Naked Once More Read Online Free PDF Page B

had once used the word “fat.” That word had fanned the smoldering feud into flame.
    Brunnhilde was draped in one of the pseudo-archaic robes she favored, with lots of lacing and a suggestion of breast-plates. There was a strong resemblance to her beloved Vikings, whom she described as brawny, rugged he-men in horned helmets. Vikings did not, in fact, wear horned helmets. Jacqueline’s mention of this fact, in an interview, had not improved relations.
    The newcomer’s blazing eyes focused on Jacqueline, who was tastefully attired in a lime-green silk suit that turned her eyes to emerald and took at least ten pounds off her apparent weight. “You!” shrieked Brunnhilde, making amorphous Viking gestures.
    Jacqueline scrutinized her closely. “Have you an appointment, Brunnhilde dear?”
    Brunnhilde laughed maniacally. “You’re wasting your time, Kirby. Don’t bother sucking up to Stokes; you’ll never write that book. It is mine, all mine.”
    “You have smears of mascara and lipstick all over your kirtle,” Jacqueline said solicitously. “Do let me offer you a tissue, darling. You should always use one instead of wiping your face on your sleeve. Full-figured people perspire heavily, you know.”
    Brunnhilde’s fingers flexed, writhing like succulent white worms. Jacqueline’s eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” she said.
    Brunnhilde thought it over and decided she wouldn’t either. Instead she swung a brawny arm and swept a vase off a nearby table. Sarah, who had just struggled to her feet, got most of the water and a dozen tea roses smack in the chest. She scuttled to safety behind the door, dripping.
    “You’ll never get this book, Jacqueline Kirby,” Brunnhilde bellowed. “I’ll strangle you with my bare hands first—and you too, Stokes, you slimy, double-crossing serpent!”
    Her progress through the outer office was marked by thuds and crashes, as a variety of small objects bit the dust.
    “Trite, trite,” Jacqueline murmured. “I’m afraid that’s only too typical of dear Brunnhilde’s literary style. Are you all right, Ms. Saunders?”
    From behind the door came a squeak of assent. Jacqueline turned to Stokes, who had slid down so far in his chair that only his head was visible. “I’ll be running along now, Boots. Do you mind if I call you Boots?”
    Stokes’s torso gradually reappeared. His forehead was shiny with sweat, but he managed to smile. “Yes, indeed. I mean no, not at all. I’ll be in touch, Jacqueline. We must do lunch soon. To celebrate… to celebrate.”
    As Jacqueline waited for the elevator she replayed the interview in her mind. By any reasonable standard, her chances of getting the job ought to be good. There were a number of contemporary writers whose literary skill was as superior to hers as hers outshone Brunnhilde’s, but the publishing world was no more reasonable than any other sub-segment of society. Stokes wasn’t looking for the writer who could best capture Kathleen’s exquisitely honed style and imaginative brilliance. If he were, Jacqueline freely admitted, he wouldn’t be considering people like her and Brunnhilde. He and the rest of the industry would be more concerned about superficial factors like genre and gender. A woman who wrote historical romances—that’s what they would look for, with perhaps a token nod toward members of the opposite sex. There weren’t many such women who were well known and successful.
    If I were doing it, Jacqueline thought, I’d have a contest. Open it to everyone, unknown geniuses as well as old hacks. It shouldn’t take long to weed out the hopeless cases. I’d hire a bunch of eager young English majors from Columbia, pay them minimum wage.… There might be some legal problems, but a smart lawyer ought to be able to figure out ways around them. Make everyone submit a form promising not to sue, or something. (Jacqueline’s knowledge of the law was sketchy in the extreme.) What a publicity stunt