To
begin with, the hot water was all used up that morning—ah, the joys of living
in a cheap flat where other tenants took luxurious baths each morning—and
Angela had to take an icy cold shower.
There is nothing more daunting to the prospect of a pleasant morning
than having to grit one’s teeth under a fingernail-freezing stream of water
that is not even strong enough to be invigorating. Well, perhaps that is the most
daunting, but it is closely followed by accidentally putting too much water in
the oatmeal and being faced with gloppy soup for breakfast instead of thick,
hot porridge. Then, of course, poor
Angela spent so much time trying to kill a moth that had got caught in the
pathetic gaslight that she let her toast burn.
And
if all that weren’t enough, she didn’t realize that she was wearing mismatched
shoes until she had already gotten on the subway.
But
upon entering the office, she brightened a little—she had not been late yet a
single day this week. The fact that it
was only Monday should not be a damper to her still-feeble enthusiasm.
Apparently
enthusiasm-dampers were running amok that morning, however, because Mrs.
Poulthard stopped her in her tracks with a glance of steel as soon as she
stepped into the office. “Miss Monroe,
the story you submitted last week was absolutely unsatisfactory. I am really quite severely displeased. Rose Arbor does not tolerate shoddy
work, particularly stories that lack plots—and kissing—entirely. I have not run this magazine for twenty-eight
years only to see it totter and fall because of poor work on the part of my
writers.”
Mrs.
Poulthard had that rare knack of making everything that went wrong seem as if
it were entirely your fault and no one else’s.
Angela winced a little. “I’m
truly sorry, Mrs. Poulthard, and I—”
“Miss
Monroe, I am not interested in your apologies.
I am interested in a better story, this week. Now, this week’s edition comes out on Friday,
and as you know Friday is St. Valentine’s Day. I shall expect a particularly
romantic tale from you, Miss Monroe—our readers expect it. And,” Mrs. Poulthard shot daggers at Angela
over her flat-topped glasses, “our readers pay our bills, Miss Monroe. Now I shall expect a satisfactory Valentine
story from you by nine o’clock on Wednesday morning so it may go to press on
Thursday. Without fail, Miss Monroe.”
“Yes,
Mrs. Poulthard.” It was all very well to
expect a romantic tale, but what was one to do when one had nothing to
write? She turned to go.
“And
another thing, Miss Monroe.” Mrs. Poulthard
had the pleased air of one who remembered that there was yet one more arrow in
her quiver. “The pen names you have
been using of late are most unsatisfactory.
Naturally I would never want my subscribers to think that our fiction
comes from the same author each week, but there is no need to sign your name at
the bottom as Hortensia Dedlock or Louisa Steerforth. No one, I should hope, would really be cursed
with names such as those. Your
imagination is overactive, Miss Monroe.”
“My
pen names have come from characters in my favorite books, Mrs. Poulthard. I didn’t make them up.”
“Oh. Well.”
Mrs. Poulthard considered. “Then perhaps you might consider using a pen
name that sounds more… er… realistic.
Elizabeth Bennet, perhaps. You’re
fond of Charlotte Bronte’s works, as I remember.”
“Elizabeth
Bennet is a character in Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen,” said
Angela mildly. It was probably not the
wisest remark she could have made—Mrs. Poulthard abhorred contradictions.
Mrs.
Poulthard simply glared. Angela backed
hastily out of the publisher’s office and fled to her tiny corner in the
writing room, where she sat before her typewriter with her head in her
hands. People in books always sat with
their heads in their hands when they needed to think especially hard, but
somehow it didn’t seem to help her much.
She usually thought much more clearly when she was sitting up straight
and looking around her.
To
waste a little time, she put a fresh paper into her typewriter very, very
slowly, taking care to keep the edges straight and the middle from
wrinkling. It took her nearly a minute,
and the result was pleasingly clean and neat, but it did not move her any
closer toward meeting her deadline.
She
hated writing love stories, absolutely abhorred the task. Her dialogue always seemed stilted and
schmaltzy, her characters drab and curiously like paper dolls, her plots… well,
in Mrs. Poulthard’s words, her plots were nonexistent. She was tired, so very tired of the classic
boy-meets-girl tale. If she could write
like Jane Austen, of course, things would be very different, but she lacked the
wit and sparkle—let alone the sense and sensibility—that was required for a
tale of pride and prejudice.
Then,
of course, there was the question of the pen name. Mrs. Poulthard would never admit it,
naturally, but Rose Arbor was struggling and could not afford to hire
more writers. Thus, it was up to Angela
and Lillian Pennywright to create an illusion of a long string of clamoring
authors spilling out weekly stories for Rose Arbor.
If
only.
She
pulled her list of already-used pen names from her purse and smiled at the
memory each evoked. Esther Woodhouse,
Fanny Elliot, Henrietta Copperfield, Lucy Ferrars—she had certainly obtained a
giggle or two from that one—and even Charlotte Collins. The kind of readers who subscribed to Rose
Arbor were, she feared, not the same kind of readers who devoured Bleak
House in thirteen days… and therefore would not recognize the names of
these literary heroines. Angela herself
had torn through Bleak House in twelve and a half days, though she was
loath to admit it. Then why on earth,
she asked herself for the umpteenth time, was she writing for a magazine as
frivolous and fluffy as Rose Arbor?
The
reason was not one she liked to admit. She had been brought up in a household
where it was really not polite to speak of… well… finances.
She
flipped open a recent issue of the magazine.
There must be an idea somewhere.
Lillian’s latest installment of The Duke’s Inheritance was
splashed across the front page.
One
cursory glance was enough to make her feel a bit sick. Lillian had certainly never gotten in trouble
with Mrs. Poulthard for a lack of kissing in her stories. Angela had often thought that perhaps she
would have an easier job if she could write a serial as Lillian did, instead of
having to come up with a new idea each week, but the mere thought of writing
something so… so very slurpy was enough to make her wince.
Back
to the task at hand. She rolled the
paper up a little farther in the typewriter—the title could wait until she
landed something resembling an idea. For
now, she could at least write the easy part: “by such-and such pen name.” Mrs. Poulthard had not been pleased with her
recent nom de plumes, so perhaps her latest idea (Mrs. Nicholas Darnay
Murdstone-Squeers, PhD) would not go over too well. She briefly considered using Fanny
Chuzzlewit, but though the name brought a smile to her face, she banished that
idea as well.
Emma
Dorrit, perhaps? No, too plain. She scanned her list of ideas again. She had always liked the name Dashwood—it
sounded so literary, somehow. Miss
Dashwood sounded rather well, but a bit dull… Amy Dorrit’s name caught her eye
again. Miss Amy Dashwood. Perfect—a bit bland, but still holding a
little, bookish joke for her and for her alone.
Phrases
were playing freeze tag through her head, barely staying in one place long
enough for her to lay a thought on them.
Pictures and people flashed in and out, none of them concrete, not one
of them available for the taking. A
story had to start somewhere. She had to
think of something. It was eleven-thirty
already—how could it be so late already, and here she was with nothing written
but a pen name?
Lillian
breezed by Angela’s desk. “Why, Angie
dear, I didn’t know you were here today.
Working on a story for Valentine’s Day, eh? I can’t think how nice it
must be to be as clever as you. Just
imagine, a whole new plot every week—I couldn’t do it, dear, I simply couldn’t
do it. What are you going to write about
this time?”
Angela
offered a meager excuse for a smile.
“Uh… it’s going to be a surprise, Lillian.”
“Oh,
very well, I shan’t peek. I do hope it’s
funny. I adore your funny stories. I never can write anything funny,
unfortunately. I believe romance must be
my forte and humor yours, don’t you think, dear?’
“Um…
mm-hmm.”
“My,
you’re quiet today. Well, I won’t
disturb you any longer, but I’m going to the coffee shop to have lunch with
Kate and Winifred, won’t you come with us?”
“No,
thanks.” Angela stood up and pushed her
typewriter back with an air of finality.
“I think I’ll take my lunch to the park and eat there. I can get some scribbling done while I eat.”
“Oh,
well, suit yourself.” Lillian was gone
in a whirl of high heels and lemon verbena.
The
park was cold and desolate, spattered only here and there with couples being
ostentatiously cute. She did not care to
observe all the adorableness being displayed around her—couldn’t a girl simply
sit and eat her lunch during Valentine’s week without being bombarded with
romance on every corner? The story
deadline breathing down her neck was not, it seemed, enough. No, of course not—she must needs be reminded
of it on every side.
It
was enough to make a girl want to write a Western tale of swashbuckling
adventure (did they buckle swashes out West, or was that something that
belonged to pirates on the Spanish Main) just
for the sake of perversity.
She
whipped out her notebook and licked her pencil.
It tasted horrible and she wondered why people always did that when they
were in deep thought. But never mind
that now. She was not going to write a
romantic tale of heartbreak and loss and longing. She was going to write a satire, and if Mrs.
Poulthard did not like it… well, she wouldn’t think about that.
She
racked her brain for a suitable name for her main character, and briefly
considered writing about a woman named Miss Valentine. No, no, that was too silly—but perhaps she
could use something that rhymed with Valentine.
She bent her head over the notebook, forgetting all about the cold
and the lovebirds strolling by. Miss
Ballantyne shook her head and mournfully slurped the last dregs from her
pink china teacup. No one seemed to notice her mournfulness, so she gave
a gusty sigh and shook her head again. The bits of black jet dangling
from the edge of her bonnet jangled together and made a lovely dismal sound.
Imagery
was always fun, but now something ought to happen. Why was Miss Ballantyne mournful? Why, because she had no valentine, of
course. She had had one once, but he had
been killed many years ago—or, no, he had disappeared mysteriously. And now—and now—Angela’s brain took off. And now the departed suitor would return to
the town he had left so bafflingly, and Miss Ballantyne—for of course it was
she who had been his sweetheart—would find to her surprise that she preferred
being in mourning for him than in actually being his sweetheart once
again.
She
would call it “Miss Ballantyne’s Un-Valentine”, for she had always liked corny
titles. And now to work.
Mrs. Rupert, being Miss Ballantyne’s older sister, could
have at least offered some sympathy at this point, but of course she remained
cold and hard-boiled. “Oh, Augusta, Mr. Pierpont
never actually proposed to you and you know it, so why must there be all these
dramatics? And over a book salesman, of
all people. I really think you might
have had better taste.”
She stayed in the park, turning numb slowly and
methodically, writing on and on and on until she looked up and noticed that the
light was gone.
*****
Mrs. Poulthard was wearing a look of great
displeasure—oh, no—as Angela approached her desk. “Miss Monroe, I’m very pleased that you’ve
managed to actually make this deadline,” she said dryly.
Angela’s stomach flew up into her throat. Compliments did not come from Mrs. Poulthard
without strings attached.
“But,” said Mrs. Poulthard heavily, “the story itself is
highly unsatisfactory, Miss Monroe. Highly unsatisfactory. To the best of my recollection, I asked you
for a romantic tale for Valentine’s Day.
That was an open-ended prompt with which you could have done nearly
anything, and yet you chose to blatantly disregard it. You have written a story about a middle-aged
woman in a small town around the turn of the century who is mourning the death
of a man who is still living. That
pitch, Miss Monroe, does not fit into the romance genre. Moreover, you have ended the story without a
wedding or even an engagement. No one wants
to read a Valentine’s Day story that ends with the heroine being…
un-Valentined.”
Angela said nothing.
There was nothing to say. She
should have known. Why had she been so
stupid? The story had given her more fun
and excitement over a writing project than she had had in a long time, but she
was supposed to be writing to please Rose Arbor readers, not herself.
“One can only imagine,” continued Mrs. Poulthard, her
heavy tortoiseshell earrings shaking with disdain, “that this is the kind of
fiction you yourself are fond of, Miss Monroe.
Well, that is all very lovely, but writers for Rose Arbor write to
please Rose Arbor readers, not themselves.” She waited, seemingly expecting a
reply of some sort.
“Yes, Mrs. Poulthard.”
What could she do? There wasn’t
time to write another story.
“There isn’t time for you to write another story. This issue goes to press this very
afternoon. Miss Monroe, I will not
tolerate this kind of work from my employees.
You are officially dismissed.”
That, it would seem, was that.
*****
She didn’t want to talk to Lillian. Lillian, with her perfect hair and perfect
heels and perfect serial for Rose Arbor, would attempt sympathy and succeed
only at making Angela more miserable.
“I’m… not feeling well,” she called through the
door. “Can you come back tomorrow,
Lill?”
“No, I can’t.
Angela, do open the door. I’m not
leaving all this mail on the floor for the other tenants to step on!”
“Mail?” Angela
forgot the curlers plastering her head and swung the door open. “Mail?
For me? You raided my mailbox?”
Lillian breezed past her.
“No, not at all, what a silly idea.
No, these letters came to you in care of the office. Fan mail, Angie, isn’t it exciting? Mrs. Poulthard’s gotten several too, and when
I saw one of them lying open on her desk, I just couldn’t resist. You’ve made such a hit, Angie!”
“What?” Was Lillian crazy?
“Oh, Angie, sometimes I think you don’t have a brain in
your pretty little head. Your story,
silly goose! Your story about Miss What’s-her-name has made a huge splash. Just open one of these and see.”
Angela tore open the flap. “Dear Miss Dashwood, your story is the
best thing I’ve read in years,” the letter gushed. “This Valentine’s Day
I was anticipating another drearily happy-ending tale from Rose Arbor, and what
a pleasant surprise to read the humorous story you had published! I have not
seen your writing on Rose Arbor before—”
Angela allowed herself to indulge in a wry smile “—but I do hope you
shall submit a great deal more fiction in the months to come. I am writing to the Editor just now to
request that you become a permanent author on Rose Arbor. Yours very sincerely, Mrs. E. D. Hall.”
“See?” Lillian shoved a stack of envelopes into Angela’s
arms. “I’ll bet you my new blue hat they
all say pretty much the same thing. I do
wish I could write something funny. Will
you teach me, Angie? Won’t you give me
some lessons? The Duke’s Inheritance is
falling fast. I need to spice it up a
bit, and you seem to be the perfect person to teach me how.”
“Oh… oh, I’d love to, Lill, but you see I’m not even
working at the office anymore. Didn’t
you know Mrs. Poulthard fired me?”
“Well, of course I did.
It was all over the office just fifteen minutes after you left the other
day. You don’t work for a magazine full
of gossips for nothing.”
“Didn’t work in a magazine full of… gossips,” said Angela
gloomily. “I’m thrilled that people like
my story, Lillian—”
“You don’t look thrilled,” Lillian interrupted.
“That’s because I don’t have a job anymore to be thrilled
about. Not that I ever was
particularly thrilled with writing mushy pulp every week. Oh, I know, sour grapes and all that,
but…” She trailed off.
Lillian rolled her eyes.
“Read this one, then.” The
envelope was sealed but not stamped or addressed—Miss Monroe was written
clearly across the exact center of the front.
“Hurry up and open it, Angie, I do declare you’re the slowest person
I’ve ever seen!”
“Miss Monroe,” the letter began—no semblance of a dear—“I
see that your work has proved to be more popular than I had expected. If you wish to take your job at Rose Arbor
again, I should be willing to rehire you, provided you continue to write
stories such as appeared in the Valentine’s Day issue. Mrs. Ethel Poulthard.”
*****
“I
should be happy to resume my job here,” Angela told Mrs. Poulthard demurely,
“on condition that I write my own prompts.”
Mrs.
Poulthard nodded curtly. “We shall be
happy to see you on our team again, Miss Monroe,” she said. Was Angela imagining it, or did a smile lurk
at the corner of her mouth? “I—er—reread
your story and was much more… amused… than I had thought I might be.”
“Thank
you,” said Angela, putting as much graciousness into the words as she
could. “I endeavor to please, Mrs.
Poulthard.”
“Yes.
Well. Your next story is due Thursday,
Miss Monroe.”
“I’ll
begin right away,” Angela promised. She
turned to go, then stopped and looked back.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Mrs. Poulthard.”
It
was a smile, no doubt about it. “Happy
Valentine’s Day, Miss Monroe.”
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