Bird in Hand - Christina Baker Kline [13]
“Dear God, yawn. Isn’t that what all writers say when they finally get published?” Ben said, coming up behind them. “We’re going to have to think of something more original for you to say when you go on tour, you know.”
“My husband, my press agent,” Claire said.
“By the way,” said Alison, “Charlie’s sorry he can’t be here. We had a babysitting situation.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Claire said.
“We should all have dinner again one of these nights, after Claire gets back,” Ben said. “Maybe you two could come into the city.” He touched Alison’s back with the flat of his hand. “We miss you guys.”
“We’d love that,” Alison said. She took a sip of her drink. (As one of the bartenders was packing up, he’d handed Alison a half-full glass of blue liquid. “The end of the martinis,” he said. “I’d hate to see it go to waste.”)
“Mmm,” said Claire.
“So when are you going on tour?” Alison asked.
“In about a week. Just a few towns. Nothing major.”
“Are you going, Ben?” Alison asked.
He shrugged, and Claire shook her head. “It’s going to be so tedious,” she said. “One obscure radio station after another.”
“She says I’d be trailing after her like Prince Philip. Though I think that could be fun. I’ve got the stance down.” Ben clasped his hands behind him and rocked on his heels, then added, “I did point out to her that the queen rarely makes appearances at chain stores in strip malls.”
Two women, the peacock from the elevator and a fresh-faced girl with a Marc Jacobs bag, whose proprietary manner with Claire implied that she was either her new best friend or her publicist, joined the group.
“Fabulous! Party!” declared the peacock. “Everybody wants to know when you’re writing a sequel.”
Claire laughed uncomfortably. “Let’s just get through this, shall we?”
“You know, if you push another one out right away, it increases your selling power exponentially,” said Peacock.
“But I’ve said everything I have to say,” Claire said. “What’s left?”
“Well, for one thing, sex,” the fresh-faced girl said, her voice dropping to a coy whisper. “There’s not a lot of it in this book.”
“Wait a minute,” Ben said. “Aren’t you billing it as ‘a young girl’s sexual awakening’?”
“Sure, to sell copies,” said Fresh Face. “But it’s really pretty tame. The book ends when she goes off to college—just think of all the material Claire’s got saved up from the past ten or fifteen years!”
All at once Alison realized that Claire was becoming agitated. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes hard and bright; her hand fluttered at her neck. “First of all,” she said in a strained voice, “remember, this is fiction. And second … ”
Peacock and Fresh Face exchanged glances. They were clearly accustomed to dealing with sensitive authors; this was part of the deal.
“Second … ” Claire’s voice trailed off. She looked at Ben beseechingly.
“Second,” he jumped in, “if this novel were, in the slightest way, based on her life, the sequel would be dreadfully boring. Prince Charming, happily ever after, end of story.”
Claire reached over and pulled Ben toward her, kissing him on the cheek.
“Aw,” said Fresh Face, “sweet. A love story.”
Peacock glanced at her watch. “Well, time to go. Fabulous party,” she said again. “Congratulations, Claire.”
“Thank you,” Claire murmured, air-kissing them both.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Fresh Face said, holding one hand out like a phone receiver, pinky and thumb extended, as they walked away. “You get some rest!”
Alison watched them head toward the door, grabbing the leftover books from side tables along the way. “I guess I’d better be going, too,” she said. “See what I can scrounge up at home for dinner.”
Claire nodded distractedly.
“Well,” Ben said, trying and failing to catch Claire’s eye, “why don’t you come and grab a bite with us? We’re going to a little bistro around the corner on Second.”
Claire snapped to attention. “Ben,” she said abruptly, clutching his arm. “I’m—I’m really tired. This might not be the best night.”
“It’s okay—I can’t, anyway,