“Fancy.”
“Awkward. He accesses my email. My appointments. My clients.” Emily made a face. “I didn’t realize that… but that means thateverythingin my inbox is accessible.”
Toni thought back to their very open conversations. “Ouch.”
“Yeah.” Emily scowled. “And his cologne is disgusting.”
Toni smothered a laugh.
“But I don’t want to fire him because he smells like a Vegas nightclub,” Emily complained. “This is a tough industry, and I don’t want to ruin anyone’s chances because of a personality clash.”
“So talk to the head of the agency and tell them you want to pick your own assistant,” Toni suggested. “Seems weird that they would just assign you one.”
“My slush pile is immense. Literal hundreds of queries. Mycalendar is awful, too. And my email… I can’t keep up,” Emily grumbled.
Toni suggested, “So have Vegas just do slush.”
She’d heard about the mixed barrel that was slush. There was gold in there, but finding it took a lot of sifting. Off-loading that would be an asset. Letting someone into your email and schedule? That was different. It required a level of trust. In some ways it was like having a TA helping. The grading assist was great, or maybe it wasn’t if they graded harsher or softer than you wanted to grade. At the end of it all, though, it was the professor’s—or agent’s—name on the line. Full access was too much.
By the time they arrived at the studio lot, they were both more relaxed, and Toni reminded herself that while writing might not be her forever career, working within this industrywasEmily’s forever career. The connections they made, the successes Toni’s book had, were things that Emily would carry with her—and some things were possible sooner because Emily had read and lovedThe Whitechapel Widow.
“I’m calling Book TwoThe Widow’s Curse,” Toni blurted out as the driver parked.
“I like that.” Emily met her gaze. “How late do you expect to be delivering it?”
Toni gaped at her as the driver opened Emily’s door. “How… I didn’t say anything!”
Emily laughed out loud. “Sweetie, I’ve known you since I was wearing braces and acne cream. You dodge the topic every time I mention the sequel, so I already asked Greta for an extra three months.”
Then Emily was gliding out of the car, and Toni was left speechlessly following her. By the time they were met by the producer’s assistant—who led them to a room with sparkling water, coffee, tea, and a fruit plate—Toni elbowed Emily. “You know, I couldn’t do this without you.”
“Oh, I know. Idefinitelyknow.” Emily grabbed a bottle of sparkling water, watching the producer’s assistant hurry off to collect thewoman who had taken Toni’s words and decided they ought to be a television program.
“Be nice,” Emily stressed. She dropped her voice to a whisper and added, “There’s a not insignificant chance you’ll meet more than the producer. If you can’t say something flattering at any point, look at me, and I’ll answer. Okay?”
Toni nodded.
“They’re going to bring up Cape Dove again. They’re quite fond of a period setting for some PR shots.…”
“Em.” Toni glared. “We’ve discussed this. I’m not wearing a dress for anyone. They can take their option check back and—”
“Trust me,” Em said sternly.
Then the producer was in the room, arms out like she was presenting something. “I’m thrilled to meet with you, Toni. I’m very excited about our show.”
And Toni put on her best smile and stood to greet Marcela Gibson, the woman who had turned her book into a show that was going to stream over nine episodes so far.
Chapter 12Addie
Addie’s keys were still in the door when it jerked open, pulling her entire keychain out of her hand.
“Where were you?” Eric was hopping, literallyhopping.In anyone else it would seem like an affectation, but Eric was the bounciest person she knew.
“Audition.” Addie stepped forward into their new apartment in Burbank. They’d been there four months, not quite long enough to stop missing Scotland but long enough to appreciate the distinctly different weather. Addie had even cut off her hip-long hair. Now, it fell to midback, long enough to resist the frizzy curls that humidity would bring but short enough not to get caught in bus seats or strangers’ grubby hands.
Eric grabbed her arm and tugged her forward. “June called, like, six times while you were out. Change. Now. Call June.”
“June called you?” Addie dropped her things on the half counter that the rental agency had generously called a “kitchen bar.”
