The Plot Jean Korelitz (drm ebook reader TXT) 📖

the next daughter of the next housekeeper, or the housekeeper herself. But the more she thought about it the more she liked the idea. From a practical standpoint, she was repelled by every boy she went to school with, and Daniel Weybridge wasn’t unattractive. Also, he was a grown-up and a father several times over, which meant he’d obviously know what he was doing when it came to the act itself. Also, unlike the boys in her grade who were congenitally incapable of keeping their mouths shut, it went without saying that Daniel Weybridge wasn’t going to tell a soul. And finally, when she let him take her to the Fennimore Suite (not an hour after her own mother cleaned it), he made a point of telling her that he’d had a vasectomy after bouncing baby boy number three. Which sealed the deal, basically.

So maybe she really wasn’t as smart as everyone had always thought she was, let alone as smart as she’d always thought she was. She had no idea how to go about getting rid of her problem. She didn’t even know how much time she had left to figure something out. But she knew it wouldn’t be enough.

CHAPTER THIRTEENHurl Away

“So, you know me, I don’t like to be that pushy agent, but …”

Matilda, in fact, was in every molecule of her being that pushy agent, which was the exact reason Jake had daydreamed, for years, about her being his agent. When he’d finished Crib after the most frenzied period of writing he’d ever experienced, it had been to Matilda Salter, and Matilda Salter alone, that he had reached out, in the most carefully written cover letter of his life:

Although I did have representation for The Invention of Wonder, and will always be proud that the novel was a “New & Noteworthy” in The New York Times Book Review, I’m coming back now with a very different kind of book: plot driven, suspenseful, and twisty with a strong and complex female protagonist. I would like to start fresh with an agent who understands exactly how far a book like this can go, and who will be able to handle attention from foreign markets and film interests.

Matilda—or more likely her assistant—had responded with an invitation to send the manuscript, and things had moved with gratifying speed after that. For Jake it had all been deeply redemptive, not to say thrilling; Matilda’s authors were an all-star roster of Pulitzer and National Book Award winners, permanent occupants of the better airport bookstores (and also all the other airport bookstores), literary darlings of the cognoscenti and stars of yesteryear who never needed to write another word.

“But?” he said now.

“But I had a call from Wendy. She and the gang at Macmillan are wondering if you’re going to make the deadline for the new book. They don’t want to pressure you. It’s more important to get it right than to get it fast. But right and fast would be best of all.”

“Yeah,” Jake said miserably.

“Because, you know, honey, right now it seems like it can never happen, but it has to, at some point. Maybe only because there’ll be no one left in the country who hasn’t read Crib. But there’s going to come a moment when all those people will want to read another book. We just want that book to be by you.”

He nodded, as if she could see him. “I know. I’m working, don’t worry.”

“Oh, I’m not worried. Just inquiring. Did you see we’re going back for another printing?”

“Uh … yeah. That’s good.”

“It’s better than good.” She paused. Jake heard her break away to say something to her assistant. Then she was back. “Okay, hon. I have to take this. Not everyone’s as happy with their publisher as you are.”

He thanked her and they hung up. And then, for another twenty minutes, he remained where he was on the old couch: eyes shut, dread coursing through him like a reverse meditation designed to eradicate serenity. Then he got up and went into the kitchen.

The former owner of his new apartment had done a sterile upgrade, with gray granite countertops and a gleaming steel stove suitable for someone about five levels above Jake’s own cooking abilities. So far, in fact, he hadn’t cooked a thing (unless you counted reheating as cooking) and his fridge contained only an assortment of takeout clamshell containers, some of them empty. His efforts to furnish the apartment had withered soon after bringing in what he already owned, and whatever intentions he’d had to address a few of the more obvious needs—a headboard for the bed, a new couch, a set of curtains for the bedroom window—had further departed in the wake of TalentedTom’s arrival in his life.

Unable to remember what had brought him into his own kitchen, he poured himself a glass of water and went back to his couch. In the brief time he’d been away, Anna had texted twice.

Hi you.

Then, a few minutes later:

Are you there?

Hi! he typed back. Sorry. Was on the phone. What are you up to?

Looking at Expedia, she wrote. Flights to NYC surprisingly cheap.

Good to know. I’ve been thinking of going there. They say the neon lights are bright.

For a moment nothing. Then: I would love to see a Broadway show.

Jake smiled. They actually don’t let you leave the city without seeing one. I’m afraid you’ll have no choice.

She had some vacation days, apparently. She could take them any time.

But really, Anna wrote, how do you feel about my visiting? I want to be sure this isn’t just me, hurling myself at you from the other side of the country.

Jake took a gulp of his water. How I feel is: hurl away. Please. I would love to have you here, even for a couple of days.

And you can take the time from work?

Actually, he couldn’t.

Yes of course.

They arranged for her to arrive at the end of the month, and stay for a week, and after they stopped texting Jake