Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
“And, um, one more thing.” Blanche’s pale cheeks pinken. “I was wondering if you had any tips on great, um, battery-operated friends?”
I didn’t know what would happen when I came in today, but my boss asking me for a vibrator recommendation definitely wasn’t in the running.
But I did say I’d do anything, so perhaps this is the start of my penance. “Just for Her has some excellent toys,” I say warmly.
Blanche fidgets with that naughty hair strand again, then shifts her gaze around the room. “Anything for women who have a hard time . . . ahem . . . finishing?”
That makes me sad. I hate to hear when a lady can’t get her O on. “Try Just for Her’s The Wave. It’s powered by sonic waves and it’s life-changing,” I say, happy to help.
She blinks. “Oh. I had no idea.”
“Worth every penny.”
“Thanks,” she says, still flustered, but she lets go of that strand of hair at last. “And good luck. I’ll write you a letter of recommendation and we won’t mention this, um, incident.”
“Thanks and good luck with . . .” With your masturbation pursuits?
I keep those parting words to myself as I rush to my former office, scoop up my framed pictures and signed books, and drop them into a canvas bag. I take off for the elevators at escape-from-a-lava-pit speed, stabbing the down button like I’m rushing into the ER on a hospital drama.
Once the doors open, I dart inside, and look up Bellamy’s contact info. Finger hovering, I’m poised, ready to call the second the elevator frees me at the lobby.
When I reach the ground floor, I hit dial.
“Answer, please answer,” I beg as I head to the exit while the phone rings and rings and rings.
On the fifth ring, she picks up. “Hey, Veronica. I’m heading to a meeting, but I saw you were calling. Your column is amazeballs,” she says, and that is awesome news.
Except . . . not.
“I’m glad you like it,” I say, as the revolving doors spit me out onto the busy avenue. “Though, I would love to send you a new one this afternoon on a new topic. I can explain why later, but you’ll have a fresh, fantastic column for tonight.”
Please say yes.
“Oh,” she says, and I hear the let-down in her voice. “I would love to help. But it was so damn good, I made it go live early. It’s your best column ever and it’s already heating up. The Internet loves it.”
All hope withers, right along with my fighting chance.
Wallowing sounds like the perfect prescription. Give me a glass of cheap Chardonnay, a couple of buckets of salted caramel anything, and the next season of Lords and Ladies, and I will gladly hunker down for the night.
But Ellie and Hazel won’t let me. My sister calls an emergency meeting through our group chat and arrives that evening with a chanterelle and kale pizza, while Ellie brings her homemade seven-layer bar brownies. I’ve already started on the wine. Because . . . priorities.
“Hi, and welcome to my funeral,” I say as I open the door. The wine sloshes in the glass as I sweep my arm to invite them into my pity party, but it doesn’t spill. “Who wants first stab at the eulogy?”
Hazel wags a chiding finger in my face. “Nope, we have plans.”
“And they all involve life after publishing,” Ellie puts in, as StudMuffin whines a happy hello in greeting. He loves his ladies.
With my free hand, I snag the pizza box and carry it to the table. “I’d rather have pizza,” I say, then fold a slice and chew, letting the drugs of carbs and cheese numb the pain of the day.
It’s too hard for me to imagine life after publishing. As a kid, I devoured books like I’m devouring this pizza. All I’ve ever wanted to do was edit children’s books like the ones I stayed up reading past my bedtime. Now my dreams are roadkill, so I stuff more pizza into my mouth.
Hazel grabs a chair and reaches into her cavernous purse. Fishing out a notebook, she slaps it down on the table.
Ellie takes a seat too and drops a handful of purple, pink, and green gel pens on the table.
Plink, plink, plink.
I moan in misery. I love notebooks and colorful pens, especially for the start of my editorial letters. “Did you come to torture me about my anti-future in publishing?”
Hazel shakes her head, adamant. “You do have a future in publishing. Because what does publishing love most of all?”
“Thrillers with bad sex scenes written by men who get paid more than women?”
“Well, yes. But also a redemption story,” Hazel says as my dog curls up at her feet.
Ellie waves imaginary pom-poms. “And that’ll be you in a few months. Everything dies down eventually,” she says. “No scandal lasts forever. Isn’t that what the last season of Lords and Ladies taught us? Even after Frederick was jilted on his wedding day, and no one would go near him, he still found a happy ending.”