By the time the party was over, I felt like I’d talked to every single person in Manhattan. Some of them had asked questions I’d been unprepared for: Did I have an allowance? Was my name on the bank account? If we were engaged, why hadn’t it been announced publicly? And the most offensive of all, did we actually have sex?
I’d merely gaped at the last questioner, and he’d winked conspiratorially and said, “We do what we must for the almighty dollar.”
The idea that anyone thought they could speak to me that way had shocked me into righteous indignation. I couldn’t imagine who in their right mind wouldn’t want to sleep with Neil, and even if they didn’t, it was none of their business to project it onto me. There was nothing I found more tiresome than the insinuation that I was faking our relationship for money.
Luckily, India had been standing at my side and heard the exchange. As the smug asshole questioner had walked away, fully satisfied at his dig, she’d leaned down and said in a low voice, “Honey, vinegar, something about flies. Whatever you Midwesterners like to say.”
The genuinely nice people far outshone the handful of rude ones. They congratulated me and asked me how Neil was doing now, and told me that I was brave for sticking by him through his experience. Even though I didn’t think I’d been brave at all, I was touched to see how much people seemed to care, when I was a total stranger to them. Some of the M & R employees, who’d read the book in its various stages of production, commented on how well it had turned out, which was nice to hear. I couldn’t be objective from my perspective.
While it wasn’t as horrible as I thought it was going to be, I was glad when the evening started winding down.
“We’d better leave before everyone else does, and you turn into a pumpkin,” India suggested. “A sad little pumpkin who’s the last guest left at her own party.”
“You have such a way with words, India,” Neil said tersely. When he’d been temporarily in charge of Porteras, he and India had bashed heads more than once.
“Let’s go out the back,” she suggested, ignoring his remark. “It went very well tonight, Sophie.”
“I felt like it went well.” I stood up a little taller. “Dare I say, I felt poised.”
“You were very charming,” Neil agreed, looping his arm around my waist. “But how on Earth did you think you were going to be on television, when you can’t talk to a room full of people?”
“You’re right. The TV gig falling through is probably the best thing that could have happened to me.” I’d had massive stage fright in a room of a hundred people. I probably would have peed my pants at the thought of talking to five million.
As we slipped out the backdoor, India said conspiratorially, “I thought it might interest you to know that I’ve handed in my notice at Porteras.”
I looked to Neil, and he raised his eyebrows. “This is the first I’m hearing of it. I don’t run Porteras anymore, that’s all under Valerie’s oversight.”
“Which is why I’m telling Sophie now.” India was still sore over the Elwood & Stern take-over of the magazine where she’d made a name for herself. “I’m leaving to agent full time.”
“Whoa, whoa.” I held up my hands. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with—”
“You’re not my only client. Don’t be absurd. You made a healthy advance, but not enough for me to live on.” She looked both ways up and down the alley, as though the police would be waiting to snatch her up, then reached into her purse and pulled out a gold cigarette case. “I’ve got two other clients, and an offer from a former colleague to join her agency.”
“Congratulations,” Neil said smoothly, while my jaw hung open.
India Vaughn, leaving Porteras? She was a legend in the office. She’d been there for years.
Then again, Gabriella Winters had been a legend, too.
“Sophie, you look like you’ve swallowed a bug,” India said with a roll of her eyes. “What’s the problem?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” I laughed and waved my hand. “I was just thinking of how weird it is, with you leaving the magazine.”
“It’ll take some getting used to, but I’ll manage,” she said, with the kind of gruff cheerfulness I’d finally come to understand. “We’ll talk about it later. For now, enjoy your night, debut author.”
In the car, I snuggled down in the plush seat, torn between never wanting to move and considering actually leaning down to unbuckle my shoes. But I knew if I took them off now, I’d never get them back on my swollen feet to go up to the apartment.
“When does ‘debut’ author wear off?” Neil asked with a chuckle as the car pulled away from the curb.
“Why? Am I being a debut authorzilla?” Too quickly, my brain made a leap in association, from “authorzilla” to “bridezilla,” to the promise Holli had made me vow before our falling out. I’d been charged with not letting her become a “bridezilla.” Now we weren’t even speaking to each other.
“I did like the revisions to the kettle scene.” Neil leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Thank you for making me sound so gallant about your wanton destruction of my kitchen appliances. And the wiring.”
Tears rose in my eyes, and I blinked them back, grateful that he wasn’t looking at me. Unfortunately, he heard them in my voice when I said, “Hey, no problem.”
He opened his eyes and looked down at me. “Oh, Sophie. What’s wrong?”
I shook my head. “Just emotional, you know. Highs and lows. Revisiting stuff from the past that reminds me of how hard it was.” I shrugged to pass off my non-answer. “And you know… Holli didn’t show.”