CHAPTER 3

 

Grose carried his cup of coffee through into his study. Actually it was the spare bedroom at the rear of the house but he and his wife never had visitors and they’d never bothered to put in a bed. There was an old oak desk that he’d bought from an antiques shop in Maine shortly after they’d moved into the house. The desk had obviously once been in a large office as there was a small ivory button on one side which in the past had probably summoned an assistant or secretary. There were six drawers on either side and a wide drawer under the main section of the desk.

He opened the top left hand drawer, took out a yellow legal pad and sat back in his chair. The chair had cost more than four hundred dollars and was ergonomically designed to ensure the best possible sitting position and take the pressure off his spine. Grose had been troubled with back pain for almost ten years. The severity of the pain varied. Some days it was little more than an ache, at other times it was a searing burning sensation that brought tears to his eyes and prevented him from doing anything other than lying immobile on a hard surface until the agony faded. Painkillers hadn’t helped and Grose had tried them all, from aspirin and codeine up to prescription drugs. He’d tried chiropractors and acupuncturists and once had even gone to a faith healer. Nothing worked, though the expensive chair did help.

He tapped his fountain pen against the pad. Grose always wrote by hand. It was the way Shakespeare wrote all his plays, the way that Dickens wrote all his masterpieces. If it was good for the masters, Grose figured that a pen and paper was good enough for him. He’d written all his novels by hand. All seven of them. For the last three he’d used the same Mont Blanc pen, filling it with fresh ink each morning. Once he’d finished the first draft his wife typed them into her computer and printed it out for him. He would then make any changes he wanted in pen and his wife would copy them onto the computer file. It normally took him eight or nine rewrites before he was happy, and at that point he would put the manuscript into the bottom drawer on the left of the desk and leave it there for four weeks. Exactly four weeks, never a day more or a day less. Then he’d take it out and try to read it as if he was seeing it for the first time. That was when the real revisions would start, and again he would do it by hand, laboriously rewriting line by line. His wife would type the new version into her computer and that would be followed by another five or six rewrites, each involving less work than the last until finally he had a version that he was truly happy with.

He looked down at the pad. He was on the twelfth page, which meant he had written just under three thousand words. He was finding it difficult to concentrate because he was still waiting to hear from his agent about the manuscript that he’d just finished the previous month. Grose sat back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. It had been with the agent for two whole weeks and he still hadn’t heard anything. It was the best thing he’d ever written, he was sure of that. As sure as he’d ever been about anything. He’d put his heart and soul into it, and he couldn’t understand why it was taking his agent so long to get back to him.

Grose put down his pen, leaned back and stared at the phone, willing it to ring. Two weeks. Fourteen days. After three days he had phoned to check that the manuscript had arrived and a secretary had confirmed that it had. Actually manuscript was a misnomer. The agent had refused point blank to accept anything as old fashioned as paper. He’d insisted on Grose sending it by email, something which Grose detested. A book was paper, almost by definition, a thing of beauty that had to be held to be appreciated, not a stream of electrons whizzing across a screen. Grose could never understand anyone choosing to read or to write on a computer. Words needed to be on a page to be appreciated, to be savored. How was any agent supposed to make a considered decision by reading off a screen? Grose figured it was ridiculous, but that’s what the man had insisted upon so Grose had asked his wife to email the file.

Grose had only met the man once. Richard Pink his name was, a partner in one of the bigger New York literary agencies. Pink was the third agent he had met and the only one who had come close to being acceptable. He was in his early thirties, sleek, bald and so well-groomed that Grose had assumed that the man was gay. He’d enthused about Grose’s early work and had talked enthusiastically about movie deals and foreign rights and Grose had left the meeting feeling that a seven-figure-deal was just a few phone calls away. Pink had asked Grose what had happened to his last agent and Grose had explained that Bennie Knight had retired through ill-health. Bennie had always been a big man but in his seventies the weight had piled on and with it had come heart problems and diabetes and eventually he’d called it a day and retired to his house in the Hamptons. Bennie hadn’t done much for Grose over the past ten years but at least he’d always stayed in touch, making a phone call every Monday morning, as regular as clockwork. “Just checking in, Dudley,” he’d say, followed by exactly five minutes of small talk followed by a promise to stay in touch.

Pink didn’t have Benny’s charm or good humor but he did have energy and confidence and a Fifth Avenue office with windows on two sides. Grose had expected that Pink would have got back to him about the manuscript within twenty-four hours. Forty-eight at the most. After he’d phoned the secretary on the third day he was sure that Pink would be on the phone within hours, but no, he hadn’t even had the decency to return the call. But now two weeks had passed. What was he playing at? Two weeks was more than enough time to read War and Peace from cover to cover and back again.

He picked up his fountain pen again and tried to write but he still couldn’t concentrate. He reached for the phone and then shook his head. No, it wasn’t his place to call. The ball was in Pink’s court. He went down to the kitchen and made himself another cup of coffee. His wife was in the garden, down on her knees doing something to a spreading bush. She spent hours in the garden every day, rain or shine. It was a large garden, one of the main reasons they had bought the house, and over the twenty years they had lived there Karen had totally transformed it. There was a rose garden which produced prize-winning blooms, a water feature with a rocky waterfall, a small orchard and a vegetable patch that filled their larder all year round. It was a labor of love, Grose knew, and the more she had grown to love the garden the less attention she’d paid to him. The fact that they’d been unable to have children hadn’t helped either. He shivered and turned away from the window.

He walked slowly back up the stairs and sat down at his desk. He picked up his pen, sucked on it for a while, and then put it down. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to write a word until he knew one way or another where he stood with The Homecoming. He flicked through his FiloFax for the number of the agency, and then slowly tapped it out.

A receptionist answered and she put him through to Pink’s secretary and she made him hold on the line for a full two minutes before putting him through.

“Dudley, hey, what’s up?”

What’s up? The words were like a slap across Grose’s face. He’d sweated blood over The Homecoming, put almost two years of his life into writing it and three months polishing and editing it. What was up? The fact that the agent hadn’t bothered to get back to him after two whole weeks was what was up. How long did it take to read a book? A day? Two days? Hell, a professional like Pink shouldn’t take more than a few hours to read a manuscript. “No biggie, just calling to see if you had any thoughts on The Homecoming.”

“The Homecoming?” repeated Pink and Grose felt his stomach lurch. The bastard couldn’t even be bothered to remember the name of the book that had taken up more than two years of his life.

“The novel,” said Grose, and hated himself as soon as the words had left his lips. “I emailed it two weeks ago.”

“Sure, yes, The Homecoming,” said Pink. “Brilliantly written, Dudley. Classic Dudley Grose. Classic.”

Pink stopped speaking and Grose waited to see what he would say, but no more words came. The seconds ticked off.

Eventually Grose couldn’t bear the silence any longer. “Did you have any thoughts?” he asked. He screwed up his face, realizing that he sounded like a schoolboy seeking praise for an essay.

“Right,” said Pink, dragging the word out over several seconds, and Grose prepared himself. “Thoughts? Yes, well it flows well, the characters are memorable, some of the descriptions made me think of Roth at his best.”

Grose clung to the compliment like a drowning man hanging on to a lifeline. “So you liked it?” he said.

There was silence for a few seconds and Grose was starting to wonder if the line had gone dead, but then he heard Pink cough quietly. “Hand on heart, Dudley, it’s not the sort of book that I’m going to walk through walls for.”

Grose frowned and slapped his hand against his forehead. What the hell did that mean? Walk through walls? Who the hell had suggested the agent try to defy physics? All he had to do was to send it out to the big publishers and start negotiations. How difficult was that ? Hell, he didn’t even have to worry about postage, Pink could do it all with his precious email.

“I don’t follow you,” said Grose.

“It doesn’t fire me up, Dudley. It doesn’t get my pulse racing. And if I’m not passionate about a book I can’t sell it. It would be dishonest of me to represent a book that I didn’t love, and unfair to the writer. You need an agent who is prepared to go out and slay dragons for you and in this case I don’t think I’d be up for slaying dragons.”

Grose tightened his right hand into a fist and banged it against his forehead. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, fighting to contain the rage that was building up inside him. Slaying dragons? What was the moron talking about? “What are you saying, Richard?” said Grose, though he already knew what the agent meant. He was dropping him, like a stone. Or a turd. A turd was a better analogy. Pink thought the book was shit and he didn’t want to touch it.

“It’s just not my thing,” said Pink. “Don’t get me wrong. The writing is terrific. You are a great writer, one of great writers of the twentieth century.”

“This is the twenty-first century, Richard.”

“Exactly,” said Pink. “And the world has moved on and I’m not convinced that the world of today is going to be queuing up to buy this novel. It’s not what’s selling.”

“There are no vampires in it, is that it? Would you prefer a book with some stupid High School cheerleader torn between a vampire and a zombie? How about that?”

“Is that what you’re working on now?” asked Pink without a trace of irony. “Sounds interesting, horror as literature, give it that Bram Stoker feel maybe. That could definitely work, Dudley.”

Grose ground his knuckles into the bridge of his nose and he gritted his teeth again, harder this time. He wanted to scream obscenities at the man but he knew there was no point. It was his own fault for phoning. You only ever chased bad news. If it was good news it would come a-looking.

“Dudley, are you there?”

“I’m here, Richard,” said Grose, struggling to keep his voice level. “And no, I’m not planning to start writing about vampires anytime soon.”

“Vampires are hot,” said Pink. “Zombies too. Teenagers can’t get enough of them.”

“I write for adults, not children,” said Grose. “So what are you saying, Richard? The book needs work, is that it?”

“The book is wonderful, Dudley,” said Pink. “ It’s classic Dudley Grose and I’m sure there’ll be a publisher out there who’ll bite your hand off but you need to find an agent who’ll walk over burning coals for you.”

“What does that mean?” said Grose. “Walk over burning coals? Why would you even say that? Why would I want you to walk over burning coals? I just need you to send out my book. How hard is that? I was nominated for a Pulitzer for God’s sake. I’ve sold more than a million copies in sixteen languages.”

“Yes but when?” said Pink. “Twenty-five years ago, right? How many are you selling now, Dudley? A thousand a year? Two thousand? Last time I looked two of your books aren’t even in print.”

“That’s the publisher’s fault,” said Grose. “I keep pushing them to get my books back on the shelves but they don’t listen.”

“Because the market’s changing,” said Pink. “Bookshops are closing left right and center, Amazon is the king, and eBooks are what’s happening now. You should think about that, Dudley. Seriously. Put your work up on Kindle and iBooks. That’s where the readers are these days.”

“Self-publish you mean,” snorted Grose. He slumped back in his chair, knowing that the conversation was already over. He’d been dumped. His agent had fired him. “I’d rather shoot myself than start to publish my own work.”

“Lots of writers are doing it,” said Pink. “And not just new writers. Plenty of established writers are getting the rights to their backlist back and putting them on-line.”

“I’m a writer,” said Grose quietly. “I was nominated for a Pulitzer. I was featured in Time magazine. I topped the New York Times bestseller list for six months, Richard. Six months. I’m not going to start hawking my own work like some sort of snake oil salesman.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” said Pink. “Look, I’m going to have to rush, I’ve a conference call booked for ten. Good luck anyway. I’m sure you’ll find someone to walk through…” He cut himself short. “There are plenty of agents out there who’d…”

Grose opened his mouth to swear at Pink, but then decided that it would be pointless. He put down the receiver without saying anything. He put his head in his hands, his eyes burning with tears of frustration. He was a writer, damn it. A Pulitzer-nominated writer who’d been featured on the cover of Time magazine. Who the hell was Pink, anyway? A middle-man, a Shylock taking fifteen per cent of whatever his clients earned. What did he know about writing? About constructing a novel, shaping a hundred thousand or more words into a structure that would keep a reader gripped for hours. The Homecoming was a good book, possibly a great book, and if Pink didn’t appreciate that then he was an idiot.

“Honey? Are you okay?”

Grose took his hands away from his face and twisted around in his seat. His wife was standing in the doorway, taking off her gardening gloves. He forced himself to smile. “Damn agents,” he said.

“Kill them all,” she said. “Wasn’t that what Shakespeare said?”

“He was referring to lawyers, but the principle’s the same,” said Grose.

“Coffee?”

Grose looked at his watch. “I have to go,” he said. “Tutorial.”

“I thought you were off today?”

Grose stood up and took his jacket off the back of his chair. “It’s an extra tutorial for the high-flyers,” he said.

“Are you okay? You look… upset.”

“Pink didn’t like the book.”

Her face fell and her look of concern made Grose feel suddenly ashamed. “Oh honey, I’m sorry.”

He waved away her sympathy. “There are plenty of other agents,” he said.

“Did he say why?”

“It wasn’t his thing.” He put on his jacket. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter, Dudley. You put your heart and soul into that book. Two years work. Blood sweat and tears.”

“Hardly that, Karen.”

“How dare he turn you down? Who does he think he is?”

“A gatekeeper,” said Grose. “You have to go through him or someone like him to get to the publishers and that gives them power.”

“Why can’t you send it to Random House? They published you before.”

“Eric retired five years ago,” said Grose. “I did speak to their head of publishing and she said that all submissions had to go through agents.”

“Didn’t she know who you are?”

“Of course she knew. But she didn’t care.”

“The world has gone mad,” she said. “You almost got a Pulitzer. You sold millions of copies, they owe you.”

“Publishing houses don’t see it that way,” said Grose. “She said I had to submit through an agent but…” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

She stepped forward and he knew that she was going to hug him. He put his hands up. “Karen, really, I’m not a kid.”

She nodded. “Okay, I don’t mean to fuss. It’s not as if we need the money. You’ve got your job at the university, the house is paid for, we’ll be fine.”

“It’s not about the money,” said Grose. “It was never about the money. I just want people to read my work. To be moved by it. I’m a writer. That’s what I do, I write. It’s not my fault if an idiot like Pink wouldn’t recognize a good book if it bit him on the ass.”

“There are other agents, aren’t there?”

“Sure. They’re like cockroaches. My mistake was choosing a gay one.”

She smiled. “I suppose the clue was in his name. Pink.”

“I’m serious. The publishing business has been taken over by the gays and there aren’t any gay characters in The Homecoming. Gay cowboys, that’s what sells. Or gay private detectives. That and vampires and zombies and wizards.” He looked at his watch again. “I have to go.”

“We can talk about it over dinner. I’m doing sea bass. And I’ve some runner beans from the garden.” She put a hand on his arm. “It’ll be all right, Dudley. I know it will.”

Grose saw the concern in her eyes and that only made him feel worse. He didn’t want her sympathy. More importantly, he didn’t need it. “I know,” he said flatly. He picked up the car keys from the table in the hallway.

“Do you want me to drive you to the station?” she asked.

“Please, don’t fuss over me,” he said and hurried out, making a conscious effort not to slam the door behind him.