Novel | Harry Hogg | Drama | Romance | Publishing
The Ghost Writer — Part 6
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.
Catchup:
We left off with Carruthers, CFO of Random House, meeting with Bernstein, Editor in Chief, and being turned away when she suggests, quite forcefully, that Bernstein must cut back on the Aquisition's Department spending, now well over budget, with nothing to shows that this matter can be turned around. But Bernstein has other plans, and dismisses the CFO’s advice, informing her that fortunes are going to change at Random House.
Part 6:
Joseph and Sylvia
When Joseph sets the phone down and looks up at Sylvia, a white shocked look crosses his face.
“Christ,” Joseph yells in dismay. “What am I doing? I haven’t packed for this trip,” and in the same breath, “Sylvia, call Uber, we have to go to my apartment,” he says, jamming papers into a briefcase. “What the hell was I thinking.”
Sylvia is calling for an Uber. “It’ll be here in four minutes,” she tells him.
“Good,” he says, collecting his jacket from his chair. “Let’s go.”
Hurrying to the elevator, Joseph grabs the handle of Sylvia’s suitcase, “I’ll take it, Sylvia.” She’s glad she’s wearing flats. “When we get to the apartment, it will take me half an hour to pack. We’ll drive to the airport from my place,” and he checks his watch.
Walking into the lobby, the Uber driver is waiting at the curbside on Broadway. The Toyota’s trunk is already open. Joseph hoists the suitcase and climbs in behind the driver.
“42190 West 50th,” he tells the driver, who is wearing a colorful cap and gold bracelets around his right wrist.
“42190, West 50th, mahn,” the driver repeats.
“I’m sorry, Sylvia, my head is all over the place. Bernstein really wants this guy; I mean he’s obsessed. I feel like there’s more to it that just signing a good author,” he says, noticing Sylvia’s knees but not keeping his eyes there.
“Yes, Gwyneth told me earlier that Carruthers was in his office for a meeting. She didn’t think it was a positive sign. There are rumors that financial targets are not being met,” she says.
Joseph shrugs it off. “Rumors like that are not new, Sylvia. They’ve been spread around as long as I can remember, and we are still here. Besides, we are acquiring new content, and Bernstein knows that we have an above-average potential when it comes to books anyway. Once we get the contract signed, the proofreaders will work to edit the manuscript and prepare it for publication. In many cases, this would involve several rounds of revisions and edits, but this guy knows his stuff. I would say it already meets the publishing standards.”
On the street, horns are blaring, a siren is in the distance, and people are yelling at yellow cabs, failing to stop. “Are you sure this writer is in Britain, sir?”
Joseph looks across at her. “Let’s stop the sir thing, Sylvia. Joseph works just fine.”
When they reach the apartment building, Joseph hurries to the back and lugs out the suitcase. The doorman opens the glass doors at the top of the steps and bids them a good afternoon. “Thanks, Billy. We’re in a bit of a rush. Can you hail a cab in twenty minutes, ask to wait, and just start the meter.”
“Will do, Joseph. Destination?”
“Newark International. Thanks, Billy,” Joseph quickly dives into his wallet, pulls out and thrusts Billy a twenty-dollar bill. In his early seventies, breath smelling of peanuts, Billy touches his peeked cap in thanks.
Leaving the office early, Jocelyn Carruthers gathers paperwork from her desk to review at home. On the third floor of the car park, she unlatches the back of her Range Rover, pulls out a Maxwell Scott satchel, and tucks the office papers inside. Then makes a call.
“Martin Osterman,” the voice answers.
“What the hell have you done, Martin? How have you managed to botch this
up?” Carruthers slides into the driver’s seat, leaving the door open. She sits with her lithe figure, a little hunched, silvered hair tumbling, and a scowl obliterating her natural beauty.
Behind the editorial desk of Harper Collins, Martin Osterman finds Carruthers’ tone disconcerting.
“Cool it Jocelyn, just cool it, right?” Carruthers pulls the door shut. Osterman continues. “Let’s talk this out sensibly,” he says.
“What the hell happened, Martin. Why have you not have him signed up?” She asks, trying to calm herself.
There’s an audible sigh comes down the phone. “We missed him by a hair. But, look, what happened your end, you said you would stop Random House searching him out. You had a plan, you said, then I get a text this morning telling me that Bernstein is sending a guy out to look for him. What happened to the plan, Jocelyn?”
Carruthers starts the car, reverses, and slowly moves down the garage exit ramp. “Bernstein is everything people say about him. Earlier today I told him that the Acquisition’s Department has to reduce spending immediately. He brushed me off like I was a secretary’s temp, not the CFO, and has since instructed that this writer be found and signed up. I can tell you this, if all the predictions for sales of this book are correct, Random House will greatly increase their market share. Martin, you promised me the CEO position at Harper. I’m tired of pushing Bernstein uphill for no recognition. He will take Random House down and I’m not going down with him.”
Osterman sighed, lowering himself into a chair calmly, knowing on the other end of the call was a simmering volcano. He rests his forearms on the desk, compresses his hands, and interlocks his fingers. “Keep me informed; if you get any leads, let me know immediately.” The call ends abruptly. Carruthers tosses her cell phone onto the passenger seat in disgust, mumbling profanities under her breath.
Sylvia, while Joseph is getting ready, looks around the apartment. It’s modern, sterile, not untypical, she believes, of most expensive Manhattan apartments, a world of luxury and sophistication.
“Sylvia,” Joseph calls out from somewhere in the apartment. “I’m going to jump in the shower. Will you go into my bedroom closet and pick out some clothes to pack, oh, and choose something for me to wear on the plane, everything is in the closet, just off the main bedroom. Thanks.”
For a moment, Sylvia thought she had dreamt that instruction. Why would he want her to choose what clothes to take, what to wear on the aeroplane? Can she really say…what? No, I won’t? But they are running behind, so she moves away from the opulence of the front room, with its view toward Central Park.
Where the hell is the bedroom, she asks herself. His voice came from that direction, but he was getting into the shower. She feels a trembling excitement or perhaps embarrassment. She peruses an adjoining room, its walls adorned with fine art, the floors throughout are marble, the lighting soft and inviting, and the air is filled with the scent of fresh flowers standing on the coffee table.
She can hear the shower running through an archway, and there are three doors; one is ajar. She looks in, it is the bedroom, and she pushes the door wider. The shower is off to her left, its glass door steamed. She scurries across to the closet; she mutters, who the hell has a chandelier in the closet?
Everything is laid out perfectly, with business attire on one wall and casual clothing on another. Coats, jackets, and heavy sweaters hanging up at the end. Two cheval mirrors, a comfy chair, and drawers and shelving to the ceiling. Sylvia gathers clothes that she feels will match the English weather. A pair of brown shoes, and two pairs of trainers. She pulls open the drawers looking for underwear and socks, and doesn’t think too long about it, gathering them up and throwing them into a suitcase Joseph left open on the bed. The shower stops running, and Sylvia dashes back to the front room. A minute later, Joseph stands before her in a black bathroom robe.
“Thanks for doing that,” he says, and before Sylvia can own up to throwing just about anything in his suitcase, Joseph says, “Pour yourself a wine, there’s a nice one in the cooler. I’ll have one, too,” and he disappears back into the bedroom.
Sylvia, her heart beating a little too quickly, isn’t going to turn down the offer of a drink.
The kitchen is large, well-equipped, having all the latest appliances. Built into the breakfast bar is the wine cooler. Sylvia pulls out a Far Niente Chardonnay, searches the drawer, and is surprised to find a very ordinary corkscrew.
“How are we doing with the wine?” Joseph asks. He is standing in the exact clothes she had chosen for him to wear on the plane. “Here, let me get that,” he says, taking the bottle from her. “That’s in case this, “he says, holding up a small machine, “runs out of batteries.” And he lowers it over the neck of the bottle. “There, all done,” and he pours into two glasses. “If I had had to pack, Sylvia, we wouldn’t be getting out of here on time. I cannot choose what to wear. It takes me almost an hour, sometimes more, to decide what suit I want to wear to the office. Cheers,” he says, and they chink glasses.
“I hope what is in the suitcase will work for you, Joseph, it was a bit of a grab and go.”
“I would never have chosen these to travel in, Sylvia. I would have picked out a jacket and tie, I’m sure. So, my neck thanks you.”
Sylvia smiles. “It suits you, Joseph. You look rather dashing.”
Soon Part 7:
Previous Parts:
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