Chapter Six
Six
The Boston branch of Melanie Joan’s New York–based publisher, Scepter Books, was situated on the top floor of a six-story Federal-style building on Farnsworth Street.
I’d never been there. Neither had Melanie Joan.
She’d visited the New York offices, she’d told me in the car, usually to sign books.
“A month before my pub date, I sign hundreds of first editions,” she’d explained.
“In turn, they serve me potato chips and beluga caviar, and mimosas, made with Dom, of course.”
On Farnsworth Street, however, the only thing getting served was attitude.
The receptionist was a guy in his mid- to late twenties with delicate features, cultivated stubble, and purposefully mussed brown hair.
He wore horn-rimmed glasses, a white oxford with an open collar, and a Harris Tweed jacket that likely had elbow patches.
He could have stepped out of a Ralph Lauren catalog were it not for the expression on his face—like he smelled something decomposing. “Oh,” he said to Melanie Joan. “Hello.”
“Melanie Joan Hall and Sunny Randall,” Melanie Joan said. “Here to see Evan Woodrow.”
The receptionist nodded. Grudgingly, he stood up. “Follow me,” he said.
“Do we have to?” I smiled at him.
He didn’t smile back.
The hallway was dotted with framed bestselling book covers—most all of which had been written by Melanie Joan.
The receptionist completely ignored them—and us.
It made me angry. Here she was, essentially signing this kid’s paychecks, yet he was treating Melanie Joan with the cordiality of a prison guard.
All because she’d tied one on and typed the c-word into an amateur critic’s comments section.
That was what got a world-famous author canceled these days? I was no expert on the publishing industry, but it seemed to me that if Melanie Joan had been a man, she might have gotten a little more sympathy from Elbow Patches here.
Once we got to the end of the hall, he turned to the door on the right and knocked softly. “Yes?” a man’s voice called out.
“Melanie Joan Hall is here.” Elbow Patches said my friend’s name as though it left a bad taste in his mouth. I was so offended on her behalf that I barely noticed the fact that he hadn’t mentioned me at all.
“Come on in, Melanie Joan,” said the voice, which I presumed was that of her editor, Evan Woodrow. Compared to the receptionist, he sounded downright friendly.
Melanie Joan moved past Elbow Patches and opened the door. I followed, knocking into him in a way that could have passed for an accident. Maybe.
—
Evan Woodrow’s office was very clean and bright, with a nice view of the street outside and a few plaques on the walls—awards of some sort.
His desk was exceptionally tidy. Not a pen out of place.
Next to his computer sat a short stack of bound manuscripts that looked untouched.
No framed pictures. Nothing personal of any sort.
It made me wonder how much time Woodrow actually spent in here.
“Sunny Randall,” he said, once we were seated across from his desk. “Haven’t I seen that name in the news?”
Woodrow was a wan, sallow-faced man with a sparse comb-over. He wore a rumpled shirt with coffee stains on the front and thick glasses that made his eyes look like fried eggs. He may have been Melanie Joan’s longtime editor, but, sartorially speaking, he couldn’t have been less compatible.
“Sunny’s been in the news a lot,” Melanie Joan said. “She’s one of Boston’s premier private detectives.”
“That’s nice,” Woodrow said.
“Thanks,” I said.
He looked at Melanie Joan. “Is Sunny acting as your lawyer?”
“What? No. Why would I need a lawyer?”
“Well, then,” he said, “you brought a private detective to my office because…”
“Sunny has graciously agreed to track down Book Babe so we can jump into damage control before publication,” she said. “I’ve got a plan, Evan. A good one.” She started to elaborate, but Woodrow cut her off.
“Listen, I’m not going to waste your time, Melanie Joan.”
“What?” Melanie Joan said.
“You know what a fan I am of your work, and you’ve done very well for Scepter. But…”
“But?” Melanie Joan said.
“Have you been online at all?” he said. “Since this morning?”
“I mean—”
“Have you read the news?”
She shook her head.
He turned his computer screen so that we could see what was on it: an article from the New York Post, headlined The Fall of Hall.
“Oh…” Melanie Joan said.
“It’s just one article,” I said.
He tapped his keyboard, and another article popped up, this one from Time magazine online: Melanie Joan Hall Shows the World Her Ugly Side.
I cleared my throat. “Must be a slow news day,” I said.
Evan Woodrow said nothing. Melanie Joan stared at the screen as though she’d forgotten how to blink.
“I respect you too much to lie to you,” Evan Woodrow said. “The powers that be aren’t sure your memoir can survive this scandal.”
“Oh, God,” Melanie Joan said.
“You’re kidding, right?” I said.
“I wish I was, but the truth is, Melanie Joan’s sales aren’t what they used to be. And now that she’s trashed a highly influential critic—”
“Oh, come on,” Melanie Joan said. “My sales are excellent. Do you have any idea how much fan mail I get?”
Woodrow sighed. “It’s not your fault,” he said. “It’s just that your fans are aging out. There’s a new generation of romance readers, and they’d rather spend their cash on Colleen Hoover or Leila Donnelly.”
“Fuck Leila Donnelly,” Melanie Joan said.
“Melanie Joan,” Woodrow said.
“Who is Leila Donnelly?” I said.
“She has seven books on the New York Times Bestseller List,” Woodrow said. “Three of them have been on there for more than a year.” He raised his eyebrows and dropped his jaw, as though he was in awe of my ignorance.
“I read mostly nonfiction,” I said. “Except for Melanie Joan. I’ve read all her books.”
“Leila Donnelly is terrible,” Melanie Joan said. “Her characters are simps. Her romances are degrading. Her books are an insult to women. To all people who can read, quite frankly.”
“Well, Greg feels differently.”
“Who’s Greg?” I said.
“Greg Scepter,” Melanie Joan said.
“As in Scepter Books?”
Woodrow nodded.
“Unusual last name,” I said.
“A fitting one, though.”
“His mother, Gloria, was the true Scepter of Scepter Books, rest in peace,” Melanie Joan said. “I doubt little Greggie has read anything longer than a spreadsheet.”
“We’re publishing Leila Donnelly now,” Woodrow said.
“What?” Melanie Joan said.
“She just signed a five-book deal with Scepter. It hasn’t been announced.”
“Un. Fucking. Believable,” Melanie Joan said.
“My point is, Book Babe was one of her first champions,” Woodrow said.
“Donnelly was self-published. Reclusive as can be. No social media presence whatsoever. But then Book Babe posted a five-star review of a book of hers called The Heartbeat Chronicles and it became an instant bestseller. Like it or not, that’s power. ”
“I’ve still never heard of her,” I said.
“Look, there isn’t any way to soften this,” Woodrow said. “Barring some type of miracle, we’re pulling your memoir.”
Melanie Joan gasped audibly.
“What does that mean?” I said.
Again with the awestruck face. “We’re pausing publication,” he said.
“Really?” I said.
“For now,” he said.
Melanie Joan gaped at Woodrow. “How can you do this to me?” she said. “After all I’ve done for you?”
“I’m truly sorry,” Woodrow said. “But it isn’t my decision.”
Melanie Joan’s lip trembled. “You were…You were an editorial assistant when I met you. A child. I…I made your entire career.”
“A child?” I said. “Him?”
“You’d never know it to look at the two of us today,” Evan Woodrow said.
“No,” I said. “You definitely wouldn’t.”
“Yeah, well. I work at my appearance,” Melanie Joan said. “Evan doesn’t have to because he isn’t a public figure.”
“You work at everything,” I said. “It’s one of the things that makes you one of the truly great writers.” I glanced at Woodrow. If what I’d said had registered at all, those sunny-side-up eyes didn’t show it.
Full disclosure: That thing I’d said about reading all of Melanie Joan’s books had been a lie.
Years ago, I’d dipped into A Girl and Not a God, but I hadn’t been able to make it through the first chapter.
That didn’t matter, though. What had always impressed me about Melanie Joan Hall—what I stood in awe of—was that she didn’t care whether people like me read her books or not.
She knew her audience. She respected them.
And every day she worked hard to reach them, entertain them, satisfy them.
“Who knows?” Woodrow said. “Maybe when BookBabeGate dies down, we can reconsider…”
“Oh, shut up, Evan,” Melanie Joan said. She stood up. She picked up her hat and opened the door.
Melanie Joan left Evan Woodrow’s office. I followed her out.
“I wish it didn’t have to be this way,” Woodrow called out as I closed the door, “but this new breed of critics. The TikTokers and the online reviewers, Book Babe especially. They wield the sword.”
“Wield this,” I said. I was pretty sure he didn’t hear me.
Melanie Joan didn’t say a word until we were in the elevator and the doors had closed. “I guess you’re off the hook,” she said.
“No, I’m not,” I said. “I’m going to find Book Babe for you.”
“But it doesn’t matter,” she said. “Evan said—”
“Evan can fuck right off,” I said.
Melanie Joan turned to me, a smile on her face that could melt hearts, change minds, and sell books by the millions. “That’s my girl,” she said.