Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 140874 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 563(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140874 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 563(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
We walked down a short hallway, passing a few uniformed waiters bustling between the gallery and the catering truck in the alley. Then we emerged into the bright, white-walled, brick-accented main room of the currently disused gallery.
I had to admit, it was a perfect venue for an event like this. When I was Gabriella’s assistant, I would have killed to get a space like this for a reception or fashion week party. When I entered, every eye in the place was fortunately trained on Neil. He moved through the decent-sized crowd—no doubt there were some low level M and R employees forced to be here on their personal time—and drew every eye, from open stares to sidelong glances meant to be inconspicuous.
We made brief eye contact across the room, and his half-smile and subtle wink was a challenge. It was all I needed to regain my confidence. I could have all the doubt in the world, but a tiny bit of competition was enough to get me back in the game. And even though I knew that he was doing it on purpose, I thought, Step up your game, Elwood. You are about to be massively upstaged by your super hot fiancée.
A woman in a red, knitted caplet over a brown sheath dress greeted India, then me. She reached for my hand, effusing, “Sophie Scaife? I’m Andrea Vessichio, head of publicity for M and R, nonfiction. It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Thanks, it’s nice to meet you, too,” I said, because I didn’t know what else I was supposed to say. “This looks really great.”
“We were so lucky to get the space,” she said conspiratorially. “My brother-in-law owns the gallery. There’s going to be a blown glass sculpture exhibit coming in on the weekend.”
“Wow, that sounds…like it would be a nightmare in a room full of people like this,” I said with a shrug.
Andrea laughed too much at that. “Well, you know, any crowd is a good crowd.”
Until she’d said that, I didn’t know there was anything wrong with the crowd. So, great, now I had that to worry about.
Andrea led me to the single microphone and high black stool positioned in the front of the room. Beside it, a table laden with copies of my books waited for signing. She stood next to me and said, in a strong, commanding voice that barely needed the microphone for amplification, “Thank you, everyone, for coming tonight. I’m Andrea Vessichio of M and R, and we are thrilled to bring you our debut author, and this fantastic memoir. It is so unique, and such an intimate and utterly addictive read. So please welcome our guest of honor—or, author of honor—Ms. Sophie Scaife.”
The applause stunned me. Whether it was given out of genuine enthusiasm or just politeness, I had no idea, but it was a huge surprise. I stepped up to the mic. From where I stood, I saw Neil, and though I knew Emma and Michael were there, I didn’t see them.
This was just like peeking through the curtain before the church nativity pageant. Back then, I’d been looking for one face in the audience, one that had never been there, that I only knew from a single photograph. Tonight, I wanted to see a face that was as familiar to me as my own…but she was a no-show.
“Thank you,” I said, and I could feel the heat radiating off my forehead. “I haven’t done anything yet.”
There was a ripple of subdued laughter. Laughing. That was a good sign.
But then, what if my excerpt was too much of a downer?
I raised my eyes and saw Valerie standing in the crowd, and she was smiling with actual encouragement. Somehow, it was Valerie, and no one else, who boosted my confidence. Probably because, like her daughter, she wouldn’t lie about her feelings to make me happy. She genuinely wanted to see me do well.
I opened the book before I remembered what India had told me. “Thank you all for being here. And thank you to Andrea and M and R, for putting this evening together.” I took a slow, deep breath while pretending to consider what was on the page. I knew instantly that I would never like this book, even though I had written it, even though it was my debut. It was too painful. The only way I could read it to a room full of people was by pretending it was fiction.
The selection was from the beginning of chapter two. The only bright spot I could find when I’d chosen what I would be reading. I looked up, put on my best cancer-doesn’t-hurt-us-anymore” smile, the one Neil and I both used to lie to our loved ones, and began: “The biggest challenge for an American in London is not learning to drive on the wrong side of the road, or making sense of what a quid is. It is, instead, the indecipherable mystery of the electric tea kettle…”