The Dirty Book Club(81)

Or she could jump ahead to the rich couple in #5F. How she sold her New York apartment to them last September (even signed the contract in pen!), and used the money to buy the Good Book back from Verizon. And Addie, of course, who, with the help of her mother, Marjorie, has been keeping the store profitable with a tasteful X-rated section (batteries included), so she could reimburse M.J. for the loan.

Then there was Dan, her favorite ex-boyfriend and occasional roommate (he preferred a thatched-roofed mud hut in Central Africa to an ocean-front cottage in Pearl Beach), who flew twenty-three hours to cheer her on. Her dear friend Jules, the lead makeup artist for Goddard Cosmetics, who spent hours perfecting M.J.’s “natural” look for tonight’s event. Easton, Jules’s boyfriend, who also happens to be the reason why the Good Book has a liquor license and a full-time bartender who responds “As you wish” to his customer’s requests. Britt, who folded M.J. into her loving family and lets her babysit the twins each time she and Paul jet off to one of his job sites. Or that little girl inside her who never stopped tugging.

She could ask Gloria, Liddy, Dot, and Marjorie to stand up. Applaud them for coming all the way from France to be with her tonight, and for bravely letting her share their secrets with the world. She could thank them for showing her the power of female friendship, the magic of the full moon, and how to get out from under Fortune’s fucked-up wheel.

But M.J., still speechless, couldn’t find the words.

She had poured them all into The Dirty Book Club: the novel she had spent the past year writing. The one she now held in her clammy hand and would sign after tonight’s presentation. Everything she felt and everything she wanted to say was already inside.

And so she opened the cover, flipped past the dedication to January, August, and April Stark, and then kicked off her book tour by reading the first chapter . . .

“?‘If Gloria Golden were being honest, she’d say that Potluck Fridays weren’t really about making the most of her newly renovated kitchen. Nor were they an excuse to connect with Dot, Liddy, and Marjorie, since best friends didn’t need excuses. Honest Gloria would say their weekly get-togethers were the one thing she could rely on . . .’?”





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


DID YOU ENJOY The Dirty Book Club? Detest it? Either way blame my editor, Karen Kosztolnyik. Without her you would not be reading this. Literally. It took four years for me to deliver this novel (it was supposed to take one), and there was Karen, the skilled midwife, guiding, listening, advising, enthusing, trusting, and waiting when most others would have lost patience and let me bleed out. Karen, you believed in this novel when tequila and I pitched it to you over the phone from Mexico—and you never stopped believing. (Well, maybe you did but you never told me, so thank you.) Waiting along with you, or should I say “champing at the bit,” was the publisher of Gallery Books, Jen Bergstrom and the president, Louise Burke; your collective patience tops my gratitude list on a daily basis.

I am also grateful for my editor, Kate Dresser, who pushed it over the finish line, and the associate publisher, Jen Long; subsidiary rights director, Paul O’Halloran; and the marketing crew: Wendy Sheanin, Liz Psaltis, Abby Zidle, Diana Velasquez, and Mackenzie Hickey, who, along with their hardworking teams, managed to let you know this novel existed. Grateful still for the publicity director, Jennifer Robinson; art director, Lisa Litwack; and editorial assistant, Molly Gregory, for connecting us all.

And then there’s my meticulous copy editor, Erica Ferguson, who righted every misplaced comma, flagged every continuity error, and let me know that “three inches of exposed butt crack was too much butt crack”; and my production editor, Sherry Wasserman, who made sure it stayed that way. Thank you, Erica and Sherry. My thanks also to Audrey Sussman and Katie Haigler for their indispensable editorial backup.

Thank you always to Richard Abate, my straight-talking agent and friend of fifteen years (FUPM). Thank you to my longtime lawyer, Alex Kohner, for always having my back and for taking the time to craft my margaritas from scratch. Thank you, Hallie Jones and Henri Maddocks, my former assistants, who helped weed through all the terrible ideas, character names, and unnecessary mechanical-bull scenes until I arrived at the right ones.

Thank you to Clay Tarver for spending many happy hours helping me retool chapters, writing Bs beside the jokes that could be better, and for tolerating my mood swings—of which there were many—while I birthed this labor of love.

Thank you to Rey Anthony for being brave enough to write The Housewife’s Handbook on Selective Promiscuity. Thank you, E. L. James, for reminding women that sex can be a wonderful adventure with your Fifty Shades trilogy. Thank you, Erica Jong, for your seminal and hilarious Fear of Flying. Thank you, Ana?s Nin, for the beautifully written, fearlessly honest Henry and June. Thank you, Jenna Jameson and Neil Strauss, for the candid and wildly entertaining How to Make Love Like a Porn Star: A Cautionary Tale. And thank you, Judy Blume, for writing Forever. It launched my real-life book club, reminded me of the power of first love and the importance of female independence, and that, like Ralph, all penises should have a name.

Thank you to my Canadian family: the Gottliebs, Coopers, Mom, Dad, and Denise. You are always there to cheer me on, make me laugh snot bubbles when I’m crying, and give me hell for not returning calls. That’s love. Thank you to my American family: the Harrisons, Regans, and Foxes for your unwavering support, not only in my professional life but also in my personal life. Talk about gratitude. Thank you, Kevin Harrison, for being my one-stop surf source and for drinking milk with sushi—I couldn’t have possibly made that up.