Page 23 of The Book Doctor
“George?”
Stuffin
g half of the piece of bread into my mouth, I mumble that I’m still here. The shower turns on upstairs.
“Your housekeeper said you weren’t taking calls.”
“I’m working on a book,” I say when I can manage, practically swallowing the mouth full of toast down whole. Alan knows my habits when I’m writing, which means that he knows I don’t take calls that aren’t emergencies.
“I had to ring on a Saturday, for God’s sake.”
Glancing out the window, I see movement in the direction of the cottage. “As they say, no rest for the wicked.”
“I guess you don’t check your email, either.”
Across the lawn, Liam emerges from the cottage. He steps out onto the porch, squinting into the buttery morning light. First, he surveys the grounds, and then lasers in on my house before turning his head to speak to someone inside. “I’ve been busy.”
“Damn right you have. So I assume you haven’t heard…”
“Heard what?”
“Ah, George. This is so typical of you. I don’t see how you manage to stay so out of touch in this day and age.”
“Hmmm.”
“You hit the best sellers list.”
The girl from the hotel comes out onto the porch. “Fuck.”
“I know,” Alan snorts. “I hate to say it—but I thought the same thing.”
Jesus. I really should have fired him a long time ago. The girl inches forward, feline-like, nuzzling her cheek against Liam’s chest. She’s leggy and thinner than I recall. Long blonde hair, the Barbie type. Typical. It almost makes me disappointed in Liam. It certainly makes me disappointed in myself. “I don’t understand.”
“What’s there to understand?”
Liam pulls her in close and strokes her hair. My chest tightens. It could be a heart attack. It could be my sudden stroke of bad luck. “I just wasn’t expecting this is all.”
“So you’re resurfacing. It happens every decade or so. Like fashion. You should see what the kids are wearing these days. Suddenly we’re back in the 90s. Everything old is new again. Oh, and George?”
“Yeah?”
“I heard about that party of yours…brilliant!”
I can’t watch my life fall apart out the window, so I make my way over to the stove and reheat the eggs. Sliding them from the pan onto the plate, the phone slips away from my ear. Alan’s voice trails off. He never stops speaking. “Are you there?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I heard it was mandatory your guests buy your book. I heard you auctioned them off, with tickets to your party going to the highest bidder.”
“What?”
“You have no idea…man‚ that’s—”
“I didn’t—”
He raises his voice as though I’m hard of hearing, not simply distracted. “Brilliant. Really, that’s brilliant.”
As I fix our plates and then grab two mugs from the cupboard, Alan drones on. “Next time,” he says. “Sign them. Make sure you add the date. Who knows? These parties of yours—it could be a thing.”