“This is Posey Frost,” Jessica said, her tone more than suggesting that Jane ought to already know this.
Jane regarded the woman beside her. “Really?” she said. “Posey Frost of the Vivienne Minx novels?”
The woman nodded and giggled again. “I know,” she said. “I’m not what you expected.”
This was an understatement. Jane had always imagined the author of the Vivienne Minx novels to be young and sultry, someone who would be comfortable wearing only stiletto heels and diamond earrings as she lounged on her black leather couch sipping champagne. Never had she imagined the very ordinary woman who was now picking pieces from her dinner roll and popping them into her mouth.
“No,” Jane said. “It’s just that—”
“It’s all right,” Posey interrupted, patting Jane’s hand. “I have looked in a mirror before.”
Jane was unsure how to respond. Posey Frost seemed quite comfortable with herself. Still, it seemed rude to agree with her. Jane decided to avoid the subject altogether. “Are you here for the festival, Posey?” she asked.
“Oh, no,” said Posey. “I don’t do any public appearances. My publisher doesn’t want to spoil the fantasy for my readers. When the books first got popular they thought about hiring an actress to play me at readings and whatnot, but then they decided it would generate more interest if people didn’t know anything about me. Also, they would have to get a new actress for every book, because who would want to make a career out of pretending to be Posey Frost? Oh, and you can call me Shirley. Posey isn’t my real name.”
“Does it bother you that your readers don’t know who you really are?” Jane asked. She couldn’t help but compare Shirley’s situation to her own, and she was curious to hear how Shirley felt about her own anonymity.
“Not at all,” Shirley said as she dabbed butter on a roll. “My own family doesn’t know. Well, Harvey does. That’s my husband. But no one else. Not even the kids. They think we got all our money from my Uncle Horace when he died.” She laughed. “Horace was a drunk and had about three dollars in the bank, but we told the kids he’d put everything into bonds during World War I.”
“What do they think you do all day when you’re writing?”
“I don’t write during the day,” Shirley told her. “I do regular mom stuff—clean the house, bake cookies, chauffeur the kids to soccer and piano lessons. I get an hour or two here and there, but mostly I write at night.”
Jane was shocked. “So they’ve never read one of your books?”
“Tara—my thirteen-year-old—thinks the Vivienne Minx novels are, and I quote, ‘fast-food fiction.’ She likes Jane Austen, Virginia Woolf, and Banana Yoshimoto. Ryan is sixteen, and he’s more interested in baseball than books. Harvey read the first book, but it wasn’t his thing. He’s a Tom Clancy kind of guy.”
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a waiter, who took their drink orders and went away again. Jane wanted very much to question Shirley further, but she felt she’d already pried enough. “So you’re not here for the festival,” she said. “Just for fun, then?”
“I’m here for the movie,” Shirley told her.
“The movie?” said Jane.
Shirley nodded. “They’ve asked me to do some rewrites on the script. Well, they asked Posey to do them. I guess they want to sex it up a little.”
Jane, confused, didn’t understand what Shirley was saying. Then it hit her. “You mean my movie?” she said. “Constance?”
“That’s right,” said Shirley. A worried look crossed her face, and her eyes darted to Jessica and then quickly back to Jane. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”
Jane shook her head and looked meaningfully at Jessica, who was examining the menu in her hand. “No,” Jane said. “No one did.”
“I’m sorry,” said Shirley. “I thought you knew. Jessica said you were too busy working on the new novel to do it, so she recommended me.”
Jessica set the menu down. “I worked with Shirley on the first Vivienne Minx novel,” she said quickly, as if that explained everything.
“Of course, I’m still not Posey Frost,” Shirley said. “We’re telling the director that I’m Posey’s assistant, and that Posey can’t come out of the hotel because she’s afraid of paparazzi finding her.”
“Hollywood people will believe anything as long as you throw paparazzi into the story,” Jessica remarked. “They’re terrified of them.”
“And you say they want to sex up the script,” said Jane, ignoring the editor and addressing Shirley.
“That’s what I understand,” Shirley replied. “I’m meeting with the director this afternoon to discuss it. It all happened very quickly.”
“It must have,” said Jane. She looked at Jessica and narrowed her eyes. “As I said, this is the first I’ve heard about it.”
“It was all very sudden,” Jessica said. “Kelly called me yesterday afternoon to see if I thought you had time to do both the script and the new novel, and I said I didn’t think we should—”
“Kelly?” Jane interrupted. “Kelly Littlejohn?”
“Well, yes,” said Jessica. “Is there another one?”
“I’m just surprised he didn’t call me,” Jane said.
Jessica waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, I told him not to bother you. As I was saying, I didn’t want to overburden you. I know you’ve been having trouble with the novel.”
“I’m not having trouble!” Jane exclaimed. “It’s just that there’s a lot going on at the moment and—”
This time Jessica interrupted. “See? That’s exactly what I’m saying. You have a lot going on.” Her tone made her sound as if she were talking to a small child.
Shirley, who had been listening to the exchange and systematically reducing her roll to tiny balls of dough that she pinched between her thumb and forefinger, suddenly stood up. “Will you excuse me?” she said, taking up her purse. “I need to go to the ladies’ room.”
As soon as Shirley was out of earshot Jessica said, “Now look what you’ve done. You’ve upset her.”
“Have I?” Jane countered. “Well, perhaps we should see what Kelly has to say about his.” She fished in her purse for her cellphone and started to dial Kelly’s number.
“I wouldn’t do that,” said Jessica.
Jane paused mid-dial. “And why not?”
Jessica cleared her throat. “I gave Kelly a choice,” she said. “You can either deliver the manuscript within thirty days or you can pay back your advance and take the project elsewhere.”
“Thirty days!” said Jane. “No one can write a novel in thirty days!”
“Tell that to Anthony Trollope,” Jessica said. “Anyway, it states quite clearly in your contract that if you fail to deliver on time—which you have—we can request that you submit the manuscript in thirty days, and if you fail to do that, it can result in cancellation of the contract and recovery of all monies paid out against it.”
“I know what it says,” said Jane, although this was only partly true. Kelly had mentioned something of the sort when she’d missed several deadline extensions, but he’d assured her that publishers never acted on the clause. Especially not when an author’s book had done as well as Jane’s had. She hesitated a moment, then clicked her phone shut and held it tightly in her hand, which was very sweaty.
“So you see, we’re only doing what’s best for you,” Jessica said. “Now let’s have lunch, and afterward you and I can discuss the novel.” She paused for a long moment. “Of course, if you prefer to work on the film, I imagine Shirley might be persuaded to assist with the novel.”
“Excuse me?” said Jane.
“Of course, it would still be your name on the book,” Jessica said. “And she wouldn’t be writing the whole book. She could just, you know, outline it and get it started for you.”
Jane was stunned. She sat staring at Jessica, unable to move her mouth. When she finally regained her senses she said, “You don’t think I can write it, do you?”