“He is not going to enjoy that sentence.”
“He isn’t here.”
“He has television.”
The studio assistant knocked on the window.
“Five minutes.”
Sophie held out the page.
“Use the private-life answer.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“That means you won’t.”
“It means I respect the cardstock.”
Rachel opened the door.
The noise rushed in.
Fans called my name. Cameras started firing before both feet reached the pavement.
The smile came automatically.
This time, I noticed it arriving.
I signed two album covers, posed for photographs, and accepted a stuffed turtle from a woman in a tour shirt.
“This is Mayor Shelldon,” she said.
The turtle wore a tiny sash.
“That is a strong name.”
“He supports your right to privacy.”
“I appreciate his service.”
Behind me, Sophie inhaled through her nose.
Rachel took the turtle.
“No comments from elected officials,” she murmured.
“He approached me.”
“Keep walking.”
Inside, the studio was aggressively bright.
A production assistant led us down corridors lined with framed photographs of people who looked much more comfortable being interviewed than I felt.
My dressing room contained fruit, bottled water, coffee, and a bowl of granola bars.
Rachel picked one up.
