The Elizas: A Novel(28)

“How are they going to figure it out?” I cry, feeling a clutch in my chest. “Do I have to talk to them?”

“Absolutely not. I don’t want you giving away anything about the book before it comes out. I think it should be a huge mystery—who is this Eliza person? Is her book true or false?”

“The book is false!” I almost scream.

“I know that. I’m just saying, people will wonder now. You officially have mystique. The marketing and publicity teams are over the moon. And then, once the book drops in stores, you’ll go on a tour.”

“A tour?” I repeat, ludicrously, as if I’ve never heard the term.

“Signings. Readings. Q and As.” She clucks her tongue. “Most debut authors don’t even get an offer to do a tour. This is a big deal. Be happy!”

I can already feel the panic coming on. “But what if people start asking me crazy questions during the events? Like, personal things? Things I don’t want to answer?”

Laura chuckles. “Then don’t answer them. It’s not like this is some sort of test where you have to fill in all the blanks. But you really should do a tour, Eliza. The book business is about building relationships. You can’t operate in a vacuum.”

“Thomas Pynchon does,” I babble. It’s the only thing I know about the author. I haven’t even read any of his books. I started V., but I read the same page about twenty times, thinking there was some sort of major printing-press mistake and all the sentences had been rearranged. The second page was just the same.

Laura has been saying something about Thomas Pynchon that I haven’t heard. I catch up with the conversation as she’s going “—at least drum up some social media presence, okay? Instagram. Facebook. Snapchat. I don’t care. Say something about Dorothy and Dot, your inspiration for the characters. I bet after your pool fiasco you have a lot of new friend requests. And look, I hate to drop this on you, but you know your editor, Posey? She’s in LA right now. She wants to have lunch with you at the Ruby Slipper Café—I think it’s in Beverly Hills. It’s probably to talk strategy about the pool thing and how you can drum up even more buzz for the book. Can you do today at 12:30? She’ll be expecting you.”

“I didn’t fall into that pool to drum up buzz for the book,” I say quietly. “I need you to understand that.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Laura assures me. “But I’ll take that as a yes about meeting Posey. Now, listen, please be on time, because Posey is very busy.” I hear her other line ringing. “Good luck, darling! She’s going to love you.”

Before I can respond, she bids me adieu and hangs up. And I stare at the phone and then at the gray morning sky out the window, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

My gaze falls to the four large boxes on the floor. I’d received them on Saturday, the day I left for the Tranquility. Each bears my publisher’s logo on the side; just beneath that, in joyless font, it reads: The Dots, Eliza Fontaine. I sit up, lean forward, and pull one box toward me. It doesn’t take much of an effort to pry the cardboard flap open with my fingernails and wrench the top copy free.

The book feels heavy in my hands. The pages, deckle-edged, are pleasing to touch with the tips of my fingers, and the paper gives off a heavenly smell. The cover is slick and pink, like the inside of a mouth, with two dark-haired women, one taller, one smaller, standing side by side. Dot and Dorothy. My two main characters.

I think about something I can write about them on social media. Something innocuous. Most of what I’ve posted on Instagram are pictures of scary dolls and figurines I’ve seen at junk shops. But today, I hold a copy of my book up to my face, snap a picture, and post it on Instagram. T minus four weeks, I write as the caption. I don’t know what else to say.

But just as Laura has predicted, an account whose name is a jumble of letters and numbers gives me a like. So do three others. And then up pops a comment: Why’d you jump into that pool?

I swallow hard and look at my book again. I turn to my author photo on the back flap. It’s my face—pale, red-lipped, and saucy—and it’s my hair, wild and black—but it doesn’t really look like me. It looks like someone with confidence, panache. Someone who knows what the hell she’s doing. Someone who wouldn’t get shoved into a pool.

I don’t know what happened, I mentally compose as a response to the post. But hopefully, soon, I will.

? ? ?

On my way to the Ruby Slipper Café, which is on the most touristy stretch of Beverly Drive, I text Desmond Wells to ask if he got a response from the Palm Springs PD yet. It’s been enough time. Most people would get a call back already. But Desmond doesn’t reply. I feel snubbed. What’s that guy got to do right now that’s better than talking to me?

My phone rings again, startling me. I look at the screen. It’s Gabby.

“What’s up?” she says cheerfully when I say a cautious hello.

I stop in front of a soap store that has a chubby cherub as its logo. “Not much. You?”

“Oh, just working. Lots to catch up on from what I missed yesterday.”

I can hear Gabby’s keyboard clacking in the background. I bet she’s talking to me on a headset. “So I’m just making sure you’re . . . okay. Are you at home right now?”