Faking Life (11 page)

N
ico Vanetti sat alone in his office, a few solitary drops of fifteen year-old Glenlivet beading at the bottom of the tumbler in front of him. The clock read 1:13 a.m. The office was dark save his computer, casting a luminescent blue glow around his desk. His hand trembling, Nico picked up the bottle and refilled the glass. Caressing the liquid, took a long breath, closed his eyes and threw it back. The alcohol burned in his throat, blood pounding in his temples.

Valerie had given him the bottle six years ago with a note that read “FOR EMERGENCY USE ONLY”. She'd signed the note with a lipstick kiss and a cupid's arrow through a red heart. She made him swear on a seven-figure advance never to open the bottle in times of strife, only in celebration. Since then, there hadn't been cause to celebrate. And after tonight, he wasn't sure there ever would be again. And if he'd ever needed a drink, now was certainly the time.

Once again, Nico ran his eyes over the tiny print running across his computer screen, the words cementing their place in his head.

How on earth did it get to this point
?

The email was from Clarence Watters, whose ancient contract remained framed on Nico's wall like a physician's degree. Nico stared at the computer screen, the glow beginning the blur as his mind swam in an alcohol-induced haze. He read the letter again, then looked over at the shelf. A dozen Watters novels crowded the cherry wood. He read the email again.

Dear Nico,

We've been through some great times, haven't we? I owe my career to you Nic, you gave me my start in this business. I don't take that lightly and I never will, but I feel that the biggest rewards often spring from the biggest risks. Sometimes the sweetest relationships must come to an end for both sides to blossom. It is with this in mind that I've decided to sever our relationship and find representation elsewhere.

I know you're probably wondering what went wrong. Let me assure you that it is as much my doing as it is yours. To be honest, I feel it's time. I feel it in my bones and in my words and I know deep down that this parting will be mutually beneficial.

Thank you for your guidance and generosity, and for taking a poor Alabama farmer and helping him live his dreams. May you find yours, Nico Vanetti, if you haven't already.

Always,

Clar

Nico reread the letter and refilled his glass.
Always
, the letter was signed. Through all the short-term partnerships in his life, the failing marriage, the deteriorating career, Watters was the one entity Nico had thought would be…
always.

He slurped half the drink and missed the coaster he tried to set it on, instead hitting the edge of the table and spilling whiskey onto his pants. He stared up at the ceiling, his heart pounding, as if expecting God himself to apologize. Nico took a breath and wiped himself off with a piece of paper from the printer.

There was less than an inch left in the bottle. Nico knocked the tumbler over as he grabbed the handle and swallowed the last bit. He slammed it down on the table hard enough to crack the glass, then tossed it in the garbage and read the email again.

What does he want, my soul?
Ben Affleck to star in a shitty movie adaptation? All of his books are the same
, Nico thought. Watters wrote historical novels, all set in the south, all about cookie-cutter blond-haired, square-jawed heroes combating the evils of racism. They were good reads, he'd give Watters that, but they weren't the kind of books that would break new ground or make Hollywood stand up and take notice. Each book fetched a respectable six figures, but his last few paydays had decreased dramatically. His last book sold for a hundred and fifty grand—a full hundred thousand less than his first novel had gone for. And that one he'd sold twenty-five years ago.

The sales for his latest,
Sweet Song of the Susquehanna,
were disappointing. One insightful review noted that Watters's books were like an aging actor who was content to mail in his performances for a steady paycheck, coasting on name recognition alone.

And just like that, after twelve books, four
New York Times
bestsellers, three film options and one made-for-T.V. movie starring Robert Urich, Clarence Watters decided that Nico Vanetti should no longer represent him. Suddenly, Nico's clientele was dangerously unproven.

He opened up his desk and pulled out the two hundred odd pages of John Gillis's memoir. Glanced over the first twenty pages, Nico gently ran his fingers along the paper as if it might crumble into dust. At 6:30, when he'd received Watters's email, Nico knew the future of Vanetti Literati rested on John Gillis. He needed a breakout star, a new idol to pin on the marquee. Bad fortune was riding Nico's coattails like an angry mob and if he didn't do something to stem the onslaught, soon he'd be bled out. He could sense other agents waiting in the wings like greedy shadows waiting to poach his top clients. If he didn't give them a reason to believe, they'd surely be tempted just as Watters had.

It's a soft market
, he'd told himself on several occasions.
The recession is killing everybody.
But in his heart, he knew it wasn't true. Other agencies were breeding new stables of media-ready authors whose appearances on Oprah and Regis and Kelly sent their asking prices into the stratosphere. John Gillis was the ace up his sleeve. Clarence Watters was old news. Gillis was the future.

“Goddamn fucking country bumpkin,” Nico seethed, sneering at the yellowed contract on his wall. He looked at the gorgeous bookshelf to the right of his desk, four stories high and packed tight with millions of dollars worth of sales. Foreign translations, audio copies, even books that had been translated into Braille. It was a life's work, a good life. But that life was being attacked at its very foundation.

Nico stood up, held onto the corner of the desk for balance, and groped his way to the shelf. He ran his finger along the spines of each book, pausing at his favorites, the ones he'd worked the hardest for, the books that weren't commercially viable but simply
needed to be read
. The ones that changed lives. The ones that would be caressed by ancient hands whose weathered skin had turned the pages for years.

There were times he'd be walking down the street, riding the bus, or waiting in line, and he would see random hands holding a book he'd developed. His heart would swell, and he'd tap them on their shoulder and compliment them on their good taste. In those moments, Nico knew he'd found his calling. And now on his desk, from the pen of a twenty eight-year old nobody, was a story that would soon be seen by scores of eager consumers. A face soon to be recognized by millions.

“John Gillis,” he said, holding the 's' for several seconds. There was so much untapped potential waiting to be excavated. Esther didn't understand. He needed her to spearhead the dig, to make Gillis's ordinary life into an extraordinary tale. She needed to help give the story a vitality Nico felt was lacking. Gillis had interesting things to say, sure, but there was no villain, no heroine.

Nico smoothed his slacks and looked at the wall behind his desk. The glass frame encasing Clarence Watters's contract stared out, mocking him. He could see his reflection in it, his eyes sunken, burning. For years this monument had hung on his wall, a testament to both Nico's greatness and a partnership he thought would never die.

And then, in one swift motion, Nico tore the frame off the wall and smashed it on his desk. Glass poured onto the carpet. He picked it up, the frame sheared in two, the contract shredded by the shards. He placed it down gently and fell back in his chair. He felt glass crunch against the soles of his shoes. He ran his hand through his hair and sighed.

“
John Gillis
,” Nico said softly. “If he won't do it for us, we'll have to do it for him.”

Nico fumbled for the phone. He opened his Rolodex and flipped to 'M', stopping when he found the correct listing. On the first try he got a dreary female voice informing him he could go straight to hell for waking her up at this ungodly hour. The second time he got it right.

After six rings a husky voice answered. It sounded more annoyed than tired. Nico was pretty sure he heard a muffled female voice. He
was
sure he heard Barry White's baritone booming in the background.

“Yeah, who is it?” the voice asked. Nico heard a commotion. He smiled.

“Frank?” The noise died down and he heard Frank Menegaro whisper
get off me
before bringing the phone back to his mouth.

“Nico, hey, just pulling an all-nighter. What's up boss?”

“Frank, I need you to come in tomorrow, nine a.m.” Pause.

“Nico,” he said. “Tomorrow's Saturday, I…”

“So I can count on you here at nine?” Frank sighed.

“Yeah, I'll be there. What's up?”

“I'll fill you in tomorrow. Don't worry about getting dressed up. Just look natural. Wear what you'd wear if you were going out at night. If you were going to a bar.”

“A bar?” Frank sounded confused. Nico preferred it that way.

Nico awoke at eight the next morning to his radio blaring the Everley Brothers' “Bye Bye Love”. He took a quick shower and downed half a pot of French Roast before throwing on a Nike tracksuit and heading to the office. Frank was waiting for him with a cup of coffee, which Nico declined. He knew what he was planning to ask of his young assistant. There was no need to bring Frank up to his level by accepting a gift, no matter how insignificant. Frank's cooperation depended on his acceptance of being a subordinate.

The meeting itself lasted less than half an hour. Nico left the office satisfied. Frank understood what was expected, and was genuinely enthusiastic about being involved. Nico wasn't entirely sure if that was a good thing—he could tell from the scant time Frank was with the agency that he had a tendency to abuse the perks of working in an industry capable of opening the door to fame—but it was comforting to know he had a trustworthy solider on his side.

When he got home, Nico made a sandwich and tiptoed past the door where Valerie now slept. A sliver of light peeked through the slit between the door and the beige carpeting. She was awake, she wouldn't leave the room as long as he was in the apartment. Ships passing in the night had more intimate contact than he and his wife.

By Upper East Side standards, the Vanetti's apartment was modest and ashamedly so. He'd moved there with Valerie soon after the marriage and before either of them had enough money to justify living in the city full-time. Their combined salaries—his from agenting and hers from working as a dental assistant—were enough to buy the three-room apartment on East 94th street. When the money finally started coming in, Nico had wanted a larger space to raise a family. Pietro had just been born and he hoped they'd try for another child soon. In the end, Valerie convinced him that despite his growing income, agenting was too volatile a business—too dependent on external factors rather than innate talent—to lay down a large chunk of their savings. As time passed, Nico grew resentful for having caved in so easily. If they'd moved when he wanted to, Nico thought, their marriage might have worked. Pietro would likely have a brother or sister instead of the television to keep him company. Now, the notion of a bigger apartment was all but forgotten. Nico had resigned himself to the fact that he would never have another child. And, like Valerie had warned years before, money was becoming tight. He resented her for that. A bigger house would mean not passing her room every night, feeling the sting of marital unhappiness slapping him in the face, sleeping in different beds as if spiting the hundreds of times they'd made love.

Nico scratched his head, the mottled strands reminding him that he hadn't yet showered. The residue of last night's drinking gripped his head with harsh claws. Without realizing it was barely noon, Nico took a beer from the fridge and went into the living room where his Pietro was watching television.

The room was dark. Nico had to squint to see the picture screen. Sweaty, muscular men in tights were pretending to wrestle while Pietro sat transfixed on a green throw cushion. Nico dragged over an ottoman from the corner and propped his feet up. He sipped his beer, watching his son mimic the fake punches and kicks. To this day, Nico couldn't understand how this “sport” had become so popular. Two behemoths with muscles looking like they'd been hooked up to helium tanks were battling in a ring, trading blows that often missed by six inches or more. Not that Pietro seemed to notice.

To be fair, Pietro did favor more traditional sports. As the starting second baseman on his Little League team, Nico knew his son's talents were ahead of his tender age. He was a baseball fanatic, dreaming of manning the infield of Yankee Stadium on opening day. Nico went to every one of his son's games, watching intently amidst the throng of eager parents waiting to applaud their children's juvenile successes.

Pietro's most prized possession was an autographed ball signed by his idol, Derek Jeter, which was housed in a brass mount beside his bed. His door was adorned with a poster of the boyish-looking shortstop, poised triumphantly, bat slung over his shoulder after knocking out another hit.

“Don't you have any homework?” Nico asked. The boy didn't budge. “Pietro, do you have any homework this weekend.”

“Yeah Dad,” he said, his eyes glued to the screen as one wrestler pretended to kick another.

“Don't you think you should get to it?” Pietro looked at him like he'd sprouted a second head.

“Dad,” he said, unfixing his gaze and turning towards his father. “It's Saturday morning. I have one stupid problem set due Monday.”

“Are you expecting the tooth fairy to show up and magically finish this problem set?” Another perplexed stare. Pietro looked like he was perfecting his reaction in the event that Martians invaded the living room.

“It's only gonna take like fifteen minutes. I'll do it tomorrow night.”

“Aren't you cutting it a little close?”

“I haven't handed one in late yet.”

Nico searched for something. “And how are your grades?”