The phone rang. Fred picked up sluggishly, a woozy fighter dumbly wading in for the final punishing blows. “Hello?”
“Fred? It’s Janice. Bart’s calling.”
“Okay,” he said slowly, but she was already off and Bart was on:
“Fred? Did you hear from Bob?”
“Yes. He just called.”
“He’s really excited. I think we’ve got a deal.”
“Really?” Fred asked in disbelief.
“Wasn’t that your impression?” Bart said, his voice impatient. “What did he say?”
“Well, he said he liked the idea — actually he said ‘concept’—but he didn’t think the outline had—”
“Oh yeah,” Bart said, bored, as if this came as no surprise. “He doesn’t think the outline is right. You and I discussed that. Remember, Fred? Not making the hero Jewish. Setting it somewhere other than New York. Bob has some other ideas. He said he wanted to meet with you. Did he arrange a meeting?”
“Yes. I’m seeing him at eleven. But he didn’t say why.”
“Well, that’s the reason. He wants to tell you some of his ideas and see if you guys are in sync. If so, then I think you’ve got a deal.”
“Huh,” Fred said. He wanted to ask if he would have to write another proposal after talking with Holder about his ideas, but he felt inhibited, as if the question was impolite, as if he were prying into affairs that weren’t his business.
“Okay, Fred. I think we’re rolling. Call me after the meeting.”
“Sure. ‘Bye. Thank you.” But Fred was already talking into silence. Was everybody else speeded up, or was he moving in slow motion?
He finally poured himself a coffee — it seemed a century ago that he had decided to make himself a cup — and drank it. He stood there like the victim of an accident: in shock, unable to fully remember the details or understand the consequences of a terrifying crash. Was this good news? Or was it simply no news? If Holder wanted a brand-new outline with all the plotting changed, why did that mean he was close to a deal? If he failed to write the new outline satisfactorily. Holder would end up turning it down. Why was Bart so pleased by these events? Why was Holder behaving so eagerly and expressing so much excitement, if he didn’t like the outline? There was nothing to be excited about except the outline. The situation made no sense to Fred.
And yet he wanted to believe.
He finished his coffee and realized the meeting was only an hour away.
He began to feel alive. His senses seemed to turn on all at once. His stomach growled, his heart pounded, his mind began to replay the two telephone conversations, and soon he was hurrying to shower, shave, and dress, worried he would be late, worried he wouldn’t be sharp and clever at the meeting, worried that he would blow it, blow his one chance, his only hope.
By the time he hailed a cab to go to Holder’s office, he was a nervous wreck. He entered the editorial reception area for Garlands and asked for Bob Holder tentatively, prepared to be told that Bob Holder had no idea who he was or why he would want to see someone named Fred Tatter.
But he was cheerfully informed that he was expected and that Bob’s assistant would be right out to guide him through the tortuous dusky-glass-walled, gray-carpeted halls to Bob Holder’s corner office with its canyonlike view of Sixth Avenue. And all this happened quickly, too quickly almost. Fred found himself seated across from Holder, nervously fumbling for a cigarette while telling the assistant that he wanted milk in his coffee. Holder sat at his desk, leaning forward on his elbows, looking at him with keen delight, like a kid eagerly ready to play a tough game of Monopoly.
Holder was a plump fellow in his early thirties, his curly hair cut short, so that it seemed tense, a boiling surface for a restless overheated brain. He was squeezed into a gray woolen sweater that made his biceps look powerful and outlined his well-fed belly; and the elbows were well-worn, the right one even showing a bit of his white-and-red-striped Brooks Brothers shirt. His desk was clear, but behind him on built-in shelves beneath his windows were mounds of manuscripts. A large appointment book was open beside the phone and the month was marked with meetings — a whole hour with him seemed luxurious.
“You’re just as I pictured you,” Holder said with a mischievous, energetic smile. Fred kept expecting to be challenged to a friendly arm-wrestling contest.
Fred nodded uncertainly.
“Tell me how you see your book,” Holder went on, and leaned back, putting his arms behind his head and looking pleasantly expectant.
“Uh …” Fred lit his cigarette. He felt like a teenager doing it. As if he were unused to smoking. “Well, I think I say it in the outline. I want to show how all this modern stuff about women and sex is basically bullshit. You can’t fight the fact that men, when they start feeling old or beat in some way, feel like screwing around. And it doesn’t mean they don’t love their wives or that their lives are bad.”
“Are you saying—”
The assistant entered with a cup of coffee for Fred. Holder went on talking. Fred took the cup and felt embarrassed that she might have heard what he said. She was a woman. What if she told Holder it was a disgusting idea? He made a point of thanking her, remembering Marion’s bitching about how casually assistants are treated. She did seem pleased, but Fred missed what Holder said.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “What did you say?”
Holder frowned and let his chair tip forward so he was back to his combative attitude: arms on the desk, leaning toward Fred aggressively. “You’re going to go after … you know, marriage counseling, therapy — be honest — all that.”
Fred hesitated. Maybe Holder didn’t agree with his point of view. Maybe Holder didn’t like the outline because he once had an affair, now regrets it, made up with his wife— he looked and saw a wedding ring on Holder’s left hand— but it was too late anyway because Fred had already nodded yes.
“Great!” Holder said, leaning back and smiling. “That’s what makes this a good book. Get a lot of controversy. Get people talking. We can even get something that’s always a marketing problem with novels, namely some talk-show appearances, if we present it as a kind of confessional from you about how modern young men are. You know, the women writers always get that kind of subsidiary publicity on their books, ’cause they can go on talk shows and discuss their books like their books teach you how to live. Know what I mean?”
“Like The Women’s Room?”
“Yeah! Exactly. Though with you, we got a much better, much more salable presence. You know? You’d be great on Phil Donahue. Man, does that show sell books. I’ve just brought out Greenhouse. About the earth heating up, the ice caps melting. Well, we got the author on Donahue last week. Put the book right on the bestseller list.”
“Really? His show does that?”
“His show. Nightline, Good Morning America. The Today Show used to be great—”
“But since the ratings went down, they’re no good?”
“They’re still good. I don’t mean to say they don’t sell books.” Holder said this as if he were speaking in public, like a politician afraid to make clear statements. “But they’re not a top priority. Anyway, your book could attract all of them. And that’s great for me. I can really push within the house. I mean, it’s a terrible thing to admit, but a novelist who can get on a talk show is worth the talent of seven Tolstoys.”
Fred laughed appreciatively. “I gotta remember to quote you to my wife. She’s an editor at Goodson—”
“What’s her name?”
“Marion Tatter.”
Holder squinted. “I don’t know her.”