he sought, and manage to fight off the corporate hordes, but he had done so more through guile and bitchiness than through direct confrontation. Gerald ruled as totally as Tsarina Catherine had ruled Russia, and probably with a similar style.
This party was a waste of time. What had he been thinking of? Book parties, especially literary ones, were not the place to troll for a hot book or a hot body.
Gerald had one dreadful weakness: He liked his women not only attractive but also intelligent. That was where all his difficulties came in. You couldn’t please them. Right now Anne, his mistress, was dissatisfied because he wouldn’t buy any of the books she was hawking and couldn’t help her career as much as she wanted (he’d never sleep with an agent again). His wife, as always, was either depressed or angry. Neurotic, intelligent women were a pain in the ass. They were also his specialty.
Gerald looked around one last time to decide who, if anyone, he would grace with his presence. Robert Gottlieb of the William Morris Agency was there, surrounded by visiting British publishers. Gerald would not have said no to Gottlieb’s top client Tom Clancy, but he certainly wasn’t going to mix with the Brits. Patrick Janson-Smith, the old charmer, young Ian Chapman—time for a haircut?—Clare Alexander: half of London seemed to be here and all, no doubt, would like to add another giant name to their lists.
Sometimes, he reflected, not just an agent but a whole publishing house was held hostage to a single author. As publishing had followed Hollywood in its search for megahits, bestselling authors were coddled almost like movie stars. Where would Doubleday be without Grisham, Putnam without Clancy, Viking without King, Harper without John Gray, Knopf without Crichton? Even losing a literary bestselling writer could rock a house’s stability, as when John Irving left Morrow. Without Sidney Sheldon, Morrow could fold. It gave a whole new meaning to the term “house arrest.”
Karen Rinaldi, vibrant with her red hair and Comme des Garçons suit, was a far better option. She’d been at Turtle Bay, the imprint that Joni Evans had founded at Random House. They’d signed some big books—Girl Interrupted and a couple of others—before Alberto Vitale had pulled the plug. Turtle Bay interrupted. After its demise, the books it published had sold so well they vindicated Joni, who was a smart girl. Joni, interrupted, went on to become a top agent. She only looked bad when she came up against Joan Collins in court.
It seemed to Gerald that all of the women who had worked at Turtle Bay in its townhouse office near the Random House building, which he referred to as the Brownstone of Babes, were those constantly seductive smart girls who look Vogue and talk The New Yorker. They all were thin and had great hair. Did anyone have a smaller waist, or a nicer smile, than Susan Kamil? He was making his way toward Karen when someone bumped into him and staggered against the wall. It was Erroll McDonald, noted for being the senior black editor in the ever-so-lily-white publishing world. He was noted for a few other things as well, and Gerald gave him the cold shoulder.
He’d lost Rinaldi in the crowd. There must be an easier way to meet women. On the Internet or something? Hadn’t Rush Limbaugh met and married a fan? Maybe Gerald was going about this all wrong. He’d focus on business. Who else was around that might send him a book? Robert Loomis, the Random House editor and one of the grand old school, nodded and said hello. Gerald smiled but kept his distance. Loomis probably spoke with Gerald’s father on a regular basis. He didn’t need to talk to the gentleman publishing contingent—Loomis, Cass Canfield, Jr., Larry Hughes, Simon Michael Bessie (and his beautiful blond wife, Cornelia), Buz Wyeth, Star Lawrence, or the rest. Not that there were many left. Like his father, they were a vanishing breed. There was so little room for class, to say nothing of old-fashioned values, in a publishing conglomerate.
What Gerald needed was a hot young agent, preferably female. He kept one eye out for Karen as he scanned the room. In one corner Michael Korda was holding court, surrounded by his Simon & Schuster minions—Chuck Adams and the rest—and a few hungry authors hoping for crumbs. Korda had written a viciously funny piece for The New Yorker about Jackie Susann in which he managed to deeply bite the hand that had once fed him well. Very distasteful. He noticed Ann Patty, editor in chief at Crown. Her hair wasn’t as red as Rinaldi’s, but she was as smart as they got and had a nose for picking successful first-time novelists. Well, he needed that skill now. He nodded and walked on.
The press of bodies became unbearable. Really, he wondered, were any of these people enjoying this? Who could be expected to like sipping room-temperature chardonnay and eating little bits of rubbery cheese impaled on toothpicks? The combination reminded Gerald of a handstamp set he’d had as a child—all the letters of the alphabet and most punctuation marks carved out of rubber and backed with wooden handles so that he could “print” his own “books.” It had been a messy, onerous job, and Gerald remembered how frustrated he’d been to have only one e and one s when he had to use those stamps so often. But after he’d finished his first “book,” he’d brought it in to his father and Father had praised him. Gerald still remembered how his father had been sitting with an older gentleman, Mr. Perkins. When Gerald presented them with the book, Mr. Perkins had laughed and called Gerald “a chip off the old block.” His father had been so pleased that he had reached out and ruffled Gerald’s bare pate, a rare and never-to-be-forgotten occurrence. From the time Gerald, at three, had exuviated his hair, his father had seemed reluctant to touch him, as if his depilous condition were communicable.
Gerald reached up reflexively to smooth his wig and looked around the room. He shot his cuffs. James Linville, standing alone, seemed to be sipping a nonalcoholic drink. This was a man who had been called in print a stick-in-the-ass. Gerald walked past him. Susan Blum, the editor in chief at this new publishing house, was approaching him. She was a dishy, if abrasive, smart girl, and he liked her. He briefly considered sleeping with her but decided she’d be too much trouble. Anyway, she’d keep any good book that came her way for Citron Press. Jay Mclrierney Walked by. “Don’t you see him everywhere?” Susan asked. “So boring.”
“Some people mistake publishing parties for life,” Gerald murmured.
“And books about them for art,” Susan added with a laugh. They watched the crowd together in silence for a while.
“Gerald,” she said finally, “is it true what I hear about Chad Weston’s new one?”
“Depends on what you hear.”
“That the little lizard has really exposed himself.”
Gerald looked at her blandly. “We think it’s a fine book,” he said. “A rich commentary on the times in which we live.”
“Fuck that flap-copy shit,” Susan said. “He slices and dices. Doesn’t he fuck dead women’s bodies?”
Gerald raised one of his glued-on eyebrows. “It’s fiction, Susan,”
“The limp dick would do it in real life if he could,” Susan replied. “Come on, Gerald. You’re not going to encourage that kind of crap? There are a lot of women in publishing who are not happy about this book.”
“There are a lot of women in publishing who are not happy about anything,” Gerald replied coolly. “It’s one of the reasons they go into publishing.” He looked Susan over. Maybe he would enjoy sleeping with her. She was feisty. “You must be working hard, launching this house,” he said. “You look like you deserve a vacation in the sun.”
Susan tossed her head and laughed. “Gerald, I don’t ever want to see you in your Speedo.” She turned and walked away, to begin talking with Peter Gethers—an author who wouldn’t take Susan anywhere but traveled with his cat, and wrote about it. Gerald moved on. Sharon DeLano of Random House stood at the drinks bar talking with Gore Vidal, whom she
