My eyes cross just thinking about it. I know Lindsay’s pushing because she’s got skin in the game too—exactly 15 percent of whatever I bring in belongs to her as my agent. And an extra $250,000 for me means an extra $37,500 for her. I also have it on good authority (via Lindsay’s chatty assistant, Evan—who, in my opinion, is the best thing about her) that she’s been going through some sort of midlife crisis recently. Lindsay’s tight-lipped about her personal life, but in this case, her tone says it all: she’s hungry for a big payday.
But two weeks?
“Do you think you can hold them off for an extra week?” Because, if we’re being totally honest, this new manuscript hasn’t exactly been, um, flowing. Of course, I haven’t told Lindsay that.
“I can try, but you know the biz. Fickle as hell. I don’t want them to change their minds.”
“I hear ya.”
“Can I say yes, then?” Lindsay asks.
I inhale and shut my eyes. That’s the other thing. These are shark-infested waters I’m swimming in. Except I’m not a shark. I’m more like a guppy. And the whole reason Isignedwith Lindsay was because I thought I needed someone shark-y to represent me. Well, that and the fact that she was the only agent who offered. But now, it looks like we’re here. This isn’t chump change. This is a major deal! They’d definitely give me a publicist, put me on tour, hell, maybe we could even sell a film option. Only a crazy person would say no to this. “Okay,” I say. “Go for it.”
“Amazing! I’ll call you back later with more details! You go write something brilliant, Karlie London.”
We hang up, and I’m unsettled. I mean, maybe if I had some decent pages already in the works, I could bang out the rest. But, seeing as how the pages I’ve got would be best suited for lining a birdcage or picking up dog shit on the side of the road, I can’t get myself hyped the way I should be. Also, I love writing, but I don’t know if I want Karlie London to become, like, a household name.
Oh, yeah. I should explain.Karlie Londonis my pseudonym. I mean, after being called “Elvis” for all of high school, y’know. Screw me once, shame on you, and such. Karlie London is sophisticated. Karlie London is a woman for the ages. Karlie London would never shart in public.
Of course, she bears my face, hence my concern.
$750,000.Damn.That’s alotof money.
Now what? I’m super tempted to call Scott—or better yet—post a picture of myself on IG rolling around in a bed full of dollar bills like Demi Moore inIndecent Proposal, because I’m so rich I can justdothings like that (#bestdayever! #betyouwishyoustayedwithmenowassface!) but then I remember I have $243 in myactualbank account at the present moment. So, okay. Maybe hold off on telling people.
If Lindsay needs a new project stat, then I’m gonna need to bring out the big guns.
I go to the fridge and pull an old sugar-free Red Bull out of the bottom drawer. It’s my own personal, in-case-of-emergency-break-this-glass trick for churning out pages quickly.
I park my butt in the chair and stare at the laptop. Before too long, it’s spilling out of me. The reader gets a rundown of all the properties Presley owns and exactly how broke she is, due to losing all of her high-falutin’ city renters during the pandemic. (I have to be careful writing about the pandemic. Lindsay told me nobody wants to eventhinkabout it, even though the hard-core lockdown phase has been over for almost two years.) Presley put the condo worth the most money on the market—the one she was trying to sell to Connor. As she’s reviewing her money situation, she gets a text from him, apologizing for what happened with his wife earlier that day. She ignores it, instead focusing on how to drum up interested buyers. She decides to plan an elaborate open house with what little money she has left in her bank account.
Man, this is a massive disparity from my real life. When I got my condo in Brooklyn, there were no fancy open houses, no balloons, no fanfare. Nope. Only the ghost of Melly’s recently dead grandmother, who left behind an immovable, dusty piano, and a sympathetic daughter (Melly’s mom), who decided that, instead of dealing with Realtors, she would sell the apartment tome, her only child’s best friend from college, for well below market value.
If only Presley was so lucky.
I’ve only written six pages, but by the time I take my next break, my heart is racing, thanks to the eighty million milligrams of caffeine still working their way through my system. My mind flutters about from one topic to the next; thoughts of moving out of Brooklyn and reinstituting doctor’s visits for preventative care give way to consideration for a new headshottaken by someone more qualified than the Midwood High School photography club. I want totalkto someone, but my girls are working, and if I call my mom, she’ll just launch into an hour-long diatribe about how her housekeeper, Sheila, is stealing rolls of toilet paper out of the garage. She’s sure of it but hasn’t been able to prove it yet. And Dad just corroborates her lunacy, filing it away under his “happy wife, happy life” mantra.
So, I do what any normal person would do under these circumstances. I check my email.
What do you know? I guess Colin Yarmouth can’t take a hint.
TO:Grace Landing ([email protected])
FROM:Colin Yarmouth ([email protected])
Subject:Spanish class
Grace,
You’re right. I’m humiliated to say that I did try to cheat off you in Spanish a few times. Lo siento, lol.
You’re funny!
Anyway, you never answered my question. What were you out celebrating? Engagement? Bachelorette party? Also—when you saygirlfriends, do you mean friends who are girls?
Write back (for real this time)—
Colin
