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“No,” Brenda said. “No, no way.” She opened a file on her desk and scrolled through the pages like she was in a race. “No!”
I tried to catch her eye to let her know I’d be right back. There was a Starbucks in the swanky marble lobby downstairs, and I figured if I just popped down to grab a giant extra-hot latte, I might survive. Plus, I knew I’d need the caffeine jolt if I was going to make it through an afternoon at Book Expo America. I could feel Brenda not looking at me. Like a waiter with too many tables, she had thrown up an invisible wall to deflect my raised eyebrows and head jerks.
“No!” she barked at some poor schmoh on the other end of the line.
Resigned, I told myself it couldn’t be longer than a few more minutes. I’d use the time to psych myself up.
I mean, she had to love my idea, right? I’d researched like a maniac, edited and re-edited it. I even paid that grad student ten bucks an hour, which I cannot afford, to proofread it. How could Brenda not shop it around to every editor in town?
I could just picture it. There would be a bidding war, I’d get a huge advance, and finally finally I’d have my name on the cover of a book. That would show Hank I was a real writer. And Jordan Silver. And that snivelly little Matty from my office.
I glanced at the clock on the wall. If she didn’t get off the phone soon, there’d be no time for Starbucks. Panting with nerves, I grabbed a rubber-band ball and rolled it around Monica’s desk. Monica Bigelow is Brenda’s partner, and like Brenda, she represents the books of a stable of well-known chefs including that sexy vegan woman with the dreads and the guy who all but invented gastro-science.
“What part of ‘Monica’s not reachable in Nepal’ don’t you understand? I’m the decider.” Brenda snapped. “It’s her daughter’s wedding, and she hasn’t taken a day off in five years. I told you I’m handling her contracts until she’s back, and I say no. We’re not using that drunk hack to write Tom O’Grady’s book. Tom’s a goddamn celebrity chef! He and his fiancé were Europe’s Kathy Lee and Regis.” She paused. “Whatever, Europe’s Beyoncé and Jay-Z then. It doesn’t matter, they were goddamn household names!” She listened for a second or two. “I know the show’s not on the air anymore. I know London’s not New York. I don’t care, “Health and Happiness Matters” was big news as a lifestyle show. People won’t forget it any time soon. Rumor has it that it’s going back on the air, and there’s talk of it coming to America. The point is, Tom agreed to a cookbook deal based on having first refusal on the writer, and your washed-up lush couldn’t meet a deadline if it shook his hand and asked him to dance!”
The sticky ball I was rolling around caught on the corner of a manila file folder. TOM O’GRADY, the tab said. I glanced at Brenda before easing it open. It held magazine clips, menus, press photos, and a bio sheet. ‘Personal and Confidential,’ the top of the sheet read.
Brenda swung her chair around toward me. I snapped the folder shut.
“Well, my 1 o’clock is sitting here, so this conversation is over,” she said into the phone. Finally, I thought, it’s my turn. I flashed her my most grateful smile. “What’s my final answer?” she asked, incredulous, holding the receiver about a foot from her face, and glaring at it. “No!” She stabbed a button on the phone and threw it onto her desk.
“So Brenda,” I began.
“I’m going to pee,” she said, standing up. “Hang tight.”
I watched her stride through the glass door into the outer office where the interns sat. An idea lit up my brain, and it was like seeing God. I could be the one to write Tom O’Grady’s book! Before I could think, I slid the folder into my grocery bag. I noticed the outline of it through the plastic, I realized. I needed to mask it. In one quick motion, I grabbed the pashmina off Brenda’s rack and shoved it in on top of the folder, tucking it around the corners.
Oh, man, I thought, prickling under my arms despite the arctic temperature. I’m going to get arrested, and then I’ll never make it back in time to catch the van to the Javits Center. The time! I sneaked a look at my phone for the time. 1:10. I turned off my ringer in case snotty little Matty tried to track me down. I had to get this show on the road. Luck was on my side. Brenda was barreling towards her seat. She must pee as fast as she talks. I pushed my grocery bag under my chair with my foot.
Landing heavily in her chair, Brenda shook her head at me. “I read your proposal about the New Adult guide…”
“Did you?” I asked. “Did you read it?”
She ignored me. “My final answer is no.” She turned back to her computer, turning sideways to me.
My heart sunk. “Why not?” I tried not to whine. “It’s smart, it’s on-trend, and you cannot say my sample chapter isn’t well written.”
She sighed a curt sigh. “If I start sending it around to editors, the first thing they’ll ask is what kind of traffic you have on your blog…”
“I can start a blog!”
“Even so, Shayla, these kinds of books get their sales through promo junkets and press tours.” She continued to scroll through her email. “I’m not saying the idea isn’t good, but look at you. You’re not right to be the face of it. Do you really see yourself on camera, charming the pants off Matt Lauer on a morning show at 6 a.m.?”
“It’s MY idea. I have written a good chunk of this particular book.”
“What I’m saying is, I can’t see you as a guest on some pre-Oscars show giving fashion and dating advice on the red carpet. Look at the state of you. You’re about as polished as a grad student from Bennington College. You write well, but why would anyone follow your advice if they don’t dream of being you? It’s aspirational. If you really want to do this, get a makeover, spend a year clubbing and getting your picture in the Post, try to go out with someone with name recognition, and maybe publish sexy, edgy articles like, I don’t know, like the ones in The Frisky.”
“That’s bullshit! It’s about the book. It’s a great idea and great writing.”
“I have a better idea, but you’re not going to like it,” Brenda said.
I braced myself. “Go on.”
“Why don’t we give this book to some hot celeb’s daughter? Like an au courant reality TV star or actress from an acting dynasty family? Or a poor little rich girl who grew up in high society, who needs to ditch the dog in her purse and prove to the world that she has substance?”
“How does that help me?”
“You would write it!”
“I don’t want to co-write my own book.”
“Not co-write, ghost-write. It would never work with your name on the cover.”
“No, it’s my idea, it’s my book, and it’s going to get my career started. It has to.”
“Well, I can’t represent it. Editors will want to know why they haven’t heard your name.”
“They haven’t heard my name because I don’t have a book out yet! That’s what a debut author is…new.”
“It’s a chicken-egg thing. Maybe in a year, if you build up a following.
I knew talking to Brenda about my book was hopeless. I had five minutes before I had to tear out of here and get back to meet the work van. I girded my loins, ready to make a bold proposition. “All right, then, let me co-write Ray’s next cookbook.”
“You know I can’t let you write for Ray Diablo. He’s big, big money and you don’t have a track record.” She stopped tying for a second and looked at me. “Do not call him behind my back.”
“I wouldn’t!” I said, sure that my face read as guilty. This whole meeting had been a disaster. I was about to leave with less than I’d come with. How could I possibly tell Maggie that Brenda suggested I ghost-write my own book? I had one more card to play before I folded.
“If you can’t let me write Ray’s book, let me write Tom O’Grady’s.”
She turned her chair to face me. “How do you know Tom O’Grady?”
“I’ve been a big fan of his since that show, uh, “Happiness…and To Your Health.” I trained my eye on Brenda to see if she was buying this. “Watched it all the time during my vaca…um, summer abroad in London. Besides, I love his recipes for like, Beef Wellington,” I said, naming the first dish that popped into my head, “and Turkey Tetrazzini,” I fumbled along, wondering if I’d gotten the name of that dish right.
She sat very still for a moment, wheels turning, then sighed. “He wants to break the contract and not do the book. He feels he lost control of the last book deal. The writer and editor didn’t know how to handle him. They let him think he was in charge.” Brenda hacked twice then. I think she was laughing. “Anyway, I pushed everyone on this new deal and it’s hanging by a thread. We’re already balls-deep in pre-production. The pitbull of an editor over at Parson Turner Publishing is counting on this book for her upscale, gourmet list. Tom O’Grady just needs to see it’s in his best interest to let the book people do our job and spin this into a package. He’s a chef, not an author. And what should he care, if it’s lining his pockets?”
“Maybe he wants to make sure his stamp is on it.” My mind whirred, trying to take in the whole story from every angle.
“It’s going to take more than Turkey Tetrazzini to please that bitch-on-wheels editor. The cover-brief buzzwords are ‘upscale,’ ‘nouveau,’ and ‘deconstructed.’ They’ve hired a photographer with a huge price tag, put it on the calendar, everything. I’m not going to look good if he drops out.”
“So, let me write it!”
“He’s been very difficult. After the book he hated pubbed, and some other stuff happened in London, the scuttlebutt is that he mistrusts slick, big-city types.”
“You just finished telling me I’m the opposite of a slick, big-city type.”
“You’re from New York. That’s a black mark. He didn’t get along with the last two writers we put forward to save this project. He wasn’t getting them recipes, he wasn’t keeping Skype appointments…”
I checked the wall clock. If I left in one minute, there might be a chance I’d make the van. “If I can get him on board, do I get my name on the cover as co-writer?”
She sighed. “Don’t get too excited. Even if you write the book, it has to be approved by Parson Turner. We don’t know how it’ll fly in the States; it’s mostly for the UK and Irish market.”
I knew a delicate moment had arrived. I smelled that she was going to say yes, if I just didn’t blow it. “But if I can get this written, you’ll give me cover credit?” I took a breath and pressed on. “And a 50/50 deal on advances and royalties?”
She looked resigned. “I can only try, but I think this one may be dead in the water.”
Yes!
“And if I deliver this book, and the editor loves it, which I know she will, will you consider giving me a crack at Ray Diablo’s next one?”
“Shayla, Ray Diablo is big potatoes…”
“I said ‘consider.’”
“Sure,” she said, with an eye roll. “I’ll consider it.” Time was ticking. I really had to get back to the office.
“So, about How to Be an Adult…”
“Don’t push it,” she cut me off. “Your dad’s cute but not that cute.”
I jumped to my feet, realizing it was better to quit while I was ahead. “Thank you so much for this chance, Brenda.”
“Tom still has to agree.”
“I’ll hunt him down and pin him to the ground if I have to.” I smiled, sharing the joke.
She didn’t smile back. “Just get it done.” She swiveled her chair back to face her screen. I waited for a beat, but apparently the meeting was over. I gathered my purse and bag, and hurried out, not bothering to say goodbye.
Rounding the last corner to the HPC building, I surveyed the street for the van as I ran. None. I didn’t dare slow down to pull out my phone and check the time, instead I hurtled my body through the revolving door and into the lobby. Flashing my ID badge at the desk, I pushed through the turnstile and yelled, “Hold it!” at the bank of elevators. Safely inside, I pressed my back to the wall, shut my eyes, and tried to breathe.
I hustled to my desk, looking around to make sure Matty or any other gossipy assistants weren’t hovering around. God, I hated it here. I’d been spanked for working on outside projects before. If I made this call to Ireland quickly and discreetly, I could have this deal sealed before I left for BEA. I didn’t need international calls on my phone bill. Money was tight enough as it was.
I pulled out my stolen folder. All I knew about Tom O’Grady’s was what I’d just overheard in Brenda’s office. I had my work cut out for me, I figured, to craft a best-selling cookbook featuring nothing but a bunch of beef stew and boiled potato recipes. And if he was the other side of the pond’s answer to Regis Philbin, the elfin, 80-year-old talk-show host, the food was going to have to be the focus.
I looked at the time on the desk phone. 2:05pm. All that rush was for nothing. I should have figured they’d be late. I could just see my boss’s back end through the crack in her open door. She was rooting around in a box of books on the floor. As soon as I made this call, I’d check in and let her know I was back from lunch. I’d offer to call the van service to see if they were en route.
Opening my folder, I saw a fact sheet on Tom O’Grady, clearly prepared by a publicist. Born in County Wexford, Ireland, attended hospitality school with an emphasis on culinary arts, then did a course at Ballymaloe Cookery School when he was only 17. A stint as a sous chef at La Gavroche in London, worked a year under Alice Waters in San Francisco. Impressive. Back to London, where he had his own place for a while in Soho, called Wild. Currently head chef at Grange Hall, the Michelin-rated restaurant on the grounds of Castle Stone, situated in the same village where he was born.
I punched in the number of the restaurant. I’d leave my name and number, then the ball would be in his court. I flipped through the folder as I listened to the tinny connection and the unfamiliar abrupt buzzing rings.
Date of birth…whoa, wait. He’s only 33? I shuffled the papers, looking for more facts.
“The Grange Hall. Can I help?”
“Oh, uh hi!” I said, focusing. “I’d like to speak to Tom O’Grady. This is Shayla Sheridan, calling from Brenda Sackler’s office.”
“Would you mind holding for a minute, then? Thanks very much.” A pleasant traditional Irish tune featuring a fiddle and a flute played while I waited.
Underneath the printed fact sheets lay some tear sheets from a magazine. There he was: Tom O’Grady. Twinkling aquamarine eyes squinting against the wind, thick and wavy dirty-blonde curls tousled and pushed back from his forehead. He had his arm draped around the neck of an enormous black and white cow, who posed solemnly for the photo. The green of the rolling field of grass and the blue of the sky blinded me. I examined the page more closely, trying to see if it was all a trick of retouching.
“Tom O’Grady here.” What? I never expected to get him on the phone.
“Hello, Mr. O’Grady,” I heard myself say. It sounded ridiculous and formal. The young man in the picture wearing a bone-colored Henley stretched tight across his shoulders and chest didn’t seem like a mister. He looked fresh and guileless. I’d just let him know how things were going to play out. Most “authors” who got books based on their brand appreciate that from their writers down in the trenches. This would all be wrapped up in a flash.
“Tom,” I amended, “I’m Shayla Sheridan, calling on behalf of Brenda Sackler in New York. I’ll be your new co-writer on the cookbook.”
“Will ya, now?”
“Um, yes, I will.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement in Lizbeth’s office. I needed to put this to bed and get back to my day job. “I’m available to start immediately. I think we should pencil in a Skype session to discuss chapter headings and recipe ideas immediately.”
“What did you say your name was?” I could hear the clinking of crockery and a drone of voices in the background.”
“Shayla Sheridan.”
“Well, Miss Sheridan, if you’d bothered yourself to look at my contract, you’d have seen that it says I have final say over who the writer is. Full stop. I didn’t choose you. I’m doing dinner service at the moment. Tell Brenda she’ll hear from me soon enough.”
“Wait! Tom!”
“Mr. O’Grady,” he said.
“Mr. O’Grady, please,” I begged. “I’m perfect for the job.”
“Oh? Why’s that, then?”
Because I wanted it so badly? Because it was the only shot I had? My brain bounced off the walls of my skull, trying to think of an acceptable answer. “I can send you a bio right now. I can literally have it to you in one minute.”
I fiddled nervously with the pile of papers from the folder. I found more photos: a beauty shot of a crown roast, complete with paper panties, a photo of world leaders from the G8 conference standing around a table laid with fine china and silver, a trio of lemon desserts plated so artistically you’d be ashamed to stick a fork in it.
“Your details will convince me that you’re the one for me, so?”
I knew the answer was no. Nervous, I flipped through more photos and came face to face with a tight headshot from the cover of Sustainable Gardens magazine. Tom O’Grady’s expression seemed wiser in this photo; there was a hint of old soul in the set of his jaw behind his closely trimmed beard. I noticed how his eyes were slightly lidded. Bedroom eyes, my mother would have called them. But with a steely resolve. For whatever reason, the word “revolutionary” flashed through my brain.
“My bio probably won’t convince you, even though I am more than qualified. But maybe my idea will.” I was winging it big time, but I forged on. “What if…” I struggled, thinking on my feet, “What if your cookbook…in addition to showcasing your skills as a gourmet chef…included, say, things you cook for your mom?”
Without warning, a lump grew in my throat as I flashed back to carrying a steaming bowl of chicken soup on a tray to my own mother. It was her favorite food and one of the few things she ever taught me to cook start to finish.
“That’s…” he began. There was a pause. “That sounds interesting, Miss Sheridan. I like it better than anything I’ve heard before, to be honest with you. But I’m sorry, since the last time I spoke to Brenda, I’ve decided to put a stop to the deal.”
A woman with dark hair and a shape similar to Lizbeth’s, but who was not Lizbeth, walked out of her office. Maybe someone from legal? It didn’t matter, if Lizbeth wasn’t in her office, where was she? A whoosh of adrenaline shot through my limbs, leaving my fingertips numb.
“Oh no, Tom…Mr. O’Grady…you can’t do that. You see, I…” My mind was racing. Everyone must already be at the Javits Center. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. I had 15 missed calls and texts coming in every 30 seconds to the tune of “where the hell are you?”
“You see, I just know I’m the one to write your book.” I hadn’t known this when I picked up the phone, but in the course of five minutes, this book had become my book. I had inklings of pages in my head. I didn’t have it yet, but I imagined a large pot of chicken and vegetable soup. Home.
“Sorry to disappoint, Miss Sheridan, but my mind is made up.” He paused for a moment. I sat stock-still, straining to hear something in his breathing that would give me hope.
“Nah,” he finally said. “It just won’t work. Good luck to you.”
I couldn’t even speak.
“Goodbye then, I suppose,” he said and put down the phone.
I shoved 12 dollars I couldn’t afford to spend into the cab driver’s hand and flew across the wide sidewalk to the myriad glass doors of the Javits Center. People everywhere carried tote bags and wheeled little carts stacked with displays or swag collected from the booths at the Book Expo.
I had no idea where I was supposed to be, but I was running all the same. I detoured by the information desk, trying to grab a map off the stack as I went.
A Chanel-suited grand dame in giant black sunglasses slammed her cocktail-ring-encrusted claw down on top of mine.
“Ow!” My hand flew to my mouth and I sucked on my knuckle. I tasted blood. “What the hell, lady?”
“I was here first,” she said, snatching the top map off the stack.
“No you weren’t! And even if you were, would it kill you to say ‘excuse me?’ There are rules to living in society.”
“Don’t you lecture me, you…” she gave me the once-over, “you…riff raff!”
“Who says riff raff?” A crowd was gathering.
“Don’t you shout at me! According to the law, that’s assault!” A pair of NYPD cops ambled over from the opposite corner of the outer hallway.
“You assaulted me!” I hissed. “Look, I’m bleeding. Listen,” I said to the information guy, “don’t call the police, they’re right there. Here’s my card.”
I shot a look at the indignant Dowager of Manhattan. “If the police want to file a report, tell them to come back and talk to my bleeding finger.” I blew past the old lady, who was literally shaking her fist at me.
I ran past miles of booths, some offering snacks, some blasting music, and some with long lines of fans clutching books to be signed by their favorite authors. I spied Matty from a mile away. I could have seen him from space. He was wearing one of those Ralph Lauren Olympic cardigans, and handing out ski caps emblazoned with the title of an inspirational biography we’d published by a double-amputee downhill skier. Next to him, another assistant, one of the office hotties, was wearing a leather dress and handing out ping pong paddles printed with the title of a kinky sex book for housewives. I tried to blend in and swim through the bodies to the back while Lizbeth was busy yelling at an intern.
“There you are,” Matty hollered. “Lizbeth! Shayla’s here!” He hopped up and down, trying to catch my boss’s attention over the heads of the crowd. Lizbeth turned away from the pie-eyed intern midsentence and cut a straight line through all the bodies to get to me. “You’re late! Don’t apologize, I don’t care. Give me some packing tape, now,” she held out her open palm.
Frantically, I patted my purse. My supply bag! It was sitting under my desk. “I’ll run to the drugstore and get some. I can be back in 10 minutes.”
“Useless,” she muttered. “No! I’ll send an intern. Get dressed and get into your spot.”
“Yes, Lizbeth,” I said walking away, but in no particular direction. I’d missed last week’s staff meeting after cracking a filling on a stale bagel I’d found on a leftover platter from a client meet-and-greet. I did not know the plan. I had no choice but to ask Matty what was what. He was wearing a red carpet-worthy smile and schmoozing one of our authors and her handler when I approached. The second the author shook his hand and walked away. Matty’s smile disappeared. “What?” he snapped.
“Where am I supposed to be?”
“Somewhere in middle America, running the obituaries column for the local newspaper.” He flashed a smile at a passerby and pressed a hat and a press kit into her hand.
“Come on, Matty,” I pleaded.
He exhaled an elaborate sigh. “Go between the booths and put on your outfit. Look at the chart back there and go stand at your post.”
I shoved through the crowd and wedged myself into the narrow space that we used as an office-slash-staging area. There was a mirror on the wall, a plot of our booths, some folders with papers in them, and enough space for three or four people to gather behind a makeshift curtain. I hung my garment bag on one of the hooks and unzipped it. Inside was a gingham pinafore, a bonnet, and a plush, stuffed shepherd’s crook. Oh, no, no, no.
I snatched an agenda out of a hanging folder and read:
Shayla, first shift: Handing out press kits and hand puppets for Little HPC’s 25th Anniversary Re-release of Cuddle the Lamb: A Bedtime Story, southeast corner of Booth Number 3, side aisle
Shayla, second shift: Straightening pamphlets and literature on the table/coffee run.
I scanned down the page to see what jobs other assistants and interns had been assigned during my missed meeting. Matty was, of course, on the main aisle in front of booth 1, wearing his designer sweater. His second shift was meeting the breakout novelist of the year at a swanky hotel and escorting him here for his book signing and acting as his handler onsite. Maggie had been crossed off the list and someone had penciled in “office coverage.” This was seriously the worst day ever. I wouldn’t even have her here for moral support. I scanned down the list: