Unofficial and Deniable. John Davis Gordon
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a hand. ‘Mixing business and pleasure. You’re supposed to be my goddam publisher – I mean, that’s what I hoped you are. And here I am falling into bed with you like a goddam Hollywood starlet flinging herself on the casting couch.’
Harker closed his eyes. Oh, this was being made easy for him. He heard himself say, ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’ve already been ridiculous!’ she hissed softly. ‘Not you – no man’s got any sense when it comes to willing womanflesh!’ She glared at him from under her dark eyebrows, then said, ‘Believe me, Jack, that as a totally liberated woman I consider myself fully entitled to as much sexual freedom as you guys. And I’ve been around, in plenty of tighter corners than this. But this book –’ she thumped it against her bosom – ‘is the most important thing in my life right now and I was a fool to give you – my potential publisher – the impression that I’ll whore for it, that I’m a brainless fuck-the-boss bimbo. So I’m going home, to spare you the embarrassment of dropping a panting wannabe author and to spare me the embarrassment of being dropped.’ She pointed at him across the sofa: ‘But I want you to know, Jack Harker, that I did not jump into bed with you in the hopes that thereby you would be persuaded to publish my pathetic book – I did so because, in my inflamed, intoxicated state I wanted to do so. And before I disappear out that door, never to darken it again, I want you to know that I do not, repeat not, expect you to publish my book. Goodnight and sorry I was such a pest.’ She flashed him a brittle smile and turned for the door.
‘Josie? It’s not a pathetic book. It’s brilliant.’
She stopped. She turned slowly and looked back at him. ‘You’re just saying that to protect my feelings.’ She turned for the door again.
‘Josie,’ he said, ‘it’s brilliant. If the rest is as good as the pages I’ve read it deserves to be a bestseller.’
She had stopped again, her hand on the doorknob. He thought, Why am I saying this? He continued, to assuage his guilt, ‘And please don’t feel bad about last night. These things happen.’
‘You mean your female authors are always hopping into bed with you?’
‘I mean,’ Harker said with a bleak smile, ‘that I don’t misinterpret your motive. Indeed,’ he added, trying to make a joke of it, ‘I rather hoped it was because of my big blue eyes.’
She looked at him, unamused. ‘So, I should come back to bed now, huh?’
Oh, he would love her to come back to bed now. ‘No. And no hard feelings, that’s the deal we made yesterday.’
She looked at him, then demanded, ‘Do you want me to stay?’
Oh Christ. ‘Only if you don’t want to go.’
She snorted sulkily. Then: ‘It’s just that I feel such an ass. Christ, I’m twenty-six years old, I’ve been in half the battles of the world, and here I am giving a vivid impersonation of a silly little tart.’
Harker snorted. ‘Please don’t feel that, it’s not true.’
Her hand was still on the doorknob. ‘Do you really like my book so far?’
Harker had to dash back to his guns. ‘Yes, it’s good –’
‘You said “brilliant” before!’
Harker had to steel himself. ‘Yes, when it’s edited.’
Josephine groaned. ‘But I spent the whole of last fucking week re-editing for you!’
‘Well, authors don’t always make the best editors of their own work.’ Stick to your guns. ‘Josephine, it’s good but I don’t think Harvest House should publish it. I think that you’ll do much better with a bigger house, like Random or Doubleday.’ He added for good measure: ‘I’m afraid it’s too political for Harvest.’
He could see the cloud cross her soul. She stared at him a moment; then said, ‘Of course. Thank you for the advice.’
‘Josephine, your agent will advise you – you must get an agent – but I’m sure he’ll tell you the same. Harvest is too small.’
She smiled thinly, still holding the door-handle. ‘Thank you for that selfless advice.’
‘Josephine, believe me –’
‘The trouble is I don’t believe you, Jack. If another publishing house can make it a bestseller I don’t understand why Harvest is passing up the opportunity to do the same and make money!’
‘Josie, we simply haven’t got the budget to do all the publicity razzmatazz your book will need – will deserve.’
‘Of course,’ she said quietly. ‘I understand. Perfectly. And, as you say, it’s rather too political.’ She forced a bright smile. ‘And there’s one thing I want you to understand perfectly, Jack: I went to bed with you only because I was inflamed by strong drink and lust – not because I hoped thereby to persuade you to publish my pathetic book!’ She flipped the lock and opened the door.
Oh Jesus. ‘Josephine – let me call you a taxi.’
‘I’ve already called one, from your bedroom telephone. Bye-eee …’ She flashed him a dazzling smile from the corridor.
‘I’ll come outside and wait with you till it comes.’
‘Bye-ee.’ She twiddled her fingers at him and closed the door.
Harker strode back to the bedroom. He cast about for his shirt, snatched it up off the floor, pulled it on as he hurried back to the front door. He dashed barefoot across the courtyard into the archway of the front block. He burst out on to East 22nd Street.
It was deserted. Josephine’s taxi was disappearing round the corner. Harker retraced his steps grimly. He locked the door behind him and walked back to the bedroom. And there, on his bedside table, were her earrings. He looked at them regretfully. Then he collapsed on to the bed and stared up at the ceiling.
Oh, what a crying pity. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, heart-sore.
Well, he had done the right thing, if that was any consolation. He had saved her from Dupont’s clutches, sent her packing on her way to the success she deserved. At least he didn’t have it on his conscience that he was deceiving her. But, God, what a crying-out-loud shame that Harvest House wasn’t going to zoom to the top of the bestseller list for the first time in its life and make a fortune.
And even more sad was the fact that he was not going to possess that glorious body again. Not going to fall in love with her after all, the most captivating woman he had ever met – oh, those long legs, those perfect breasts – and her ravishing smile as she tumbled joyfully into bed and took him in her arms, her pelvis thrusting to meet him. He would love to be meeting her for lunch again today, love to go walking through the park with her, hand in hand, finding out about her, going through that delightful insanity of falling in love, feeling on top of the world, laughing and being frightfully witty and wise. Oh yes, he was infatuated, and it was a tragedy that it wasn’t going to happen.
He swung up off the bed and looked at her earrings lying on the bedside table. A sad memento of a lovely day. He would take them to the office and post them to her. He walked to the kitchen and poured more whisky into his glass.
But it was for the best. She was a very sensitive person – you’d have to be on guard all the time lest you upset her. Volatile. Doubtless moody – most creative people are. A delicate bloom, yet with robust convictions. She would have been a difficult soul to be in love with, it would have been no bed of roses with her – perhaps indeed a bed of neuroses. Goddam writers are a load of trouble, all steamed up then flat as a pancake, locked in a love-hate relationship with their work.
Yes, it was all for the best. But, oh, what a crying-out pity.