Pressure Drop

Pressure Drop Read Free

Book: Pressure Drop Read Free
Author: Peter Abrahams
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could.
    â€œWell, it’s not true,” Nina said. “Our fee structure is set.” She tried to stop herself from adding, “Exacting or not,” and almost did. Maybe after a few more birthdays she’d be able to.
    Brenda and M. were looking at each other again. Silently and quickly they came to a decision. Nina saw how they worked: like a good lion tamer act. M. made trouble and Brenda ran the show.
    â€œIt’s a deal,” Brenda said.
    â€œThe clock is ticking,” M. added.
    Nina turned to her. “One. The manuscript is badly written. It doesn’t have to be art, but it has to be better than this. That’s your territory. Two. There’s not enough anecdotal material, especially in the first two chapters. They’re too theoretical, too boring. That’s where you need the personal stuff, up front. Three. You’ve got to have an introduction, written by somebody who’s well known and as mainstream as possible. Preferably a man.”
    â€œA man?” said M.
    â€œFour. Tell the author to lose that Tolstoy parody or whatever the hell it is at the beginning. It’s unnecessarily off-putting and it begs comparison with the big boys, comparison that reviewers won’t find in her favor.”
    Brenda glanced at M. Faint pink patches appeared on M.’s face.
    â€œHaving said that,” Nina went on, “there may be a market for this book. Demographically. There are lots of women in the boat she describes and they read books. You’ve got to sell them on the ‘and loving it’ part. That aspect of the book has to be completely rethought. Then, supposing you can make these changes, it will come down to two things—the personality of the author, that’s the main one, and the package, important but secondary.”
    Brenda was writing rapidly in a notebook. M. was sitting very still, her jaw jutting out a little.
    â€œIs Dr.”—Nina glanced down at the manuscript—“Dr. Filer married, by any chance?”
    â€œOf course not,” M. said.
    â€œGood. Any children?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhat’s her Ph.D. in?”
    M. looked at Brenda. Brenda looked at M. M. said: “I’m not sure. Sociology, maybe. Does it matter?”
    â€œOf course it matters,” Nina said. “If it’s in metallurgy you might as well bag it now.”
    Silence. M. looked at Brenda. Brenda said: “I understand you know people on the Donahue show.”
    â€œThat’s right. But they don’t do me any favors, and I don’t try to sell them anything that’ll make Phil look like a jerk.”
    â€œDo you know him?” Brenda asked.
    â€œI’ve met him. I don’t know him.”
    M. stuck her jaw out a little farther. “But you called him Phil.”
    â€œJesus. It would be a bit silly to call him Mister Donahue, wouldn’t it?”
    Jason came in, balancing three cups on a tray. “Coffee, tea, or me?” he said. Brenda looked at him blankly; M. with a stone face; Nina laughed.
    They drank coffee. It was excellent, with a slight taste of walnut. Jason wasn’t capable of making coffee like that; Nina knew he had sent out for it. Brenda and M. seemed to relax a little on the couch.
    â€œI’d like to meet the author,” Nina said.
    Brenda smiled; a nice smile, not as dazzling as Jason’s, but warm, and Nina sensed they could be friends. “We thought you might. She should be here any minute. I hope you don’t mind.”
    â€œNot at all.”
    The phone buzzed. Nina picked it up. “Hello,” she said.
    â€œMummy?” said a little boy. He was crying.
    â€œMummy?” said Nina.
    The little boy’s voice broke. “The man said my mummy was there.”
    â€œJust a minute.” Nina looked up. “There’s a child on the phone. Do either of you—” But Brenda was already up. She took the phone.
    â€œIt’s

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