Page 7 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
“I have plans! Big plans! But I need something from you.”
“Sure. What is it?” I ask, grateful that Beatrice is always strategizing.
“See, I’m poking around my inbox trying to find the proposal you sent me. I can’t seem to locate it, but once I do, I’ll pitch you to Anthem for another book. How does that sound?”
That sounds like . . . a big problem.
Red flames across my cheeks. “You don’t have it because I haven’t sent it to you.”
Beatrice is a half-full kind of person, so she says, “What are you waiting for? I’m sure it’s fantastic, and I could use some fabulous reading material. I just refreshed my email. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Let me try again.”
I cast my gaze toward my laptop, huddled in a corner of the couch. “I’ll be done with it soon, I promise,” I tell her as I fill the tea basket with leaves. But the truth is my publisher’s idea for a second book isn’t wowing me. Anthem said it would consider a proposal on art heists, but that’s been covered to death, and I haven’t found a new angle into it. Besides, “consider” doesn’t mean buy, and “buy” doesn’t mean the book will sell any copies. “I’m just trying to find the best hook.”
“Maybe you’ll find it in the next hour,” she says, and her tone is chipper, but it’s laced with a directive—get moving.
“But what about The Forgers?” I press, returning to the subject nagging at me, namely the book baby I wrote all while juggling a full-time job a few years back at a prestigious museum. Of course, the reason I wrote the book was to have more street cred in the museum world and move up. Can you say “fruitless effort”? “Isn’t there anything we can do? Get the rights back maybe?”
My agent peals with laughter. “Oh, sweetheart. Whatever would we do with the rights?”
I grab the kettle and pour the steaming hot water over the leaves. “I could self-publish it.”
“Oh, that’s so cute. I love your enthusiasm.”
“Lots of people self-publish.”
Her tone jerks to the right, veering straight into serious. “In romance. In mystery. Not in nonfiction. Sweetheart, go work on the heist book, wipe this nonsense about getting the rights back from your head, and find a great angle. Anthem will probably pay less. A lot less, but maybe this can be your breakout book.”
“It certainly can’t do any worse than one hundred and fifty-four copies.”
“Of course it could. It could have sold one hundred and fifty-three copies. Now, let’s talk hooks.” Something squeaks on her end, like maybe she just sat up straight in her chair. “Oooh, wouldn’t it be fantastic if Highsmith was robbed by an art thief today? I can picture it now.” She imitates an anchor on the five o’clock news. “And today, the once-vaunted auction house of Highsmith Associates finds itself the victim of a dazzling art thief who absconded with a Pollack.”
“We don’t have any Pollacks. And art thieves aren’t usually ‘dazzling.’ They’re usually just thieves. Also, how is hoping for a one-in-a-million chance of a theft going to work as a hook?”
“I’m just trying to get the creative juices flowing. Maybe you can embellish. For instance, what if a Warhol was stolen? Or maybe a Koons? Wait. What if our intrepid thief stole a Banksy?”
“We don’t have any of their work.”
“What could a thief steal, then?”
“I’m currently curating a collection of love letters, some from Corey Kruger. I’m showing them this morning.”
She squawks. “The washed-up child actor who has six love children from six different women?”
I wince at the cold, clean truth of her question, then answer with as much dignity as I can muster. “Yes. The former Teen Beat sensation.”
“Hmm. Well, that’s a different angle for sure. But perhaps you could put an ad on Craigslist, find an aspiring cat burglar, and stage a heist of love letters from has-beens? Now that would make for an interesting pitch. Think about it, dear.” Barely taking a breath, she segues from my floundering career as an author. “Now listen, I have to run. I have breakfast with the head of one of the big five about a book I’m taking to auction. The writer just won season two of Anyone Can Dance. I do love a good memoir from a rising celeb. Must go.”
“Bye, Beatrice.”
She’s gone before I even say her name.
As I finish my tea, I check my email again, hoping for a reply from the human resources director at the Whitney Museum. There’s an opening in the American antiques department, and I’ve been trying to make my case for an interview. I would kill for an interview.
Well, not kill.
But I’d definitely sell my soul to the devil.
My inbox is empty, so it looks like I won’t have cause to bargain with Lucifer this morning.
