Death By Chick Lit (13 page)

“Not ‘baby dust’?” asked Lola.

“Yeah, well, for that they have special little sparkly emoticons. But get this.” Sylvie fished a book out of her bag. It was a bound galley, the prepublication version of a book that gets sent out to reviewers. She handed it to Lola.

“It’s all about how the longer we wait to have kids, distracted by selfish things like having careers or finding someone we’d actually like to reproduce with, the lower our chances of ever getting pregnant sink, and so when our society collapses it’ll be our fault.”

“I hate people,” said Lola.

“Me, too,” said Sylvie. “As if we’re not freaking
trying
. . . those of us who are, I mean,” said Sylvie. She thought for a second. “Remember what it was like to be single?”

“Nope!” said Lola. “Kidding.”

“Okay, it’s like that, all over again. You feel like the different one, the one that something’s wrong with, the kid who’s still carrying tampons in her backpack while everyone else is smiling knowingly and beatifically about the special secret they share.”

“Babies are the new husbands,” said Lola.

“Exactly.” Sylvie sighed and smiled. “And remember how when you were single you were weird, but if you were looking you were desperate?”

Lola nodded.

“It’s the same. If you don’t have a baby you’re weird—I mean, I don’t mean
you
you are weird, I mean
you,
you know what I mean—but if you’re trying you’re desperate and panicky and sharing way too much about cervical mucus and liable to steal someone’s stroller on the subway.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Lola. “Totally ridiculous.”

Am I weird?

Twenty-two

Lola hugged Sylvie good-bye, vowing to hang out with her more often. She turned toward the subway. She had a lot to think about on the way home.

Hey look, it’s Leo. Or at least one of his lackeys. Lola had spotted the Concrete Jungle truck—actually, one of those new “green” SUVs, a custom Cadillac Escarole. It was parked outside yet another hip publisher in a converted loft space—Jitney Books, Lola believed it was—between a sleek-looking day spa and a store that, as far as Lola could tell, sold only umbrellas.

I should hang out for a sec to see if Leo shows up, just in case. It’s starting to feel summer-sticky already, Lola thought, looking up at a washed-out sky; given that it’s the weekend, who knows what trains are running which direction, when. And if anyone will give me a ride home, it’s Leo.

And here he comes. It’s a rare man who looks good in shorts, thought Lola. He was working a knee-length pair of khakis, yet somehow did not, like so many others, look like little frat boy Fauntleroy. His tailored cotton shirt, spendy leather mandals, and lack of backwards baseball cap definitely helped.

“Hey, Lola!” Leo took off his sunglasses to say hello. “How are you holding up?”

“Hey, Leo. You know. Eh.”

“I do know,” he said. “Need a lift?”

“After hearing that Honey Porter’s got a book coming out, too? Yes,” said Lola.

“Damn her!” Leo laughed. “Would my picking you up be just the pick-me-up you need?”

“No way are you going all the way to NoWay.”

“Why not?” said Leo. “Just finished a big project—a narcissus pool at that spa, sorta my joke with myself—so I could use a break.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’m serious. Hop in.”

This guy is awesome. What is Annabel
thinking
?

Lola reached for her phone as Leo cleared some tools off the passenger seat. “I’m just gonna give Annabel a call, tell her about the latest insanity,” she said, belting herself in with her free hand. “You can say hi from the driver’s seat without taking your eyes off the road.”

“Hey, you know what, Lola? Give her like an hour. I just—I know she’s still napping.”

“Okay,” said Lola, shrugging. Well, that’s awful sweet. As she slipped her phone away, something in the passenger side mirror caught her eye. She whirled in her seat, the belt instantly reddening her neck.

Reading Guy had just finished scribbling something—Leo’s license number? A goddamn book idea?—on a small pad. He stuffed it into a pocket, turned on his heel, and ran down a nearby staircase to the subway.

What on earth?

“Sorry! Hang on,” Lola barked. She was out the door, down the stairs, and through the turnstile in moments, swiping her MetroCard as she flew. The moment she reached the subway platform, the train doors closed. The station was deserted.

Being followed just cost me two bucks, thought Lola.

Being followed?

Should I really flatter myself?

Could it indeed be that my book
has
been successful enough to merit my violent death?

In broad daylight?

Right. Get over yourself, Lola Somerville.

Lola headed back through the turnstile, only then noticing the hand-markered sign reading: “Every other J train running on the G line, unless alternate side parking suspended.” In New York subway language, this message translated roughly as, “You’ll be two hours late,” or,
“Mmwwwahahah!”

Huh. At least Reading Guy will never, ever get where he needs to go. Lola suppressed yet another smile. Come on, Somerville, this is serious business. Four sightings is no coincidence; four sightings interspersed with two murders is no joke. But still: what on earth could Reading Guy want with me? I
honestly
don’t think he is trying to kill me, thought Lola.

She paused on the stairs, gripping the grimy handrail.

Yet.

Twenty-three

Lola’s phone rang as soon as she got aboveground. “Annabel! How ya feeling?”

“Better than that time in Peru with the giardia, thanks,” said Annabel. “But listen, Lo, I need your help.”

“Bella, you make better cheese grits than I do at this point.” Their preferred hangover helper.

“No, it’s not about grits—”

“Paella?” Lola reached Leo’s van, the door still open as she’d left it. Of course he’d waited. “Sorry about that,” she told him. “Annabel,” she added, pointing to the phone. She explained to Annabel where she was.

“Oh, awesome, so you are still in Manhattan. I just realized I—I kinda need . . .” Lola didn’t think she’d ever heard Annabel sound so tentative. “. . . I need to ask you a giant favor.”

Finally, thought Lola.
Finally
. She turned toward the street and whispered, “You want me to take the subway so you and Leo can, like,
hang out
?”

Annabel paused.

Uh oh.

“Noooo,” said Annabel.

Goddammit, Somerville.

“See, in all the excitement I totally forgot that Poncho needs to see a proposal,” Annabel said. “For the book. The deal’s as good as done, but they want something in writing from me anyway.”

Lola knew the drill. It’s just that for her, the something in writing came
before
the done deal. And the done deal didn’t always come after the something in writing.

“And they need it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” said Lola.

“Yeah,” said Annabel. “By lunchtime. They’re taking me to Qwerty.”

“Qwerty!” The beyond-hot downtown publishing hangout that felt like it should be uptown (the likes of which, in fact, had driven many of its neighborhood’s residents to Brooklyn, where they clung to their last shred of hope of keeping it real). “And you need my help deciding whether it’s morally acceptable to order a $110 hamburger?” Lola asked.

Qwerty’s signature dish was a Kobe-beef burger filled with foie gras, black truffles, and Beluga caviar, served with bald-eagle egg aioli and a sprinkling of gold dust.

Qwerty.
Jesus.

“Well—” said Annabel.

“Yes,” said Lola. “Yes, it is. If you save me some fries.” Crisped in lobster oil, this Lola knew.

“Actually, Lo, it’s the proposal. I’ve never done such a thing. I don’t know where to start,” said Annabel. “Other than calling you. I know my timing sucks ass—but I was wondering if you could just sit with me for an hour or two and help me get started?”

I cannot believe she gets to go to Qwerty with
my
Cyranoed proposal.

“Hey, Leo?” said Lola. “Thank you so much for waiting, but it looks like I’m not gonna need that ride after all.”

Twenty-four

Lola walked toward Laptop, the West Village bar known for welcoming writers who camped out all day with their “novels.” (Though since it also offered wireless access, Lola suspected most used the time to e-mail their parents to ask for money.) She’d declined Leo’s offer of a ride uptown in order to give herself a brief chance to think—and to rally herself into a helping mood.

I have to,
have to
do this for Annabel, thought Lola, even though I was really hoping not to have to think about her book deal until I landed mine. I
cannot
be the married best friend who blows her off out of petty competition and jealousy just to go home and hang out with my husband. I just can’t.

And bottom line: she’s Annabel. She’d do it for me.

 
 
“Hey wait, where’d you get the laptop?” Lola asked, scooting a chair up to the zinc table. Annabel had done most of her blogging from a Mac at a Kinko’s. Free. The manager was also a bass player; they’d had a thing.

“Leo,” Annabel said. “Loaner. He’s got like a ton of them.”

“Tell me about it,” said Lola. “Our place looks like the Apple Store.”

Something flickered across Annabel’s face. “Leo’s place,” she said, “looks like Johnny Appleseed’s.”

Lola inwardly smacked herself. Right. I always forget. Annabel and Leo are not an “our place” couple. Totally misplaced bond-over-boyfriends moment.

“To the hair of the dog,” she said, raising her glass, hoping Annabel would let it go, and wondering just how much beer she was going to drink that day. Clink. “And, Bella,” she smiled extra-wide, “to your good fortune.”

“You mean the best friend who’s totally bailing me out?” Annabel smiled.

Am I just paranoid, Lola wondered, or was that a little forced?

They hunkered down for a while, brainstorming the intro and the marketing suggestions and a list of chapters, pausing only for Annabel to hop up for another round of Bowery pilsner. Lola tapped in a few changes to what they’d written. Wow, she thought, I really do know what I’m doing. That, actually, is a little reassuring.

Annabel came back with the beer.

How
did she manage to look so hot in overalls?

“Love that!” Annabel said, putting down the glasses. “On the house!”

“How come?” asked Lola, pretty much knowing the answer. Annabel shrugged. “Just ’cause,” she said. She gave the bartender an almost imperceptible smile. Lola thanked every god she could think of that her single days as the “cute friend” were over.

Lola’s phone rang. Then so did Annabel’s.

“Hey, sweetie,” said Lola. “Doug,” she mouthed to Annabel, raising her “gimme a sec” finger.

“Hey, dude,” said Annabel. “Leo,” she mouthed to Lola.

Lola gave Annabel a knowing, approving glance. How cute! Both their boys—
dammit
! Again she’d forgotten that Leo was only her imaginary boyfriend. Annabel’s imaginary boyfriend. In
Lola’s
imagination.

She told Doug when she thought she’d be home. “Bye, swee’pea.”

Annabel was already off the phone with Leo. “You guys are so cute and happy, just in that everyday, lives-woven-together kind of way,” she said.

No, no, no we’re not!
Lola wanted to say. I mean, we are, but you know. No flaunting. Please don’t let her think I got all cute and happy right in her face.

“I mean, when Leo ‘calls to check in,’ it’s a little needy,” Annabel went on, looking right at Lola. “When Doug does, it’s sweet. Am I right?”

“All I know about being married,” said Lola, dodging, “is that I’ll never have to hear ‘Your life is
so Sex and the City
!’ again.”

“I hear you,” said Annabel. “Though I honestly never tire of ‘Your life is so
Oz
!’ ”

One more beer later, they got to a stopping point on the proposal. “I’m good with the rest,” said Annabel. “I wasn’t sure you’d—Lola, thank you so much. Really.”

“Bella, of course,” said Lola, a little woozy, glad she’d had seconds of the penne. “E-mail it to me when you’re
done
done if you want Doug to print it out all fancy.”

Lola hugged Annabel good-bye. You know, she thought, that didn’t suck as much as I thought it would. Always nice to be needed, I guess.

Now to remind my poor husband how that feels.

Twenty-five

Lola dropped her keys in the dish by the door.

“Sweetie?”

“Sweetie, it’s me.”

“Lola.”

No response.

“Lola Somerville? From the wedding?”

There was music coming from the kitchen, something Lola was pretty sure she recognized as the soundtrack from
The Day the Earth Stood Still
, which was something Lola was pretty sure she’d never recognize if she weren’t married to Douglas B. Garfield.

Her husband was just setting down a screwdriver as she walked in, slipping her bag from her shoulder.

“Hi, Pumpkin Pie,” he said, enveloping her in a hug. She loved it when he called her that.

“Klaatu barada nikto.”
One good turn deserves another. She wasn’t sure exactly what it meant, but it had stopped a robot from destroying the world.

“Ooh, say it again,” he murmured.

“
Klaatu
—wait.” Something behind Doug had caught her eye. “Is that a computer?” Lola asked.

Doug stepped aside proudly. “I thought it would be good to have one in the kitchen. You know, like a virtual cookbook, plus, see, they’re all networked together so we can play music from any hard drive, and—”