“Anyway,” Max went on, “I figured since that book sold so well, I’d write another one.”
The Queens from Kings County, Sally considered. The second book in the series.
Max went on.
“Lo and behold, that one also sold really well and so then I wrote another one. The rest is history. Now I’m Jillian Ashley, one of the top lesfic writers in the universe.”
Max sat back with his left arm on the back of the seat, looking patiently but expectantly at Sally, indicating he was done with his tale.
This was all so surreal to Sally. Jillian Ashley was important to her. During the depths of the Covid pandemic, reading and sometimes re-reading Jillian Ashley books had helped her deal with the enforced isolation because of the quarantine in California. Even now, with the quarantine long over and most Covid restrictions relaxed because of the distribution of the vaccine, Sally still often pulled up a Jillian Ashley novel to read even though by now she practically had the first three books memorized.
But that’s what Jillian Ashley meant to her. Jillian Ashley was like comfort food to Sally—something she returned to when she just needed to feel centered and cozy and safe. The women in a Jillian Ashley novel were just like her. They weren’t fabulously wealthy celebrities or ice-queen CEOs. They were gay women who had jobs and bills and cars which occasionally needed new fan belts and parents that drove them crazy. And because they were just like her, Sally always connected with them.
Now, she suddenly found herself sitting across from the woman who had created those characters. And the woman was a man.
“So, I don’t get it,” Sally began after taking a moment to compose her thoughts. “What do you need my help with?”
“Ah, yes,” Max said, leaning forward again, holding Sally’s eyes with his own. “The crux of the matter.” He took a sip of coffee. “I need you to pretend to be Jillian Ashley.”
Sally, who had just taken her own sip of coffee, nearly choked to death on it and spent a few embarrassing moments hacking like a cat about to upchuck a hairball. When she finally gained control again, red-faced, with tears streaming out of her eyes, she dabbed at her eyes with a napkin and said, “What are you talking about?”
“I got an email the other day from one of those pod people…”
“Pod people?” Sally interrupted.
“Yeah, you know, the ones with the podcasts. I don’t know what the people who host those are called.”
“Podcasters. Just podcasters.”
“Alright, fine. Anyway, this podcaster contacted me—well, she contacted Jillian—begging Jillian to come on her show. Now, normally I’d say no—Jillian always says no to things like that, for obvious reasons—but now I feel she can’t do that anymore. This whole Jillian Ashley thing has just gotten so big. I mean, do you have any idea how popular she is?”
“Yeah, Max, I do! I’m a lesbian!”
“Anyway, if Jillian doesn’t start doing things like podcasts or YouTube interviews, people are going to start getting suspicious and might do some digging around, and so I need someone to pretend to be her.”
Sally’s eyebrows shot up.
“Max, I’m not an actress!”
“I know, that’s perfect! If you were, you might come off as a fake.”
“I will be a fake!”
“You don’t have to worry about anything. During any interview you do, I will be there next to you telling you exactly what to say.”
“How many will I have to do?” she asked.
Max shrugged.
“Who knows? Not a lot. I don’t want to overexpose her. The reclusiveness thing works for her. I just need you to do enough of these interviews to get Jillian some face-time, show all her fans that there’s a flesh and blood woman behind the books and then I can get her back to being a shadowy figure again.”
Sally sat back and took a deep breath. She needed time to wrap her mind around all this.
“God, Max, it just sounds so deceitful…”
“I’ll give you twenty percent of the royalties I earn from Jillian’s books,” Max stated.
Sally’s mouth dropped open.