Blind Submission by Debra Ginsberg Page B

I was coming up with this and was vaguely surprised that I was able to lie with such ease.
    â€œSure,” Lorraine barked, and hung up in my ear.
    Peter Johnson was still blinking on Line 1.
    â€œMr. Johnson? I’m afraid Ms. Fiamma’s unavailable at the moment. Can I help you?”
    â€œHave you read my book?” he asked, coughing into the phone.
    â€œActually, I’m new here, so I haven’t had a chance to—”
    â€œWe can still talk about it,” he said. “Let me tell you the plot, if you’ve got a minute. It’s a winner, I’m telling you. A real winner.”
    â€œWhy don’t I take your number, Mr. Johnson, and I’ll make sure to deliver the message.”
    He coughed again and rasped out his phone number, promising that it was no trouble at all for him to call again and that he’d be happy to call tomorrow, and oh yes, congratulations on my new job at one of the finest literary agencies on earth. I hung up and stole a glance at my watch, sure that hours had passed since I’d first walked in at eight o’clock. I’d been there for exactly twenty-three minutes.

    THE NEXT TIME I CHECKED, it was after one. Pacific time, that is. There was one clock in the office and it was set to New York time. Anna had arrived at nine but was only marginally more helpful than Nora in showing me around the office. She was, however, intent on telling me every detail of her eating habits. Instead of learning where Lucy’s call list was, I learned that Anna had consumed eggs and bacon for breakfast. Rather than explaining how the filing system worked, Anna chose to tell me that she was planning a Chinese chicken salad for dinner, and what did I think of honey mustard dressing? Every so often, she’d throw out a bit of useful information, like where the filing cabinets were located, for example, or where I could find the manuscripts that were slated for rejection and had to be sent back to their authors, but these were delivered almost as afterthoughts. At least, thankfully, when I managed to unearth my computer and turn it on, Anna was able to direct me to the various databases of names and phone numbers that I’d be needing.
    Craig spent most of the morning wearing a path between his desk and Lucy’s office. When he was seated behind his folders and files, he was all but invisible. Aside from the brief conversation I’d had with him in Lucy’s office, he hadn’t spoken to me at all.
    Anna must not have heard that I was to be the first person answering the phone, because, unless she was on a call herself, she leaped at it every time it rang. Her conversations were loud and she giggled often. These were not personal calls, either, because she put several through to Lucy, but she spoke to everyone as if she were a long-lost chum. I answered a few calls of my own, more successfully than the first, but still felt uneasy about the Hart episode. Lucy had not emerged from her office, and I expected to be called onto the sparkling white carpet at any minute for screwing up. When my intercom buzzed at one-thirty, I actually jumped.
    â€œAngel, can you come in here now, please.” Despite the
please,
it was clearly a command and she sounded none too pleased. I considered the possibility of being fired on my first day.
    â€œCome, come, Angel. Sit down.” Lucy was perched on her white leather sofa, holding a manuscript. I recognized the mass of curling blue script on the first page. I sat down on the edge of her couch and she gave me a look I could only describe as a “once-over.”
    â€œWhat have you come as, my dear?” she asked, her tone much less gentle than her words.
    â€œExcuse me? Wha—”
    â€œI mean, what are you
wearing,
Angel?”
    I looked down at myself, as if I needed to be reminded of what I’d put on earlier, and saw a beige button-down shirt, jeans, and black mules. It was a very similar