Chapter 5 A Proposition
A Proposition
“Branksome’s sophomore novel leaked, publication pushed back”
An extract of the much-anticipated second novel from literary wunderkind Jack Branksome has leaked, and critics—and the public—are underwhelmed.
The eighteen-hundred-word passage, which appears to be the opening of the book, or at least the opening of a chapter, features four unnamed characters staring out separate windows of the same airplane.
Branksome, the only child of celebrated novelist Arthur Branksome, exploded onto the literary scene when his debut novel, In Time, became a runaway critical and commercial success.
He experienced a backlash when he famously declined an invitation by Hollywood actress and producer Blair Kellermoon to feature his book in her book club.
Kellermoon’s audience is largely female, and her Books with Blair picks often enter her page-to-screen pipeline.
Branksome’s agent, Wyatt Atkins, released a statement addressing the leak. “Works in progress are just that—works in progress. I invite critics to suspend judgment until the novel is published.”
Branksome’s publisher confirms that publication of the as-yet-untitled novel has been pushed back six months, but it is unclear whether the adjusted publication timeline is related to the leak.
Blair: I read about the leak. I’m so sorry.
Another amazing thing that happened that October—and this time Jack meant amazing in the literal sense of the word, as in “capable of inspiring awe”—was that his fucking book leaked.
That was the first time Blair started a conversation. They’d been continuing to spin their web of compatibility for a nearly a month now, texting every couple of nights, but he had always been the initiator.
Jack: The worst part is, I thought it was good.
Blair: Maybe it was.
Jack: Well, you read it, didn’t you? Was it good?
The answer was no, it was not good, though he couldn’t really say why. He had thought it was good, when it was on his computer screen. But somehow, the same eighteen hundred words on Reddit—which he had also read through his computer screen—had hit completely differently.
Blair: I didn’t read it.
Jack: What? Why not?
That sounded conceited in a way he hadn’t intended, as if he couldn’t believe she wouldn’t have wanted to read his precious words. He started to type a clarification.
Blair: I didn’t read it because I figured it would be out of context.
Blair: Kind of like your line about my “little projects.”
That last text came with an emoji of a person winking and sticking their tongue out.
Jack was not an emoji person. He found them lazy and juvenile.
But he appreciated that he and Blair could joke about something that, a short while ago, had been a source of shame for him, so eff him if he didn’t text back a little eye-rolling person.
His first-ever use of an emoji. It only took him five minutes to find it.
He also appreciated that Blair hadn’t read the leaked pages. Though in an odd twist, she was one of the few people he could stand to imagine reading them. He thought she would understand what he’d intended, even if he hadn’t hit his marks.
Blair: Do you know how it leaked?
Jack: I have no idea. I never show my works in progress to anyone. The only person I can think of who’s been in my place in the last few months is Teddy Knight.
Blair: The musician?
Jack: We were artists in residence at a summer camp this past summer where he wrote an album and I did not write a book.
Blair: I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you’re friends with a rock star. So what are you saying, Teddy Knight leaked your book? Maybe you need better friends.
The truth was, Jack didn’t really have friends. Unless you counted Blair. Which he was mildly shocked to realize he did.
Jack: No, no. It must have been some kind of hacking.
Blair: Well, it’s unfortunate, but what can you do but keep going?
Jack: I could start over.
Blair: Sometimes that’s the best thing. You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.
He rolled his eyes, but he considered the advice encased in that metaphor. If he started over, he had nothing, and the ides of March was not getting any further away.
Blair: What’s this about the publication being pushed back six months?
Jack: The extension to March 15 supposedly wasn’t going to affect the original publication date. Given that I’m still—theoretically—turning it in then, I don’t know what’s changed.
He hadn’t asked. Because he hadn’t wanted to know.
Jack: I suspect they’ve lost faith in my ability to deliver on the March 15 date—they probably read the subpar leaked pages—and are using the chaos of the leak to build in some cushioning.
Blair: So maybe this is an opportunity to take some of the pressure off, push the deadline again.
Jack. No. I’m not doing that.
She was probably about to deploy a Southernism, a Georgia version of Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face.
It would likely involve pigs and/or biscuits.
He understood that he was probably coming off as unnecessarily obstinate, but his pride would not allow him to ask for another extension.
His pride would not allow him to need another extension.
His phone rang with an incoming call, and he tensed. He kept waiting for his father to call about the leak, but it hadn’t happened yet.
This call wasn’t his father, but his mother. He let it ring to voicemail.
His back was killing him. He got up for some Advil.
After that, sometimes Blair initiated their chats.
Blair: I’m thinking of you because my latest New Yorker was accidentally delivered to my problematic neighbor’s house.
Jack: You have a problematic neighbor?
Blair: Yep. She’s always lurking. But she seems also to hate me. It’s a weird combo. She got disproportionately mad when she got my magazine by accident. I’m not sure why she didn’t just throw it away. I wouldn’t have missed it—as you know, I’m perpetually behind on The New Yorker.
Blair: Have you learned anything about the leak?
Jack: I have not. My publisher hired a forensic IT person who came up with nothing except he told me to change all my passwords to unique strings of nonsense letters and characters.
Blair: And did you?
Jack: I did not. I’m too busy not writing my book.
Blair: I thought it was going better.
Jack: It was going better before the leak. Now…
He hated being so simple. If A, then B. Can’t write book, back hurts. Was he a man or a child?
Blair: Does your back hurt?
How did she do that?
Jack: Yes. My back hurts, and my book is due in five months and I have nothing.
Several minutes passed with no indication that she was going to reply.
She did that sometimes, disappeared mid-conversation.
It irritated him, but he thought back to that fucking New Yorker article and had to admit that perhaps he was not the ultimate authority on texting etiquette.
He was also aware that Blair Kellermoon owed him nothing.
That she had turned into his de facto shrink/writing coach was more than he deserved.
Jack had been getting ready to go downstairs to the condo gym for a stretching session.
His back pain had, of late, precluded lifting—so it was just as well that he’d gone ahead and quit his expensive gym—which meant he was a person who stretched now, for fuck’s sake.
He had just resolved to stop staring at his phone and actually go when she reappeared.
Blair: I have a proposition for you.
He sat down on the bench in his entryway, one shoe on, one shoe off.
Jack: I’m all ears.
Hell, if she asked again for In Time for Books with Blair, he would probably say yes, even as he understood that to do so purely for the money would make him the worst sort of hypocrite.
Blair: Move into my pool house and finish the book.
What the hell?
He wasn’t sure how to respond. The last place he could see himself finishing his book was next to a pool in Los Angeles. Next to Blair Kellermoon’s pool in Los Angeles.
Blair: It’s a studio apartment, but it’s big—sleeping area, sitting area, kitchen. There’s a dining table where you could work.
Blair: I will leave you alone. You won’t even see me.
He had no idea what to say. She had struck him dumb.
Blair: You’d be doing me a favor.
That was unexpected. And it piqued his curiosity, as so much about her did.
Jack: How so?
Blair: I’m a new empty nester. I’m lonely.
That was also unexpected. Yet it wasn’t. She was always home and available to text at dinnertime. She’d told him she was recently divorced and that her younger kid was newly off to college.
Jack: So shouldn’t you let yourself be lonely?
Blair: Why would I do that?
Jack: Because it’s an authentic emotional state. A necessary part of being human.
Blair: No it’s not.
Jack: Sometimes you can’t avoid it.
Blair: Yes you can.
Jack: How?
Blair: Surround yourself with people, duh. You only got one oar in the water or what?
He smiled to himself.
Blair: How do you not know that the cure to loneliness is people? Don’t you have a master’s degree?
Jack: It was an MFA. No correlation with actual intelligence.
Blair: Can you get your money back?
He wondered if she was jokingly insulting him now because she felt she’d told him too much.
In some ways, their texting had created a shortcut to intimacy.
They’d gotten to know each other without all the bullshit that often came with social interactions.
It reminded him of the letters he and his childhood friend Allie used to exchange during the school year when he lived in Minneapolis with his mom.
But in other ways, he and Blair didn’t know each other. He knew she loved books, but not which ones. He knew her kids were in college, but not their names or majors. He knew Green Light was dead, but not what other projects she had on the go.
She knew he couldn’t write his fucking book, but she didn’t know what it was about—or, given that it didn’t exist, what it was supposed to be about.