One Fifth Avenue by Candace Bushnell Read Free Book Online Page A

honors. You’re the boss.”
    “I’m the boss. Hear that, James? This genius says I’m the boss.”
    James nodded. He was terrified.
    “Well, to put it mildly, I loved your book,” Jerry said. “It’s great commercial fiction. The kind of thing every businessman is going to want to read on a plane. And I’m not the only one who thinks so. There’s already interest in Hollywood from a couple of my buddies. They’ll definitely pay seven figures. So we’re going to push the production. That’s right, isn’t it?” Jerry said, looking to Redmon for affirmation. “We’re going to push the hell out of this thing and get it out there for spring. We were thinking next fall, but this book is too good. I say let’s get it out there immediately and get you started on another book. I’ve got a great idea for you. Hedge-fund managers. What do you think?”
    “Hedge-fund managers,” James said. He could barely get the words out.
    “It’s a hot topic. Perfect for you,” Jerry said. “I read your book and said O N E F I F T H AV E N U E
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    to Redmon, ‘We’ve got a gold mine here. A real commercial male writer.
    Like Crichton. Or Dan Brown.’ And once you’ve got a market, you’ve got to keep giving them the product.”
    Jerry stood up. “Got to go,” he said. “Got to deal with that thing.”
    He turned to James and shook his hand. “Nice to meet you. We’ll talk soon.”
    James and Redmon watched Jerry go, watched him walk out of the restaurant and get into a waiting SUV. “I told you you were going to want a drink,” Redmon said.
    “Yup,” James said.
    “So this is great news. For us,” Redmon said. “We could make some real money here.”
    “Sounds like it,” James said. He motioned to the waiter and ordered a Scotch and water, which was the only drink he could think of at the moment. He suddenly felt numb.
    “You don’t look so happy, man. Maybe you should try Prozac,” Redmon said. “On the other hand, if this book takes off the way I think it will, you won’t need it.”
    “Sure,” James said. He got through the rest of the lunch on automatic pilot. Then he walked home to his apartment in One Fifth, didn’t say hello to the doorman, didn’t collect the mail. Didn’t do anything except go into his little office in his weird apartment and sit in his little chair and stare out the little window in front of his little desk. The same window a hundred butlers and maids had probably stared out of years before, contemplating their fate.
    Ugh. The irony, he thought. The last thirty years of his life had been made tolerable by one overriding idea. One secret, powerful idea that was, James had believed, more powerful even than Redmon Richardly’s friggin’ sperm. And that was this: James was an artist. He was, in truth, a great novelist, one of the giants, who had only to be discovered. All these years he had been thinking of himself as Tolstoy. Or Thomas Mann.
    Or even Flaubert.
    And now, in the next six or eight or ten months, the truth would be revealed. He wasn’t Tolstoy but just plain old James Gooch. Commercial writer. Destined to be of the moment and not to stand the test of 36
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    time. And the worst thing about it was that he’d never be able to pretend to be Tolstoy again.
    ı
    Meanwhile, on a lower floor in Mindy’s grand office building, Lola Fabrikant sat on the edge of a love seat done up in the same unattractive nubby brown fabric as the couch in Mindy’s office. She swung one sandaled foot as she flipped through a bridal magazine, studiously ignoring two other young women who were waiting to be interviewed, and to whom Lola judged herself vastly superior. All three young women had long hair worn parted down the middle, with strands that appeared to have been forcibly straightened, although the color of the women’s hair varied. Lola’s was nearly black and shiny, while the other two girls were what Lola called “cheap blondes”; one even sported a