The Ghost Writer — Part 4
A completed novel in readable parts.
If you’re late to the series and wish to start at the beginning, there are links at the end of this chapter.
Pt. 4 Bildungsroman
Having left the office, needing fresh air and time to think, Joseph finds a small park, an oasis of quiet amid the bustle of Manhattan. On an otherwise vacant bench, he draws the last from a cigarette he’d lit after leaving the office and lets it drop to the ground, twisting the sole of his shoe on its glow.
He didn’t get it. Why would a non-published writer send three chapters of a manuscript stating that he’s unpublished? Yet everything about the presentation suggests differently.
Joseph brings out a copy of the chapters from his shoulder satchel and takes the time to read them. There must be a clue in his writing that can be discovered.
Back at Random House, on the twentieth floor, Bernstein is meeting with Jocelyn Carruthers, President of Sales and Marketing.
“Sales are falling, Lawrence. If things don’t improve soon, we will have to consider making cutbacks somewhere,” she told him.
Lawrence Bernstein had never got along with Carruthers since she joined the Publishing house almost two years ago, coming from Harper Collins, feeling she could be headstrong and volatile, so he was careful when offering his opinion. He thought her reputation should have guaranteed better-than-average sales during a pandemic, if nothing else. Instead, Random House had seen a slight downturn in demand. If Carruthers had a saving grace, it was the same for the industry.
Bernstein wants an author who can engross the public and is close to bringing that person to Random House.
“I understand, Jocelyn, but the old man won’t buy it. If we have to make cutbacks somewhere, then I’m afraid it will be found in the heads of departments. Alex Goddard lost his job a month ago because the Audio Sales Department was down fifteen percent,” Bernstein said as if to remind her that one such cutback might be her own head.
Bernstein crouched forward in his chair, forearms resting on the desk and examining his fingers for some imaginary blemish before staring up at the tall, slim, silver-haired figure of Jocelyn Carruthers.
Jocelyn, too, was aware of the friction between the two, though mystified as to why. One thing was certain: Bernstein wouldn’t make her life any easier. In the Industry, Bernstein has built a reputation for pinning blame.
“Between you and I, Jocelyn, I have found the author who will change all our fortunes,” he said, still examining his fingers.
Carruthers describes herself as among the most placid people; f yes, she could rise to an argument quickly enough, especially with Lawrence Bernstein, a man who enjoyed confrontation. She was about to give him good cause.
“Lawrence, we have to tighten up. This morning my department received an invoice for almost twenty thousand dollars for two airline tickets to London. I simply can’t fit it into my budget. I’m sorry.”
“Can’t, or won’t?”
“Can’t.” She said firmly.
“So, that’s it?”
“Yes, I’m afraid it is.”
“Well, that won’t do, Jocelyn. I’ve given Monteith full reign to go out there and find the solution to our problems, because mine, yours, the whole of Random House will fail if some another publishing house finds him first.”
“Finds him? What does that mean? Why do you have to go looking for an author? Isn’t it meant to be the other way around?”
“Jocelyn, listen to me. I will take care of this. You will take care of Monteith’s expenses, or….”
“Or what, Lawrence?” Carruthers leans on his desk, knuckles tucked under, arms rigid.
Bernstein’s manner calms, “Look,” he tells her, “this business involves risk, so take the damn risk. Pay the fucking bills, Jocelyn, and anything else that comes through from Monteith. If he doesn’t produce this author, he’s out.”
Carruthers’s face is fast brightening with anger, eyes afire, her body language expressive in its stance.
“Send that to me in writing, Lawrence. Explain that you are over-riding my advice,” and she turns away, stopping at the door, “do it immediately, Lawrence, via internal mail,” and with one last fiery glare, she walks out of the office.
Wearing stilettos, Carruthers strides by Sylvia’s desk, steel-tipped heels commanding attention on the Cumaru floor. Gwyneth smiles good morning, a smile that receives no acknowledgment. Carruthers continues across the floor and turns toward the elevator, where she pushes her right thumb down the button. When the elevator doors open, her elegant frame walks in and waits impatiently for the doors to close. When the doors have closed, Carruthers looks up to the ceiling, raises both hands and falls against the side of the elevator, like a beaten fighter. In fury, her hands become fists and she slams against the elevator walls, stamping her stilettos on the elevator floor and shaking her head as if it was a wet mop.
When the doors open on the twelfth floor, Carruthers is the personification of calmness.
Joseph is almost done reading the three chapters. The story is set on an island, a barren region lacking vegetation, characterized by rocky or sandy terrain, with little to no grass or trees. The way the author describes it, Joseph believes, the story is set in a desolate landscape, uninviting, with few signs of life. The author wants us to understand that it is difficult to traverse due to the island’s rugged or uneven surface. Therefore, he includes mountains, rocky outcroppings, and a dense forest on one side of the island.
The author talks about rain and wind creating slippery conditions, making it harder to travel on foot. The high winds create additional obstacles and can be of such force that it is difficult to hear. Joseph closes the part manuscript.
Who are you, Mr. Mysterious? Joseph asks himself. Where are you? You don’t need me or anyone to explain what you have here. You know the rules, manuscripts are submitted, agents and editors review, and you understand it can take weeks or months to hear back on submissions. Yet, with all this in mind, you are in no rush to be contacted. So, how many publishers did you send to? But know this, Mr. Mysterious, I am the only person separating you from having a bestseller.
Such thoughts are then interrupted by a call on his cell phone.
“Hi Gwyneth, what’s going on?”
“Hey, Joseph. I’m just letting you know that Lawrence and Jocelyn met in his office. She wasn’t cool when she left.”
“Why would Jocelyn need to see the Chief Editor? Isn’t she CFO?”
“Exactly. It’s common news that sales are slumping, Joseph. I think it might have been a finance strategy meeting. However, from what I saw, it didn’t go down so well,” she tells him. “I didn’t hear all of it, though I tried,” she admits, but expenses came high on the list of cutbacks. So I got that bit.”
“Christ, I get it. I had Sylvia book two business class seats to London for later today. That will have wrangled her, I’m sure. The thing is I cannot go alone, and traveling business class will allow us to put our heads down, ready to go as soon as we get there.”
“Just letting you know, she’s on the cutbacks warpath. Where are you going to start?” She asks.
The story is set on an island, so it makes sense that the author would live there. It’s just something about how he writes like it’s personal,” Joseph says.
“The British Isles has a lot of islands Joseph,” she responds.
“I get that, but I don’t feel it is an island like, say, Ibiza, or Majorca, something more rugged. One clue I got was that it might be an island in the Hebrides, it didn’t fit exactly with his descriptions, but it wouldn’t take much to imagine such a place if he had lived there. It’s not like we don’t have his name. Tim Bryant. But listen to this, Gwyneth, I’ve checked passenger lists going back two weeks, there’s no Tim Bryant booked on a flight across the Atlantic from San Francisco.”
“Then why are you going, Joseph, it makes no sense.”
“Maybe Tim Bryant is a pseudonym, not his real name. The main character in his story has no history, no family, and no identity. I’m slowly figuring him out, Gwyneth.”
“Okay, well good luck. Lawrence Bernstein has a lot riding on you finding him, Joseph. You’re head of Acquisitions; I don’t think you’ll last if you don’t get this writer under contract this month,” she warns him.
“This month! That’s seven days from now, Gwyneth.”
“Well, you better make the most of them, seems a lot is riding on this book, Joseph. Stay in touch.”
“Thanks, Gwyneth. Will do.” Joseph tucks away his cell phone and heads back to the office. He hasn’t unpacked since yesterday’s return from California and has had no time to think about it.
For more than five years, Joseph has headed the Department of Acquisitions and, this morning, had agreed with the Chief Editor, Lawrence Bernstein, that the chapters sent to him had shown a disturbingly good talent. The writing had all the hallmarks of a bildungsroman novel. Joseph connected the writer’s protagonist to someone experiencing a profound loss in the first chapter, happening in the early formative years and which had then set the protagonist on a journey of conflict and personal growth.
Joseph is convinced that Tim Bryant is not a person.
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