Revising Romance
A Novel
by Melanie Dugan

excerpt

At the door to the conference room, I stand aside and let Spencer go in before me. He brushes past, sits down and sets his briefcase on the table. He pulls out a tattered file folder containing a pile of paper about an inch and a half thick and sets it on the table. Two elastic bands wrapped vertically and horizontally around the file keep the sheets of paper from spilling out of the folder. Little yellow Post-it Notes emerge like truncated fingers from the pages. This is a bad sign, since it suggests he's been fiddling with the manuscript, an activity to be firmly discouraged at this point in the process. We do not need any last-minute changes, no abrupt narrative detours or unexpected revelations.

I'm tempted to scoop up the file folder, slap away his hands — I imagine them grabbing at the manuscript in a proprietorial way — and bolt from the room. Don't you understand? I want to tell him. Your job is over; the story's told. Now it's my turn to tidy up details, tie up loose ends. Just let me get on with it.

Spencer glances around, a frown knotting his forehead. "Where's Morris?" he asks. I sense a note of irritation. He has a low-pitched voice and sounds hoarse, as if he's got a sinus infection or the beginnings of a cold; or maybe this is the male version of husky sultriness.

"Morris is ... on vacation," I say, hoping he won't notice the instant's hesitation it takes me to improvise for the absent Morris, hoping he won't immediately storm out to quiz Hill about this. I mime irritation — Morris, that scoundrel, taking a break at a time like this!

Spencer's eyes flicker over to me. They narrow. He gives me an appraising look.

"Vacation?" he says after a moment's pause — the same delay you get on long-distance phone calls, as if it's taken a while for my words to penetrate other, more important concerns. "He didn't mention anything about going on vacation at our last meeting."

Change tack. "It's a sabbatical, really." I pitch my voice low and confiding. "He's been under a lot of pressure recently, and Hill thought ..." I let the sentence drift off, shrugging vaguely, suggesting without saying outright how fragile poor Morris is. "I've taken over some of his responsibilities, but if you'd prefer to work with Hill" — I rush ahead — "I'm sure he'd be happy to make any changes you want."

Will Hill be happy if he has to do the edit himself? In a pig's eye, as Em is fond of saying, as in I doubt it; as in her response to my "Young women shouldn't wear too much makeup, Em, it makes them look cheap." In a pig's eye, Mom. Look at Beyoncé. Cheap? I don't think so. I haven't traced the etymology of the phrase.

Even when he's on his best behaviour, which he absolutely would be with Spencer, Hill has a gruffness to his manner that can bruise tender egos. He's also moody — charming sometimes, taciturn others, and sometimes the transition takes place in minutes, not hours. I've seen him transform a couple of our more delicate authors into nervous wrecks.

Instead of responding to my suggestion, Spencer turns his attention back to his manuscript. "No, that's all right," he says. "I'm sure you're competent. Otherwise Hill wouldn't have assigned you to me."

Competent? Well, thank you for that rousing vote of confidence, Mr. Stone. I'll try not to let your praise go to my head.

I set my coffee cup, pad of paper and file folder on the table and take a seat kitty-corner to Spencer.

When I moved to this town five years ago and found that having a thorough and complete knowledge of the Dewey Decimal system as well as two years' experience at one of the country's largest magazines in no way qualified me to find employment here, I did a stint at secretarial school. Along with courses in keyboarding, filing and Dictaphone, students were required to take a class called Psychology in the Workplace, where nuggets of wisdom along the lines of "Sitting directly opposite a person establishes a confrontational relationship; to create an atmosphere of co- operation, sit beside the person," were handed out. I'm always one for upping the co-operation quotient, so I apply this gem whenever possible. I'm not completely convinced of its efficacy though. It seems to me that an uncooperative prima donna is an uncooperative prima donna whether you sit across from him or on top of him, but I figure it's worth a try.

With Spencer bent over his manuscript, I take the opportunity to open the file folder labelled Stone, S., and I am only partially successful in stifling an exclamation. Spencer glances up, frowning. I manage to shift my initial gasp of surprise into a cough.

"Sorry," I pat my chest. "Allergies." He turns back to his reading. Morris, you rat! The file is empty, save for a single sheet covered in his cramped, scribbled notes; notes detailing Spencer's evasions and equivocations — in short, what amounts to Spencer's refusal to hand over the manuscript. That's all right, I tell myself. Morris wouldn't have had to have the manuscript in hand. Probably they've passed earlier drafts back and forth, and the version sitting in front of Spencer is the final draft that just requires a careful copy-edit.

My eyes bead on the stack of paper sitting placidly beside Spencer. No great distance away, but just out of easy reach. I turn back to Morris's notes. The entries end abruptly a few days ago.

I glance up; Spencer's still reading, pointedly disregarding me. I lock a smile on my face and clear my throat. "Well," I say brightly, "according to this, once I have your manuscript in hand, everything will be on track."