Chapter Thirty-One
That evening Merritt sat in a booth beneath a window overlooking the harbor. The village was situated so that the sea was
largely out of view from the shops and cafés that formed its heart. The harbor was reserved for restaurants and bars like
the one she was in now, sipping on a dry martini, which she had decided was a respectable drink (if a little boring).
She had chosen the bar, the Blue Mollusk, because, though she’d heard of it, she had never heard of anyone she knew actually
going there. Unlike the crab shacks and dives that dotted the street on either side of it, the Blue Mollusk had recently been
redecorated and now featured striking Prussian blue walls, a copper-topped bar, and velvety cushioned booths. In the cloudy,
refracted light of the coast, it was a good place for a clandestine meeting with an author–turned–investigative reporter.
When Ian arrived, Merritt suppressed an eye roll. Under his coat, he wore baggy khakis and a baggy gray button-up, and she
wondered whether he had prepared for this meeting by googling “What do journalists wear?”
“Merritt Pryor,” he said, too loud, from the doorway, before gesturing at the bar in an I’m-going-to-get-a-drink way.
Merritt nodded back and resisted checking her phone. She’d almost brought a book to read but had thought better of it, worried
that it might make its way into Ian’s article. It seemed wiser not to give Ian a chance to describe her in a way that invited
readers to close-read her literary choices. As he stood at the bar now, waiting to order, Merritt went over her plan.
She was going to take control of her story.
She’d start by admitting to having dated Graydon Lyons.
There was no shame in that. On the subject of the book, she had a line prepared: You know, I haven’t read the book, so it’s really impossible for me to say whether Isabel is based off of me or one of the
many grad students it turns out Graydon has been with over the years.
She was proud of that line. It gave the impression of taking the high road, of being unbothered, while also focusing on the
truth that had been unjustly ignored by everyone but Ian—that Graydon Lyons had skeletons in his own closet.
Then—and this was the part she was so eager for—she was going to shift the conversation to her own writing. To what, in the
end, Graydon had not been able to take from her. Always, she had planned to do this, but the exhilarating new kicker was that,
three days prior, Merritt had signed a contract to be represented by someone at the agency where Willa’s literary agent worked.
They’d spoken on the phone twice now, and the woman loved her work. She had the most wonderful ideas for revisions and thought
they would be able to take Merritt’s manuscript to editors in the next two months or so.
After signing, Merritt had emailed her new agent about Ian Hoult’s article and her impending conversation with him. Though
she had new ulterior motives for the conversation, she kept them to herself, and her agent had agreed with her initial plan:
she would tell Ian about the book, in hopes of stirring up interest in the publishing world.
Merritt smiled to herself as she watched the bartender slide Ian his Manhattan. She had heard Graydon talk about other writers
he knew, people he felt had leveraged their relationships with him to land book deals, speaking gigs, professorships. He spoke
of these people with contempt, but only ever privately, always conscious of the need to maintain his image as an evolved,
generous human male.
A year or two from now, Graydon might find some other young woman, whom he would tell about Merritt. He might make up some story about her using his name to climb the ladder, never mind the fact that he’d used her whole identity. But at least Merritt would have a voice.
“I have to say,” Ian said, setting his drink down before lowering his body into his seat, “I was surprised to get your text
after that very serious cease-and-desist letter from the French lawyer.”
“French Canadian,” she corrected.
“Ah,” he said. “Well, and then after the text, I was beginning to doubt you’d ever agree to actually meet.”
Merritt attempted a warm smile, remembering that this man had very nearly asked her on a date the last time she saw him. She
did not care how Ian felt about her, but she was conscious of his power in this situation. She needed to be likable—gross—but she was determined to be strong and self-possessed as well.
“No one likes talking about their bad exes,” she said, lifting her glass, “especially in print. But I think this will help.
Should we drink to Graydon Lyons and his little book?”
Ian’s eyes widened, delighted, and a wicked grin spread across his face. He clearly thought he was going to enjoy this.
“Here, here,” he said, clinking his glass against hers. After a sip, he pulled a notepad and his phone out of the front pocket
on his shirt. “Do you mind if I record?”
“Sure, but there’s just one thing.”
This was the first step of the plan, and it was a crucial one.
“Yes?”
“Can I speak off the record? For a minute or so, tops?”
Ian waited, holding his phone a few inches from his chest and looking a little caught off guard. Merritt reminded herself
he was not quite a real journalist. This might be his first off-the-record experience.
“Fine,” he said, putting his phone face down on the table. “Yes, sure.”
Merritt smiled. She sipped her martini, then put it carefully back on the table before folding her hands together and taking
a big breath.
“All right,” she said, slowly, firmly, likably. “If I’m going to do this, I’m going to need one thing from you.”
“Scheming and making deals, Merritt Pryor, I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“You don’t know me at all.”
Ian’s eyebrows went up, but one coy smile seemed to bring them back to their resting state.
“Oh,” he smirked, “how very mysterious.”
“Yes. And I will remain a mystery to you unless I have your word about what I’m about to ask you. Are we clear?”
Ian thought for a long moment. He leaned back in his seat dramatically and took a sip of his Manhattan before putting his
glass firmly on the table with a clack.
“Okay,” he said, once he’d made her wait what must have been a pleasurably long amount of time for him. “What is it you have
to ask me?”
When Merritt left his house, Whit had put his energy into anything he could come up with that didn’t require thought or feeling.
He took a shower first, then trimmed his beard. He cut his fingernails and toenails. He cleaned the house, paid some bills,
and ordered the Valentines Annie wanted to give her classmates next month.
He picked up Annie, using all the energy he had to be chipper and interested, asking her questions about the day and playing the music she requested in the car, and they had pizza in the living room while watching a movie, and when Annie went to bed, he went to his bedroom, turned on the lamp on his bedside table, and pulled out a stack of papers.
The Fairy in the High Tower. How had she decided on that title?
It didn’t matter. None of this mattered. And yet—well, here he was.
He decided to start at the beginning.