Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
OCEAN CLOUD IV
ATTN: DAMIEN DE DANDENEAU
CABINA #148
00053 CIVITAVECCHIA, RM
ITALIA
Well, I’m glad you found the debut Conseils “informative” and that the extra five euro I spent on shipping your copy was worth it for your kind words. Still, you’re being too nice. Almost everyone else thought it was a bore. To be honest, it was crap. Not my finest work, I’ll admit. I nearly fell asleep writing the damn thing. But get ready for the next issue. Kat McLauren is about to rock these readers’ socks off with what’s coming next. I just need to figure out what that is first. Anyway, hope you’re well. Enjoy all that lovely pasta! Can’t wait to hear about your time at the Colosseum.
Cordialement,
Kat :)
* * *
KAT MCLAUREN
22 RUE DES FLEURS
06360 èZE
FRANCE
Je me réjouis! Je suis ravi de le lire. Trust your instincts, Kat. They know the way.
Try not to think too much about it. Let it flow. As for anyone’s opinions, pick out the useful feedback, then picture throwing the rest into the Mediterranean. You don’t need that.
And thank you for asking about Italia. The country is incredible. The food, the wine, the architecture, the landscape. I could live here. I’d love to explore it with you one day.
Bisous,
Damien
* * *
“I t was awful, Emi.”
Four days had passed since the first Conseils launch, and though I’m mortified beyond belief that large stacks still remain in nearly every display, Emi insisted on grabbing lunch after my meeting with Solange. That was another embarrassment in itself.
At a café by the wine store, Emi paws through the magazine while I press a palm over my strained forehead. Waiting in agony as she reads, I momentarily surrender to the humdrum cacophony of ceramic cups hitting saucers and feet scuffing over tile.
“Kat,” Emi says, twisting her hair into a high bun. “It’s not awful. There’s just no passion.”
She always has such tact in her French bluntness.
“Funny, that’s what Solange was getting at too.”
“How did that meeting go?” Emi sips her lemonade.
“Actually awful. And I’m not exaggerating.” I lean my forearms on the table and sink my shoulders lower. “Five hundred copies were distributed, and not even thirty were taken. Fifteen of those had to have been between your family and the Chessleys.”
“What’s the plan then for the next one? What’ll change?”
“Everything,” I say, locking focus on the notebook next to my water glass. “It has to. Some of the sponsors already threatened to take out their advertisements. And no ads means no funding, which means no Conseils .”
“I think you need to use your creative instincts. Write some more from here,” she adds, patting her heart before pointing to her forehead. “Rather than here.”
I chuckle. “Damien said something like that.”
Emi gasps. “Mm, dis-moi tous les détails.”
“What details?” I laugh nervously, playing with the ends of the tablecloth.
“Minou,” Emi says with the utmost endearment. “As your French best friend, I am required to know how it’s going between you and your très sexy man.”
My shoulders vibrate with giddiness as I think about the letters.
“He’s not my très sexy man.”
What makes him a dreamboat isn’t even his looks, though those go a long way. It’s how open we can get when we write, like we’ve entered another dimension, another degree of closeness I worried I’d never find with another person.
I relay his suggestion to mentally gather up every single person’s potential opinion of every present and future Conseils magazine issue and chuck it into the sea. And when Emi is satisfied with the gossip and a fair dose of kissy noises, we part ways for the day so I can resume my kid-caring duties.
My way back to the villa lets me digest the conversation with Solange. This magazine doesn’t just belong to her. I’m responsible for it too. And when I agreed to be editor, I agreed to making each iteration the best it can be. The rest of the walk, I draft ideas to try out for the next issue. Put myself in the tourist point of view. Meet them where they are. In the driveway, I see Jamie’s refurbished red Porsche. I know what to do.