Chapter Twenty-Five
Twenty-five
I had to hand it to Melanie Joan. You could tie her down, put her under surveillance, and lock her in a hotel room without access to the outside world—and she would still find a way to fuck up her life.
Having failed two more times to wrestle her phone away from Harold and Tony, Melanie Joan had stayed up well past dawn, waiting for both of them to nod off at the same time.
And at about six a.m. by Tony’s estimate, she’d seized the opportunity.
Somehow she’d managed to dress, sneak out of the hotel, get a ride to the studio where Good Morning Boston was shot in front of a live audience, and convince the host, Sam Sharpe—who happened to be Spike’s ex—to put her on the air.
I had Tony on speakerphone. He’d gotten a call from Sam’s producer just as the interview was about to start, and so all either one of us had time to do was brace ourselves and watch. It was like watching a ten-car pileup in slow motion.
Melanie Joan spent two solid minutes trashing Leila Donnelly, while Sam listened, his mouth hanging open in a state of what appeared to be bemused shock.
“I take pains to write strong and admirable female characters,” she was telling him now.
“She writes weak-kneed simpletons. It’s as though she’s a man who can’t get it up and resents all women as a result. ”
“Oh, fuck me stupid,” Tony said.
“Took the words right out of my mouth,” I said.
“Melanie Joan, don’t you think that’s a little harsh?” Sam said, once the live audience stopped booing. “Leila Donnelly is currently the top-selling romance writer in the U.S., and one of the top three bestselling—”
“Her books are insulting to all women,” Melanie Joan said.
“With all due respect,” Sam said. “My Last First Love sold a million copies in its first week of release. And from what I hear, the vast majority of her readers are female. If her books are so insulting to women, then there must be a lot of women out there who love to be insulted.”
Sam’s audience cheered. He beamed at them. “Do you guys agree?” he said.
“Yes!” a group of women responded.
“Anyway, I enjoy Leila Donnelly’s books,” Sam said. “And I hear she just signed with your publisher.” He gave Melanie Joan a sly look. “I suppose you two touring together is out of the question?”
A few guffaws erupted from the audience.
Melanie Joan sat there, stone-faced. I thought about what my dad had suggested, about getting her in front of her beloved fans to offer a public apology to Book Babe.
She’d really have to humble herself, he’d said last night.
It felt more than a little ironic now. The only one humbling Melanie Joan was Sam.
“Oh, great,” Tony said. “Now Greg Scepter is calling me.”
“Oh, no,” I said.
“I’d say wish me luck, but what would be the point?” Tony said.
“It does feel like a foregone conclusion,” I said.
As we ended our conversation, Melanie Joan was telling Sam that she was disappointed in him, in his show, and in his audience. “It was a mistake coming here,” she said.
It was the one thing she’d said that was indisputable.
My phone rang. It was Spike. “Are you watching this?” he said.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” I said. The positive aspect to this interview was that it seemed to be over. Sam was thanking Melanie Joan for joining him. I turned off the TV.
“I want to punch Sam in the face,” Spike said. “Should I?”
“I don’t think it would be helpful.”
“No, but it would feel good,” he said. “To me, not him.”
“It would probably feel good to me, too.”
Rosie was still in my bed, snoring away. I glanced at the clock on my wall. It wasn’t even seven-ten a.m. yet. “Wait, what are you doing up so early?”
“You promise you won’t get mad at me?” Spike said.
I frowned. “Why would I get mad at you?”
“Because,” he said. “I’m here at the studio with Melanie Joan. I’m the idiot who gave her a ride.”