About to go on. I’ll tell you all the gory details later.
She responded instantly:
Oh and give Mason a big sloppy kiss from me.
She was a self-appointed “shameless flirt,” and Mason Serrano was by far her favorite interviewer on the daytime talk-show circuit.
Feeling generous, I opened my thread with Tommy too and wrote:
Hi. Have a busy day. I’ll check in later.
I noticed that underneath Tommy’s text was a message from a man I’d met on Hinge, and who I’d been out with the night before.
You looked incredible last night. Even better than your pictures. I can’t wait to read your book.
He, on the other hand, had looked nothing like his pictures. It was always women who were accused of Facetuning their selfies and editing their bodies, but men were the real culprits of deception on dating apps. They hid behind hats and sunglasses in photos taken four feet away to trick you into thinking they were good-looking. Or they’d have a picture with four other twentysomethings in a group, forcing you to play Nancy Drew to figure out which dick you’d actually be sucking. They banked on most women’s unfailing ability tosee the redeeming qualities in any man. But I wasn’t nice, and I did not have that ability. I deleted his number. He’d asked too many questions about Will anyway.
“You’re on in ten,” Marta said tersely, suddenly appearing beside me in a pressed navy dress.
“I’m going to have to get you a bell if you keep popping up like that,” I gasped, trying to shake the feeling of someone lurking over my shoulder. I dropped my phone into my lap.
Marta looked unamused, her general state when she was around me. I was both her favorite and least favorite client, depending on how well the book was doing. She adjusted the ends of her blunt red bob. “If I don’t surprise you, you’ll avoid me.”
I shrugged as Annie stepped away from the chair to mist my face with setting spray. “That’s because you’re always telling me to do things I don’t want to do.”
“You’ll thank me when you get your royalty check,” she said, raising her eyebrow. “Anyway, you’re on in a few. Go sell some books.”
One of the things I disliked about television studios was how dark they were. Never-ending windowless hallways flanked by groups of nervous-looking people who kept the show afloat. Marta did a good job of navigating the corridors as we headed toward the stage, saying hello to the occasional stony-faced crew member. I ignored them all, walking past without so much as a glance. I was used to the stares.
When we reached the set, I clocked Harry Riche and Mason Serrano laughing amongst themselves while the third host, Aimee Frasier, sat seriously, concentrating on a notebook in front of her. At only thirty-five, Aimeehad made a name for herself in the media by empowering women and championing the underdog. She was smart, she was loud, and she was, as she often said,Proud. Of. It.She would mention that a lot. Personally, I thought a truly proud woman wouldn’t feel the need to constantly remind people of that, but what did I know? I was a decade younger and clearly hadn’t had any luck getting the general public to like me. Aimee’s stiff blonde hair was a few inches shorter than the last time I’d seen her, and she was now sporting thick black-framed glasses.
As we approached the roundtable, a hush came over the room. Even Harry and Mason stopped bantering. The one-minute warning saved us from anything more than brief, awkward, preshow hellos. Aimee’s gaze found mine and she frowned. She leaned over to whisper something in Harry’s ear as the three of them readied themselves. I was used to TV interviews, but it didn’t mean that I didn’t still feel a rush of nervousness as they counted down. There was no live audience today, which I was grateful for. This was going to be difficult enough already.
It was impressive how quickly the tone shifted when we went live. The hosts’ bright, camera-ready smiles appeared as the intro music faded, any trace of their hostility evaporating into the ether.
“Hello!” Mason said warmly, looking directly into the camera. “I’m Mason Serrano, and we are joined here this morning by a woman whose name you definitely know,New York Timesbest-selling author Rose Dearling!” The pause where clapping from the audience usually came rang out silent.
“Rose’s breakout novel,The Smileys Next Door, came out a year ago to massive success and also immense public criticism. The book is a fictionalized account of a murder nearly identical to the true story of Alexandria Hopely, an eighteen-year-old girl who was killed the night of her high school graduationin Loxahatchee, Florida, in 2010. Alexandria’s ex-boyfriend and Rose’s brother, William Dearling, was arrested for the murder in 2010. Rose’s book reveals never-before-heard facts and personal details about the case, though her story culminates in a dramatically different ending than its real-life counterpart. In spite of, or perhaps because of this, it’s been a consistent bestseller since it came out. The paperback edition hits bookstores tomorrow—and we’re lucky to have Rose for her first live appearance in a year. Welcome, Rose!”
“Welcome back, Rose,” Harry echoed, leaning forward onto the desk. “A lot has changed since you were here last, hasn’t it?”
I tried to smile, pushing through the discomfort lingering in my body. “It has.” I could feel Marta’s gaze from behind me, so I added, “It’s been a busy year.”
“You’ve sold a lot of copies indeed,” Harry said. “Especially for a first book.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to calm my irritation at the surprise in his tone. I forced a saccharine smile as I said: “I’ve definitely been pleased by it.”
“Yes, the book has been a huge success numbers-wise,” Aimee said, speaking for the first time. “But surely even you can’t deny that there has been significant fallout and, frankly, some fair criticism that the novel is exploitative of Alexandria Hopely’s death and filled with, well …”
She paused, giving a sympathetic look to the other hosts, before adding, “ …falsehoods.”
I resisted the urge to snort. She was trying hard to appear diplomatic, but it wasn’t going to fool me. I felt my face heat up.
“I am well aware that some people think the book contains fabrications, but those people are also the same ones who think my brother killed Alexandria, so I take their criticism with a grain of salt.”
Beside Aimee, Harry held up his hands to the camera. “Spoiler alert: If you’ve been living under a rock for the last year and haven’t readThe Smileys Next Door, I’m about to ruin it for you.” He paused and waited, presumably for senior citizens to turn off their televisions, and then continued. “In your novel, the character Angelica is murdered by her father, Robert, which many believe is supposed to represent Alexandria and her father, Gary Hopely. Is this true?”
I stiffened in the chair. I should have been used to hearing this. To hearing his name. To the accusation. It was all anyone wanted to talk about when the book first came out:You made hergrievingfather the murderer?
