Who is Maud Dixon?(15)

“Haven’t you heard? Forrester just acquired Amanda’s first novel.”

“Amanda sold a novel?” Florence felt herself slipping in the dark, unable to find traction.

“It’s an absolutely brilliant satire of Upper East Side mores,” Ingrid said. She pronounced it morays, like the eel. Florence made a mental note to stop pronouncing it like s’mores. “It’s wickedly funny.”

Simon wrapped an arm affectionately around his wife’s waist then abruptly removed it. The elevator pinged for Florence’s floor. She moved toward the door and waited impatiently for it to release her. “Good luck,” she said dully on her way out.

“Thank you!” said Ingrid brightly at the same time that Simon called out, “Keep up the good work!”

Florence walked directly into the handicapped bathroom and locked the door. She turned on the hot water, waited until it was scalding and held her hands underneath it until her skin glowed red. Amanda’s novel? What fucking novel? She looked in the mirror. Tears were gathering in her eyes.

“Don’t,” she snapped at her reflection. She shoved the hot heels of her hands into her eyes. When she removed them, the tears had cleared, and she managed to put a smile on her face.

“Better,” she said.

On her way to her desk, she detoured to talk to Lucy, who was hunched in front of her computer screen, clicking through pictures of dogs available for adoption on petfinder.com.

“You should just do it,” Florence said behind her.

Lucy jumped in her seat and put a hand to her heart. “God, you scared me,” she said.

“Seriously, why don’t you just get one?”

Lucy looked at Florence like she’d suggested drop-kicking an orphan. “Oh, no, I couldn’t. I work too much. It wouldn’t be fair.” Florence shook her head. She never understood people who denied themselves the things they wanted. Her problem was that the things she wanted constantly seemed out of reach.

“Have you heard about Amanda’s novel?”

Lucy nodded.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought it might upset you.” Lucy had no interest in being a writer, but she knew Florence did.

“Upset me!” Florence exclaimed more loudly than she’d meant to. “Why should it upset me? Believe me, that is not the type of book I have any interest in writing.” She still knew next to nothing about it.

“No, of course not. It sounds super cheesy.”

“It does?” Florence asked eagerly. “Have you read it?”

“No, but Sam has it.”

“Douchebag Sam or ginger Sam?”

“Ginger.”

Florence hurried off to find Sam, who promised to email her the manuscript. “It’s actually not terrible,” he said.

“That’s what I hear,” she replied grimly.

*



Florence spent the day reading the manuscript on her computer. It was ten at night by the time she finished. Agatha had left hours earlier, as had everyone else on her floor. Florence turned off her computer but made no move to pack up.

Sam was right. It wasn’t terrible. Even worse—it was good.

Florence shoved the heels of her palms into her eyes until she saw sparks. It simply wasn’t fair. Amanda already had everything. Now she got to be a published novelist too? The one thing Florence wanted more than anything else? And to work with Ingrid Thorne? She imagined Ingrid and Amanda having cozy working dinners. Talking about art and inspiration. Talking about fucking Brecht.

What did Florence get? A tiny room in a shitty Astoria apartment? A mentor who would rather talk about her doula than German playwrights? A one-night stand with Simon Reed, who probably wished it had never happened in the first place?

Something about that last thought snagged in Florence’s brain. Who probably wished it had never happened.

A smile spread across Florence’s face. She looked around the empty office and laughed out loud. Why hadn’t she seen it before?

Of course Simon wished it hadn’t happened. But it had. He knew it had, and she knew it had. Why hadn’t she recognized the power in that? Why had she let him think that she was disposable? Why had she thought she was disposable? Poor Simon had lost the upper hand the moment he put it on her leg in that grimy bar.

If he could publish Amanda’s novel, he could publish her book too. She could make him publish her. She would gather all the stories she’d already written into a collection, and there was her manuscript. It wasn’t ideal, getting published through blackmail, but nothing in life is pure. You don’t throw away a winning lottery ticket just because it gets a little dirty in your wallet.

Florence hurried home. She stayed up until three in the morning making minor edits to the stories she’d written in Gainesville. Reading them for the first time since Amanda had convinced her of her own ignorance, she could still see their flaws, but now she saw something else that she’d missed before: the sheer joy she’d felt while writing them. Hours had passed like mere seconds.

She had originally wanted to be a writer so that everyone would know that Florence Darrow was a genius. But during those years in Gainesville, what she’d loved most was the rush of not being Florence Darrow. For brief periods of time, in front of her computer, she’d left that self behind and become anyone she wanted.