Naked Once More (4 page)

“I’ll tell him you said so.”

“You will miss him too, I know. But I am confident we will develop a relationship that is just as strong and even more—er—”

“Lucrative,” Jacqueline suggested.

“Precisely.” Stokes smiled. “You are a lady of considerable acumen, Mrs. Kirby. We needn’t beat around the bush, eh? I hope you don’t mind if I record this conversation.”

“Not at all.” Jacqueline’s knees were beginning to go numb. She put her purse on the floor, opened it, and took out a tissue. The click of her own tape recorder was drowned out by her genteel sniff.

Considerable experience in such matters had already assured her she would not have to make the penultimate sacrifice to gain Stokes’s goodwill. He was smart enough to know that business and fooling around don’t mix well; and anyway, his tastes obviously ran to underage, brassy-haired bimbos whose chest measurements exceeded their IQs. She had not seriously contemplated making that sacrifice, nor had she been serious about the twenty-five percent commission; but for a while, as they bargained like fishwives, she was afraid she might have to swallow a figure almost as preposterous. They settled on fifteen, which was not out of line.

“Splendid,” Stokes said happily. He leaned back in his chair. “What are you working on at present, my dear Jackie? Do you mind if I call you Jackie?”

“Yes.”

“Uh—”

“No one calls me Jackie.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve been toying with the idea of a novel about ancient Egypt,” Jacqueline said. It was not a lie; “toying” was an accurate description of her thoughts on the subject of ancient Egypt. “But of course I’d like to hear any suggestions you might make.”

Her look of limpid candor didn’t deceive Stokes, nor was it designed to do so. Neither of them had mentioned
Naked in the Ice
; for reasons that made very little sense, each was determined to force the other to bring it up. Stokes was the first to yield.

“As a matter of fact, I was planning to get in touch with Chris about a project that has recently arisen. Perhaps you’ve heard rumors.”

A disclaimer was on Jacqueline’s lips when an unexpected surge of self-disgust struck her dumb. She was tired of playing pointless games. “I’ve heard them,” she said bluntly. “There’s nothing I would like more than to tackle the sequel to
Naked.
I’m not sure I could do it, but I’d give it my best shot, and I think I’m as well qualified as certain other people whose names I have heard mentioned.”

“Yours was one of the first names that came to mind,” Stokes assured her. “But of course there are others, and the decision is not mine alone. I will be consulting closely with poor Kathleen’s heirs—her mother, her half-brother and-sisters. There are certain conditions which I’m not at liberty to divulge just yet, but I can tell you that Mr. St. John Darcy has indicated that he and the others want to interview likely prospects.”

Jacqueline raised her eyebrows. “ ‘Sinjun,’ spelled St. John? Is that really his aristocratic name?”

“I doubt it,” Stokes said. “His name wasn’t Darcy, either, until he changed it legally. He’s Kathleen’s half-brother.”

“I see.” Jacqueline thought she did. Only a man without distinction of name or position would be so anxious to associate himself with his sister’s newfound and hard-earned fame.

“Kathleen’s mother changed her name too,” Stokes went on. “She was married three times, you know. Kathleen’s father was her second husband. Her third… Well, let us not speak ill of the dead, but only say she had no reason to remember him fondly.”

“At least it simplifies matters,” Jacqueline said. “What about the children of her third marriage? There are two, aren’t there—both daughters?”

“Quite right. They retained their father’s name, but one is now married. You seem to know a great deal about the family.”

“And about the book. I’ve read it a dozen times or more.”

“Excellent. You understand, Jacqueline…” He paused; receiving no negative reaction, he was emboldened to continue. “My dear Jacqueline, I must avoid even the faintest suggestion of a conflict of interests. I was Kathleen’s agent, and the heirs have asked me to act as agent for the estate. Should one of my writers be chosen, he or she will be represented, not by me personally, but by one of my assistants. Would that be acceptable to you?”

“I suppose so. It would depend on which of your assistants.”

“Of course. In your case…” Stokes considered, or pretended to consider. “There is a young woman with whom I think you’d work well. Young but brilliant; she has a great future, I am confident. Suppose I call her in now so you can meet her?”

Without waiting for a reply he pressed a button. The door opened so promptly Jacqueline felt sure the young woman had been waiting for the summons. Stokes had been awfully damned confident he would succeed in signing her on.

The girl was certainly no bimbo. Her hair was a washed-out blond, almost gray, and it had been wrenched tightly back from her face into a shapeless wad at the nape of her neck. She looked like a faded sepia photograph—pale cheeks and lips, gray eyes, brows and lashes so light in color they were virtually invisible. The khaki-colored dress she wore was several sizes too big for her; it hung dispiritedly from her bowed shoulders and undulated around her ankles as she tiptoed into the room.

“Sarah Saunders, Jacqueline Kirby,” Stokes said, without rising from his chair. “Sarah has been briefed on the situation, Jacqueline; we discussed it at length after you called for an appointment. As a possibility, you understand, no commitment at present…”

Sarah Saunders stood with feet together and hands clasped over her presumed waistline; the dress hung straight, with no suggestion of a shape beneath. “It would be an honor to work with you, Ms. Kirby,” she murmured. “I’ve read your books, and I think they are brilliant.”

“Thank you,” Jacqueline said morosely. If that was any indication of Sarah’s literary tastes, the prospects of a meaningful relationship looked dim.

Stokes dismissed his assistant with a curt wave of the hand. “No need to go into details now, since we are still a long way from a final decision. That’s all, Sarah.”

The girl’s colorless lips fluttered but no sound emerged. She crept toward the door.

For the past several minutes Jacqueline had been vaguely aware of loud voices from the outer office. One rose over the other in a piercing shriek, and the door burst open. It hit Sarah Saunders on the shoulder. She staggered back, bounced off the wall, and sat down with a resounding thump. No one paid the unfortunate young woman the slightest heed, for framed in the doorway, panting with passion and bursting with outrage, stood a formidable figure.

Brunnhilde might have described herself as “magnificent in her wrath.” She might, and had, also described herself as full-bosomed and golden-haired, lush and voluptuous. Jacqueline, who favored sparser prose, had once used the word “fat.” That word had fanned the smoldering feud into flame.

Brunnhilde was draped in one of the pseudo-archaic robes she favored, with lots of lacing and a suggestion of breast-plates. There was a strong resemblance to her beloved Vikings, whom she described as brawny, rugged he-men in horned helmets. Vikings did not, in fact, wear horned helmets. Jacqueline’s mention of this fact, in an interview, had not improved relations.

The newcomer’s blazing eyes focused on Jacqueline, who was tastefully attired in a lime-green silk suit that turned her eyes to emerald and took at least ten pounds off her apparent weight. “You!” shrieked Brunnhilde, making amorphous Viking gestures.

Jacqueline scrutinized her closely. “Have you an appointment, Brunnhilde dear?”

Brunnhilde laughed maniacally. “You’re wasting your time, Kirby. Don’t bother sucking up to Stokes; you’ll never write that book. It is mine, all mine.”

“You have smears of mascara and lipstick all over your kirtle,” Jacqueline said solicitously. “Do let me offer you a tissue, darling. You should always use one instead of wiping your face on your sleeve. Full-figured people perspire heavily, you know.”

Brunnhilde’s fingers flexed, writhing like succulent white worms. Jacqueline’s eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” she said.

Brunnhilde thought it over and decided she wouldn’t either. Instead she swung a brawny arm and swept a vase off a nearby table. Sarah, who had just struggled to her feet, got most of the water and a dozen tea roses smack in the chest. She scuttled to safety behind the door, dripping.

“You’ll never get this book, Jacqueline Kirby,” Brunnhilde bellowed. “I’ll strangle you with my bare hands first—and you too, Stokes, you slimy, double-crossing serpent!”

Her progress through the outer office was marked by thuds and crashes, as a variety of small objects bit the dust.

“Trite, trite,” Jacqueline murmured. “I’m afraid that’s only too typical of dear Brunnhilde’s literary style. Are you all right, Ms. Saunders?”

From behind the door came a squeak of assent. Jacqueline turned to Stokes, who had slid down so far in his chair that only his head was visible. “I’ll be running along now, Boots. Do you mind if I call you Boots?”

Stokes’s torso gradually reappeared. His forehead was shiny with sweat, but he managed to smile. “Yes, indeed. I mean no, not at all. I’ll be in touch, Jacqueline. We must do lunch soon. To celebrate… to celebrate.”

As Jacqueline waited for the elevator she replayed the interview in her mind. By any reasonable standard, her chances of getting the job ought to be good. There were a number of contemporary writers whose literary skill was as superior to hers as hers outshone Brunnhilde’s, but the publishing world was no more reasonable than any other sub-segment of society. Stokes wasn’t looking for the writer who could best capture Kathleen’s exquisitely honed style and imaginative brilliance. If he were, Jacqueline freely admitted, he wouldn’t be considering people like her and Brunnhilde. He and the rest of the industry would be more concerned about superficial factors like genre and gender. A woman who wrote historical romances—that’s what they would look for, with perhaps a token nod toward members of the opposite sex. There weren’t many such women who were well known and successful.

If I were doing it, Jacqueline thought, I’d have a contest. Open it to everyone, unknown geniuses as well as old hacks. It shouldn’t take long to weed out the hopeless cases. I’d hire a bunch of eager young English majors from Columbia, pay them minimum wage.… There might be some legal problems, but a smart lawyer ought to be able to figure out ways around them. Make everyone submit a form promising not to sue, or something. (Jacqueline’s knowledge of the law was sketchy in the extreme.) What a publicity stunt that would be! The search for the actress to play Scarlett O’Hara paled by comparison.

The elevator doors opened. Jacqueline stepped heavily on the foot of the unkempt youth who had attempted to precede her, gave him a dazzling smile and a soft “thank you” and swept into the elevator. The youth followed, limping, and retreated into the corner, his back against the wall.

Casting the film would be another publicity agent’s dream. How to replace those two young victims who had been so breathtakingly right as Ara and Hawkscliffe? There would be a film, of course; any industry that could churn out sequels to
Jaws
and
Rambo
would fight for the sequel to
Naked.

And so would a lot of other people. Brunnhilde’s methods were deliciously direct, but she wasn’t the only writer who would employ and method short of mayhem to gain the prize. Not to mention interested agents, editors, publishers.…

A radiant smile transformed Jacqueline’s face. For sheer bloody-mindedness and vicious power struggles, not the Mafia, not even the bureaucracy in Washington, could hold a candle to publishing.

Chris was not amused.

“Exaggeration is the cheapest form of humor,” he said repressively. “You know that isn’t true. There are many decent, intelligent people in the publishing business.”

Her mouth being full of food, Jacqueline could only scowl.

They were “doing” breakfast at Chris’s favorite place, an appalling short-order restaurant on West Seventy-fourth. Most of his clients loudly refused to eat there. Jacqueline, who doted on all food that wasn’t good for her, was tucking into a breakfast high in polysaturated fats with only the faintest touch of fiber.

Chris spread strawberry jam on his English muffin, started to take a bite, and then drew back, looking dubiously at the semi-congealed crimson blob.

Jacqueline swallowed. “Brunnhilde threatened to strangle me and Boots. You have to admit that wasn’t nice.”

“The woman is certifiable,” Chris muttered. “The last time she was looking for an agent—which she does about once a year—I spent a long fortnight in Maine. I don’t like this, Jacqueline. Give it up.”

“I can’t.” The fork in Jacqueline’s hand dripped egg yolk, like the bright yellow blood of a slaughtered alien. “I’ve entered into a gentleman’s agreement with adorable Booton. (Which is rather amusing, since neither of us is a gentleman.) As for Brunnhilde, what do you think she’s going to do, murder all the other competitors? I mean, even Catriona couldn’t get away with that as a plot for a mystery story.”

“You said she threatened you—”

“Oh, she does that all the time.” Jacqueline crunched bacon.

“True.” Chris considered the English muffin warily, decided it didn’t look as bad as he had thought, and took a bite. “Evelyn makes her own strawberry jam,” he mumbled.

Jacqueline smiled. “Is that her name? You lucky devil, you. Not only a librarian, a librarian who can cook. Does she bake her own bread?”

“I bake the bread.”

“My God, how impressive. To think you have all these talents you’ve never displayed. I am deeply hurt, Chris, that you never baked bread for me.”

“Stop changing the subject.”

“You were the one who mentioned Evelyn. Can I have the other half of your English muffin?”

“No.” Chris waved at the waiter. “An English muffin for the lady, and more coffee. Now, Jacqueline, this is supposed to be a working breakfast. I want you to think very carefully about what you are doing. It’s not too late to get out of this, even your so-called gentleman’s agreement with Stokes.”