Jane Bites Back_ A Novel - Michael Thomas Ford [64]
“Do you?” said Jane politely.
Farrah nodded. “I was a huge fan of the Cherry High Gossip Club series when I was in high school,” she said.
Jane suppressed a laugh. The Cherry High books were some of the most vapid books she’d ever come across. They centered around a group of girls who published an anonymous gossip magazine about the goings-on at their upper-class high school. Not surprisingly, the series sold millions of copies, particularly after the television show based on it became a hit.
“Do you know Felicity Bingham?” Farrah asked, naming the author of the series.
“I’m afraid not,” said Jane.
Farrah took a small tape recorder from her bag. “Too bad. I assumed all of you writers know each other,” she said.
Jane sat down on the couch opposite Farrah. “Brakeston isn’t exactly the literary capital of the world,” she said.
“Brakeston?” Farrah repeated, a frown creasing her flawless brow.
“Where I live,” said Jane. “It’s in New York.”
Farrah nodded. “I remember now. Sorry. I’ve been crazy busy this week.”
“It’s quite all right,” Jane said.
Farrah fussed with the tape recorder for a minute while Jane waited. Then she placed it on the table between them. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s start. You’re English, right?”
Jane repeated the story she’d rehearsed in preparation for the interview, and for all the interviews Nick assured her she would be doing. She was from England but had moved to the United States at a young age when her father, a diplomat, was transferred there. She had no siblings. Her parents were both dead. It was tragic and convenient, and Jane told it well.
“That’s pretty much what the bio your publisher sent over said,” Farrah told her. “I tried to find out more on the Internet, but there isn’t anything. Don’t you have a website?”
Jane shook her head. “I’m afraid I’m not terribly up-to-date on technology,” she said. “I’m old-fashioned that way.”
“Old-fashioned,” Farrah repeated. “That’s kind of sweet. Usually when I interview people they’re texting and checking their email at the same time.”
She asked a few more tedious questions (What did Jane do for fun? What was her writing day like? How did it feel to have her first novel come out at her age?), all of which Jane answered with what she hoped was charm and wit. Then Farrah cleared her throat and adopted a more serious demeanor.
“Where did you get the idea for the novel?” she asked.
“It’s something I’ve worked on for a number of years,” Jane told her. “The idea first occurred to me when a friend was having a new house built. I started thinking about how intimate the relationship between the builder and the homeowner is. It’s almost a marriage of sorts. Then I came up with the characters of Constance and Charles, and the rest grew from there.”
Farrah nodded vigorously. “I see,” she said. “So they’re real people?”
“Well, no,” Jane replied. “They’re fictional characters based on the experience of a friend.”
“What’s your friend’s name?” asked Farrah.
Jane hesitated. “I don’t think she’d want to be mentioned by name,” she said.
“If it was someone else’s experience, don’t you feel like you—I don’t know—stole it?” said Farrah.
“Stole it?” Jane said, shocked. “No.”
“But it isn’t your story,” Farrah persisted.
“It’s fiction,” Jane said. “All fiction is based on some kind of truth. My book is not literally about my friend. It is inspired by her.”
“I see,” said Farrah. “Still, don’t you think you should have come up with something of your own?”
Jane looked at the reporter for some time, unsure how to respond. Finally, Farrah spoke again. “I’m sorry for asking these questions,” she said. “But I think we journalists owe it to our readers to print the truth.”
“The truth?” Jane said. “I don’t understand.”
Farrah turned off the tape recorder. “I shouldn’t do this,” she said. “But I love your book, and you seem like a nice person.” She pursed her lips, as if she were trying to solve a math problem. “I got an email,” she said eventually. “A couple of days ago. I don’t know where it came from. It was anonymous. Whoever sent it said that