Page 37 of Every Time I Go on Vacation, Someone Dies

Not a nice person at all.

“This is a famous restaurant, right?” I say to Harper when we meet in the lobby at eight. I’ve changed into a sparkly dress and strappy sandals, and my hair is still damp from the pool because it was too hot to blow it out, even with the air-conditioning turned up on full.

Harper tut-tuts at my question like I’m a bad child. She’s wearing a pale green dress that accentuates her slender figure, and her hair is in soft, silky waves to her shoulders.

“What?” I say. “I read the itinerary, I swear.”

“It has two Michelin stars.”

“Is that a lot?”

“It’s not a book review. One star is impressive, and three is the best.”

“I hope so. Because if someone tagged me in a two-star review,50 I’d commit a homicide.”

“News flash, it happens every day.”

“That’s why you’re the only one allowed to check what I’m tagged in.”

She tugs on my sleeve. “Come on, let’s go.”

“We’re walking?”

“It’s only a few blocks.”

I look down at my impractical heels. I don’t usually care about shoes, but I’m having dinner with Oliver. My dress is my nicest—a dark blue shimmery number with colorful flowers—and I put on the only pair of Jimmy Choos I have, black and slinky. “You should’ve warned me.”

“You want me to get you some flip-flops?”

“Distract me by updating me on everyone else that’s going to be at this shindig.”

We leave the hotel. It’s still hot, but bearable now that the sun’s gone down. There are lights in the dark green umbrella stone pine trees that line the street, and the air smells like lemons and garlic.

“I thought you read the itinerary?” Harper says.

“I did. I meant, give me the goss.”

“The goss? Okay, Grandma.” She laughs. “Well, Guy’s going to be there. Nothing new to report about him that I know of. Emily, Oliver, and Shek.”

“That asshole.”

“Be nice.”

“Why? He’s refused to blurb me a million times, and his review of Highland Killing in the New York Times called it ‘derivative.’”51

“Amazing how good your memory is when it has to do with insults.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I almost trip on the sidewalk, then right myself. “I should’ve worn something else.”

“You look nice.”

“You too.”

She smiles, but she’s terrible at taking compliments. “Anyway, I hear Shek’s about to get dropped by your publisher, so maybe you can muster some sympathy.”

Last I checked, Shek had sold twenty million books over the course of his career. Was no one safe in this industry?52

“Really?”

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