Plain Jayne (2 page)

“Dr. Edwards,” I return his curt name-only greeting.

“Nobody calls me that,” he says shortly without offering an
alternative. He seems to consider not
shaking my hand, but then he takes
a tiny step toward me and gives me one of those cold-fish handshakes that men
are so fond of giving to women. I make a point of grasping firmly and pumping
our hands with feeling. He withdraws as soon as possible and waves me in the
vague direction of a grouping of chairs and a sofa centered under a hideous
light fixture made of deer antlers.

When he sees me warily eyeing the chandelier, he mutters,
“Gift from Tom Ridgeworthy. Supposed to be a joke, but it’s kind of grown on
me.”

He turns his back to me as he searches his messy desktop for
something, so he doesn’t see the shocked look on my face at his mention of one
of the most successful writers of political thrillers today. He didn’t say it
in a name-dropping manner; as a matter of fact, the nonchalant way he said it
made it sound as if he wouldn’t be surprised if I told him Tom Ridgeworthy had
given me an equally-bizarre gift once, as if everyone’s received a gag gift
from the bestselling author.

He eventually finds what he’s looking for and, pen,
notebook, and iPad in hand, crosses the room, choosing the seat opposite me in
the grouping that would be cozy if it were in the office of someone a bit
cuddlier—like Ebenezer Scrooge.

“Well, then,” he says, his attention on the touch screen of
his little toy as he swipes and taps away with his long, graceful fingers.
“Here we are.”

I think he’s stating the obvious, at a loss for anything
else to say, but then I realize he’s arrived at his iPad destination. Turning
the gadget around so that I can see it, he shows me a screen with a lilac and
yellow book cover. The title of my book,
The Devil I Know,
rests in the
center of the cover, the words nestled in the slender pale arms of a faceless
woman.

In response to my wrinkled nose, he says, “Not to your
liking? What about this one?” With a swipe of his finger, a different book
cover slides onto the screen. This one is mint green with the title in hot pink
letters between the tire marks left behind by a 1950’s-style convertible driven
by a red-haired woman in a yellow headscarf, which trails behind her in the
wind as it appears to be coming loose from her hair.

“Uhh… Hm.” I try to figure out how to diplomatically phrase
the question that’s on the tip of my tongue after seeing both cover designs.

“These are simply some preliminary designs.” He swipes to
the next one. “No?” he asks again, as I barely glance at a cover that features
a rearview mirror with pinky fuzzy dice hanging from it and the eyes of a woman
in dark Jackie-O sunglasses in the reflection.

Before he can continue with this nightmare slideshow, I say,
“But… those… don’t have anything to do with what happens in my book.”

He looks surprised. “They don't?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “No.”

Puzzled, he turns the iPad around so he can look at the
images right-side-up again. “Well, I… Hmm… Interesting.”

I chuckle nervously. “Of course, you’ve read the book, so
you know that. Right?”

When he continues to stare at the fuzzy dice version, I
prod, “Right?!”

Startled, he looks up at me and blinks. I think the animals
who donated their body parts to his light fixture must have worn the same
expression in their final moments. Imperiously, he answers after he recovers
his usual bored look, “Well, yes. I’ve… skimmed… the first few—”

“Chapters?” I finish hopefully for him.

“Pages,” he corrects weakly.

“You’re kidding!”

Instead of responding, he redirects my attention to the
horrible cover designs. “You’re right; these are hideous. As soon as our
meeting’s over, you can bet I’ll be having a stern talk with the folks in Art Design.
These covers are absolute shit, no matter what’s between them.”

I tense. “What do you mean?”

He sets the iPad aside and scribbles a note on his pad of
paper. “I mean, I’ll make sure they know I’m not happy they wasted my time with
such irrelevant covers.”

“No. Not that. Although… they’ve wasted my time, too.” When
he simply stares blankly at me for pointing that out, I continue, “No, what I
was referring to was your comment about ‘no matter what’s between’ the covers.
As if my book
deserves a nicer cover than those, in spite of its
inferiority.”

He waves away my claim and says irritably, “What? I didn’t
say that. You’re putting words in my mouth.”

I sit back and regard him skeptically. “Yes… I must be,” I
pretend to concede. “Since you’ve only skimmed the first few pages, you
wouldn’t be able to make a fair judgment of it, anyway.”

“I’ll have you know,” he replies, puffing out his chest,
“that I’ve been in this business nearly twenty years and can spot a bestseller
from the first sentence!”

“Impressive,” I say, finding courage from somewhere previously
unknown to me as I boldly state, “Then I guess you’ve read all you need to read
of
my
book. And you know it’s a winner.” At least, that’s what
everyone’s been telling me for the past few weeks.

“It has potential,” he allows smugly. I want to punch his
square jaw.

Instead, I snap, “Oh, do tell!”

Returning to the blasted iPad, he pulls up some text, which
I immediately recognize as the middle of the first chapter of my book. Using a
fancy feature, he circles in yellow one long sentence.

“Your sentences are too damn long.”

“I
will not
dumb it down for any reader,” I instantly
bristle.

Ignoring me, he continues, “In emotional passages such as
these, short, brisk sentences are more powerful. They make the reader read at
the same pace that the protagonist is thinking. Or even breathing. Think about
it:  when you’re upset, do you
feel
in long, prosaic sentences? No. You
think like this:  
‘I hate this fucking asshole. Who does he think he is?
When can I leave?’
I know I think in short bursts when I’m angry or
annoyed.  
‘I can’t believe this. Saddled with a no-namer. She writes fluff,
for fuck’s sake!’
See?” He looks up at me and holds my eye contact, as if
we’re talking about nothing more emotional than the price of unleaded gas.

I blink in a way that probably makes me look insane. But I
honestly don’t know how to respond to what he’s said to me. To my chagrin what
finally falls from my lips is a lame proviso about the version of the book to
which he’s currently referring. “I’ve changed a lot since that version. I tweak
it all the time. I like to tweak.”

“Not anymore, you don’t,” he informs me. “From here on out,
you don’t touch a damn syllable in this manuscript unless I tell you to.”

“Anything else?” I snip.

“Yeah. Since you’ve pointed out I don’t have the most
current copy, you need to email that to me by the end of the day. Preferably by
2 p.m. Or if you have a copy with you,” he nods toward my ever-present laptop
bag, “you can leave it with Sally on your way out.”

Dismissed
, he effectively says by standing up.

“You’re going to actually read it?” I ask caustically,
taking my cue from him and rising from the sofa. There’s no way I’m going to
let him look down on me.

Disgusted with my childish question, he sighs and answers,
“Of course I am. It’s my job, isn’t it? If you get it to me by two, like I’ve
asked, I’ll have my first run-through completed by the end of the day.”

“How gracious of you.”

Maybe it’s my sarcasm. Or maybe it’s the traitorous wobbling
of my voice when I say that. Either way, he seems to soften.

“Listen. Ms. Greer. Don’t take it personally, alright? Your
manuscript doesn’t fit into my usual genre. And I’m a bit annoyed that I have
to divert attention away from my other authors—who are established writers with
proven selling power—to hold your freshman little hand.” When I say nothing, he
finishes in the same patronizing tone, “Surely you understand.”

I loop my laptop bag over my head and drop it from such a
height that I grunt when the weight settles on my shoulder. “Totally,” I tell
him in a stone cold tone of voice as I walk alone to his office door. Then I
make sure it’s wide open before I turn back to him and loudly say, “And you
are
an asshole,” before stalking from the room with my nose in the air.

Chapter Two

While I wait for the slowest elevator in the world to
arrive, I seethe and try to recover my composure. Then I remember Editor
Douchebag’s request for my manuscript and mutter, “Shit.” A guy standing next
to me tries to pretend he’s watching the floor numbers light up, but I can tell
he’s looking at me from the corner of his eye. Ignoring the tiny smirk my
outburst has produced, I turn on my heel and return the way I came.

Sally smiles politely and blankly at me when I stop in front
of her desk again. “Ms. Greer,” she says pleasantly. “Did you forget
something?”

I dig a thumb drive from my laptop bag and hold it out to
her. “Would it be possible for you to copy a file from this and get it to Mr.—”
I stop myself right before calling him one of the dozens of rude nicknames I’ve
invented for him since storming from his office a few minutes ago. “…Edwards?”

As she’s taking the plastic device from me and plugging it
into her computer, the man himself emerges from his office. When he sees me, he
pauses as he shrugs into his suit jacket, but he quickly recovers, pretending
I’m not even there as he continues on his path across the small public area to
one of the other office doors, which is marked,
“Blanche Turner, MA, Ph.D.,
Senior Editor, Creative Design.”

I also pretend to ignore him, going so far as to turn my
back on him as he raps his knuckles perfunctorily on Ms. Turner’s door before
opening it and saying without preamble to the occupant, “Who the hell do you
have working down there on cover art, anyway? That painting elephant that’s
always in the news?”

A tinkling laugh spills from the office. “God, I wish! Maybe
then we’d get something original once in a while.” There’s a pause and then a
teasing, “Sheesh, Luke. Rough morning? You look like someone called and told
you your pet turtle died.”

Instead of answering, he grumps, “Are you coming with me for
coffee, or not?”

“Not, if you’re going to be an ass-face the whole time,” she
replies lightly, but I can hear her opening and closing a desk drawer and her
voice coming closer to the reception area as she provokes, “Does Lukey-Pookie
need a hug?”

At this, Sally focuses all of her concentration on her
computer monitor and tries valiantly to hide a smile. I can’t resist turning to
see his reaction to such a horrible pet name said in such a baby-talk tone in
earshot of other people.

I’m surprised to see that he’s trying not to laugh. His face
looks completely different when it’s not so stormy. Before he catches me
watching, though, I look down and pretend I’m reading something on my phone,
which I’ve had out of my pocket since leaving his office, preparing to call
Tullah as soon as I’m clear of the building.

“I’m about to take back my invitation,” he threatens
impotently, pushing playfully on her shoulder as they stroll casually toward
the elevators. “I hate when you get like this.”

“No, you
love
it,” she accuses.

Then he says something too low for me to hear as they move
further away, but whatever it is makes Blanche (who could be the model for the
woman in the convertible on the mint book jacket) throw her head back and laugh
so loudly that people poke their heads from their offices to see what’s going
on.

Returning my thumb drive to me, Sally mutters, “Thank God
for Blanche, or we’d all be walking on eggshells around here all the time.”

“Yeah,” I commiserate with her, even though I’m not sure I
feel exactly
thankful
for flirty Blanche.

She’s one of those women that I generally distrust. You
know, the kind who’s beautiful and knows it; who struts her stuff and uses her
looks to get her way with everything—and every man. I don’t have much respect
for women like that. Or maybe I wish I had a bit more of that in me. Life sure
seems easier for people like her.

Trying to ignore my jealousy, I focus my attention on my
original target and say to Sally, “He seems like a real winner. I don’t know
how you work with him.”

She smiles shakily. “Oh, he’s not all that bad.” It sounds
like she’s worried she’s being recorded, and anything she says can and will be
used against her. “We try to keep him happy as much as possible. He has a bad
temper, but other than that, he’s a good boss. And anyway, he’s the best in the
business, so he’s allowed to be somewhat… volatile.”

I roll my eyes as I zip my bag. “Well, so far, I’m not
impressed. He needs to work on his people skills.” He’s probably had people
like Sally making excuses for him his whole life, though, so there’s fat chance
of that, I guess.

Now the administrative assistant smiles more warmly. “And
you caught him on a particularly bad day, which is your bum luck.”

“I think I’m the
reason
for his particularly bad day,
unfortunately,” I tell her, on the outside chance she doesn’t already know.
“Next time I’ll know to bring him a lamp made out of dead animal parts, and
maybe then I’ll be on his good side.”

This statement earns me a laugh almost as loud as Blanche’s.
Approvingly, Sally surveys me and says, “You know what? I’m sure you’re going
to be just fine with Luke. As long as you keep your sense of humor about
things. Dish it right back to him.” When I raise my eyebrow at her, she
blushes. “Well, obviously,
I
can’t do that, but there’s no reason you
can’t. You two are equals. And it sounded like you were holding your own in
there earlier.”