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“You’re way ahead of the game.”
“Because I want everything to be aboveboard.”
“Then let’s be straight—you’ve been to other writers with this, right?” He didn’t want to betray Lloyd’s confidence. “I mean, there are dozens of published thriller and horror writers in Greater Boston.”
She studied his expression for a moment, and her eye did an involuntary twitch as she rummaged for a response. “I considered others, but decided that the quality and style of your writing best fits my story idea.”
Bullshit! he thought. She’s saying that none of the others were interested, and she bottomed-out with you. “Okay.”
“If you agree, you will be paid a flat fee—twenty percent up front, the balance upon acceptance.”
“Acceptance by whom?”
“By me.”
“So, there’s no stipulation that it has to be placed with a publisher first.”
“No, just to write an acceptable synopsis and then an acceptable book.”
“A synopsis?”
“Yes, I know from other students and your own Web site that you’re big on writing a synopsis—that you don’t start a novel until you’ve got a ‘slam dunk’ summary as you say. This way I’ll see how everything fits into place and how it ends. When that’s done to my liking, you’ll be paid the advance.”
He let that sink in, humiliating as it was.
“Okay, and if I write the book and it sells, what about royalties?”
“Well, actually, no royalties, just the flat fee, which I hope you’ll accept.”
“But your name on the book.”
“Yes, and the copyright under my name.”
He could hear the advice of her agent cutting through her nervousness. “And what if you don’t like it?”
“I will because I will be reading it as you go along.”
Jesus! This was like his workshops in reverse: he writes installments and submits them to a student for approval. “And what if you like it and your agent can’t place it?”
She smiled self-consciously. “First, that won’t happen since you’re too talented for the book not to sell. Second, selling it is his problem. You will still be paid, no matter what.”
He wondered about her agent. “You’d be putting a lot of trust in me.”
“That’s right.” She nodded and smiled warmly.
He wished she’d stop that. The Geoffrey Dane she kept fawning over was all but dead. “How long a synopsis?”
“Ten pages.”
What he suggested as maximum on his Web site. “And what exactly do you have in mind for a total fee?”
“One hundred thousand dollars.”
Jesus! Where do I sign? he thought, trying to contain his astonishment. “That’s a lot of money.” The advance alone could get him out of hock with his creditors and Maggie for months. Ten pages! He couldn’t write a decent novel anymore, but if her story line was viable, he could crank out a synopsis in a week.
“My grandparents were generous when I graduated from college.” From the envelope she removed a multipage contract with his name on it and the breakdown of payment. There was a lot of legal jargon, but the important details were there: an advance of twenty thousand dollars, payable upon the completion of an acceptable synopsis. The balance to be paid upon acceptance by her of a completed manuscript.
His heart was pounding so hard he was sure it showed—like the throat of a bullfrog.
“Seem fair enough?”
The light in her eyes said that she was enjoying this, probably because she knew how destitute he was. It also crossed his mind that it might be interesting working with her. She was good-looking and clearly passionate. In a flash he saw her naked and in bed with him between chapters.
“Okay, so what’s the story line?” He took a sip of his coffee and settled back.
“It’s quite simple,” she began. “It’s the story of a vengeful ghost returned to kill her fiancé, who abandoned her.” She paused for a moment as if to gauge his reaction.
It sounded corny, but he nodded her on. “Okay.”
“What I’m imagining is a beautiful seventeen-year-old girl who’s been dating this older boy for months. She’s crazy about him and they talk of getting married someday. Then a few months before he’s to go to college, she discovers she’s pregnant. As the due date approaches, the boy abandons her—goes off to school hundreds of miles away and drops out of her life for good.”
Again she glared at him with a strange expectancy. And a stir of discomfort registered in his gut. “Then what?”
“Well, she’s very upset that he left her flat and wasn’t there for the birth, not even moral support. Her parents are disgusted with her, but forbid her to have an abortion. Of course, her own plans for college are dashed.
“So she has the child. But a few days later, she dies from complications of childbirth. The daughter is raised by her grandparents. Meanwhile, the boy finishes college, never making contact with the girl’s family, never learning what happened to the girl or his child. We jump ahead twentysomething years—the boy’s a man, successful in his profession and happy with his life.”
“And?”
“And the ghost of his dead girlfriend suddenly appears to take vengeance on him—a revenant.”
“A what?”
“Revenant. A vengeful ghost.”
His mouth was dry, and he swallowed some coffee.
“So what do you think?”
“Interesting, but execution is everything.”
“Yes, it is.”
“What will he be doing in the present? Is he married? Does he have a family? How does he spend his days? I’ve got to know what to have him do from chapter to chapter.”
She nodded. “He’s divorced with no kids,” she said. Then like a half-glimpsed premonition she said, “He’s a writer.”
“A writer,” he repeated, as if taking an oath.
“Yes, I like the irony of him being the supposed artistic sensitive type. Yet he’s bad—if you pardon my French, a son of a bitch.”
Geoff simply nodded.
“I’ve got some of their back stories in notes, which I can share with you—stuff that you can use to flesh things out. But it’s the ending that I can’t come up with. How the ghost shows up and gets back at him. That’s where I’m stuck. And I want the best possible retribution.”
“Uh-huh.” He drained his cup and a prickly silence filled the moment.
“But I’m sure you can come up with the perfect justice.”
“I take it you believe in ghosts.”
“No, but I’m afraid of them.” She smiled at the old joke. “What about you?”
“Nope.”
“Well, I know you’re supposed to write from what you know, but I’m sure your fertile imagination can flesh this out. So, what do you think?”
“Well, it’s not really my kind of story. I write thrillers, not horror tales.”
“But I’ve read your novels, and I think it is your kind of story. Just that the antagonist is a ghost, not the standard villain.”
Maybe that was his problem: all his villains were standard.
He nodded and glanced around the food hall. Students were scattered at different tables, some of them reading, some working at their laptops. He didn’t mind them, but he was tired of teaching kids how to write. Most had never written fiction before. And most made their first forays with dumb horror tales, hoping to be the next Stephen King. And most had zero talent. Like this woman. But she had money. Enough to buy his way out of here for a couple of years. And he was certain that if he didn’t sign, she’d find someone else who would.
“I also think you’d enjoy working on it.” She nudged the contract toward him.
Doubtful, he thought. And for a long moment he stared at it. Then he picked up the pen and signed.
And a small rat uncurled in his gut.
By six that evening, he was back home, thinking that this might turn out to be the toughest twenty thousand dollars he’d ever make. No, it wasn’t the fact that he didn’t write ghost stories. Nor was her story line too much of a challenge. As he sipped his second Scotch, he told himself: Coincidence. Dumb, blind coincidence.