Lies She Told(38)

I glance at my reflection in an antique wall mirror beside the bar. My eyes are lined in kohl and painted with extra mascara. My lips are scarlet. I look ready for something. Anything.

Trevor stops midsentence to remind his famous friends of my much less well-known byline. “Brad, you remember Liza.” He turns to Harrison. “This is one of our authors, Liza Cole.”

I half-hug Pickney first. He leans forward to receive my back pat, too cool to rise yet sufficiently generous to allow some familiarity. “Brad, it’s been awhile. Congratulations on your latest.” Since I wrote through the awards ceremony, I’m guessing that he won Master of Suspense. It’s an educated assumption. He’s accepted the award for three straight years. And even if he didn’t get it, there’s never a dearth of reasons to praise Pickney on his latest novel.

Pickney accepts my compliment with practiced humility. He congratulates me on my newest book without saying anything more about it. I’m sure he hasn’t read it. Given the reviews, I’m almost thankful.

Trevor asks if I’d like a drink, saving me from sharing any details about my bland addition to the larger canon. Before I respond, he calls over the bartender and orders a gimlet, my go-to cocktail at every conference. I’m flattered that he remembers.

Harrison is grinning in that awkward way folks have when they don’t remember somebody but think they should. I bestow a bro-hug—half embrace, half back pat—and tell him how nice it is to see him again. As I disengage, Trevor’s forearm brushes my back. He’s reaching for our drinks. Still, the hairs stand up on my neck. I become hyperaware of his presence, of how many inches there are between his body and mine.

“It’s good to see you, too,” Harrison says, regaining his footing. “These things aren’t the same without your face brightening the room.”

I thank him for the compliment and make small talk, throwing in ample flattery for both novelists as I carefully sip my drink. Imbibing to excess isn’t exactly frowned upon in my profession. My own literary heroes would fill a church basement had they not been such unrepentant boozers in real life. Still, technically, I’m working. Plus, I can’t be sure that the stiff drink combined with the hormones won’t make me sick. I don’t want to leave too soon.

Mutual praise meanders into a discussion of beloved new books and detested television dramas, the stuff of idle conversation that, for writers, amounts to shoptalk. Pickney groans about the latest adaptation of Superman heading to the small screen. Hollywood won’t take a significant risk on a new show unless it’s adding to a masked-man franchise. Shame, really, since he had high hopes for his current series.

“What are you working on now?” he asks me, possibly because he realizes that there’s nothing less sympathy inducing than the complaints of the rich, famous, and ridiculously successful.

“An affair-slash-murder mystery.”

Trevor smiles at me as though he knows a secret. His dark eyes threaten to reveal it. “She won’t say any more,” he says to Pickney. “No outline.”

I attempt a hearty laugh. What comes out is an unappetizing low-cal version. “I like to discover my endings along with the reader.”

Trevor winks. “She wants to keep me in suspense.”

Pickney excuses himself two more drinks in. He’s sorry for being an “old man,” but he must surrender the all-nighters to us “young ’uns.” The apology is nice, albeit unnecessary. We all know that Pickney’s popularity, rather than his age, demands the early bedtime. He’s been chatting up fans and midlist writers like me all day, each of us courting his friendship. Fame must be exhausting.

Once Pickney departs, Harrison becomes increasingly drunk and incredibly forward. He brags about his latest work during a conversation of far better-known authors and tells me that I’d be the perfect female foil for his oversexed trilogy hero. “You’re . . . How do the British say it? A ‘fit bird,’ eh, Trevor?”

To his credit, Trevor pretends not to hear him and calls over the bartender. I parry the remark with some ridiculous segue about the best books having bird references in the titles: To Kill a Mockingbird, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, The Goldfinch, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. Afterward, I feign a yawn and say, speaking of birds, I really need to return to the nest. I’m on an early panel.

Trevor confirms my “packed” schedule, though he must remember that he and Pickney are the only ones with breakfast speeches tomorrow. My sole appearance isn’t until ten. Most likely, he is happy to have me gone so that he can resume convincing Harrison to switch houses.

My fellow writer bestows a tight good-bye hug, way too familiar for someone who needed to be reminded of my name ninety minutes before. I pull away, feeling like a field mouse wresting free from a python. As a result, Trevor gets nothing but a halting wave, which I regret while making my way to the elevators. As I wait for the next car to arrive, I think about penning an e-mail apologizing for my rudeness. Sorry I had to run. Harrison was giving me the heebie-jeebies. Thanks for the drink. What would he write back to that?

The imaginary exchange so engrosses that I almost miss the presence of the man behind me. Once I sense him, my body goes into a full alert. I can tell he’s large, strong, and standing inches closer than he should. There’s latent intent in the lack of space between us. For a moment, I wish I had my gun.