Who is Maud Dixon?(17)

She should have been embarrassed, or frightened—she had practically no savings and had cultivated no other job prospects—but all she felt was relief and exhilaration. In a moment of rashness, she had kicked open an escape hatch from the life she’d been leading. Now that she stood outside of it, she could see how small it had gotten.

In college, she’d read The Immoralist and felt a rush of sympathy with Michel’s disdain for “fireside happiness”—comfort instead of glory. But a small, cozy life was exactly where she’d been heading. Agatha’s life, basically. She wanted something much, much more than that. With one outsized action, she had regained the conviction that it was out there, waiting for her. She just had to reach for it.

She sent out her newly edited stories to dozens of literary agencies. She was sure that with an agent on her side, publishers would finally see her talent. Her faith in her own potential had been restored. What type of cruel God would give her the deep, unwavering drive to become a writer without the ability?

She saw a lawyer about suing for sexual harassment, but he didn’t think a jury would find her sympathetic. “Probably not,” she’d agreed, chuckling lightly, to his obvious discomfort.

She had $1,100 in her bank account, and she owed $800 in rent at the end of the month. Still, she didn’t worry.

It was the first time since she was sixteen that she hadn’t had a job. And the first time in her life that she felt free from her mother’s scrutiny; Florence still hadn’t told her that she’d been fired.

She couldn’t believe how happy she was. She felt, for once, in league with the universe. The universe, she believed, would look out for her. Fate would intervene.

And then it did.

Two weeks after her firing, she received a voicemail from Greta Frost at Frost/Bollen, one of the best agencies in the business, asking her to call back.

Before dialing, Florence took several deep breaths to tamp down any evidence of desperation in her voice. Greta answered in a flat, husky tone that Florence tried to match as she explained who she was.

“Thanks for getting back to me,” Greta said. “I was reaching out because one of our writers is looking for an assistant and someone floated your name.”

Florence was confused. “This isn’t about my stories?”

“Hmm?”

“The stories I sent in?”

“Oh. Yes, they were very compelling; it’s part of the reason we’re reaching out to you for this role.”

“What role?”

“Before I tell you anything more, I am going to ask that you keep what I’m about to say confidential.”

“Alright.”

“Are you familiar with the author Maud Dixon?”

“Are you kidding?”

“I am not.”

“You’re asking me if I want to be Maud Dixon’s assistant?”

“I’m asking whether you’d like to apply for the position of Maud Dixon’s assistant.”

“Of course.”

“Wonderful,” said Greta in a voice that sounded like it had never found anything wonderful in its life. “Before we move forward, I need to make you aware of several caveats. Due to the rather unusual circumstances—I’m referring of course to her anonymity—the role has several unique qualifiers. Should you get the job, you will be required to sign a nondisclosure agreement. Not only will you be prohibited from revealing Maud Dixon’s real name, but you will also be prohibited from ever saying that you worked for her.”

“Okay.”

Greta paused before speaking again. “I want to make sure you realize what that means, Florence. For the rest of your life, you will have a gap in your resume that you will be legally prohibited from explaining.”

Florence paused. The whole point of being an assistant to a writer was to use his or her connections to leverage your next job, or, if you were lucky, get published. Without that, you’d be better off working as a waiter, where at least you earned tips.

But it would take more than an NDA to make her turn down the opportunity to learn from a best-selling novelist and, perhaps more importantly, to develop a relationship with her very powerful agent. “That’s fine,” she said.

“Alright. Well, that brings me to number two. She doesn’t live in Manhattan. I can’t disclose where exactly she lives at this point in the process, but she has offered to provide lodging to the successful applicant.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yes. Fine.” Florence knew—she just knew—that fate had intervened to send her this job, that it was the next step toward assuming the mantle of greatness herself. Greta could have listed physical mutilation as a job requirement and Florence still would have wanted it.

“Alright then. Let me tell you where you can email your CV. Do you have a pen?”

Florence sent her resume and a cover letter to Greta’s assistant that night. The next day, she received a call to schedule a video chat with Maud Dixon.





12.



Hello? Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you,” said Florence. “But I can’t see you.” Her own face was clearly visible in a small box in the lower corner of her screen, but the space where Maud’s face should have been was blank.