Page 2 of Duke It Out
“That’s why the publicist looks like a sniper waiting to take down an assassin?” I whisper.
Charlotte gives a brief nod. “If she does go off-piste, it’ll mean more book sales, so…”
I’ve got no skin in the game at this point. My payment was up front, and I don’t get a cut of the royalties. I had to use my overdraft to cover my expenses for this trip, and you bet I’m going to take advantage of the free champagne and snacks afterwards.
The good news is she’s telling them a relatively tame story about her time on the catwalk back in the 90s. The crowd are listening, rapt. I’m looking out at Union Square, watching the stallholders from the farmers’ market packing up for the night. Abraham Lincoln stands in the middle of the square, watching everything. Charlotte clears her throat and nudges me in the ribs, drawing my attention back to the stage with an almost imperceptible tip of her head.
“With a life as full as yours, it must have been hard to decide what to put in and what to leave out,” the host muses. The publicist raises her chin slightly and looks on with narrowed eyes. Everyone leans forward in their chair at once.
“Well, darling…” Annabel leans towards him conspiratorially, a catlike smile on her face. “It was more a case of making sure one wasn’t going to be sued by the great and the good.”
“And she’s off,” says Charlotte, raising her crossed fingers. “Let’s hope she stays this side of legal.”
A staff member is stacking glasses at the far end of the room, half-tuned in to stories I’ve heard more times than Ican count – live, and via an endless barrage of 2 a.m. voice notes. I amveryready for the champagne and canapés portion of the evening. My stomach growls loudly as Annabel pauses for breath.
“Thank fuck for that,” says Charlotte thirty minutes later. “Gold star for Annabel. Back in two secs.”
It’s over, and there’s an immediate rush as the staff appear out of nowhere and start herding people into lines, removing the folding chairs and clearing the space. Somehow, the publishing staff has managed to get their hands on the champagne already, and they’re in a huddle, laughing and talking with a very distinct air of relief. I’m standing aside, trying to look inconspicuous and casual at the same time, which is harder than it looks.
“Here we are.” Charlotte reappears with two glasses of champagne, passing one to me and gently touching her glass to mine. “A little toast, Edie, to your very first words in print. And not the last.”
I take a sip and feel the bubbles bursting on my tongue and the dry, acidic taste. I think I skipped the champagne gene… but it’s that or nothing. I swallow another mouthful and hide a grimace.
“That reminds me,” Charlotte says, tucking a blonde lock behind her ear. “Dragons.”
She might be teeny tiny and blonde and give the impression of being scatty and feather-headed, but secretly, she’s a terrier in heels. She knowseveryonein the industry and can smell a trend from ten miles off. And no, I have no idea why she signed me up.
“What?”
“Dragons.” She nods. “I’ve been thinking about your manuscript, and I think that’s what it needs.”
“You want me to adddragonsto a Jane Austen-era romance?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Perhaps a little rewrite. Less of the historical, more of the romantasy. It’s selling like hot cakes right now.” She gestures to three huge posters on the wall. “See what I mean?”
I rub my chin. “I thought you said ghost-writing for Annabel would be a really great way to get noticed by Marcia and that you’d have a word and I’d be pretty much guaranteed a deal for my…”
She nods again, but not very convincingly. “You know how it is. They’re tightening belts right across the board. That’s why I thought maybe you could re-jig it a bit, add some?—”
“Dragons.”
“Exactly.” She beams.
A champagne cork pops on the other side of the room, and I drain my glass in anticipation. I know precisely zero about dragons, and right now, the book deal I’ve been dreaming of feels as far away as it’s ever been.
“I knew you’d be on board,” Charlotte chirps. “This could be a real step in the right direction.”
I don’t say anything, because what can I say? Here I am in New York, on a trip to watch the book being launched. That’s basically unicorn treatment for a jobbing writer.
The gaggle of publishing people flock to air-kiss Annabel, who shoots me a wink over one of their shoulders. She accepts a fresh glass of champagne from a tall, dark-haired bartender who appears at her side and laughs at something he says, because that’s the sort of person she is – nice. It’s something that surprised me when I took the job. I assumed that someone as glamorous and rich as her would be a bit ofa bitch, but… no. There’s an entire chapter about the moment she looked in the mirror and realized she didn’t like who she was becoming. So she spent six months at a retreat in Thailand, and now? She’s actually a genuinely kind person. Which is so rare.
Charlotte gives me a little pat on the arm, as if I were a horse. “You’re a talented writer, Edie,” she says. “It’ll all work out in the end. Now, must dash and say well done to Annabel, then love you and leave you. I have dinner with an editor I’m hoping to charm in half an hour.”
She kisses my cheek and disappears in a cloud of expensive perfume, heading toward the stage. Now that I’m the only person left on this side of the room, I feel even more awkward. The publicist spots me and starts heading my way, presumably double checking I’m not going to get drunk, blow my NDA and tell everyone I wrote the book.
“Excuse me a moment,” I say as she bears down on me with a face like thunder. “I must use the bathroom.”
I squeeze my way through the middle of the line, dodging eager readers clutching their brand-new hardback copies with bright yellow Post-it notes sticking out. Each one has their name on so Annabel doesn’t have to struggle with the spelling. Next week, the place will be packed with readers desperate to read the third book in the trilogy Charlotte was talking about. It’s like I’m on some weird parallel track where I’m almost where I want to be – but not quite.
