Page 1 of Duke It Out
1
You knewthis was going to be weird, Edie.
I raise my chin and swallow hard, fixing my gaze in the approximate direction of the stage.
Annabel Findlay strides through the seated crowd, her long legs clad in dark brown leather trousers, honey-blonde hair swaying with each step. Murmurs of appreciation turn into applause as she mock-bows and takes her seat.
I clap too, once I uncurl my fingernails from my palms.
“Annabel, you don’t need any introduction,” the host begins. Then he introduces her, of course. “You’re an internationally renowned model and actress who turned to a career on the other side of the lens.”
I’m convinced there’s a cloning machine somewhere cranking out cookie-cutter Publishing Men. The host is a pint-sized guy with narrow shoulders, dressed in a black rollneck and dark jeans. At five eight, I’d absolutely tower over him – and honestly, if I sat on his lap, he’d probably fold like a deckchair.
Annabel reaches for the glass of champagne on the table,dazzling him with her world-famous smile as the spotlights pick up the golden glow of her hair.
“I’m sure we all want to know how it felt – after a career spanning well over thirty years – to put pen to paper and write your memoir.”
“You make me sound quite ancient” Annabel laughs, glancing in our direction for a fleeting moment.
I’m standing behind Marcia, the publishing director, and Roo, the editor. They lift their hands and give little finger-wiggling waves of acknowledgement.
“—well, it was very much a team effort…”
Everyone who knows anything knows that’s publishing code forsomeone else wrote it.
That’s where I come in – hovering on the sidelines, watching someone else sign copies of the book I wrote, while everyone gushes about how touching and hilariousherwork is.
It could be worse. They could be saying it’s a pile of crap, so I’ll take that as a win.
My literary agent, Charlotte, gives me a sideways look, her arched brow eloquent. It’s far from standard practice to have a ghostwriter at a book launch, but she pulled some strings, and here we are. I’ve spent five years ghost-writing literary wonders likeCat Care for BeginnersandTarot Tips for Weekend Witches.The only reason I landed this gig is because Annabel – her old school friend and client – fired the first two experienced writers. Honestly, no one was more shocked than me when I got the job.
I’ve been dreaming since I was a little girl about the day I’d see my words in print. There’s just one tiny detail: with the iron-clad NDA I’ve signed, nobody will ever know the truth.
Annabel Findlay was a beautiful rebel from an upper-class family. At sixteen, she’d run away from the boarding school to become a model in Marrakesh, dating some of the most famous rock stars in the world and gracing the covers of glossy magazines, not to mention countless gossip websites. At least half the stories she’d shared with me hadn’t made it to print because they were so salacious and scandalous that they’d have resulted in a stack of lawsuits.
“We’d love to hear an excerpt, Annabel,” says the host, cupping his chin as he looks at her, starstruck.
She has that effect on people.
“Gosh…” Annabel gushes, and the whole room melts. “Well, perhaps a teeny passage or two.”
She opens her copy of the memoir at a page, which is marked with a fluorescent pink Post-it, and starts to read in her husky, hypnotic tones.
Everyone hangs on to every word. I’m caught up in it as well – which is weird, considering I wrote it – until she stops unexpectedly and slams the book closed with a throaty laugh.
“If you want to know what happens,” Annabel says, “you can find out for yourselves when you buy a copy.”
Somehow, the hard sell sounds charming coming from her, and the room erupts into laughter.
Annabel sips her champagne as the host checks his notes briefly before sliding them back onto the table beside the untouched jug of iced water.
“Let’s hope Annabel was paying attention to the publicist’s briefing,” Marcia says, turning back to look at us, her eyebrows lifting slightly.
I wipe my palms down the side of my black dress and tug at the hemline, as if that’s going to make everything better somehow. My shoes are pinching my toes already.
“She means” – Charlotte leans toward me and mutters – “that if she goes off script now, we’re fucked.”
I snort, which makes Marcia turn around sharply.
