That must have been Melissa of 7 Deadly Sins Fame. She was a piece of work.
"So, you see this as your big comeback, Ms Kimbote." Melissa said, one of her impeccably manicured hands on the hefty manuscript.
The other woman's pale blue eyes brightened. Ms Samantha Kimbote looked like an overaged Barbie. Melissa knew the routine by now. Female authors paid attention to her designer suits, male ones to what might be guessed beneath.
Furthermore, in Ms Kimbote's specific case, it's not like there wasn't an extra reason for her to gape at Melissa's clothes, and perhaps hope that, thanks to her new opus, she might be able once again to be smartly clad herself.
"As you can see" Ms Kimbote went on breathily "It's a departure from what's usual for me.."
Melissa's gaze went back to the manuscript. "Like A Rolling Stone". The story of a young beautiful socialite's fall from grace after the 1929 stock crash. Having titled it after a 1960s song was rather dumb, but it was so appropriate for Samantha Kimbote herself. "Once upon a time, you used to dress so fine..." Bob Dylan began to croak in Melissa's mind. Wasn't Kimbote the name of a mad Russian in a novel by Nabokov? Kimbote, or Botkin. Melissa wasn't really one for the classics, but that was one she remembered. As for Samantha Kimbote, she had made a name-and a fortune- for herself with steamy Revolutionary and Civil War bodice-rippers. Shame that at one point she had started drinking and stopped writing.
“Oh well, I assume we’ve discussed all what we needed to.” Melissa finally said “I’ll see you out.” A flash of disappointment flashed on Ms Kimbote’s face. What had she expected? A free lunch, perhaps? Let her see if the comeback was really a comeback, and if she could churn another couple of bestsellers in the next few years, before she could expect to be taken out to lunch by the youngest senior editor of Chance House. People had to work for what they wanted. No one knew it better than Melissa, or at this stage she would be churning out hamburgers in some smelly diner in Long Panhandle. Ms Kimbote collected her coat, which must have been warm and fashionable-in 1988 perhaps. They rode in the elevator together. Melissa thought she did at least owe to Ms Kimbote to see her out, but Ms Kimbote was all of a sudden shifty and uneasy.
On the curb outside of the Chance House building, a shiny car was parked. A blondish man with a gaudy lavender shirt. He smiled knowingly at Ms Kimbote.
“Oh,Giovanni, there you are. I-I’d told you I’d walk to the parking lot.”