Publications. A new imprint of Apex, she explained, that specialized in topical books of particular news value. Gideon was going to launch the imprint. Even as fiction it would be news.
“When you deliver a satisfactory manuscript, you’ll get another check for a hundred and fifty thousand. Since I’ll also pay you an additional fifty grand for your novel, you’ll make out quite nicely. The contracts are being drawn up as we speak. But lawyers take forever, and I don’t have forever. I need to start right away. I suppose we’ll have to find you a new agent, too, won’t we?”
Carl was speechless. This woman was handing him the keys to the magic kingdom. She was saying, Come right on in—you belong .
“So,” she said. “Here’s the question: Would you like to make a quarter of a million dollars, have a number-one best-seller, and have the best publisher in New York throwing her weight behind you?”
Carl didn’t have to respond to that one. He knew what his answer was, and so did she.
Instead he stepped over to her wall of black glass book-shelves and removed an object he’d been eyeing since the moment he’d come into the apartment. He held it in his hand, stroking it, almost as if it were alive. It was a small golden statue. An Oscar.
“Is it real?” he asked.
“I don’t have anything that’s not real,” she told him.
“You won this?”
“I bought it. At an auction at Christie’s.”
He took his eyes off of the magical statue and looked at her, baffled. “Why?” he wondered.
“Because I always wanted one. And, in case you haven’t realized it by now, I always get what I want.”
She now removed a final item from her briefcase: a business card, which she also handed him. “There’s a number written on the bottom. It’s my personal cell phone. If you need me, call me there. Don’t ever go through the Apex switchboard. Don’t ever leave your name on an answering machine. And don’t even think about coming here again unless I invite you, and if I do, it won’t be for professional purposes. Officially I don’t know you. Officially you do not exist.” She held out the card, and he took it. Her hand lingered in his a moment longer than it needed to. When she spoke next, her voice was a low, sexy growl. “But unofficially, Carl, I may still have to fuck you.”
Carl Granville put the Oscar back in its proper place on the shelf, then took her card and stuck it in his shirt pocket.
“Please,” he said. “Call me Granny.”
* * *
Several years ago, when he first moved to New York to become a writer, Carl had fantasized about that special day when he would at long last sell his first novel, Getting Kiddo . This was no idle fantasy on his part; he’d worked long and hard on refining and perfecting every detail. There were, he’d decided after much thought, three things he would do.
First, he would phone his mother and tell her the news. After all, she was his biggest—and for years and years his only—believer. His father? His father felt Carl should have gone to a proper, responsible business school and gotten a proper, responsible job. Preferably on that called for wing-tip shoes.
Second, he would buy himself a leisurely, solitary lunch at Tony’s, a cozy neighborhood Italian restaurant on West Seventy-ninth Street that was his absolute favorite haunt. he knew exactly what he was going to order, too—a green salad, ravioli with homemade sausages, cannoli for dessert, a bottle of Chianti.
Third, he would split a very expensive bottle of Moët & Chandon champagne with his special lady. They would toast to Getting Kiddo , then they’d make love until dawn.
It was, he reflected now, still a lovely fantasy. Which was too damned bad, because his mother was dead, Tony’s was now a shoe store, and there was no lady in his life, special or otherwise. It was, he reflected, awfully damned strange how the world can change around you.
Briefly he thought about calling his father
“When you deliver a satisfactory manuscript, you’ll get another check for a hundred and fifty thousand. Since I’ll also pay you an additional fifty grand for your novel, you’ll make out quite nicely. The contracts are being drawn up as we speak. But lawyers take forever, and I don’t have forever. I need to start right away. I suppose we’ll have to find you a new agent, too, won’t we?”
Carl was speechless. This woman was handing him the keys to the magic kingdom. She was saying, Come right on in—you belong .
“So,” she said. “Here’s the question: Would you like to make a quarter of a million dollars, have a number-one best-seller, and have the best publisher in New York throwing her weight behind you?”
Carl didn’t have to respond to that one. He knew what his answer was, and so did she.
Instead he stepped over to her wall of black glass book-shelves and removed an object he’d been eyeing since the moment he’d come into the apartment. He held it in his hand, stroking it, almost as if it were alive. It was a small golden statue. An Oscar.
“Is it real?” he asked.
“I don’t have anything that’s not real,” she told him.
“You won this?”
“I bought it. At an auction at Christie’s.”
He took his eyes off of the magical statue and looked at her, baffled. “Why?” he wondered.
“Because I always wanted one. And, in case you haven’t realized it by now, I always get what I want.”
She now removed a final item from her briefcase: a business card, which she also handed him. “There’s a number written on the bottom. It’s my personal cell phone. If you need me, call me there. Don’t ever go through the Apex switchboard. Don’t ever leave your name on an answering machine. And don’t even think about coming here again unless I invite you, and if I do, it won’t be for professional purposes. Officially I don’t know you. Officially you do not exist.” She held out the card, and he took it. Her hand lingered in his a moment longer than it needed to. When she spoke next, her voice was a low, sexy growl. “But unofficially, Carl, I may still have to fuck you.”
Carl Granville put the Oscar back in its proper place on the shelf, then took her card and stuck it in his shirt pocket.
“Please,” he said. “Call me Granny.”
* * *
Several years ago, when he first moved to New York to become a writer, Carl had fantasized about that special day when he would at long last sell his first novel, Getting Kiddo . This was no idle fantasy on his part; he’d worked long and hard on refining and perfecting every detail. There were, he’d decided after much thought, three things he would do.
First, he would phone his mother and tell her the news. After all, she was his biggest—and for years and years his only—believer. His father? His father felt Carl should have gone to a proper, responsible business school and gotten a proper, responsible job. Preferably on that called for wing-tip shoes.
Second, he would buy himself a leisurely, solitary lunch at Tony’s, a cozy neighborhood Italian restaurant on West Seventy-ninth Street that was his absolute favorite haunt. he knew exactly what he was going to order, too—a green salad, ravioli with homemade sausages, cannoli for dessert, a bottle of Chianti.
Third, he would split a very expensive bottle of Moët & Chandon champagne with his special lady. They would toast to Getting Kiddo , then they’d make love until dawn.
It was, he reflected now, still a lovely fantasy. Which was too damned bad, because his mother was dead, Tony’s was now a shoe store, and there was no lady in his life, special or otherwise. It was, he reflected, awfully damned strange how the world can change around you.
Briefly he thought about calling his father
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