Page 125 of Darling Venom
There was that hope again.
And I didn’t care if it made me stupid.
Reagan convinced me to dress like a professional businesswoman all week. By convinced, I meant she’d flat-out told me to drop the goth-girl get-up, or she’d ditch me at the door.
In addition to the fact that I liked my job, wanted to keep it, and had my eye on a promotion, I figured it was a bad idea to get on the bad sid
e of a very pregnant woman who couldn’t seem to quit working despite the late stage of her pregnancy.
I wore a pantsuit I’d borrowed from Leah. It fit tight in all the wrong places, pushing my butt in uncomfortable directions until it resembled a pancake.
I tried to ignore it.
My heart struck my ribcage. Fast and hard. Its permanent state since running into Tate.
Leah’s heels, a size too big, clicked on the marble floor as I walked to the meeting. My third this week. This time with Helen Moriuchi, a prominent acquisitions editor from one of the Big Five publishing companies. Also Reagan’s old roommate at Columbia.
The hostess led me to a private room in the back of Toshikoshi, some upscale restaurant I’d seen on the Food Network. I smoothed out my pants before I entered, removing my shoes for her to place in the cubby at the side of the room.
Reagan and Helen sat zashiki-style on tufted seat cushions scattered on the floor around the low table.
Reagan turned to me with a wave. “Charlotte, perfect timing. I was just telling Helen about the literary fiction pieces from J.T. Hawthorne. Did you bring them?”
“Yep. I emailed Helen copies, too.” I produced three manuscripts from my bag and handed them to her. “Nice to meet you. I’m Charlotte.”
Helen eyed me curiously.
I realized I’d forgotten to smile and reminded myself to. People liked smiles. They made them feel comfortable. Told them, “Everything’s okay here. Don’t look too close. Don’t dig too deep.” In other words, smiles were an excuse not to care.
She shook my hand, greeting me warmly. Once the servers brought our dishes and left, we launched into the meeting, discussing market trends and what Helen wanted for the upcoming year.
She plucked a slice of A5 Wagyu, seared it on the hot stone, and dipped it into green tea salt. “I’m sure you’re interested in becoming an agent yourself, Charlotte.”
I twirled shirataki noodles around my chopsticks, nodding. “Any advice for me?”
“Yeah. Do the opposite of whatever Reagan does.”
Reagan tapped her fingers on the table. “Funny.”
“It’s solid advice.” Helen shrugged. “Which one of us decided a baby was a good career move?”
“Babies are fun!”
“Babies are exhausting.”
“You’ll regret that in forty years when you’re changing your own diapers.”
“Call me then when your forty-year-old sons begin to resent you for making them change your diapers. I’ll be in my mansion with round-the-clock care, courtesy of the money I saved by not raising children.”
They went back and forth about the merits of having kids, eventually returning to books.
Reagan pushed her bowl forward and wiped her lips with a cloth napkin. “About half the manuscripts emailed or mailed to the company are properly addressed to the appropriate agent. Charlotte is in charge of the manuscripts that aren’t.”
“Which means she goes through non-fiction, literary fiction, and genre fiction,” Helen finished. She reached into her purse, pulling out a business card. “If you find a manuscript you’re certain is a whale, you know where to find me. I’m looking for something that’ll tear me to shreds. Literary fiction that can be read by the masses.”
I jumped at the opportunity to prove myself to Reagan, accepting the card. “It’s a big pile. I’ll find you what you’re looking for.”
And I would.
