The Rest of the Story

The phone rang again. She stared at it for a moment then chose to ignore it. The red light blinking informed her she had yet another voice mail.

They just don’t give up, do they. Even when they have what they wanted; they keep asking for more.

She eyed the cheque on the table, $20,000 would be enough to cover her publishing fees and travel expenses for the book tour.

The phone shrilled again. She sighed and eyed it impatiently then picked up the receiver.

“Hello”

“This is not what we agreed on.”

“How do you figure that? You asked for the book and I gave you the book.”

“This is her book? For sure, her book?”

“Yes, it is, her handwriting is unmistakable.”

“How do we know you didn’t forge it?”

“And what would I gain from that?”

“I heard through the grapevine you have a book deal.”

Eyeing the cheque on the table again, she let out a sigh.

“My book deal has nothing to do with this and you know it.”

“When you said you had her little black book, I was expecting more”

“Like what? You think she has some torrid secret affair she writes about? No one in her position would be so stupid.”

“Perhaps not but this is not what we expected. You know my work, how am I supposed to use this?”

“Oh yes, everyone is familiar with your work.” She could not withhold the disgust in her voice. Something told her she had made a deal with the devil and it sat heavily in her stomach. “Look if you aren’t interested, I’ll take it back and find someone else who wants to publish it.”

“No, I think I’ll hold on to it a bit longer, thank you just the same. “

The line went dead.

What had she been thinking taking that book to the likes of him? Yes, he would have it distributed quite quickly…. Instantly almost. It would be across the front pages of every tabloid paper by morning if he so chose. Yet, yet he was still holding on to the story. Something was not right. There was a reason he had not published it yet. Why. Why was he holding out?

The phone rang again.

“Hello”

“You said you had more details.”

“The details are in the book.”

“I’ve read the book; I’m not finding the details I want.”

“I never said it would be the details you wanted. You just said you wanted details; I gave them to you. Perhaps you should be more specific next time.”

The line went dead a second time.

He is hesitating. He wants to publish it but he’s hesitating. It’s not the kind of thing he usually publishes. He was the king of smut tabloids. He published anything and everything for the sole purpose of making money. Here he had her book. Not just anybody’s book but “her” book.

Pouring herself a glass of wine she walked across the room and sat down. She’d come across the book strictly by accident. One of her friends had picked it up at the hotel when they had vacated their suite. It was clearly the genuine thing. The handwriting was so unique. The details so intimate, so private, so personal. There was no doubt it was the genuine item.

Glancing at her desk where the cheque sat undeposited she felt a stab of guilt. They had laughed at her when she told them her “numbers”. She could have asked for so much more. So very much more. Two even 3 zeros more but she felt it would have been so inappropriate.

The contents of the book had just consumed her attention when it was given to her. The details so clear, the emotion so incredibly raw. She had laughed and cried and smiled until she was exhausted. It was not just any black book. It was her book… their book… their story. The question she had asked herself was, should it really be told?

She got up and walked across the room to her desk. Opening the drawer, she pulled out a folded recent copy of his work. His work disgusted her every time she read it. This issue was beyond scandalous it was completely salacious. Unforgivable.

The phone rang again.

“Hello”

“So if I print this what do you get out of it, besides the piddly cheque we gave you?”

“Satisfaction”

“Satisfaction?”

“Yes satisfaction.”

“I don’t understand. Satisfaction for what.”

“Satisfaction that something other than the smut you’ve been writing for the five years will be printed about them.”

“You promised me the rest of the story.”

“That is the rest of the story. In fact, it’s the whole story in her own handwriting.”

“I don’t get it. “

“How can you not get it. You’ve drug them down through the mud and back again. “

“So?”

“So, print the rest of the story.”

“Which is?”

“Love you idiot. It’s the story of their love. There is no denying it. The book is the story of their love. That is the rest of the story.”

“Its hardly tabloid material”

“It’s totally tabloid material, no one can resist a good fairy-tale.”

“You think it’s a fairy tale? I was expecting gossip. Dirty scandalous gossip.”

“The only thing scandalous here is that you are sitting on a book that will sell more tabloid papers than anything you’ve managed to conjure up over the last five years. Print the rest of the story”.

“Love? That’s the story, that’s it… that’s all?”

“Yes, Love is the story, and you have the book.”

There was a moment of silence on the phone then the line went dead. She picked up the cheque off her desk and stared at it. She knew he would print the story; he’d be a fool not to. Ripping the cheque in two she picked up her glass of wine and walked over to her chair. Reaching into the handbag on the floor she pulled out a little black book with the number two etched in the top right corner.

It was time to read the rest of the story.