Excerpt from "The 'What If' Guy" by Brooke Moss
Seattle, Washington
“Why are you doing this?”
The desperate, sad look in Henry’s eyes made my heart ache. His brown hair fell across his forehead in rain-soaked waves, and his eyelashes gathered in dampened clumps. Henry’s eyes, the same shade of gray as the weeping clouds above us, searched my face for answers I was too ashamed to give.
“What we have is real, Autumn.” He pulled me against his chest. I felt his heart pounding through the wet fabric of his soft, flannel shirt, and we trembled in unison, standing on the front steps of Henry’s apartment building. “Why do you want to break up? Don't you love me?”
“Don’t do this,” I said weakly. My eyes filled with hot tears that threatened to undermine my brave façade. When he grazed his fingers across my cheekbone, swiping away a tear, I instinctively turned my face into his hand, breathing in the warm, outdoorsy aroma of Henry.
My Henry.
He kissed my cheeks, my temples, my shivering lips. My resolve started to crumble. Strength. I needed to show strength. I needed to walk away before I ruined his life, before I hurt him any more than I already had.
“Tell me that you don’t love me,” he whispered into my drenched hair, tangling his fingers in my curls. “Tell me, and I’ll let you go.”
I choked on a sob. I did love Henry. The past two months had been the best months of my life. Not once had I dreamt of meeting someone who made me feel safe, peaceful, beautiful, and deliriously happy, the way Henry Tobler made me feel. I wanted to be with him—and no one else—forever.
“Of course I love you,” I said.
“Then why are you doing this?” His voice cracked.
I shivered in Henry’s arms, not only from the cold, but also from the burden I
bore. Pulling back, I raised my eyes to meet his. “I….I’m pregnant.” My words were barely audible over the sound of the pounding rain and passing traffic.
His face morphed from shock to anger, then settled on absolute sadness. We hadn’t slept together yet.
“It was from before,” I explained lamely, feeling dirty as the words came out my mouth. Henry’s shoulders drooped. He released me and a shadow fell across his eyes. That said it all. His girlfriend was pregnant with someone else’s child.
Henry deserved better than me.
I had to get out of here. I backed away, down the cement steps and onto the sidewalk. I rubbed my chest, my heart breaking just beneath the surface.
“I’m sorry,” I said, words quavering. “I’m so sorry.”
I turned and ran. Away from love.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
With Friends Like These-Excerpt
Excerpt from "With Friends Like These" by Sally Koslow
Chapter One
Quincy
"A fax hit my desk for an apartment that isn't officially listed yet--you must see it immediately." Horton's voice was broadcasting an urgency reserved for hurricane evacuation. But in 2007, anyone who'd ever beaten the real estate bushes would be suspicious of a broker displaying even an atom of passivity. Shoppers of condos and co-ops in Manhattan and the leafier regions of Brooklyn knew they had to learn the art of the pounce: see, gulp, bid. Save the pros and cons for picking a couch.
Several times a week Horton e-mailed me listings, but rarely did he call. This had to be big. "Where is it?" I asked while I finished my lukewarm coffee.
"Central Park West." Horton identified a stone pile known by its name, the Eldorado, referring to a mythical kingdom where the tribal chief had the habit of dusting himself with gold, a commodity familiar to most of the apartment building's inhabitants—marquee actors, eminent psychotherapists, and large numbers of frumps who were simply lucky. With twin towers topped by Flash Gordon finials, the edifice lorded it over a gray-blue reservoir, the park's largest body of water, and cast a gimlet eye toward Fifth Avenue.
"I couldn't afford that building," I said. If Horton was trying to game me into spending more than our budget allowed, he'd fail. While the amount of money Jake and I had scraped together for a new home seemed huge to us--representing the sale of our one-bedroom in Park Slope, an inheritance from my mom, and the proceeds from seeing one of my books linger on the bestseller list--other brokers had none too politely terminated the conversation as soon as I quoted our allotted sum. What I liked about Horton was that he was dogged, he was hungry, and he was the only real estate agent returning my calls.
"That's the beauty part," he said, practically singing. "You, Quincy Blue, can afford this apartment." He named a figure. We could, just. "What's the catch?" In my experience, deals that sounded too good to be true were--like the brownstone I'd seen last week that lacked not only architectural integrity but functional plumbing.
"It's a fixer-upper," Horton admitted. "Listen, I can go to the second name on my list."
"I'll see you in twenty minutes," I said, hitting "save" on my manuscript. I was currently the ghostwriter for Maizie May, one of Hollywood's interchangeable blow-dried blondes with breasts larger than their brain. While she happened to be inconveniently incarcerated in Idaho rehab, allowed only one sound bite of conversation with me per week, my publisher's deadline, three months away, continued to growl. I hid my hair under a baseball cap and laced my sneakers. Had Jake seen me, he would have observed that I looked very West Side; my husband was fond of pointing out our neighborhood's inverse relationship between apartment price and snappy dress. As I walked east I called him, but his cell phone was off. Jake's flight to Chicago must be late.
Racing down Broadway, I allowed myself a discreet ripple of anticipation. Forget the Yankees. Real estate would always be New York City's truest spectator sport, and I was no longer content to cheer from the bleachers. Two years ago, my nesting hormones had kicked in and begun to fiercely multiply, with me along for the ride. We were eager to escape from our current sublet near Columbia University. I longed to be dithering over paint colors--Yellow Lotus or Pale Straw; flat, satin, or eggshell--and awash in fabric swatches. I coveted an office that was bigger than a coffee table book and a dining table that could accommodate all ten settings of my wedding china. I wanted a real home. I'd know it when I saw it.
Horton, green-eyed, cleft-chinned--handsome if you could overlook his devotion to argyle--stood inside the building's revolving door. "The listing broker isn't here yet," he said, "but you can get a sense of the lobby." A doorman tipped his capped head and motioned us toward armchairs upholstered in a tapestry of tasteful, earthy tones. Horton unfurled a floor plan.
I'd become a quick study of such documents. "It's only a two-bedroom," I said, feeling the familiar disappointment that had doused the glow of previous apartment visits. Was the fantasy of three bedrooms asking too much for a pair of industrious adults more than twelve years past grad school? Jake was a lawyer. I had a master's in English literature. Yet after we'd been outbid nine times, Jake and I had accepted the fact that in this part of town, two bedrooms might be as good as it would get.
"This isn't any two-bedroom," Horton insisted. "Look how grand the living room and dining room are." Big enough for a party where Jake and I could reciprocate every invitation we'd received since getting married five years ago. "See?" he said, pulling out a hasty sketch and pointing. "Put a wall up to divide the dining room, which has windows on both sides, and create an entrance here. Third bedroom." He was getting to how cheap the renovation would be when a tall wand of a woman tapped him on the shoulder.
"Fran!" Horton said as warmly as if she were his favorite grandmother, which she was old enough to be. "You're looking well."
The woman smiled and a feathering of wrinkles fanned her large blue eyes. The effect made me think that a face without this pattern was too dull. "Did you explain?" she said. Her voice was reedy, a piccolo that saw little use. She'd pulled her silver hair into a chignon and was enveloped in winter white, from a cape covering a high turtleneck to slim trousers that managed to be spotless, although they nearly covered her toes.
"We were getting to that, but first, please meet my client, Quincy Blue. Quincy, Frances Shelbourne of Shelbourne and Stone."
I knew the firm. Frances and her sister Rose had tied up all the best West Side listings. I shook Fran Shelbourne's hand, which felt not just creamy but delicately boned. She stared at my sneakers and jeans long enough for me to regret them, then turned her back and padded so soundlessly that I checked to see if she might be wearing slippers. No, ballerina flats. Across the lobby, elaborately filigreed elevator doors opened. Fran turned toward Horton and me and with the briefest arch of one perfectly plucked eyebrow implored us to hurry. When the doors shut, she spoke softly, although we were alone. "The owner's a dear friend," she said. "Eloise Walter, the anthropologist." She waited for me to respond. "From the Museum of Natural History?"
I wondered if I was supposed to know the woman's body of work and bemoaned the deficiency of my Big Ten education.
"Dr. Walter is in failing health," she continued, shaking her head. "This is why we won't schedule an open house." Every Sunday from September through May, hopeful buyers, like well-trained infantry, traveled the open-house circuit. Jake and I had done our sweaty time, scurrying downtown, uptown, across, and down again, with as many as a dozen visits in a day. Soon enough, we began seeing the same hopeful buyers--the Filipino couple, the three-hundred-pound guy who had the face of a baby, a pair of six-foot-tall redheaded teenage twins who spoke a middle-European tongue. By my fifth Sunday, in minutes I could privately scoff at telltale evidence of dry rot. Silk curtains draped as cunningly as a sari could not distract me from a sunless air shaft a few feet away, nor could lights of megawatt intensity seduce me into forgetting that in most of these apartments I would instantly suffer from seasonal affective disorder.
"You'll be the first person to see this one," Horton added by way of a bonus. I could feel the checkbook in my bag coming alive like Mickey's broom in Fantasia.
When we stepped out of the elevator on the fourteenth floor, Mrs. Shelbourne gently knocked on a metal door that would look at home in any financial institution. From the other side, a floor creaked. A nurse in thick-soled shoes answered and raised an index finger to her lips, casting her eyes toward a shadowy room beyond. The scent of urine--human, feline, or both--crept into my nostrils, followed by a top note of mango air freshener. "Doctor's sleeping." My eyes strained to scan a wide room where old-fashioned blinds were drawn against the noon sun. An elderly woman, her hair scant and tufted, was folded into a wheelchair like a rag doll, despite pillows bolstering her skeletal frame. Dr. Walter looked barely alive. Mrs. Shelbourne placed her hand on my arm. "We shouldn't stay long in this room. I'm sure you understand. Alzheimer's."
"I do--too well," I said, rapidly beholding the high ceiling and dentil moldings, while memories of my mother, scrupulously archived yet too fresh to examine, begged for consideration. I pushed them away even as my mind catalogued herringbone floors with an intricate walnut border and the merest wink of a crystal chandelier. Mrs. Shelbourne grasped my arm and we hurried into a small, dark kitchen with wallpaper on which hummingbirds had enjoyed a sixty-year siesta. In front of the sink, which faced a covered window, linoleum had worn bare. There were scratched metal cabinets and no dishwasher, and I suspected the stove's birth date preceded my own. I thought of my unfinished chapter, and cursed my wasted time.
Halfheartedly I lifted a tattered shade. "Holy cow," I said, though only to myself. Sun reflected off the park's vast reservoir, which appeared so close I thought I could stand on the ledge and swan-dive into its depth. Far below, I could see treetops, lush as giant broccoli. The traffic was a distant buzz. I felt a tremor. The subway, stories below? No, my heart. Picking up my pace, I followed the brokers through the spacious dining room and down a hall where I counted off six closets. I peeked into a bathroom tiled in a vintage mosaic of the sort decorators encourage clients to re-create at vast expense. We passed through a starlet-worthy dressing room and entered a bedroom into which I could easily tuck my current, rented apartment, with enough space to spare for a study. As Mrs. Shelbourne pulled the hardware on draperies bleached of color, I could swear that a strobe had begun to pulse. From the corner of my eye I saw a black cat slink away while Horton kicked a dust bunny under the bed, but I took little note of either. As I stood by the window, I was gooey with the feeling I'd experienced when I first laid eyes on the Grand Canyon.
The silvery vista spread casually before me might be the most enchanted in the entire city. I closed my eyes, traveling through time. Women were skating figure eights in red velvet cloaks, their hands warmed by ermine muffs. Bells jingled in the evergreen-scented air as horses waited patiently by sleighs. I blinked again and the maidens wore organdy, their porcelain skin dewy under the parasols shielding their intricate curls. I fast-forwarded to my girlhood and could imagine the large, glassy pond below was the crystal stream beside my grandparents' log-hewn cabin in Wisconsin's northern woods, the bone-chilling waters of Scout camp, perhaps Lake Como of my honeymoon scrapbook.
Beside this champagne view, the fifty-four other apartments I'd considered seemed like cheap house wine, including the possibilities that cost far more--almost every one. I pulled myself away from the window and looked back. Walls were no longer hung with faded diplomas, nor was the carpet worn thin. Mirroring the reservoir, the room had turned gray-blue. I saw myself writing at a desk by the window, lit by sunbeams, words spilling out so fast my fingers danced on the keyboard like Rockettes. This time my manuscript wasn’t a twenty-year-old singer-actress' whiny rant. It was a novel, lauded by the critics and Costco customers alike.
I could see myself in this room. My face wore deep contentment. The bed was luxuriously rumpled, since a half hour earlier Jake and I had made love, and now he was brewing coffee in our brand-new kitchen, as sleekly designed as a sperm. Perhaps he'd already gone out to bike around the park or was walking our shelter-rescued puppy. Tallulah, the little rascal, loved to chase her ball down our twenty-foot hall.
In every way, I was home. Then I snapped out of it. I was wearing my real estate heart on my sleeve, all but drooling. Quincy Blue, you dumb cluck. I sensed Horton looking at me as if he were a cannibal in need of protein, and checked to see if he and Fran had excused themselves to decide whether they should triple the apartment's price or merely double it. We walked past another bathroom, this one housing a tub as long as a rowboat, ambled back through the dim hallway, and ended in the living room.
"The view's even better from here--a pity we can't pull up the shades," Mrs. Shelbourne whispered as she walked toward the statue slumping in the wheelchair and greeted her. "Hello, Eloise dear." She took the woman's listless hand. "It's Frances. I wish you could sit at that piano"--she pointed to a piece of shrouded furniture--"and play me Chopin."
The woman emitted a dry rattle, craned her neck toward Mrs. Shelbourne, and smiled. She was missing several teeth.
"If you wish," she said clearly. Suddenly Dr. Walter tried to raise herself in the wheelchair. "If you would be so kind as to assist me." The nurse lumbered to her side. On her aide's sturdy arm, Dr. Walter walked toward the piano, her posture better than my own. She settled on the cracked black leather stool and stretched her knobby fingers. I covered my mouth with my hands, afraid I might gasp. Her hands fondled the ivories and began to play an unmistakable Chopin mazurka. The Steinway was out of tune and the pianist wore a faded housecoat, but Dr. Walter's rendition pleased her audience to the point that even Horton was wiping away tears. The concert continued for almost twenty minutes and then, as if someone had pulled a plug, the pianist's hands froze. Like a small child, she looked around the room, confused. I was afraid she, too, might cry.
We clapped. "That was exquisite," Mrs. Shelbourne said hoarsely as the nurse helped her patient back to the wheelchair. "Simply exquisite."
Dr. Walter closed her eyes and in less than a minute was sleeping. Mrs. Shelbourne thanked the nurse and hurried Horton and me to the elevator. I waited for his chatter, but it was she who spoke. "Tell me your story. I can see from your face that you have one." She looked at me as if she were the dean of women.
________________________________________
Excerpted from "With Friends Like These" by Sally Koslow Copyright © 2010 by Sally Koslow. Excerpted by permission of Ballantine Group, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Chapter One
Quincy
"A fax hit my desk for an apartment that isn't officially listed yet--you must see it immediately." Horton's voice was broadcasting an urgency reserved for hurricane evacuation. But in 2007, anyone who'd ever beaten the real estate bushes would be suspicious of a broker displaying even an atom of passivity. Shoppers of condos and co-ops in Manhattan and the leafier regions of Brooklyn knew they had to learn the art of the pounce: see, gulp, bid. Save the pros and cons for picking a couch.
Several times a week Horton e-mailed me listings, but rarely did he call. This had to be big. "Where is it?" I asked while I finished my lukewarm coffee.
"Central Park West." Horton identified a stone pile known by its name, the Eldorado, referring to a mythical kingdom where the tribal chief had the habit of dusting himself with gold, a commodity familiar to most of the apartment building's inhabitants—marquee actors, eminent psychotherapists, and large numbers of frumps who were simply lucky. With twin towers topped by Flash Gordon finials, the edifice lorded it over a gray-blue reservoir, the park's largest body of water, and cast a gimlet eye toward Fifth Avenue.
"I couldn't afford that building," I said. If Horton was trying to game me into spending more than our budget allowed, he'd fail. While the amount of money Jake and I had scraped together for a new home seemed huge to us--representing the sale of our one-bedroom in Park Slope, an inheritance from my mom, and the proceeds from seeing one of my books linger on the bestseller list--other brokers had none too politely terminated the conversation as soon as I quoted our allotted sum. What I liked about Horton was that he was dogged, he was hungry, and he was the only real estate agent returning my calls.
"That's the beauty part," he said, practically singing. "You, Quincy Blue, can afford this apartment." He named a figure. We could, just. "What's the catch?" In my experience, deals that sounded too good to be true were--like the brownstone I'd seen last week that lacked not only architectural integrity but functional plumbing.
"It's a fixer-upper," Horton admitted. "Listen, I can go to the second name on my list."
"I'll see you in twenty minutes," I said, hitting "save" on my manuscript. I was currently the ghostwriter for Maizie May, one of Hollywood's interchangeable blow-dried blondes with breasts larger than their brain. While she happened to be inconveniently incarcerated in Idaho rehab, allowed only one sound bite of conversation with me per week, my publisher's deadline, three months away, continued to growl. I hid my hair under a baseball cap and laced my sneakers. Had Jake seen me, he would have observed that I looked very West Side; my husband was fond of pointing out our neighborhood's inverse relationship between apartment price and snappy dress. As I walked east I called him, but his cell phone was off. Jake's flight to Chicago must be late.
Racing down Broadway, I allowed myself a discreet ripple of anticipation. Forget the Yankees. Real estate would always be New York City's truest spectator sport, and I was no longer content to cheer from the bleachers. Two years ago, my nesting hormones had kicked in and begun to fiercely multiply, with me along for the ride. We were eager to escape from our current sublet near Columbia University. I longed to be dithering over paint colors--Yellow Lotus or Pale Straw; flat, satin, or eggshell--and awash in fabric swatches. I coveted an office that was bigger than a coffee table book and a dining table that could accommodate all ten settings of my wedding china. I wanted a real home. I'd know it when I saw it.
Horton, green-eyed, cleft-chinned--handsome if you could overlook his devotion to argyle--stood inside the building's revolving door. "The listing broker isn't here yet," he said, "but you can get a sense of the lobby." A doorman tipped his capped head and motioned us toward armchairs upholstered in a tapestry of tasteful, earthy tones. Horton unfurled a floor plan.
I'd become a quick study of such documents. "It's only a two-bedroom," I said, feeling the familiar disappointment that had doused the glow of previous apartment visits. Was the fantasy of three bedrooms asking too much for a pair of industrious adults more than twelve years past grad school? Jake was a lawyer. I had a master's in English literature. Yet after we'd been outbid nine times, Jake and I had accepted the fact that in this part of town, two bedrooms might be as good as it would get.
"This isn't any two-bedroom," Horton insisted. "Look how grand the living room and dining room are." Big enough for a party where Jake and I could reciprocate every invitation we'd received since getting married five years ago. "See?" he said, pulling out a hasty sketch and pointing. "Put a wall up to divide the dining room, which has windows on both sides, and create an entrance here. Third bedroom." He was getting to how cheap the renovation would be when a tall wand of a woman tapped him on the shoulder.
"Fran!" Horton said as warmly as if she were his favorite grandmother, which she was old enough to be. "You're looking well."
The woman smiled and a feathering of wrinkles fanned her large blue eyes. The effect made me think that a face without this pattern was too dull. "Did you explain?" she said. Her voice was reedy, a piccolo that saw little use. She'd pulled her silver hair into a chignon and was enveloped in winter white, from a cape covering a high turtleneck to slim trousers that managed to be spotless, although they nearly covered her toes.
"We were getting to that, but first, please meet my client, Quincy Blue. Quincy, Frances Shelbourne of Shelbourne and Stone."
I knew the firm. Frances and her sister Rose had tied up all the best West Side listings. I shook Fran Shelbourne's hand, which felt not just creamy but delicately boned. She stared at my sneakers and jeans long enough for me to regret them, then turned her back and padded so soundlessly that I checked to see if she might be wearing slippers. No, ballerina flats. Across the lobby, elaborately filigreed elevator doors opened. Fran turned toward Horton and me and with the briefest arch of one perfectly plucked eyebrow implored us to hurry. When the doors shut, she spoke softly, although we were alone. "The owner's a dear friend," she said. "Eloise Walter, the anthropologist." She waited for me to respond. "From the Museum of Natural History?"
I wondered if I was supposed to know the woman's body of work and bemoaned the deficiency of my Big Ten education.
"Dr. Walter is in failing health," she continued, shaking her head. "This is why we won't schedule an open house." Every Sunday from September through May, hopeful buyers, like well-trained infantry, traveled the open-house circuit. Jake and I had done our sweaty time, scurrying downtown, uptown, across, and down again, with as many as a dozen visits in a day. Soon enough, we began seeing the same hopeful buyers--the Filipino couple, the three-hundred-pound guy who had the face of a baby, a pair of six-foot-tall redheaded teenage twins who spoke a middle-European tongue. By my fifth Sunday, in minutes I could privately scoff at telltale evidence of dry rot. Silk curtains draped as cunningly as a sari could not distract me from a sunless air shaft a few feet away, nor could lights of megawatt intensity seduce me into forgetting that in most of these apartments I would instantly suffer from seasonal affective disorder.
"You'll be the first person to see this one," Horton added by way of a bonus. I could feel the checkbook in my bag coming alive like Mickey's broom in Fantasia.
When we stepped out of the elevator on the fourteenth floor, Mrs. Shelbourne gently knocked on a metal door that would look at home in any financial institution. From the other side, a floor creaked. A nurse in thick-soled shoes answered and raised an index finger to her lips, casting her eyes toward a shadowy room beyond. The scent of urine--human, feline, or both--crept into my nostrils, followed by a top note of mango air freshener. "Doctor's sleeping." My eyes strained to scan a wide room where old-fashioned blinds were drawn against the noon sun. An elderly woman, her hair scant and tufted, was folded into a wheelchair like a rag doll, despite pillows bolstering her skeletal frame. Dr. Walter looked barely alive. Mrs. Shelbourne placed her hand on my arm. "We shouldn't stay long in this room. I'm sure you understand. Alzheimer's."
"I do--too well," I said, rapidly beholding the high ceiling and dentil moldings, while memories of my mother, scrupulously archived yet too fresh to examine, begged for consideration. I pushed them away even as my mind catalogued herringbone floors with an intricate walnut border and the merest wink of a crystal chandelier. Mrs. Shelbourne grasped my arm and we hurried into a small, dark kitchen with wallpaper on which hummingbirds had enjoyed a sixty-year siesta. In front of the sink, which faced a covered window, linoleum had worn bare. There were scratched metal cabinets and no dishwasher, and I suspected the stove's birth date preceded my own. I thought of my unfinished chapter, and cursed my wasted time.
Halfheartedly I lifted a tattered shade. "Holy cow," I said, though only to myself. Sun reflected off the park's vast reservoir, which appeared so close I thought I could stand on the ledge and swan-dive into its depth. Far below, I could see treetops, lush as giant broccoli. The traffic was a distant buzz. I felt a tremor. The subway, stories below? No, my heart. Picking up my pace, I followed the brokers through the spacious dining room and down a hall where I counted off six closets. I peeked into a bathroom tiled in a vintage mosaic of the sort decorators encourage clients to re-create at vast expense. We passed through a starlet-worthy dressing room and entered a bedroom into which I could easily tuck my current, rented apartment, with enough space to spare for a study. As Mrs. Shelbourne pulled the hardware on draperies bleached of color, I could swear that a strobe had begun to pulse. From the corner of my eye I saw a black cat slink away while Horton kicked a dust bunny under the bed, but I took little note of either. As I stood by the window, I was gooey with the feeling I'd experienced when I first laid eyes on the Grand Canyon.
The silvery vista spread casually before me might be the most enchanted in the entire city. I closed my eyes, traveling through time. Women were skating figure eights in red velvet cloaks, their hands warmed by ermine muffs. Bells jingled in the evergreen-scented air as horses waited patiently by sleighs. I blinked again and the maidens wore organdy, their porcelain skin dewy under the parasols shielding their intricate curls. I fast-forwarded to my girlhood and could imagine the large, glassy pond below was the crystal stream beside my grandparents' log-hewn cabin in Wisconsin's northern woods, the bone-chilling waters of Scout camp, perhaps Lake Como of my honeymoon scrapbook.
Beside this champagne view, the fifty-four other apartments I'd considered seemed like cheap house wine, including the possibilities that cost far more--almost every one. I pulled myself away from the window and looked back. Walls were no longer hung with faded diplomas, nor was the carpet worn thin. Mirroring the reservoir, the room had turned gray-blue. I saw myself writing at a desk by the window, lit by sunbeams, words spilling out so fast my fingers danced on the keyboard like Rockettes. This time my manuscript wasn’t a twenty-year-old singer-actress' whiny rant. It was a novel, lauded by the critics and Costco customers alike.
I could see myself in this room. My face wore deep contentment. The bed was luxuriously rumpled, since a half hour earlier Jake and I had made love, and now he was brewing coffee in our brand-new kitchen, as sleekly designed as a sperm. Perhaps he'd already gone out to bike around the park or was walking our shelter-rescued puppy. Tallulah, the little rascal, loved to chase her ball down our twenty-foot hall.
In every way, I was home. Then I snapped out of it. I was wearing my real estate heart on my sleeve, all but drooling. Quincy Blue, you dumb cluck. I sensed Horton looking at me as if he were a cannibal in need of protein, and checked to see if he and Fran had excused themselves to decide whether they should triple the apartment's price or merely double it. We walked past another bathroom, this one housing a tub as long as a rowboat, ambled back through the dim hallway, and ended in the living room.
"The view's even better from here--a pity we can't pull up the shades," Mrs. Shelbourne whispered as she walked toward the statue slumping in the wheelchair and greeted her. "Hello, Eloise dear." She took the woman's listless hand. "It's Frances. I wish you could sit at that piano"--she pointed to a piece of shrouded furniture--"and play me Chopin."
The woman emitted a dry rattle, craned her neck toward Mrs. Shelbourne, and smiled. She was missing several teeth.
"If you wish," she said clearly. Suddenly Dr. Walter tried to raise herself in the wheelchair. "If you would be so kind as to assist me." The nurse lumbered to her side. On her aide's sturdy arm, Dr. Walter walked toward the piano, her posture better than my own. She settled on the cracked black leather stool and stretched her knobby fingers. I covered my mouth with my hands, afraid I might gasp. Her hands fondled the ivories and began to play an unmistakable Chopin mazurka. The Steinway was out of tune and the pianist wore a faded housecoat, but Dr. Walter's rendition pleased her audience to the point that even Horton was wiping away tears. The concert continued for almost twenty minutes and then, as if someone had pulled a plug, the pianist's hands froze. Like a small child, she looked around the room, confused. I was afraid she, too, might cry.
We clapped. "That was exquisite," Mrs. Shelbourne said hoarsely as the nurse helped her patient back to the wheelchair. "Simply exquisite."
Dr. Walter closed her eyes and in less than a minute was sleeping. Mrs. Shelbourne thanked the nurse and hurried Horton and me to the elevator. I waited for his chatter, but it was she who spoke. "Tell me your story. I can see from your face that you have one." She looked at me as if she were the dean of women.
________________________________________
Excerpted from "With Friends Like These" by Sally Koslow Copyright © 2010 by Sally Koslow. Excerpted by permission of Ballantine Group, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Runner-up Associate Entry-Kathryn Hamilton
"Good in Bed" review
By Kathryn Hamilton
Cannie (short for Candace) Shapiro is a plus size newspaper journalist who has wit in spades and and is not afraid to speak her mind. Professionally, she is confident and self-assured. Personally, she is the complete opposite; filled with self-doubt, she uses her humour as a way to charm those around her. After she discovers that not only has her ex (Bruce, a fellow journalist) written about her in his new magazine column, but that he has divulged intimate details of their relationship, Cannie begins to re-evaluate herself and her decision to "take a break" from her relationship with a man who understands her much more than she gave him credit for. With the support of friends (both old and a few new ones she meets along the way) and family, Cannie is taken on a journey to self-acceptance that is filled with humour, heartache, and raw truth.
Ms. Weiner has the propensity for creating characters that readers can deeply connect with, and writing stories that make her books difficult to put down; "Good In Bed" was no exception (and incidentally, was also her first published novel). I believe this is the best of the three novels I have read so far by Ms. Weiner. As someone who is also plus size, I found Cannie to be a character that was easy to relate to in many ways. However, the beauty of this story is that you need not wear a size 16 to identify with Cannie's insecurities and longing to be loved; this observation is keenly made by one of her friends, which confounds Cannie since she believes thin women are always confident (if only that were true!). I felt her anger, sadness, joy and heart break, and was able to understand how she saw the world without needing to have had similar life experiences. The story was well written and the pace flowed nicely. Although I knew who Cannie would end up being with almost from the first time the character is introduced, I enjoyed seeing how that relationship developed throughout the story.
There were, however, a few things that bothered me about the book, but as a whole, they are minor issues. First, I found it difficult to believe that Cannie would develop a relationship with someone who just happened to be in a position to help her achieve one of her biggest dreams. It is possible that situations like this happen, but for me I had to suspend reality. Secondly, I noticed some errors in the text that were distracting. I will note that I was reading an ebook copy, so the fact that there were a few places where the words ran together may not be the fault of the publisher, but it's still something that took a little bit away from the reading experience. Lastly, I have to say that I wasn't crazy about the cover. I discovered after I had purchased the ebook that I actually had the 10th anniversary copy. Although the differences from the original cover are small, I prefer the original. I'll also mention here that when reading the "Introduction," I didn't realize at first that it wasn't part of the story and ended up skipping over the rather lengthy text.
Jennifer Weiner is one of the most respected and beloved authors in the chick lit genre. After reading Good In Bed, it is clear why this is the case. Any issues I had with the book are minor and I would certainly recommend it as a must read (especially if you haven't read any of Ms. Weiner's other novels).
By Kathryn Hamilton
Cannie (short for Candace) Shapiro is a plus size newspaper journalist who has wit in spades and and is not afraid to speak her mind. Professionally, she is confident and self-assured. Personally, she is the complete opposite; filled with self-doubt, she uses her humour as a way to charm those around her. After she discovers that not only has her ex (Bruce, a fellow journalist) written about her in his new magazine column, but that he has divulged intimate details of their relationship, Cannie begins to re-evaluate herself and her decision to "take a break" from her relationship with a man who understands her much more than she gave him credit for. With the support of friends (both old and a few new ones she meets along the way) and family, Cannie is taken on a journey to self-acceptance that is filled with humour, heartache, and raw truth.
Ms. Weiner has the propensity for creating characters that readers can deeply connect with, and writing stories that make her books difficult to put down; "Good In Bed" was no exception (and incidentally, was also her first published novel). I believe this is the best of the three novels I have read so far by Ms. Weiner. As someone who is also plus size, I found Cannie to be a character that was easy to relate to in many ways. However, the beauty of this story is that you need not wear a size 16 to identify with Cannie's insecurities and longing to be loved; this observation is keenly made by one of her friends, which confounds Cannie since she believes thin women are always confident (if only that were true!). I felt her anger, sadness, joy and heart break, and was able to understand how she saw the world without needing to have had similar life experiences. The story was well written and the pace flowed nicely. Although I knew who Cannie would end up being with almost from the first time the character is introduced, I enjoyed seeing how that relationship developed throughout the story.
There were, however, a few things that bothered me about the book, but as a whole, they are minor issues. First, I found it difficult to believe that Cannie would develop a relationship with someone who just happened to be in a position to help her achieve one of her biggest dreams. It is possible that situations like this happen, but for me I had to suspend reality. Secondly, I noticed some errors in the text that were distracting. I will note that I was reading an ebook copy, so the fact that there were a few places where the words ran together may not be the fault of the publisher, but it's still something that took a little bit away from the reading experience. Lastly, I have to say that I wasn't crazy about the cover. I discovered after I had purchased the ebook that I actually had the 10th anniversary copy. Although the differences from the original cover are small, I prefer the original. I'll also mention here that when reading the "Introduction," I didn't realize at first that it wasn't part of the story and ended up skipping over the rather lengthy text.
Jennifer Weiner is one of the most respected and beloved authors in the chick lit genre. After reading Good In Bed, it is clear why this is the case. Any issues I had with the book are minor and I would certainly recommend it as a must read (especially if you haven't read any of Ms. Weiner's other novels).
Winning Associate Entry-Becky Gulc
"Meet Me at the Cupcake Café" review
By Becky Gulc
Narrowing down an extensive wish list of books to just four for a week-long holiday in the sun is never an easy task – Jenny Colgan’s "Meet Me at the Cupcake Café" was however instantly top of my holiday list this year from the title alone (shallow but true), it didn’t disappoint. Prior to spotting this book I had read just one of Jenny’s previous novels – "Looking for Andrew McCarthy" which was just a genius concept for me as someone who had a serious teenage crush on Andrew at the time of "Mannequin."
For anyone who loves to bake and cannot leave the house without gravitating towards the ever-expanding Patisserie Valerie’s and Hummingbird Bakeries on our high streets "Meet Me at the Cupcake Cafe" is the perfect book for you. Best still, it won’t affect your waistline…well, unless you act upon the numerous recipes listed quite comically but accurately in this book. You’ll be ensuring your friends hand this book back when they’ve read it!
This book is about new beginnings. In the current climate we all know someone who is facing redundancy if not ourselves – this book explores how 31 year old Issy deals with being made redundant from her mundane but longstanding office job. Possibly the worst thing for Issy is not being made redundant itself, but being made redundant by Graeme, her successful but unworthy boyfriend/secret love.
The book follows Issy as she does what many of us can only dream of – taking what is a fun hobby and making it into something she can make a living from. Her journey is far from easy and there are some great characters built into this book that you feel for, laugh with and swoon over! Whilst being quite a light-hearted read many of the characters in this book haven’t had an easy life and you really do route for them to succeed and find happiness albeit in a variety of forms. Issy’s relationship with her Grandpa is central to the story and is moving and heart-warming throughout – we learn early on that Issy was raised by her grandparents and it is her Grandpa that instilled Issy’s love of baking and his recipes and ethos are an integral part of Issy’s vision for the Cupcake Café.
I do believe that if you love chick-lit and love baking or just eating cakes then you will enjoy this book. The description is rich throughout; you could really picture the café; the surrounding area of Stoke Newington and most importantly the cupcakes. The sense of community, or lack of at some points hangs very true and you will be able to relate some of the characters to people you see but maybe have never spoken to wherever you live. The book may be a tad predictable but that didn’t detract from the enjoyment of it one bit. Overall this book is an uplifting read with strong characters and enough twists, turns and recipes to keep your mouth-watering until the very end!
By Becky Gulc
Narrowing down an extensive wish list of books to just four for a week-long holiday in the sun is never an easy task – Jenny Colgan’s "Meet Me at the Cupcake Café" was however instantly top of my holiday list this year from the title alone (shallow but true), it didn’t disappoint. Prior to spotting this book I had read just one of Jenny’s previous novels – "Looking for Andrew McCarthy" which was just a genius concept for me as someone who had a serious teenage crush on Andrew at the time of "Mannequin."
For anyone who loves to bake and cannot leave the house without gravitating towards the ever-expanding Patisserie Valerie’s and Hummingbird Bakeries on our high streets "Meet Me at the Cupcake Cafe" is the perfect book for you. Best still, it won’t affect your waistline…well, unless you act upon the numerous recipes listed quite comically but accurately in this book. You’ll be ensuring your friends hand this book back when they’ve read it!
This book is about new beginnings. In the current climate we all know someone who is facing redundancy if not ourselves – this book explores how 31 year old Issy deals with being made redundant from her mundane but longstanding office job. Possibly the worst thing for Issy is not being made redundant itself, but being made redundant by Graeme, her successful but unworthy boyfriend/secret love.
The book follows Issy as she does what many of us can only dream of – taking what is a fun hobby and making it into something she can make a living from. Her journey is far from easy and there are some great characters built into this book that you feel for, laugh with and swoon over! Whilst being quite a light-hearted read many of the characters in this book haven’t had an easy life and you really do route for them to succeed and find happiness albeit in a variety of forms. Issy’s relationship with her Grandpa is central to the story and is moving and heart-warming throughout – we learn early on that Issy was raised by her grandparents and it is her Grandpa that instilled Issy’s love of baking and his recipes and ethos are an integral part of Issy’s vision for the Cupcake Café.
I do believe that if you love chick-lit and love baking or just eating cakes then you will enjoy this book. The description is rich throughout; you could really picture the café; the surrounding area of Stoke Newington and most importantly the cupcakes. The sense of community, or lack of at some points hangs very true and you will be able to relate some of the characters to people you see but maybe have never spoken to wherever you live. The book may be a tad predictable but that didn’t detract from the enjoyment of it one bit. Overall this book is an uplifting read with strong characters and enough twists, turns and recipes to keep your mouth-watering until the very end!
Winning Associate Entry--Gail Allison
"Bright Lights, Big Ass" review
by Gail Allison
Traditional? Nope. Honest? Yes. Just so damn uncontrollably-giggling, mascara-smearingly funny that you should never ever bring this book on public transportation? 100% absolutely for sure. Consider yourself warned.
In Jen Lancaster’s second memoir, “Bright Lights, Big Ass: A Self-Indulgent, Surly, Ex-Sorority Girl's Guide to Why it Often Sucks in the City, or Who are These Idiots and Why Do They All Live Next Door to Me?”, she explores life in the big city with her husband. She begins with a scathing letter to Carrie Bradshaw, accusing her of setting unrealistic big-city living expectations and then, through a series of short essays about her life, illustrates exactly why the Sex and The City lifestyle could never be anything but fictional. After losing her high-powered corporate job, Jen had to refine her lifestyle, and this memoir details her life after making the dizzying jump from top-shelf cocktails to boxed wine from Trader Joe’s.
Her experiences around her hometown of Chicago range a whole spectrum of possibilities, from getting into (and losing) a death match with a paper gown at her annual “well-woman” exam, to accidentally reporting her neighbors to Homeland Security. Ms. Lancaster’s writing is so open and real that I would defy you to NOT want to be BFFs with her after finishing this book.
Jen is not afraid to tell you exactly how she’s thinking, why she’s thinking it, and what she’s planning to do about it, which makes for an incredibly engaging and candid book. Her writing style is reminiscent of chatting with a friend (albeit a mouthy, somewhat self-absorbed friend), and her biting sense of humor will be met with everything from a dropped jaw to uncontrollable laughter. Her absolute sincerity is what makes this book a real gem. There is no self-conscious glossing over uncomfortable situations: she dives right in and unapologetically takes you with her.
A word to the wise: if you are offended by inappropriate language, this may not be the volume for you. She is not afraid to season her text with the occasional f-bomb, so perhaps this isn’t the best gift for your precocious 11-year-old niece’s 6th grade graduation, but it makes for a fantastic read on a warm summer day while lounging in your backyard with a nice cold glass (box) of wine beside you.
Overall, this is easily one of the most entertaining books I’ve ever read (and will definitely read again). It’s absolutely refreshing to read a memoir that is this hilarious, this honest, and just this much fun.
by Gail Allison
Traditional? Nope. Honest? Yes. Just so damn uncontrollably-giggling, mascara-smearingly funny that you should never ever bring this book on public transportation? 100% absolutely for sure. Consider yourself warned.
In Jen Lancaster’s second memoir, “Bright Lights, Big Ass: A Self-Indulgent, Surly, Ex-Sorority Girl's Guide to Why it Often Sucks in the City, or Who are These Idiots and Why Do They All Live Next Door to Me?”, she explores life in the big city with her husband. She begins with a scathing letter to Carrie Bradshaw, accusing her of setting unrealistic big-city living expectations and then, through a series of short essays about her life, illustrates exactly why the Sex and The City lifestyle could never be anything but fictional. After losing her high-powered corporate job, Jen had to refine her lifestyle, and this memoir details her life after making the dizzying jump from top-shelf cocktails to boxed wine from Trader Joe’s.
Her experiences around her hometown of Chicago range a whole spectrum of possibilities, from getting into (and losing) a death match with a paper gown at her annual “well-woman” exam, to accidentally reporting her neighbors to Homeland Security. Ms. Lancaster’s writing is so open and real that I would defy you to NOT want to be BFFs with her after finishing this book.
Jen is not afraid to tell you exactly how she’s thinking, why she’s thinking it, and what she’s planning to do about it, which makes for an incredibly engaging and candid book. Her writing style is reminiscent of chatting with a friend (albeit a mouthy, somewhat self-absorbed friend), and her biting sense of humor will be met with everything from a dropped jaw to uncontrollable laughter. Her absolute sincerity is what makes this book a real gem. There is no self-conscious glossing over uncomfortable situations: she dives right in and unapologetically takes you with her.
A word to the wise: if you are offended by inappropriate language, this may not be the volume for you. She is not afraid to season her text with the occasional f-bomb, so perhaps this isn’t the best gift for your precocious 11-year-old niece’s 6th grade graduation, but it makes for a fantastic read on a warm summer day while lounging in your backyard with a nice cold glass (box) of wine beside you.
Overall, this is easily one of the most entertaining books I’ve ever read (and will definitely read again). It’s absolutely refreshing to read a memoir that is this hilarious, this honest, and just this much fun.
Winning Associate Entry--Cindy Roesel
"Emily and Einstein" review
By Cindy Roesel
"EMILY & EINSTEIN … A Novel of Second Chances", is Linda Francis Lee’s latest novel about relationships, and once again they’re broken down to their inner cores - the successful sister and the flakey one, the condescending mother-in-law and the slighted husband’s wife. What Lee has done successfully in her previous twenty novels, she accomplishes in EMILY & EINSTEIN and will keep you up all night flipping the pages to the very end. She gets to the heart of the matter with her character’s feelings and emotions and makes us care and think about them long after the novel has come to a conclusion.
Emily and her husband, Sandy Portman are beautiful and rich, they live a fascinating, sophisticated life in New York City’s famous Dakota building on the Upper Westside.
One night on his way to meet Emily, Sandy dies in a tragic accident. The funeral isn’t even over and Emily finds out she’s being evicted from her apartment. But worse, she discovers it’s her husband’s family who is evicting her in her time of grief. On top of that, she discovers her marriage is a mountain of lies. Emily is forced on a journey to find out who her husband really was, what her life really is and all the same time having a sneaking feeling he’s not really gone. Emily finds comfort in a loveable furry mutt she rescues from the pound and names the pup, Einstein. And into her life comes an unexpected gorgeous new neighbor. Can he help her navigate her way through this quagmire and help her find a new future?
Linda Francis Lee weaves a one of a kind love story that includes all the elements of great story-telling that you may recognize from her previous novels such as THE DEVIL in the JUNIOR LEAGUE and THE EX-DEBUTANTE. In her latest novel, EMILY & EINSTEIN, the characters have flawed lives, and they face questions about whether or not they deserve second chances, but in the end it’s all about the redemptive power of love. Lee manages to strike a delicate balance between reality and fantasy to allow you, the reader to fully enjoy the entire delightful experience EMILY & EINSTEIN delivers.
So many people have fallen for Einstein, the cute little white fuzzy terrier on the cover and in the book, since the novel has been released that Linda Francis Lee has written Einstein’s own special story. It turns out, Einstein sure loves the attention and he’s quite the matchmaker, too! Einstein’s story, “The Matchmaker: A Heroes and Heartbreakers.com Original” will be released July 12th on Amazon Kindle. The Pre-order price is $.99. Love is in the air! And once again, his cute little white fuzzy face is on the cover.
One more thing, EMILY & EINSTEIN is a perfect easy-read book for book clubs. You might want to check out Linda Francis Lee’s Facebook Page.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Guidelines for our Facebook Group page
We love your enthusiasm for chick lit and for our group and blog. However, we've noticed an excess of posts from authors and readers to our wall (including a blog post that ended up offending a reader) and we want to keep things simple and fair. We would appreciate if everyone adheres to the following guidelines to make our Facebook group a friendlier place.
Readers:
*If you have your own blog, even if it's book related, please don't post entries from it on our wall.
*We love knowing what you're reading, but please keep it chick-lit themed. If you can't think of a reason why it fits in with this theme, then please post it on a page where it does fit.
*Please do not post other people's pages/blogs/giveaways on our wall. If you want to share a giveaway, e-mail us and we can post it on our giveaways page. If you think something is of importance to share (new book, blog post about chick lit, etc.), e-mail us and if we agree, we'll post it and credit you for the find.
*Please do not solicit authors for interviews/book reviews for your own blog through our Facebook wall. If you are a new book blogger and want to meet authors, we'd be glad to help you in that endeavor. Please e-mail us and we can discuss privately.
*Retail ads = Instant removal and permanent ban from the group!!!
*Only the Facebook group Admins and Sister blogger (Book Mama) can post links (blogs, giveaways, articles, etc.) on pur Facebook group wall. Links posted by anyone else will be removed by an admin.
Authors:
*You're welcome to post a link to your book via Amazon if you're looking to publicize it. Please ONLY post chick lit themed books though. NOT erotica. NOT vampire and paranormal. NOT something that sounds far from chick lit as possible. You get our drift...
*Please do NOT post website, Facebook page or blog links.
*Please do not solicit bloggers for reviews or interviews on our wall. If you're interested in getting more publicity, we'd be glad to connect you with the bloggers we know.
*Please do not post your blog posts or other blog posts featuring you on our wall. If you would like a shout out for your blog (or website), please e-mail it to us instead.
*Please do not post giveaways of your books from your blog, website, Facebook page, or other blogs. If you want to share a giveaway, e-mail us and we can post it on our giveaways page.
*Please do not post other bloggers' reviews of your books. If you'd like us to review your book, please e-mail us as there are five people available to do reviews now (including us).
*If you think something is of importance to share (new book, article, blog post about chick lit, etc.), e-mail us and if we agree, we'll post it and credit you for the find.
* Everyone:
*Please e-mail us if you're ever unsure of something you want to post on our wall.
*If you don't want a lot of e-mail, go to the "edit settings" button and deselect the box where it says that you want to get notified of posts to our wall.
Thank you!
M&M
Readers:
*If you have your own blog, even if it's book related, please don't post entries from it on our wall.
*We love knowing what you're reading, but please keep it chick-lit themed. If you can't think of a reason why it fits in with this theme, then please post it on a page where it does fit.
*Please do not post other people's pages/blogs/giveaways on our wall. If you want to share a giveaway, e-mail us and we can post it on our giveaways page. If you think something is of importance to share (new book, blog post about chick lit, etc.), e-mail us and if we agree, we'll post it and credit you for the find.
*Please do not solicit authors for interviews/book reviews for your own blog through our Facebook wall. If you are a new book blogger and want to meet authors, we'd be glad to help you in that endeavor. Please e-mail us and we can discuss privately.
*Retail ads = Instant removal and permanent ban from the group!!!
*Only the Facebook group Admins and Sister blogger (Book Mama) can post links (blogs, giveaways, articles, etc.) on pur Facebook group wall. Links posted by anyone else will be removed by an admin.
Authors:
*You're welcome to post a link to your book via Amazon if you're looking to publicize it. Please ONLY post chick lit themed books though. NOT erotica. NOT vampire and paranormal. NOT something that sounds far from chick lit as possible. You get our drift...
*Please do NOT post website, Facebook page or blog links.
*Please do not solicit bloggers for reviews or interviews on our wall. If you're interested in getting more publicity, we'd be glad to connect you with the bloggers we know.
*Please do not post your blog posts or other blog posts featuring you on our wall. If you would like a shout out for your blog (or website), please e-mail it to us instead.
*Please do not post giveaways of your books from your blog, website, Facebook page, or other blogs. If you want to share a giveaway, e-mail us and we can post it on our giveaways page.
*Please do not post other bloggers' reviews of your books. If you'd like us to review your book, please e-mail us as there are five people available to do reviews now (including us).
*If you think something is of importance to share (new book, article, blog post about chick lit, etc.), e-mail us and if we agree, we'll post it and credit you for the find.
* Everyone:
*Please e-mail us if you're ever unsure of something you want to post on our wall.
*If you don't want a lot of e-mail, go to the "edit settings" button and deselect the box where it says that you want to get notified of posts to our wall.
Thank you!
M&M
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
The Stuff that Never Happened-Excerpt
Excerpt from "The Stuff that Never Happened" by Maddie Dawson
Chapter One
2005
I started crying at Crisenti’s yesterday, over by the frozen foods. This was not cinematic, attractive weeping either; it was full-frontal, nose-running, eyes-streaming near-blubbering. I had to pull my cart over to the side of the meat case while I searched through the lint in my coat pocket for a tissue.
I could not begin to tell you why this happened now, except to say that it’s February in New Hampshire, which if you ask me might be reason enough to break down. It’s been six months since Nicky went off to college and Sophie got married, and somehow on an ordinary Monday afternoon at the supermarket, it all caught up with me. I’d made it through Christmas all right, and the first anniversary of my mother’s death, and then through the season’s first eighteen snowstorms— and suddenly I was crying about all of it: how life is never going to be the same as it was when the children were home, and how Grant has never forgiven me for stuff that happened twenty-six years ago, and how I have somehow gotten to be almost fifty years old and all I have to show for it is a bunch of picture books.
Picture books! That makes them sound dignified, like art perhaps. But I’m talking board books—the kind with animals dressed up like people. Pigs in dresses! An aardvark who wears plaid scarves! I’ve just finished illustrating a book about a mama squirrel trying to get her babies to go to bed. And you know the weird part, the thing that Grant would never believe? I love this mother squirrel. I love the fact that I painted her wearing a yellow workout suit and that when she was nestled on her little couch reading to her babies, she looked radiantly happy in a very non-rodent way.
Remembering that, I had to put my hand over my mouth so the sobs wouldn’t escape.
“Mrs. McKay?” said the boy behind the meat counter. Not a boy— he’s a man, really. He was one of Sophie’s friends. He had been at our house dozens of times over the years, one of the hordes of young people who were always there playing basketball in the driveway, skating on the pond, eating dinner, even sleeping over. He had the lead in the school play the year Sophie was a sophomore. Brad, that’s his name. Brad Simeon.
And because young people should not have to see the older generation falling apart and guess what’s in store for themselves, I straightened myself up out of the collapsed-crazy-lady position.
He smiled, wanted to know if I was okay. Perhaps the pork chops weren’t to my satisfaction?
I looked down at the package of two thin, gray pork chops I was holding in my hand and actually laughed. Do they see a lot of that in grocery stores—people breaking down in tears of disappointment over the meat products? I said they were just fine, perfectly wonderful, and then he asked how Sophie was getting along, and regaining my footing, I launched automatically into my proud motherly spiel: Oh, she’s just fine! Married, yes, and living in New York, and pregnant now, actually. Did he know? Yes, I’m going to be a grandmother. Why, thank you—no, I don’t feel old enough to be a grandmother, but in our family, we reproduce young, ha-ha.
And Nicky?
Mother spiel number two: Oh, so happy at the university! Doing winter hiking just now, and yes, still playing hockey—can barely get that boy to open a book, he’s so busy with the other things (I don’t say we suspect girls, drinking, and drugs) but he’ll learn. Just hope he doesn’t get kicked out before he figures out he’s there to get an education! I gave a good imitation of my whattaya-gonna-do laugh. Just then, thank goodness, Brad’s boss called him back to the ground beef machine, and he shrugged and smiled and slipped back into that little brightly lit, glassed-in room they have for the meat guys. “Tell Professor McKay hello,” he said as he left, but by then he was turned the other way, so when my eyes filled up with tears again, he didn’t have to see.
Excerpted from "The Stuff That Never Happened" by Maddie Dawson.
Copyright © 2010 by Maddie Dawson.
Excerpted by permission of Broadway, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Chapter One
2005
I started crying at Crisenti’s yesterday, over by the frozen foods. This was not cinematic, attractive weeping either; it was full-frontal, nose-running, eyes-streaming near-blubbering. I had to pull my cart over to the side of the meat case while I searched through the lint in my coat pocket for a tissue.
I could not begin to tell you why this happened now, except to say that it’s February in New Hampshire, which if you ask me might be reason enough to break down. It’s been six months since Nicky went off to college and Sophie got married, and somehow on an ordinary Monday afternoon at the supermarket, it all caught up with me. I’d made it through Christmas all right, and the first anniversary of my mother’s death, and then through the season’s first eighteen snowstorms— and suddenly I was crying about all of it: how life is never going to be the same as it was when the children were home, and how Grant has never forgiven me for stuff that happened twenty-six years ago, and how I have somehow gotten to be almost fifty years old and all I have to show for it is a bunch of picture books.
Picture books! That makes them sound dignified, like art perhaps. But I’m talking board books—the kind with animals dressed up like people. Pigs in dresses! An aardvark who wears plaid scarves! I’ve just finished illustrating a book about a mama squirrel trying to get her babies to go to bed. And you know the weird part, the thing that Grant would never believe? I love this mother squirrel. I love the fact that I painted her wearing a yellow workout suit and that when she was nestled on her little couch reading to her babies, she looked radiantly happy in a very non-rodent way.
Remembering that, I had to put my hand over my mouth so the sobs wouldn’t escape.
“Mrs. McKay?” said the boy behind the meat counter. Not a boy— he’s a man, really. He was one of Sophie’s friends. He had been at our house dozens of times over the years, one of the hordes of young people who were always there playing basketball in the driveway, skating on the pond, eating dinner, even sleeping over. He had the lead in the school play the year Sophie was a sophomore. Brad, that’s his name. Brad Simeon.
And because young people should not have to see the older generation falling apart and guess what’s in store for themselves, I straightened myself up out of the collapsed-crazy-lady position.
He smiled, wanted to know if I was okay. Perhaps the pork chops weren’t to my satisfaction?
I looked down at the package of two thin, gray pork chops I was holding in my hand and actually laughed. Do they see a lot of that in grocery stores—people breaking down in tears of disappointment over the meat products? I said they were just fine, perfectly wonderful, and then he asked how Sophie was getting along, and regaining my footing, I launched automatically into my proud motherly spiel: Oh, she’s just fine! Married, yes, and living in New York, and pregnant now, actually. Did he know? Yes, I’m going to be a grandmother. Why, thank you—no, I don’t feel old enough to be a grandmother, but in our family, we reproduce young, ha-ha.
And Nicky?
Mother spiel number two: Oh, so happy at the university! Doing winter hiking just now, and yes, still playing hockey—can barely get that boy to open a book, he’s so busy with the other things (I don’t say we suspect girls, drinking, and drugs) but he’ll learn. Just hope he doesn’t get kicked out before he figures out he’s there to get an education! I gave a good imitation of my whattaya-gonna-do laugh. Just then, thank goodness, Brad’s boss called him back to the ground beef machine, and he shrugged and smiled and slipped back into that little brightly lit, glassed-in room they have for the meat guys. “Tell Professor McKay hello,” he said as he left, but by then he was turned the other way, so when my eyes filled up with tears again, he didn’t have to see.
Excerpted from "The Stuff That Never Happened" by Maddie Dawson.
Copyright © 2010 by Maddie Dawson.
Excerpted by permission of Broadway, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Twang-Excerpt
Excerpt from "Twang" by John Schlimm
Country Music Superstar Salome Field’s Annual 4th of July Party
The low buzz of the distant party crowd was suddenly interrupted by girlish giggles as Salome neared the barn. Immediately, she knew the situation. This wasn’t the first time she had heard such giggles coming from where Derk might be.
Not missing a beat, Salome slid quietly through the opening in the front barn doors, being careful not to make a sound. She was planning a surprise attack.
She picked up an old rusty pitchfork Earl had been using that morning to clean out stalls. The giggles grew louder as Salome neared the back of the barn. They were emanating from the last stall, which wasn’t currently occupied by a horse. The other stalls all had horses in them.
The sound of Derk’s low voice was now mixed with the giggles, but Salome couldn’t exactly make out what he was saying.
She slipped into Field Dreamer’s stall, which was right next to the last one. A peek through the boards confirmed what she already knew, but now a face was put on the situation. There Derk was butt-ass naked on top of Luella Barton, the twenty-two year old daughter of the town’s grocery store owner. Luella was also completely naked and couldn’t seem to control those damn giggles. The pair’s clothes were strewn off to the side.
“Ain’t this dangerous?” Luella asked. “What if she finds us?” Giggle, giggle.
“Honey, I told you already, Salome’s knee deep in worshippers right now,” Derk reassured the young girl in his soothing drawl. “This is the last place she’s gonna come today.”
More giggles followed as Salome now swiftly rounded the corner having armed herself.
“And you’re knee deep in shit, honey!” Salome exclaimed, tossing a well-heaped pitchfork full of hay and manure (compliments of Field Dreamer) on the two surprised lovers. She then swiftly gave Derk a quick sharp poke in the ass with the pointed edges.
Derk immediately scrambled out and off of Luella.
“Uh, uh, Salome, honey…” Derk spattered out, almost choking now on his Southern drawl and the stench covering him.
“Oh my God, this stinks. I think I’m gonna puke!” Luella gagged at the horseshit splattered on her face as she searched for her sundress.
“What part of ‘If you ever do this again I’ll shoot off your dick and feed it to the chickens’ didn’t you understand the first time?” Salome blared, the pitchfork aimed in the pair’s direction.
“I, I didn’t think you’d come in here and…” Derk wasn’t very good at explanations or excuses.
“Miss Field, I’m sorry, I…” Luella tried to apologize her way out of the situation.
“Oh, shut up and get dressed and get yourself back up to my party,” Salome barked. How could she hold this stupid girl responsible? She knew how persuasive Derk could be.
“And you,” Salome said, turning her pitchfork directly towards Derk’s shriveling family jewels. “You get your sorry ass down to the house, and take a shower.”
Salome could tell by the fear in Derk’s eyes that he could imagine her parading around the party with his manhood on the tip of her pitchfork.
“Did you hear me?” Salome snapped.
“Yes,” he choked out.
“I expect you up at my party in ten minutes for my speech.” Salome always gave her speech right before the fireworks.
And this year it was going to be the most special speech and display ever. Rather than a full-length program of fireworks, Salome had sunk all her money into one, intricately designed firework no one was ever likely to forget. She was especially anxious to impress Hope, Thad, Sapphire, and Billie with it.
“Yes, ma’am,” Derk muttered, accidentally forcing his pants on backwards and gathering up his other clothes, which were now a big blob of cloth, hay, and manure.
Country Music Superstar Salome Field’s Annual 4th of July Party
The low buzz of the distant party crowd was suddenly interrupted by girlish giggles as Salome neared the barn. Immediately, she knew the situation. This wasn’t the first time she had heard such giggles coming from where Derk might be.
Not missing a beat, Salome slid quietly through the opening in the front barn doors, being careful not to make a sound. She was planning a surprise attack.
She picked up an old rusty pitchfork Earl had been using that morning to clean out stalls. The giggles grew louder as Salome neared the back of the barn. They were emanating from the last stall, which wasn’t currently occupied by a horse. The other stalls all had horses in them.
The sound of Derk’s low voice was now mixed with the giggles, but Salome couldn’t exactly make out what he was saying.
She slipped into Field Dreamer’s stall, which was right next to the last one. A peek through the boards confirmed what she already knew, but now a face was put on the situation. There Derk was butt-ass naked on top of Luella Barton, the twenty-two year old daughter of the town’s grocery store owner. Luella was also completely naked and couldn’t seem to control those damn giggles. The pair’s clothes were strewn off to the side.
“Ain’t this dangerous?” Luella asked. “What if she finds us?” Giggle, giggle.
“Honey, I told you already, Salome’s knee deep in worshippers right now,” Derk reassured the young girl in his soothing drawl. “This is the last place she’s gonna come today.”
More giggles followed as Salome now swiftly rounded the corner having armed herself.
“And you’re knee deep in shit, honey!” Salome exclaimed, tossing a well-heaped pitchfork full of hay and manure (compliments of Field Dreamer) on the two surprised lovers. She then swiftly gave Derk a quick sharp poke in the ass with the pointed edges.
Derk immediately scrambled out and off of Luella.
“Uh, uh, Salome, honey…” Derk spattered out, almost choking now on his Southern drawl and the stench covering him.
“Oh my God, this stinks. I think I’m gonna puke!” Luella gagged at the horseshit splattered on her face as she searched for her sundress.
“What part of ‘If you ever do this again I’ll shoot off your dick and feed it to the chickens’ didn’t you understand the first time?” Salome blared, the pitchfork aimed in the pair’s direction.
“I, I didn’t think you’d come in here and…” Derk wasn’t very good at explanations or excuses.
“Miss Field, I’m sorry, I…” Luella tried to apologize her way out of the situation.
“Oh, shut up and get dressed and get yourself back up to my party,” Salome barked. How could she hold this stupid girl responsible? She knew how persuasive Derk could be.
“And you,” Salome said, turning her pitchfork directly towards Derk’s shriveling family jewels. “You get your sorry ass down to the house, and take a shower.”
Salome could tell by the fear in Derk’s eyes that he could imagine her parading around the party with his manhood on the tip of her pitchfork.
“Did you hear me?” Salome snapped.
“Yes,” he choked out.
“I expect you up at my party in ten minutes for my speech.” Salome always gave her speech right before the fireworks.
And this year it was going to be the most special speech and display ever. Rather than a full-length program of fireworks, Salome had sunk all her money into one, intricately designed firework no one was ever likely to forget. She was especially anxious to impress Hope, Thad, Sapphire, and Billie with it.
“Yes, ma’am,” Derk muttered, accidentally forcing his pants on backwards and gathering up his other clothes, which were now a big blob of cloth, hay, and manure.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Beneath a Starlet Sky-Excerpt
Read on for a tantalizing taste of
BENEATH A STARLET SKY
Amanda Goldberg & Ruthanna Khalighi Hopper
Inside the Palais, I lean back in my plush red velvet seat. I’m nervous for my brother as his premiere is about to begin.
“Stop fidgeting,” Julian says softly. “You’re going to destroy the sequins.”
“Sorry,” I whisper trying to smooth out the couple of them I inadvertently gnarled on my cobalt blue, one- shoulder minidress Julian made especially for to night.
“OMG, Lo, is that Rob Pattinson?” Julian asks, gesturing with his eyes toward the row in front of us. “He’s even more gorgeous in person,”Julian says breathlessly. “Is he or is he not a god among men? Maybe we should pray to him to let everything work out with our fashion show. C’mon, Lo, pray with me.” He closes his eyes and folds his hands in prayer, “Please, dear Rob, let us—”
“Stop it, Julian, breathe!” I say, trying to prevent Julian from having a full- on twelve- year- old- girl freak- out.
“Sorry.” Julian takes my hand in his. “The movie’s going to be great,”he says in a hushed voice.
“Thanks,” I say, squeezing his hand, wishing it were Lev’s. But Luke Levin, MD, my live- in love of the last nine months, is back in LA. Lev, whose first love is the ER and whose knowledge of pop culture ended the day he started his residency at Cedars- Sinai three years ago. (He thinks the HD in HD- TV stands for “high dose,” and the last movie he saw was Crash because he thought it would have an interesting take on trauma center stabilization techniques. I mean, how adorable is that?)
Exactly one year, two months, and twelve days ago (but who’s counting?) I fell headfirst off a gurney (and out of my Louboutin stilettos) and in love with the good doctor who saved me from more than a broken ankle on Oscar Night. He not only fixed my busted foot, but cured me of an undiagnosed case of Actorholism, my near- fatal addiction to dating the world’s most narcissistic men. He got me straight on an IV drip of anti- actor (IV in my case stands for inter- vention), and straight onto him. Not that kind of straight onto him. Well yes, that kind, too, but that came later.
That’s right. I, Lola Santisi— the CEO of a struggling fashion line, former Hollywood ambassador, and daughter of Hollywood Royalty without a kingdom— or even a condo— to call my own— scored a real, live Doctor in Shining Armor with a kingdom to call our own. Okay, maybe not a kingdom, but a really nice house in—Sherman Oaks— which makes it absolutely perfect because it’s on the other side of the hill from Hollywood.
I clutch Julian’s hand, thankful to have any hand to hold right now. Finally the theater goes dark and Forgetting Petunia Holt appears in simple Courier font against a black screen.
An hour and forty- five minutes later, as the movie ends and the lights go up, I spot Kate, standing in the back of the theater alone. She must have snuck in when the lights went down. When we lock eyes she’s already bolting for the door.
“Oh my god, she came,” Julian says, following my eye line.
“I’ve got to go,” I say, scurrying through my row. “Kate,” I yell once we’re outside. “Kate!” I catch up with her and lay a hand on her shoulder.
“What?” she says, finally turning to face me, her red lips pursed. If looking good really is the best revenge, then my best friend is getting hers. She’s wearing one of the prettiest, sexiest black silk slip- dresses I’ve ever seen. It’s spliced with tulle to create these supersexy peekaboo pan-elsflaring out from her taut midriff and down her perfect legs. Her chocolate hair is in a soft wave and her dewy skin is positively radiant.
“I’m not sure what to say.” I look down at the red carpet underneath us, not sure whether I just said that out loud or I’m just thinking it. “Relax. I’m here to sign the actress who plays Petunia Holt— Gigi Summer. She’s going to be huge. Bryan told me to bring back a signed contract or not bother coming back.” Kate is a rising star at Bryan Lourd’sCreative Artists Agency. But we both know that’s not why Kate’s really here to night. Her voice is detached, unemotional, all business, her feelings swept right under that red carpet she’s standing on. She shifts on her needle- heeled stilettos. I grab her arm to steady her, startled by this rare moment of imbalance from my best friend, who’s trying so hard to mask the heartache she must be feeling.
I know that nothing I say will make it better for Kate so I don’t say anything at all. Instead I wrap her in a hug. She doesn’t even try and push me away. She actually hugs me back. Hard.
“I love you,” I whisper in her ear.
“Thank you,” she says, not letting go of our embrace.
Suddenly the theater starts to unload and I spot Christopher through the throng. I look over at my brother and then over to Kate. Chris. Kate. Chris. Kate. God I hate this. Why did I ever think a romance between my best friend and brother would ever work? I want to go and congratulate my brother, but it feels like such a betrayal to my best friend.
“Go. Tell him what an amazing movie it is,” Kate says, as if she’s somehow read my mind. But just as I’m about to head toward him, he’s suddenly standing right in front of us.
“Chris,” I shout, throwing my arms around him. “It was incredible.
I’m so proud of you.” I look back at Kate and mumble an added, “Sorry.”
“It’s going to be a huge success,” Kate says.
“Kate, it’s really . . . can we talk for a min—” but just as Christopher’s trying to finish his sentence, Gigi Summer, his leading lady, sidles up next to him in a glittery strapless short dress with a nipped- in waist and a balloon skirt showing off her long legs. She gives him a kiss on the cheek. Was that a kiss- kiss? Or just a friend kiss?“Gigi, hi!” Chris says after a beat. “Have you met my sister, Lola?”
I’m about to return the greeting when Kate immediately thrusts her hand out to Gigi. “Congratulations. You were really great.”
“Thank you, I owe it all to my director,” she says, giggling in Christopher’s direction. “I’m Gigi.” She reaches out to shake Kate’s hand.
“Kate,” she says. “Woods.”
“Oh . . . wow . . . you’re Kate,” Gigi says. Maybe she’s not that good an actress after all because she’s unable to stop the surprise from showing on her face. After a few silent, tense beats, she says, “Wow, this iskind of awkward.”
“Not for me,” Kate says, seeming to relish in Gigi’s discomfort. “I hear you’re at Gersh. I suspect you’ll be looking for new represen ta tion soon. Here’s my card. CAA sees you in some huge projects. I’d love the chance to talk with you more about it.” She fishes one of her business cards out of her black cut-crystal clutch and hands it to Gigi.
“Thanks,” Gigi says, overwhelmed. “It was nice to meet you. I’ll . . . I’ll definitely give you a call. And nice to meet you too, Lola.” To her credit, Gigi looks as puzzled as she is excited. “Well . . . I’m going to go and mingle. Are you coming, Chris?” she asks.
“In a minute,” he says. He reaches out and gives Gigi’s hand a lingering squeeze as she melts into the crowd.
“Kate, I really hope we can talk at some point, I want to explain,”Christopher says.
“Go enjoy your moment in the sun, Chris. You should be talking to all the journalists, not me. You need to capitalize on this,” Kate says, safely back in agent mode, which is far less painful than ex- girlfriend mode.
“I hope you’re coming to the after- party,” he says.
“I’ll try,” Kate says, but we both know she won’t.
As Christopher disappears into the crowd, I turn to Kate.
“Are you okay?” I ask as her cell phone starts ringing.
“Saved by the bell,” she says. She reads the caller ID. “Okay, Lola, here’s the other disaster I’m dealing with. Hello,” she says, clicking on the speaker.
“The eagle has landed in Cannes. Let all prepare to rejoice and let Kate be down waiting for me in the lobby of the Hôtel Du Cap in ten minutes,” Nic Knight’s voice booms. The only thing worse than thinking it was a good idea for my brother to date my best friend is thinking it was a good idea for Kate to put one of her most loose- cannon clients, NicKnight, in my father’s own bid for the Palme d’Or, San Quentin Cartel. Nic makes Sean Penn, Mickey Rourke, and Robert Downey Jr. 1.0 look like paragons of sobriety and self- control.
“I’ll be there soon, Nic,” she says, before hanging up. “Do you believe this shit?”
“What’s with the fake accent? He sounds like Ricardo Montalban,” I say.
“More bullshit. He says he’s gonna stay in character until after the premiere. I’ve never met a more pretentious, full- of- himself actor in my life, and I’ve met a lot of ’em. But I’m just glad he actually made it here. He let his passport expire, and you have no idea the strings I had to pull to get him a new one in twenty- four hours. Not to mention Nic violated parole again by causing a public disturbance when he went commando into the hot mugwort tea pool of the all-women’s spa in Koreatown and missed another mandatory drug test. I had to bribe his parole officer with premier tickets and a free trip to Cannes just so he can personally make sure Nic stays out of trouble.”
“I was going to offer you a trade but now I’m not so sure,” I say. I’ve been having major headaches with a certain supermodel who seems hell- bent on finalizing her fittings for a jail cell instead of for Julian’s runway show, which is only four days away.
“I gotta go, I’ll call you later,” Kate says.
“Good luck with Nic,” I say before Kate walks away down the Palaissteps.
I head off to find Julian when my own cell starts chirping.
“Hello?” I ask.
“I just left Grace Frost’s office,” Coz, the Se niorBitchitor at Vain magazine says over the phone line. “I simply cannot imagine why you’ve been calling her. I’m returning the call on her behalf.”
I feel my stomach plummet to the floor along with our chances of being in Vain, the hottest fashion magazine around. I wouldn’t have even dreamed of calling the editor in chief herself, except that Coz left me no choice. I had to call Grace Frost. Julian’s new bridal collection deserves to be on the cover of Vain. And without it, I’m not even sure if there will be a JT Inc. any longer.
“I, um, well, I can explain,” I stumble and imagine Coz on the other end of the phone, basking in this moment from behind her big black sunglasses.
“As much as I’d derive immense plea sure from listening to you grovel for the next few hours, I’m actually really busy so I’m going to cut to the chase,” Coz says. “I called my friends at Vogue, Elle, Bazaar, and Marie Claire and I know that there are no other offers for a Julian Tennant cover. Did you imagine for one second that I wouldn’t check?”
“I—” I shouldn’t have lied to Grace Frost’s assistant. But can you blame me? I’m desperate and I’m not Criss Angel or God or Stacy London, so what else could I do? It’s taken me my entire twenty- seven years to find a career that I love and I’m actually good at, so I’m going to do whatever it takes to get the world’s most talented designer that I can’t seem to make famous no matter how hard I try on the cover of Vain.
“I’m still speaking. I’ll let you know when it’s your turn,” Coz says. God I hate her. “We’re going to give you the cover and a twelve- page layout inside to coincide with the release of Four Weddings and a Brisin August.”
“You’re what?!” I ask, flabbergasted. Julian beat out John Galliano, Vivienne Westwood, Marchesa, and Jason Wu to be one of the four designers to create wedding dresses for BazLuhrmann’s latest musical extravaganza, also set to premiere at Cannes. It stars Hollywood’s hottest supernova, Saffron Sykes, the Best Actress Oscar winner who has Spielberg, the Coen brothers, and Clint Eastwood all fighting to work with her— and pay her twenty mil— all at the ripe old age of twenty- five. Could it possibly be that Coz is our miracle worker after all? “Is this a joke?”“Does it sound like I’m joking?” Coz says icily. Other than sounding as if she’s got a pair of her Dior studded platform skyscrapers shoved up her fl at bum, I can’t tell if she’s serious or not. Could she be serious? “Are you listening?” she demands.
“I’m here,” I say, still in shock.
“Just so we’re clear, I’m not doing this for you or Julian,” she says, as if she’s ever done anything for me— or Julian. Except waterboard our careers. “I’m doing it for Chili.”
“Chili?” I repeat. That’s Charles “Chili” Lu, fashion’s rising wunderkind,who Coz thinks is the second coming. And did I mention the kid is only sixteen? Yes, sixteen. He’s accomplished more in his sixteen years than I have in all of my twenty- seven. Chili was the first winner of Cutthroat Couture, the reality TV show brainchild of Vain’s very own Coz, its most tart- tongued judge. He also created wedding gowns for Baz’s film.
Except Baz and Saffron weren’t clamoring for gowns with iPod portals and solar panels after all. So Baz replaced Chili with Julian and Coz forced us to hire the Christian Siriano wannabe as Julian’s assistant after convincing Baz that it would be bad PR for his movie to draw attention to firing a designer on a film where the costuming is everything. Chili’s transition over to our team would make all appear to be smooth sailing. “Grace agreed that it was a complete travesty that Chili’s divine wedding gowns ended up on Baz’s cutting room floor, so she thought it was a wonderful idea to let his gowns see the light of day in Vain.”I know that Coz is speaking but I can’t compute what’s she’s actually saying.
“What about Julian?” I’m finally able to get out.
“Saffron and Cricket will do the cover together. Saffron will wear Chili and Cricket can wear Julian,” Coz says. My Best Actress Forever (BAF), Cricket Curtis, landed the part of Saffron’s wisecracking sidekick in Four Weddings and a Bris. “I’ve already booked Patrick Demarchelier, Gucci Westman, and Orlando Pita and called the Du Cap and arranged to shoot in their gardens. Chili and I are flying out tomorrow. Jusqu’àdemain. Bisous.Bisous,” she says, and then just as abruptly hangs up.
I try and recover from the Coz tsunami that just hit me. So what if Julian has to share the cover with little Chili Lu? At least Julian is going to be on the cover of Vain. This could catapult Julian into becoming the next Vera Wang. He could rule the Hollywood brides. Everything I’ve killed myself for as CEO of Julian Tennant Inc.
Oh god. Oh no. I still haven’t actually asked Cricket or Saffron if they’d be willing to pose for the cover. What if they say no?
My head is spinning. I feel faint. I speed- dial Cricket. It goes straight to voice mail. I leave her a very long rambling, bumbling, begging message. I contemplate hurling myself down the Palaissteps, the most prestigious red carpet in the world but decide against it. I’m fairly certain that the throng ofinternational paparazzi and fans camped out at the bottom of the steps would only break my fall. Not to mention the last thing I want is another video of me all over TMZ.
I drop to my knees on the red carpet and clasp my hands together.
Please Rob Pattinson, please Rob Pattinson, let Cricket and Saffron agree to pose together for the cover of Vain. Please.
“What are you doing?” Julian asks. “This is the red carpet, not a mosque.”
I look up at Julian. “I can explain.”
Excerpted from BENEATH A STARLET SKY.
Copyright @ 2011 by Twinheads LLC. All rights reserved.
For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 5th Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010
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