?”
“Then I guess The Bridge will have to shut down early.” She sees my blanched face and throws out a hand. “Or I don’t know. Knowing you, you’ll end up trying to one-room schoolhouse it and take all the students under your wing.”
An image of two hundred students stuffed inside one classroom, every level from the 1a, fresh-off-the-boat newbies, to the
5b, GED-prep students working on their essays, all listening to my words—some with zero comprehension, the others bored. I’d
have to work overtime, triple, maybe quadruple on the lesson plans. I could do it.
I could make that work.
For the semester.
But then...
I shake my head with fresh determination. Return my attention to the email I’m almost ready to send to Florence.
Delete the final, fuzzy words and switch to a new plan. A simple question.
What luck! I’m in the city. Are you free this afternoon?
I press Send.
My hands are sweaty.
Heart racing even as I try to calm myself down.
This. Means. Nothing.
So what if Gran demonstrated her thoughtfulness by making sure all the staff got themselves as prepped as possible for the changes
to come?
So what if the deadline for a miracle is now pretty much immediately instead of almost immediately .
So what if things have gone from almost impossible to exactly .00001 percent chance away from impossible?
There’s still time.
She can just... eat her words if my plan turns out.
That’s all.
And she’d be thrilled to do so at that.
They’d taste like cake going down.
The kind of cake people in these townhomes buy, the ones with fondant icing in intricate shapes of bouquets of roses.
“Bryony?” Gloria is looking at me with a dubious expression, half-wondering from the looks of it if she’s broken me. I suppose
that’s fair.
After all, I’m smiling slightly.
Smiling as I picture ( yes, perhaps a little bizarrely ) the thrill on Gran’s face if—when—this glorious news comes to fruition.
Because I have a date with Florence Peters.
Now all I have to do is convince her that this book is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
And above all, keep Jack out of it.