Pitch Perfect

I pushed open the door to the coffee shop and peered over the ledge of my big dark sunglasses. I didn't see anyone who looked like a future National Book Award winning, best-selling author meal ticket. Even so, I addressed every single male in the room, "Are you Charli? Charli?" They all shook their heads no.

I had done something...questionable...that had helped me sniff out Charli's trail. I am not opposed to using my womanly wiles to get what I want, but they were of no use to me because what I wanted was for the pub tech guys to break into Howie's email, and all the pub tech guys are gay. Fortunately, they are also obsessed with Peter.

"You want me to do what?" Peter had asked me, when I went to him a few days ago and outlined my plan.

"I know she has that manuscript," I said. "And I want to see if she's been in contact with the author. His email address was on the coversheet."

Peter sighed. "This is sort of unethical, you know."

"So is being an insufferable whore!" I huffed.

"Okay, easy," Peter said. "I'll do it."

I clapped my hands together. "Really?!"

Peter shrugged. "Why not? It's not like I even work here. What are they going to do, fire me?"

So it was Peter who had charmed Kenny, the pub tech guy, and Kenny who had infiltrated Howie's email to reveal that she had, in fact, been in touch with Charli Ardman and that they had plans to meet for coffee in a few days. I decided to pull a Don Draper and just show up to their meeting, blow Charli away with a rousing pitch about how his book was the next Fault in Our Stars—that I would do everything in my power to bring The Five to a wide readership. I doubt Howie had even read the manuscript, anyway. She was only interested in Charli because I was interested in him.

I had shown up early, hoping that Charli would arrive first, but no such luck. I went to check my phone and then remembered, for the millionth time, that it was at home, soaking in a bowl of rice. When I'd jumped into the ocean the other night, trying to be all free-spirited and wild, what I hadn't realized was that my phone was in my back pocket. The thing is clearly a goner but I haven't had time to get to Apple, so it's been sitting in a bowl of rice for the last three days while I continue to hope for an Apple miracle.

The bells jingled behind me as the door opened and I turned to see Howie enter the coffee shop. I was instantly annoyed—I'd hoped to get to Charli before she did.

"Oh! Josie!" she said, sounding a little bit nervous. I reminded myself that I had still had the element of surprise on my side. For all Howie knew, I was just in here to get a latte.

"Howie!" I said, matching her tone, trying to appear just as surprised as she was to see me. "What are you doing here?"

Howie pushed her sunglasses on top of her head. "Just...meeting someone."

I winked at her. "Like a date?"

"No," Howie bristled. "I don't have time to date right now. Anyone who does clearly doesn't want this badly enough." She gave me a pointed look. Howie had also been given an end date and offered a position as a junior agent. The only difference is she got to go back to New York. I'd followed up with William to see where I stood on my offer, and William had only said that my salary request was "under review" by the partners. The way he said it made my stomach sour. Now I was worried I'd gone too far, asked for too much. What if they decided I was too demanding? A typical entitled millennial? I'd had to re-read my beaten up copy of Lean In to reassure myself that I hadn't done anything a man wouldn't have done. Hear me roar!

"Who are you meeting then?" I pushed.

Howie rolled her eyes. "God, you are nosy. I could ask you the same thing. What are you doing here?"

I was about to lie and say that Java Joe's has the best latte in town but the bells jingled again and when I saw who stepped through the doors I lost my ability to speak. I was moving my mouth but no words were coming out.

Howie passed her hand over my face. "You better not be having a stroke right now."

I barely heard her. All I could focus on was Richard, stepping towards me, the expression on his face both determined and fearful. He leaned down and his lips brushed my cheek. "You came," he said, quietly, and gave me a grateful smile. The hairs on my arms were standing up when he pulled away. It was like I'd seen a ghost.

I don't know who was more confused—me or Howie. But Howie collected herself first. "Richard?" She smiled. "Or do you prefer Charli?"

Richard ran his fingers through his hair and laughed. "Richard is fine, thanks." He looked at me. "I didn't realize Howie was your assistant. You didn't respond to any of my texts. I assumed someone else was interested in the book and you didn't want anything to do with it because, well...."

I glanced at Howie, worried she might spontaneously combust at the mere suggestion that she could be my assistant. "She isn't my..." I started, about to explain that Howie wasn't my assistant, that I had no idea Richard was Charli, but I had to pause to process all the pieces of the story. Charli Ardman—the name contained the letters to spell out Richard. Richard must have explained to Howie that he had submitted the manuscript under a pen name. I wanted to ask him why he'd felt the need to remain anonymous, but realized the motivation on my own. He was probably worried that William would write the book off if he knew Richard had written it, as William only knows Richard as the editorial assistant who was fired from Literatti. Or maybe Richard was worried I would receive it and toss it in the trash out of spite.

"I'm not Josie's assistant!" Howie laughed, shrilly. The vein in her forehead was pounding furiously. "We work together. Josie is just here to get a coffee. Such a coincidence that you two know each other!"

"Actually," I said, trying to keep my tone light, "I am here to talk to you about The Five. I had no idea you wrote it, or that you've been texting me. My phone is out of service right now." This wasn't how I pictured giving "Charli" my sell. But right there, in the middle of the coffee shop, without any of us even ordering a drink or sitting down or conducting this meeting with any semblance of civility, I went for it. It was secondary to me that Richard was the author. The Five was good, and I knew I could sell the hell out of it.

"I read The Five in one gulp," I said. "It's a page-burner, commercial appeal for sure, though the execution places this firmly in the literary category. I think Knopf is the perfect publisher for it. I know an editor there who would kill to get her hands on this. She did Alice Munro's latest book. She works with Dave Eggers"—

"Dave Eggers?" Richard repeated, his eyes bright and shiny. "That's amazing."

Howie raised her hand, rudely, and said, "Um, excuse me. Have you even spoken to this editor yet?"

"Well," I sputtered, "I haven't had a chance because"—

Howie put up her hand, silencing me. "So that's nice and all, but you don't know for sure that she would, in fact, kill to get her hands on this book." She gave me a pitying look and turned to Richard. "However, I," she placed her hand over her heart, "do have an interested editor. Denise Woodward, at Little Brown. You might of heard of a little known author named James Patterson?" She arched an eyebrow teasingly at Richard. "Denise is Patterson's editor."

I could have throttled Howie. How she even knew Denise was beyond me, as Howie is in the branding department, not literary. And it was clear why that was the case, because Howie had looped in the wrong editor for The Five. Denise is great, extremely talented, and James Patterson has an exceptionally successful career, but it is not the career a writer like Richard should have. Richard is a talented wordsmith, not a formulaic suspense writer, and he deserved a home at a more prestigious publishing house. Denise would not be able to attend to Richard's book with the gimlet eye it needed.

"Wow," Richard said, politely, but I could tell the mention of James Patterson's editor didn't spark his interest the way the mention of Dave Eggers' editor did. "That's extremely flattering that she's interested in my book."

"I have a conference call set up between the three of us for tomorrow afternoon." Howie beamed at me, victoriously.

Richard exhaled, loudly. "Wow," he said again. "Sorry, I know I keep saying that but I'm just overwhelmed. Happy, but overwhelmed."

I felt the exact same way. There were so many questions I wanted to ask him—what was he doing in L.A.? Why was he moving to San Francisco? Why did he send his manuscript to my workplace, knowing I would probably be the one to read it? But I couldn't ask with Howie there.

"Let's do this," I said, using all of my willpower to appear calm and in control. "Why don't you come by the offices tomorrow. We can meet first and then you can have your meeting with Howie. I'd love to have some time to get my ducks in order, see if I can drum up some more interest on my end. It's always good to have options!" I was talking in my perkiest voice, but inside, my heart was splintering into a million pieces. I couldn't believe I had to put on an act like this in front of Richard, when all I wanted to do was pound him on the chest, scream and cry how angry I was at him, how I was still hurting, even after all these months. It was agony having to pretend to be cordial, to sweep my emotions aside for the sake of a professional gain.

"Sure," Richard said, giving me a smile that knocked the wind out of me. "I'd love that." He squeezed my arm, and Howie glared at the place where his fingertips dug into my skin. "Josie," he said, and for a moment it was like we were the only two people in the room, "I just...thank you. Really."