“Just hanging with Brontë. Might crack open a can of chili.”
“That is the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.”
“And it’s a lie. I only have cans of tuna and dog food.”
She made a sound like she was vomiting.
“Think Brontë can manage without you for a few hours?” she asked when she was done heaving. “I’ve had an interesting call and want to discuss it with you.”
“That’s it?” I asked, laughing. “That’s all you’re gonna give me?”
“You know I like to be mysterious.”
“I do. Fine. Yeah, I’m free,” I said. “Where and what time?”
“Nobu? Seven o-clock?”
“I’ll be there.”
I was, in fact, three minutes early. Francesca though, was known for arriving at least fifteen minutes early for anything, so I found her at a table by the window, doing something on her phone while sipping a cocktail, a plate of edamame in front of her.
“Hey!” she said, her face brightening as I approached the table. She set her phone down and looked guiltily at her drink and food. “Sorry. Was in meetings all day and missed lunch. Couldn’t wait.”
“You always miss lunch,” I said, kissing her cheek before taking a seat and stealing a piece of her appetizer. “And I don’t mind.”
“How’s the book coming along?”
“Nearly done.”
“And?”
I grinned. “I’m loving it.”
“That means it’s going to be a bestseller.”
“You always say that.”
“Have I ever been wrong?” She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow and I laughed.
There was something about Francesca that had intrigued me from our first meeting at a writer’s conference over a decade ago. She had an air of mystery about her. A hint of the diabolical. And a fashion style not many could pull off. Case in point, she was wearing a bright red blouse with the largest collar I’d ever seen, but on her it somehow looked natural. Maybe it was because the rest of her was dramatic as well, from her raven black hair pulled back into a high ponytail, wide blue eyes behind cat-eye, purple-framed glasses, and full lips that were always painted so dark I often wondered if she was actually a vampire.
“So?” I said, smiling and resting my elbows on the table. “What was this interesting call you had?”
“Hang on,” she said and signaled to the waiter. “What are you having?” She pointed to her cocktail.
“I’ll have the amber ale,” I told the waiter, who nodded and hurried away. I turned back to Fran who was now grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “Uh oh.”
“No uh-oh,” she said. “This is… unprecedented.” She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “Except, maybe not.”
I leaned back in my seat and crossed my arms over my chest, peering at her… waiting.
“What do you think about doing a photo shoot for Vogue,” she said.
The noise in the restaurant turned into white noise as I processed what I thought I’d just heard her say.
“I’m sorry?”
“Risa Collins, the creative director at Vogue, called me and asked what you might say to being part of a campaign.”
