Spanish Surrender, page 21
“I agree,” Simone said again, whether or not she meant it. “Once we hook them, the marketing department has to have carte blanche, but in the meantime, you sent me here to figure out the hang-up and seal the deal. Give me the freedom to craft the narrative necessary to reel them in. All our opinions are useless until we get them into the system.”
Loreto blew out a soft breath. There it was, the blanket statement some poor mom-and-pop publishers would never get to hear. They’d be told only what they needed to be told to get them to accept a big, fat check. Then once they signed on the dotted line, everything they’d worked their whole lives to build would belong to a multinational corporation that would make it part of some system designed to market books, ideas, even people, in exactly the ways they hadn’t wanted to be seen.
“Really?” Simone said, her voice taking on an almost breathless quality. “No, I mean I’d suspected, but I didn’t know for sure. Well, I guess congratulations are in order.”
The boss laughed loudly.
“No. I understand. I wouldn’t presume . . . I appreciate the heads up, and this opportunity. Thank you.”
Then she hung up.
Loreto blinked at what seemed like an abrupt shift and end to the rather one-sided conversation.
Simone seemed no less surprised, but judging by the faraway look in her eyes, the emotion went deeper for her.
“Everything okay?” Loreto asked.
Simone nodded, then focused in on her as if maybe her presence didn’t quite compute.
“Want me to hail a cab?”
Simone seemed to ponder the question longer than warranted before saying, “Are we close enough to walk?”
“About a mile. I don’t mind if you don’t.”
She shook her head. “Let’s.”
Loreto started them off in the right direction, turning toward the river at the end of the block. They walked in silence until they reached a wide, well-lit path dipping low and close to the banks of the Guadalquivir. Soft street lamps reflected off the shimmering dark of the river, and the city sounds were muted by the gentle lap of water against the stone walls holding it in.
After they’d walked in silence for several more minutes, Loreto asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” Simone said with knee-jerk quickness. Then she sighed. “Maybe.”
“It’s up to you.”
“Thank you for that,” Simone said. “Despite what happened back at the flamenco club, you’re pretty good about not pushing.”
“I get the sense we’ve both been pushed enough tonight,” Loreto admitted.
“My boss just let it slip, though I suspect he did so intentionally, that he plans to retire at the end of the next fiscal year.”
“And he asked you to take over for him?”
Simone laughed. “No. He’d never say such a thing. He just wanted to make sure I knew it was coming as I prepared for my meeting back in Málaga.”
“Sort of like a carrot-and-stick thing?”
“Sure, with the biggest carrot of my career.” Simone shook her head. “He didn’t say my promotion hung on this deal, but when you do the math, it’s not hard to infer this might be my last shot at a major acquisition before the board of directors begins discussions about his replacement.”
“So basically what you’re saying is shit just got real.”
“It’s always been real,” Simone said flatly. “Every day of my life for the last fifteen years it’s been real.”
“What then?”
“The end is in sight. I mean, I knew it was coming, I knew we were close, but now I have a date, and a finite number of chances, and that number is one.”
Even Loreto got a little chill at the thought, and the hair on her arms stood on end. Not that she cared about Simone’s promotion per se, but she could sense the gravity of the moment the same way she could sense the gravity settling between them once more.
“Well, that’s great.”
Simone didn’t respond as she looked out over the water.
“It’s great, right?” Loreto asked. “’Cause you’re going to close the deal.”
“I am,” Simone said, the confidence of the statement undercut by the weariness in her voice.
“And you’re happy about that?”
“I’m happy about signing Juanes Cánovas to a much bigger contract. I’m thrilled to share his work with the larger world, and I’m proud to be a part of making sure thousands more readers get to hear what I heard this afternoon.”
“Though not in such a soothing, sultry voice, right?”
Simone’s smile curled back to life for a second. “Right.”
“But it is a book you can feel good about releasing.” Loreto tried to tread carefully. She expected landmines lurking below the surface of this conversation.
“It’s exactly the type of book I got into this business to publish. It’s actually a rare find for the company in that it ticks all of their boxes and all of mine at the same time.” The excitement began to creep back into her voice. “The plot arc is smart, the point of view is unique, the themes are powerful on so many personal levels, and yet, still universal enough to have a wide appeal. Plus, the narrative offers such stunning visuals, and after being in the places he describes so flawlessly, I see unending potential for film adaptations.”
“Sounds like all systems are go.”
“And I’ve got a decent angle forming for the pitch. The details are fuzzy but something about the world needing Spain right now. We need their heat, their openness, their sense of history and generosity. Spain has so much to teach the world in these times of transition and turmoil, and with this book and the others they’ve published, more people will want to visit this area,” Simone said, the fire igniting for real now. The pitch didn’t sound at all fuzzy, either. “These works, when put in the right hands, could provide the spark for a renewed global exchange of Spanish sensibility and hospitality. Instead of making the publisher more like us, they could help make us more like Spain.”
“Wow,” Loreto said. It’s all she had. Even after hearing what she’d heard on the phone call just a few minutes ago, she had a hard time disbelieving a word of what Simone had said. Everything about that sales pitch hit the right notes, right tone, right message, right woman at the helm, and she very much suspected the woman doing the delivery was every bit as persuasive as what was being delivered. Even before she’d learned to respect Simone as a woman, Loreto had always respected her authority, her competence, her drive to get a job done. Now that she’d developed just enough insight into what might appeal to a Spanish psyche, she should have been unstoppable. And she might have been if she didn’t seem so down. “I get that I don’t know you very well in the grand scheme of things.”
Simone grinned. “No, just well enough to tell me what I’m thinking and feeling and should be doing with my body less than an hour ago.”
“Touché.” Loreto did her best to ignore the memories trying to surge up in her. “I should have said I don’t know you well in the business sense. I mean, you’ve got this job. It’s important to you. You’re doing well, and you just got good news.”
“Correct.”
Loreto stared at her as if waiting for her to fill in the invisible blanks.
“You forgot one small thing you also know about me.”
“What’s that?”
“My feelings on compromise.”
“You hate it!” Loreto said with the gusto of someone winning a game show, then a little more softly added, “oh, that’s where that conversation ended up, isn’t it? You get the book, you get the promotion, someone else gets to market the whole package in a way you hate.”
“Bingo,” Simone said, keeping with the game show theme. “We have a winner. And while we’re being open and honest with ourselves, this is not a new conflict you’re witnessing here. Normally, I swallow the jagged pills alone, but I always have to do it, and it never gets easier.”
“Thank you,” Loreto whispered.
“You’re welcome. But what for?”
“I love that you accepted my thanks before knowing what I gave it for.” She smiled. “Thank you for being honest, being open instead of dodging.”
“Ah, for being weak.”
“For being human.”
Simone pursed her lips.
“You care, Simone. You’re good at what you do. The work matters to you, which is why you have to make tough choices, and the fact that those trade-offs still bother you after so many years of making them should tell you a lot about who you are as a person.”
“It doesn’t,” Simone said flatly. “It doesn’t tell me anything new anyway, because I always make the same choice. I find the most well-written, smartest, important book the American public can handle, and then I hand it over to people who will dumb it down and polish it up and slap a picture of hard abs or tight asses on the cover and try to trick the broadest swath of readers into consuming something that might actually be good for them, though by that time it’s been so processed you can’t quite tell.”
“Then don’t,” Loreto said simply.
“That seems like such an obvious choice, doesn’t it?” Simone said. “Just stop giving good books to people who don’t appreciate them. But guess what? Then none of those people ever get to read a good book. Middle America goes their whole lives without ever having a single experience that makes them think outside the box. They go their whole lives without peeking into another part of the world or another person’s worldview. And minorities and women and people outside the USA never get their voices heard by the masses at all.”
“So you get tiny crumbs from the pie or you get no pie at all,” Loreto said, an old bitterness coating her tongue. “Sounds just like the American dream.”
“Yeah, we’re living it.”
“You’re living it,” Loreto corrected.
“Compromise is the name of the game. I’ll make the deal, because even a dumbed-down version of the book you read to me today is better than ninety-nine percent of the stuff hitting the Amazon bestseller charts, and it deserves to be read by a global audience.”
“Doing so also gives your career a nice little boost.”
“It does. This is what I got into the business to do. This job, right here, right now—it’s the reality of what I’ve always wanted. I may not always like the rules, but the stakes are too high to quit now, so I’m playing the game to win.”
Loreto didn’t argue as they edged away from the river and back up to their hotel. She’d heard similar comments from Simone in the past. She knew they signaled the end of the debate, both between them, and, more importantly, within Simone. But she’d heard them enough to recognize that when Simone said them this time, she didn’t say them with nearly as much conviction as she had a few day ago.
“How long will it take to get to Gibraltar?” Simone asked.
“A little under three hours,” Loreto said, steering them out of the city in their little blue car. “We can have lunch on the rock if you want.”
Simone glanced at her watch. It was nearly ten, which she supposed constituted an early start in this part of the world. “Spanish lunch, I take it?”
“English lunch, technically.”
Simone raised her eyebrows.
“Gibraltar is a British overseas territory, so every time you cross the southern tip of the peninsula, you step into the empire.”
“You’re joking.”
“I am not. The line of concepción is an international border.” Loreto’s voice grew tight as she passed a group of tour busses moving more slowly up a small hill. “We’ll stop on the Spanish side, go through customs on foot, then walk across an active runway and hail a local cab.”
“An active runway? Now I’m sure you’re joking.”
Loreto shook her head. “If only.”
Simone eyed her suspiciously for a few seconds, but the hard set of Loreto’s jaw and the dead focus of those dark eyes on the road told Simone that’s all she’d get for now.
The minimal description was surprisingly sufficient. They drove in along a thin peninsula, sunlight glinting off azure water, as a large, sharp peak rose proud and verdant in their path.
“It’s quite a shock after all the brown and orange and heat of the plains,” Simone remarked. Loreto said nothing as she navigated through increasingly narrow streets before pulling to a stop in what appeared to be the last available space nearest a flurry of activity ahead.
“You have your passport?” Loreto asked as they exited the car.
“Within arm’s reach at all times.” Simone patted the small cross-body bag she’d slung over her shoulder.
“Good for you,” Loreto said flatly.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing. Let’s go.” Before Simone had time to process her surly mood, much less react to it, Loreto strode off through a line of cars creeping slowly toward a checkpoint of some sort and up to a pedestrian line moving at a much faster clip.
“It’s just like the airport,” Simone mused aloud, taking in all the signs in both English and Spanish, “only outdoors.”
“You’ll go inside the little building, but only for a hot second. It’s the loosest border check you’ll ever face.”
“Why?”
“Because it shouldn’t even be here,” Loreto snapped. Lowering her voice, she said, “We’re going from one European Union country to another. It’s only because the English think that—you know what? Never mind.”
“What? I want to know,” Simone said, Loreto’s tension taking hold of her now.
“It’s not important.” Loreto eased out of line. “I’ll meet you just on the other side.”
“Wait, what?”
“You’re an American citizen. You go through this line. I’ll go in a different way and meet you at the exit.”
“You’re my translator. Surely they’ll make an exception.”
Loreto snorted. “Of course you’d think that, holy shit.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means no one makes exceptions for people like me, and they all speak English for people like you. You’re going into the bloody United Kingdom for fuck’s sake.” She seemed to catch herself. Pushing her hands roughly through her hair, she said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“I think you did,” Simone said seriously. “Clearly something’s upset you and—”
“It’s nothing new,” Loreto cut in. “And it doesn’t affect you. I’ll see you on the other side.” She walked away without waiting for Simone to comment.
As she watched her walk through a crowd and around a corner, Simone fought the urge to go after her. She needed to stay in line. Loose security or not, this was still an international border, and the guards up ahead still had the power to deny her entry if she drew too much attention to herself. She’d need to answer questions about her travel plans, which she didn’t know. She’d need to provide information about lodging that she didn’t have. She might need to tell them who she was traveling with and where the hell she’d gone. Loreto should have been here. She should have helped. It’s what she paid her to do. The line moved quickly as she entered the low, narrow building and saw groups of people beside her filtering into lines for other nationalities, but she didn’t see Loreto in any of them.
She watched carefully as people streamed through at a steady clip. Still, the tightness in her chest spread first to her shoulders, then her neck, then her jaw. By the time she flashed her passport at the bored guard, who barely managed to look at it before waving her through, it became clear she wasn’t at all uncomfortable with the process. She was uncomfortable without Loreto.
Something wasn’t right, and not just with her fulfilling the terms of her employment. She didn’t like not knowing where she was. She didn’t like not knowing what had upset her. And much like the night before, she didn’t like the fact that anything Loreto did, thought, or felt had the power to throw her this far off-kilter.
She stepped through another door into the bright sunlight and prayed it would burn away the vivid images blurring her mind. As much as her body would enjoy a replay of parts of last night, she didn’t want to relive the fight that had led to them. Why was she letting Loreto get to her like this?
More importantly, where was Loreto? She watched the only two exits she could see for longer than she felt comfortable, long enough to worry, long enough to start wondering how long was long enough to be reasonable and what she should do if they passed that point without finding each other again. Surely, there had to be a problem. No one else had taken anywhere near this long to clear customs. And yet—she shielded her eyes against the sun—yes, there came Loreto, strolling casually up with a group of men in black slacks and white shirts coming in from the other direction.
The joy that exploded though Simone’s chest overrode her annoyance at having to wait, and the worrying she’d done during that time took a back seat to relief, at least for the moment.
“Everything okay?” Loreto asked as she approached.
Simone nodded, not sure that was the case, but she didn’t want to comment on a situation she didn’t fully understand. “You?”
Loreto shrugged and turned to a middle-aged man with close-cut salt and pepper hair. “Simone, meet Berto, our taxi driver and tour guide to the top of the rock.”
He extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Miss.”
“Likewise,” she said, before turning back to Loreto. “I thought you were my tour guide.”
“You need a special permit to take people up the rock, and I don’t have one,” Loreto said. “Add it to the long list of things I don’t have and move on.”
Even poor Berto seemed a little taken aback by the comment as he stared first at his shoes and then at the sky. Simone wouldn’t play that game. She stared straight into Loreto’s eyes, searching for any sort of answer or even a clue as to what had gone so terribly wrong between last night and now. She found only the vague hint of unspecified challenge.
