Illustrated version of this chapter available on request
Paul was deep in thought as he reread the last two pages over again. It was ten after eleven on a Tuesday morning. He had been writing since six, and had two pages that were almost right to his way of thinking, when he heard the mailman approaching his front door, and then saw the letter drop from the mail slot onto the wooden floor.
A letter not a bill? I don't usually get letters ... and it's too thin to be another rejection slip. He put it out of his mind and finished reading his work for the fourth time, made two minor changes in the dialogue and prepared to resume typing, but couldn't concentrate as thoughts of the previous day with Celia and Jim kept coming back to him.
Did Jim suspect anything? The room had fairly reeked of sex. How many beers had he had? Had Celia given anything away after he'd left? Could he return to their place without a confrontation?
These and other questions pried at him, forcing him to get up from his PC and pick up the letter still lying on the floor by the front and only door to his tiny apartment. Cursing under his breath, Paul bent down and picked up the solitary piece of mail and glanced at the sender's name: Carol Cobillard, Regal Publishing, New York, NY.
He felt his knees go weak and he stumbled back to his chair and sat down hard. Good news ... this had to be good news, he told himself and carefully opened the letter.
Dear Mr. Hartstein:
Allow me to introduce myself. I am the Editing Agent for Regal Publishing. I have just reread your work--Woman on the 7:10 to Brewster and found it to be extremely interesting. I will be candid with you. It is not our policy to publish a first time author offering us a novella. The truth is they do not as a rule, sell well—period. However I am interested in reading any novel you may have, either finished or in progress, so long as there is a chapter or two completed.
As a show off good faith I have enclosed a check in the amount of a $500.00 retainer toward the future publication of Woman on the 7:10 to Brewster which should sell reasonably well after you have established a reputation through your subsequent work.
Toward that end, I would like to meet you for lunch on Tuesday, the 7th of February if that is acceptable to you. Please bring a sampling of your current work with you and I will read it during lunch. Call me on xxx-xxx-xxxx to confirm or set a different date.
Sincerely yours, Carol Cobillard
It would be difficult to describe the sudden rush of elation that ran through Paul on reading the letter. He wanted to call everyone he knew, but had no phone. He wanted to scream the news out the window but it was nailed shut. And so he did what he could do under the emotional stress he was under--he slowly sank down t the floor and began to cry.
He was happy, perhaps for the first time in quite a while. With each tear rolling down his cheeks he felt the pressure of possible failure as a writer falling away. He took a deep breath, stopped crying and wiped his eyes then got to his feet and returned to his PC and began working anew, this time with a more meaningful purpose, and before long had another thee pages--nearly perfect pages, and he finished another page before calling a halt and making himself something to eat.
He was famished and ate twice as much as normally would. He counted his money and found that aside from the next week's rent, he had ten dollars and thirty seven cents to his name.
Paul reread the letter, and sat back down at his PC and finished the chapter. All in all he'd knocked out sixteen pages before quitting for the day and going out to the local diner and having their blue-plate special—meatloaf, mashed potatoes and carrots for dinner.
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The Gaby Brasserie Française proudly dominated the entrance of the Sofitel New York on 44 W. 45th St. (Fifth & Sixth Avenues to those unfamiliar with New York City.) Its façade gleamed in the dappled sunlight, emerging with gothic splendor from behind the trees fronting the building.
As Paul approached he saw how impressive the building really was the structure grand and stately and defiantly Victorian in its architecture. A flight of stone steps led her up to the front door of the hotel, and he passed through into the dark, wood paneled interior.
The décor inside was plush and exquisitely refined. Carol Cobillard obviously liked the finer things in life. He hoped that she would be just as much to his liking.
Once inside the restaurant, Paul slipped out of his coat, passed it to a porter standing there silently waiting patiently for him to remove it and adjusted his tie. Although this was a lunchtime engagement, he still felt out of place wearing his only suit, although it was dark blue, it had seen better days. In fact, his school had bought it for him to wear to an award dinner for which he had been nominated. He had finished third in the voting, but still had the suit all these years later.
He asked the Maître D if Ms. Cobillard had arrived, and was told "No, not as yet, would Monsieur prefer to wait in the lounge, or perhaps he would rather wait at the table?"
Worried about paying a small ransom for a drink at the bar—which he didn't have—Paul opted for the table, and was taken there without any further comment by the Maître D.
Carol Cobillard was on time. Paul watched as a slim brunette with almost no breasts at all paused by the Maître D's station and was directed to Paul's table. He tried to keep his eyes on her face for she was extraordinarily attractive, young and full of life, and clearly aware of the sexual power of her presence. He saw that she was possessed of magnificent legs accentuated by a long slit in her skirt that showed them off.
Paul's writing skills had taught him to take note of people with a view toward describing them in his notes for possible use in his writing. In that regard he also made a point to take in her figure, B in the breast department, but he was partial to small, pert breasts, A+ on her ass, and face.
Paul rose to greet her as she approached his table.
Jesus H. Christ, Carol thought, he's a fuckin' God! She smiled, partly for his benefit, partly to ensure the lust for him that was racing to her belly and lower didn't show on her face.
Sometimes I just lose it. The civilized part of me switches off and the hindbrain takes over. This man had a hotline to my ovaries. My whole body was screaming Fuck him Fuck him now. Take his seed. We need it.
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She slowed approach to assess the man she was lunching with and who she hoped would prove to be her ticket to a promotion if he proved to be the bestselling author she thought he might become.
Mmmm, good looking, she thought, seems calm enough considering the stakes, and OH, is he really that big? This is going to be more than a business lunch if he's interested n me.
Paul stood up to greet her and it occurred to him that he had given her two of the higher grades possible in grading a woman.
"Mr. Hartman, it's a pleasure to meet you at last," Carol said in a sexy undertone.
"It's Hartstein, Paul said in a kindly voice, many people mistook the pronunciation of his last name and he didn't mind, especially when such an attractive woman made the mistake.
