And lastly there was Sherrie. Jessie had heard she’d definitely gone on a major bender after Devon’s death—maybe because most of Devon’s money had been left to the Metropolitan Museum Costume Institute—and so the Buzz lawyers had no luck getting her to retract what she said about me. It didn’t matter anymore, though. Nash told me that he and the lawyers were now certain that Whitney must have put Sherrie up to the whole thing.
Yeah, I finally talked to Nash. He kept calling, and I realized I was being childish not to return his calls. I was expecting the gruff-news-guy-with-a-heart-of-gold routine, with him doing a big mea culpa and begging me to come back, and I knew I’d have to fight hard not to be suckered in by it. Instead he offered this line of bullshit about how the lawyers had totally muzzled him during my suspension, but he’d been working doggedly the whole time to clear my name. Sure, right, I told myself—and Lindsay Lohan was about to be named the next UN Goodwill Ambassador. I knew I’d never ever be able to trust the guy. Which made it easier to tell him I was moving on.
“If you’re holding out for more money,” Nash replied, “I can probably do a little something.”
“No,” I told him, “it’s not a money thing. But thank you. Best of luck.”
I was surprised at how sad the decision to leave Buzz made me feel. I had arrived there knowing practically nada about celebs and caring even less—I mean, I would look at shots of people like Audrina Partridge and wonder how a woman whose only real accomplishment in life was sticking to a low-carb diet could be on the cover of Buzz—but it had been fun to be in that crazy, zany world for a while.
Despite all the turmoil of those December days, there was one definite upside. Once my lawyer felt the cops really accepted my version of events, I did a ton of press and my book took off, leaving Napkin Folding for Beginners in a cloud of dust. It even briefly made the New York Times best-seller list—okay, extended list, but still, it meant I was going to receive royalties. And several publishers approached my agent, inquiring about my doing another book, this one on the whole Devon mess. I’d pounded out a proposal during my ski trip with Beau over the holidays.
And there was news to share on the book front when I sat down to the roast chicken dinner at Beau’s.
“So how did the meeting with your agent go?” Beau asked before I could even broach the subject.
“Great,” I said. “She’s tested the waters with my proposal, and she thinks we can actually sell the book in an auction, which means I might make some decent dough up front.”
“That’s fantastic, Bailey,” he said.
“Yeah, I’m so relieved. I’ve got that small trust fund from my father, but it’s just barely enough to live on. With the book advance, I should be fine this year. So I’m going to try the freelance route for a while. I’ll work on the book and whatever assignments come up here and there.”
“Will it be weird not to have an office to go into?”
“Yeah, I’m sure a little bit. Both Buzz and Gloss were only part-time, but it was still nice to hang around other people some days. And it’s kind of scary to be totally on my own. But in the long run, I think it may be better for me. Bosses always seem to make me bristle. Now I don’t have to be at the mercy of a Cat Jones or Nash Nolan or Mona Hodges. I like the idea of being a free agent.”
“Should that alarm me?” he asked, locking his brown eyes with mine.
“I mean professionally,” I said, smiling.
And I realized something at that moment. That part of why I felt comfortable becoming a free agent professionally and taking such a big risk was that I had Beau in my life. Not to bail me out financially. But because I was crazy about him and because I knew he had my back in so many ways. That at the end of a solitary day, we could share a good conversation, and later I’d be able to slip into bed beside him. No sooner had the thought formed, though, thant my heart fluttered a little with anxiety. Was I putting too much stock in a romantic relationship?
Quickly I recited one of my mantras—“Bailey, don’t be a total love moron.”
And next I reminded myself that Beau carved a chicken perfectly, and his ass looked great in jeans.
Acknowledgments
It was so wonderful to get back to Bailey Weggins, and I want to thank everyone who helped me with So Pretty It Hurts. In terms of research for the book, I’m indebted to Barbara Butcher, chief of staff, New York City Medical Examiner’s office; Dr. Chet Lerner, chief, Section of Infectious Diseases, New York Downtown Hospital; Dr. Mark Howell, psychotherapist; Faith Kates-Kogan, president and founder of Next Models; Thomas Dolan, IAAI-CFI, patrol officer/crime scene investigator, Carlisle, Pennsylvania police department and fire analyst with NEFCO; and my husband, Brad Holbrook, who is so good with accents (among many other things!).
I also want to say a huge thank-you to my terrific new editor, Kathy Schneider, and to Maya Ziv, too, for all her awesome help. It’s been fantastic working with both of them. Thank you, as well, to Rachel Elinsky, for her amazing efforts with PR. Others at Harper I’d love to give a big shout-out to are Jonathan Burnham, Leah Wasielewski, Katie O’Callaghan, Mark Ferguson, Tina Andreadis, and Leslie Cohen. And as always, thank you to my extraordinary agent, Sandra Dijkstra, whom I adore!
About the Author
Kate White, the editor-in-chief of Cosmopolitan magazine, is the New York Times bestselling author of the standalone novels, The Sixes and Hush, and the Bailey Weggins mystery series—If Looks Could Kill; A Body to Die For; ’Til Death Do Us Part; Over Her Dead Body; and Lethally Blond. White is also the author of popular career books for women, including Why Good Girls Don’t Get Ahead but Gutsy Girls Do. She lives in New York City.
ALSO BY KATE WHITE
FICTION
The Sixes
Hush
Lethally Blonde
Over Her Dead Body
’Til Death Do Us Part
A Body to Die For
If Looks Could Kill
NONFICTION
You on Top
9 Secrets of Women Who Get Everything They Want
Why Good Girls Don’t Get Ahead but Gutsy Girls Do
Credits
Cover design by Richard Ljoenes
Front cover photograph © Irene Lamprakou / Trevillion