Page 90 of Sleepover

Chapter 44

Elle

“Elle? Elle Dunning?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Jacinda Walters at Book Smith Literary Agency.”

All the blood goes out of my extremities and I have to sit down at the kitchen table. Jacinda Walters is one of the agents I sent my book to—and not just one of the agents, but the one whose description I loved the most, the one who I’ve most let myself fantasize might be my agent.

“I read your proposal for Splitsville, and I absolutely loved it. I thought we could talk a little bit about what you’re looking for in an agent, and if it seems like we’re a good match, we could talk about the possibility of me offering you representation.”

I open and close my mouth several times, but nothing comes out.

“Elle?”

“I’m just—shocked. In the best possible way.”

Jacinda laughs. “Most people are. I rarely call someone and have them say, ‘I’ve been expecting your call.’ ”

That makes me laugh, and immediately, my nervousness and shock abate. “No, not at all. But I’m exceptionally glad to receive it.”

“Well, and I’m equally happy to make it. Splitsville is terrific. Are you working on anything else at the moment?”

I manage to pull myself together to tell her about myself—that I’ve been a freelance journalist for years; that I would love to see Splitsville find a home with a traditional publisher and be brought out in hardcover and paperback; that I’m not working on any long projects at the moment but that I have, in the course of my journalism work, stumbled over plenty of things I think would make great books; and that Jacinda is, in fact, my first-choice agent. At the end of the conversation, Jacinda offers me representation. She wants me to write longer chapter-by-chapter summaries, but once that’s done (and I’ve signed an agency contract with her), she’ll be ready to send the proposal out on submission to publishers.

“And they’ll want it?” I blurt, then instantly regret it. Jacinda’s being incredibly nice, but she’s still vetting me for things like professionalism and confidence—the traits that would make a writer successful in the world—right? I don’t need to let her know about my self-doubts.

Jacinda laughs, a long, delighted chuckle. “Absolutely. Why, don’t you think they should?”

“Well, I love it,” I say. “But I wasn’t sure—do you think there’s room for another post-marital-disaster memoir after Eat Pray Love?”

She makes a derisive noise. “Oh, sister, there is plenty of room. I was one of those people who just didn’t get the Eat Pray Love thing. It left me cold, you know? I could see what she was getting at, and I know there are women who say that book saved their lives, and I don’t begrudge it, but there are plenty of women ready for a book like yours. Charming, self-deprecating, funny…”

I blush, even though she can’t see me. Charming! Self-deprecating! Funny!

“I almost didn’t send it,” I blurt out.

Apparently my filter is broken. Or maybe I just like Jacinda that much. The last time I opened my mouth and so much stuff fell out was the night I met Sawyer.

But far from hanging up, Jacinda makes a noise of assent. “Writers tell me that a lot. I think sometimes the scariest ones to send out are the best. Can I tell you something kind of personal?” She laughs, almost nervously, which calms my own nerves, oddly. “I feel like I’ve known you for years, not like I just met you over the phone twenty minutes ago. Maybe it’s reading your chapters. You build trust with the reader exceptionally well.”

“Of course!” I tell her, meaning it. “I feel like I’ve known you for a long time, too.” Which is absolutely true. If—as Jacinda says—I build trust with the reader, Jacinda’s got a gift for building trust with the writer.

She draws an audible breath. “I’m eight months off a brutal divorce, and it was really healing to read your chapters.”

Oh. Of all the things I was expecting, somehow this was not it. I’ve helped someone. And it means something to me that Jacinda wants Splitsville not just because she thinks a publisher will want to buy it or she’ll make money if readers flock to it, but because she has a personal connection to it. To me. The realization comes with a wash of warmth. “I’m, um, glad to hear it,” I say. “I’m really glad to hear it.”

“I think your book is going to help a lot of women. Maybe even on the same scale as Eat Pray Love.”

Holy. Shit.

“But you said you almost didn’t send it,” Jacinda says. “What changed your mind?”

“My friends. My BFF kept harassing me, and then—this guy I was dating—”

It doesn’t seem to properly sum Sawyer up, in any way, shape, or form. We were never really dating. And he was never just “this guy.” But whatever. I plunge onward. “I was telling him all the reasons I didn’t think anyone would be interested in the book, and he convinced me not to let that stop me.”

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