Chapter 7
On Monday, I’m sitting on the living room sofa in Ryan’s rental, quietly finishing the last few pages of Soulmates before the online interview with the morning show.
He’s conferring with the photographer his publicist sent over with several hardcover print books, which he’s setting up as a backdrop.
A box of books arrived with the photographer this morning, and I finally got to hold the book in my hot little hands.
The special edition cover is gorgeous, spray-painted blue edges, a silver foiled and white aesthetic photo of a flower and a ship hovering in the distance.
A book you’d want decorating your bookshelf.
I’ve been reading the digital book, but I’m a slow reader and haven’t been able to dedicate twelve hours a day to read.
However, I did stay up late last night because Ryan had me more than a little intrigued.
I did not see how this could end well for the main characters.
I almost committed the cardinal sin of skipping ahead to reassure myself.
The book is mostly a love triangle, not my favorite trope.
And while I’m rooting for whom I believe the story has clearly told me is the best man, I don’t see how he’s going to get the girl.
Since there are only a few pages left, the happily ever after or happy for now will no doubt be rushed.
I’m already not crazy about this book, but apparently I’m greatly in the minority according to Goodreads.
The book has close to a million four- and five-star reviews with an average of four and a half stars.
This will not be the first time I disagree with the majority on a popular commercial book and surely won’t be the last. It’s a book I’m going to pretend I’ve written, so I wanted to like it but I’m afraid… I don’t.
When I finally finish the book a few minutes later it’s official.
I drop my e-reader. Literally drop it to the ground.
This is worse than I imagined. I think every reader has had those times when they finish a book with a lousy ending and are so upset they wish to throw it against a wall.
I’ve never done this, though I’ve been tempted.
No, it doesn’t have the same satisfaction, but I drop my e-reader on the floor.
Hard. I literally hate this book. What in the hell was Ryan thinking? What was his agent thinking?
The sound is loud enough to make Ryan turn and stare at me. Stare at the floor. Back at me. He must guess my response to his book is not good.
I throw my hands up. “Why? Just…why?”
“Why what?” His brow is doing that furrowed thing it does.
This is outrageous. No, it’s disgraceful. Brazen. Inhumane! Reaching for one of the hardcover books, of which we now have way more than we need, I flip through the pages to the end and point.
“Um, you don’t have an ending.”
“Of course I do. The ending is…up for grabs.” He shrugs. “That’s what made the book unique.”
I don’t know if he’s being serious or messing with me.
“Look, at least no one died,” he says.
“But it’s not finished!”
He wrenches the book from me, opens to the last page, and taps it hard several times. “Right here. Do you see how the words just stop and there’s all this blank space? The. End.”
“But…unless I’m missing something, and maybe I could be since I, you know, didn’t write it…you don’t make it clear that Lula chose Grayson over Derek the idiot.”
“You feel that way but it doesn’t mean every reader does. What I’ve done is let the reader decide.” He tips his chin like he’s proud of this.
“Let the reader…let the reader decide? C’mon! What are you talking about?”
“The reader will decide who Lula winds up with. It’s their choice. It will be clear to some that she obviously picks Grayson. For others, not so certain. One of the men represents security and safety and the other adventure. It’s a metaphor.”
I can’t accept that this book has been categorized as a romance. It’s not a romance in the truest sense of the word.
“This is also called in some circles a cliffhanger. No wonder readers want a sequel.”
It was the one complaint I saw on reviews. The expectation they’d find the next book on preorder.
“Excuse me,” the photographer who has finished setting up interrupts. “We’re about ready to take a few shots with the books.”
“We will table this discussion for later,” I say, pointing to Ryan.
But my stomach is churning because I hate this book. The book I will have to sell to the American public in a matter of minutes. I wanted so badly to like Elizabeth’s book, just like everyone else did.
I’ve been prepped for the morning show interview by Pepper Monahan, who is Ryan’s publicist. He gets one of those. Since she’s in New York, we met on a video call. She’s about my age with short dark hair and wears dangling earrings in the shapes of books. I liked her immediately.
“It’s really great that you’re doing this. We’re so grateful. You can’t imagine what Ryan’s work with Soulmates has meant to us. I think it’s great! Brilliant! And don’t worry, we’re going to talk you through this. Walk you through, step by step. Okay, do you have any questions for me?”
“Is your name really Pepper?”
She laughed. “Nope. But everyone calls me that because I’m spicy.”
Count on me to ask all the redundant questions, but I’ve had second and third thoughts about all this and all before I discovered I hate the book.
I’ve never pretended to be somebody else except for that time I was twelve, called a boy Sofia liked, at her request, and pretended to be her when I asked him out—or she asked him, though not technically.
Whatever. He fell for it, and they dated for a while, but I don’t think this will be quite as easy.
It’s so public. A couple of days ago, it all sounded simpler in theory even if every moment since then I’ve been terrified.
It’s ever so much worse now that I hate the book.
I read romance to lift me up, to make me happy, to inspire me.
Not to make me want to cry and sob and hide under my blanket all day eating ice cream.
I’m terrified I’ll ruin this for the publisher by somehow revealing my utter disdain for the popularity of this book. But now, I’ve signed a non-disclosure agreement and in a few minutes, I’ll have an interview with a former reality TV celebrity.
I’ve agreed never to disclose I’d worked with Literary Dimensions on the Elizabeth Brogan Project. Sort of like the Manhattan Project, but more literary, less harmful.
When I signed, I did so knowing Ryan had no intention of writing any more Elizabeth Brogan books, which was fine when I believed the book had a tidy ending.
We’ve all decided Elizabeth is going to be a happy and cheerful author.
The publisher wants people to be inspired when they see Elizabeth, to want to be her.
When Dan, the photographer they’ve sent, agrees on the dress I picked, I know I’ve made the right choice.
It’s a bright and colorful yellow and royal blue polka dot dress which almost matches the cover of the book.
I’ve never worn anything quite this…loud.
Dan has artfully arranged dozens of copies of the special edition on a shelf.
My instructions are to sit to the side of all these hardcovers, holding one of them, smiling into the camera.
My legs are crossed in some, uncrossed in another.
Head tilted to the left in one, to the right in the other.
Smile. No smile. Eyebrow quirk. No eyebrow quirk.
A few hundred or so poses later, we are done.
Dan sets up a separate monitor where I’ll sit for the call.
The roll-up backdrop behind me is one of French double doors and resembles a home in any corner of the country.
“Don’t be nervous,” Dan instructs as he fiddles with the monitor setup. “You look scared.”
How ironic. I look scared because I’m going on national TV pretending to be someone else? Lying to the entire country about writing the book everyone seems to want to read?
“Are you okay?” Ryan asks.
“Pretending I wrote a book without a real ending?”
I try a laugh but it comes out like a scream. “Look, I’ve pretended to be impressed with my date’s car, pretended to be thinner, pretended to be happy, and pretended to enjoy dry chicken. I can do this.”
But pretending isn’t really the issue. I pretend all the time since I’m a writer and lie for a living.
The problem here is that I’m showing my face to the world.
I’ve been told in the past I should never attempt to play poker.
Everything I think and feel is apparently reflected way too easily on my face and Sofia tells me I have a smirk that apparently tells the world, “yeah, right.” Today it’s my job to wrestle that smirk into submission.
The world will believe I’m proud of this book.
“No one can question you, remember,” Pepper says from the other monitor nearby, a hovering face. “As far as we’re concerned, you are Elizabeth Brogan.”
“I think what she’s trying to say is that just because we all know this is a deception, don’t think for a second anyone will doubt you,” Ryan says.
This is supposed to somehow make me feel better.
“Sure, I mean, why would they?” I laugh. “Who would do something like this?”
We all exchange nervous smiles and laughs. We would do something like this.
As we wait, Ryan stands a few feet behind me and out of camera range. He’s alternately wiping his brow and swiping away the lock of hair that consistently falls over his glasses. It’s almost a comfort to know he’s worried, too.
“I’m here if you need me,” he reminds me.
“Perfect,” Pepper says, reminding us she’s still the face behind a monitor nearby. “Just be sure not to be seen, and if Luci gets stumped by a question, you scribble down the answer fast and hand it to her. Just make sure you always remain off camera.”
“She won’t get stumped,” Ryan says, giving me more credit than I deserve.
But he adds shoving a hand through his rumpled hair to his routine of adjusting his frames. He’s worried.
Seconds before we go live on the web cam, I turn to Ryan, a slice of fear quaking through me like a tsunami.
“Ryan, I changed my mind.”
“No, you didn’t. You can’t.”
“How am I supposed to do this?”
He simply stares at me blankly with those magnetic midnight blue eyes. “Fake it.”
I reach out and give him a little push. “You’re not helping.”
And then three, two, one...
“Hello, Elizabeth! Welcome to the show!”
And with those few words I begin my tenure as Elizabeth Brogan.