She looked at her watch. She’d waited long enough. She dialed another number.
A young woman answered in a chipper falsetto: “Hello, HMK.”
Harper Maston Khan was the biggest talent agency in New York. It represented not just writers, but actors, athletes, and musicians. Real celebrities.
“Hello,” Florence said, “I’d like to speak with Denise Maston, please.”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
Florence paused. “Tell her it’s Maud Dixon.”
Acknowledgments
My first debt of gratitude belongs to Jenn Joel—a brilliant editor masquerading as a brilliant agent. August 4th, 2019, will go down as one of the major turning points of my life. Many thanks also to the wonderful Tia Ikemoto and everyone else at ICM.
Thank you to Judy Clain for her early and continued enthusiasm for this book, along with the incredible team at Little, Brown: Miya Kumangai, Heather Boaz, Lena Little, Ashley Marudas, Pam Brown, Gabrielle Leporati, and many others.
Thank you to my lovely UK editor, Imogen Taylor, along with Felicity Blunt, Jake Smith-Bosanquet, and Savanna Wicks at Curtis Brown.
Thank you to Halsey Green and Evonne Gambrell for always keeping a seat warm for me, despite my middling work ethic and frankly appalling attitude. I wouldn’t have been able to write this book without it.
Thank you to Joan Truya in Paris and Koloina Andriatsimamao in New York for allowing me to take a break from caring for (and worrying about) Olive for long enough to write this book.
Thank you to Liz Campbell, Martha Campbell, Kathryn Doyle, Natalie Pica Friend, Molly Lundgren, Elizabeth Rhodes, Haven Thompson, Nell Van Amerongen, and Julia Vaughn for far too much to list here. I am beyond lucky to count you as my friends.
Thank you to my family, both the one I was born into and the people I’ve gathered along the way: Henry Piper Andrews; Lindsey Andrews Schilling; Palmer Ducommun; Bob Ducommun; Charlie Schilling; Jock Andrews; the Westcotts; the Laportes; Jim & Nancy Beha; Jim & Alyson Beha; and Len & Alice Teti. I love you all.
Thank you to my mother, Lynn Ducommun, who has certainly earned her own paragraph after thirty-seven years of endless love and support throughout my many, many zigs and zags. (And anyone who thinks Vera Darrow bears any relation to her is sorely mistaken.)
But above all, this book—and my heart—belongs to Christopher Beha. Maud Dixon would not exist without his constant encouragement and keen editor’s eye. (Turns out marrying a world-class novelist was a pretty prescient career move.) There’s no one else I’d rather spend my life with.
And lastly, Olive and Henry: You didn’t do a thing to help, but I love you with all my heart. Just thinking about you makes me happier than I ever imagined I would be. I adore you, I adore you, I adore you.
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About the Author
ALEXANDRA ANDREWS has worked as a journalist, editor, and copywriter in New York and Paris. Who Is Maud Dixon? is her first novel. She lives in Brooklyn with her husband and children.
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