Today's Reading
That said, I can't fault her ability. We first met after I'd signed the publisher contract for Everyone in My Family Has Killed Someone, when she invited me to lunch and asked me to bring along the contract. I then sat in silence while she leafed through the agreement underlining things and muttering various incarnations of "Unbelievable" before remembering I was there too, flipping to the back and saying, "That's your signature? No one, like, forged it or anything? You read and agreed"—she shook the pages, arched her eyebrows—"to this?"
I nodded.
"I'm surprised you can write books, because you certainly can't read. I charge fifteen percent."
I couldn't tell if it was an offer or an insult. She turned her focus to her laptop, so I considered myself dismissed and squeaked out of the plastic seat, never expecting to hear from her again. A week later a document outlining interest from a German publisher and even some people wanting to make a TV show landed in my inbox. There was also an offer for another mystery book. Fiction, this time.
She hadn't asked, and I hadn't expressed any interest in writing a novel, nor did I have any idea what I'd write about. And the catch was I'd have to write it quickly. But I'll admit I was blinded by the advance listed—it was far better than what I'd received previously—so I'd accepted. Besides, I'd reasoned at the time, it might be a nice change from writing about real people killing each other.
Obviously, that didn't pan out.
I knew Simone took her job seriously, perhaps too seriously, but I've always figured that if the publishers are half as scared of her as I am, I should be grateful she's on my side. And, sure, I'd been dodging her calls and texts for an update on the novel for a couple of months. But following me to Darwin seemed excessive. In any case, asking a writer how their book's coming along is like spotting lipstick on their collar. There's really no point asking: no one ever answers truthfully.
"Pretty good," I said.
"That bad, huh?" Simone replied.
Juliette, my girlfriend, standing beside me, squeezed my arm in sympathy.
"Fiction is...harder than I thought it would be."
"You took their money. We took their money." Simone fossicked around in her handbag, pulled out an electronic cigarette, and puffed. "I don't refund commission, you know."
I didn't, in fact, know that. "You've come all this way to hassle me then?"
"Not everything's about you, Ern." She exhaled a plume of blueberry scent. "Opportunity knocks, I answer."
"And what better place than in the middle of the desert to circle some carcasses," Juliette chipped in.
Simone barked a laugh, seeming charmed rather than offended. She liked to be challenged, I just lacked the confidence to do it. But Juliette had always given her the combative banter she enjoyed. Simone leaned forward and gave Juliette one of those hugs where you keep the person at arm's length, as if holding a urinating child, and an air kiss on both cheeks. "Always liked you, dear. You wound me, though, with truth. I take it you're still not convinced you need an agent?"
"Keep circling. I'm happy on my own."
"You have my number." This must have been a lie, because even I didn't have her number. She called me on private, not the other way around.
"I don't have a ticket for you," I cut in. "Juliette's my plus-one. How'd they even let you on the shuttle bus? I'm sorry you've come all this way—"
"I don't do shuttle buses. And I've got more clients than just you, Ern," Simone scoffed. "Wyatt sorted me out." She craned her head around the platform. "Where are the others?"
I didn't know who Wyatt was, though her tone implied that was my own shortcoming. The name didn't register as one of the other authors I'd seen in the program. Then again, I'd only flicked through it and hadn't read many of the books; they were stacked guiltily on my bedside table. If an author's biggest lie is that their writing is going well, their second biggest is that they're halfway through their peer's new book.
...
