Sorry if I made you uncomfortable at lunch, Tess has written, followed by a winking-face emoji. I have so much respect for you. I’ve been reading your reviews since high school! I’m so lucky to be on this trip. Heart emoji, heart-eyes emoji, book emoji, another heart, and a glass of wine. Is this how authors talk these days? Is it how adults communicate?
Laurel deletes the whole mess . . . but as she drifts off, she sees her mother’s face, her mother turning away from her, looking hurt and sad. And even though her mother looked sad and hurt around Laurel a lot—most of the time, if Laurel’s being honest, after she was eleven or so—Laurel remembers this occasion specifically. After her first year at Yale, she went on a road trip. She hadn’t wanted her new friends to see the house where she’d grown up, but they were so delighted by the name of her town—Shickshinny!—that they insisted on a visit, and so Laurel brought them home for the night. Her mother had been so excited. “I’ll cook!” she said. Laurel had expected meatloaf or goulash, her mother’s two specialties, but her mom—she cringed, remembering—had made Thanksgiving dinner, turkey and stuffing and hot rolls and pumpkin pies. In case you won’t make it home for Thanksgiving, her mother had said, looking intimidated and unsophisticated around her friends, with her frizzy hair and her sweatpants and her house slippers with their scuffed plastic soles.
Her mom had left her copy of The Thorn Birds, with its lurid, sunset-colored cover, on the kitchen counter, and Laurel and her friends snickered about it, even reading parts of the sex scene out loud, while her mom bustled around to baste the turkey and strain the gravy. At dinner, she and her friends talked about classmates her mother didn’t know and authors her mom had never read, and after the third or fourth “Who’s that?” her mom had stopped asking, and ate her turkey in silence.
Her mother had waited until her friends were in bed before asking, “What’s wrong with The Thorn Birds?” Laurel tried to explain. She tossed out the terms she’d learned in her Theories of Literature class. She—oh God—referred to the book as the text; she talked about its easy sentimentality, its lazy language, its clichéd sex scenes, and its predictable, paint-by-numbers plot, but the word her mother latched on to was easy. What’s wrong with easy? her mom demanded, hands on her wide hips, double chin quivering. Is easy so bad?
Literature shouldn’t be easy, Laurel had answered. It should challenge you, and show you the world from a different perspective, and push you out of your comfort zone. You should expect more from your books. She left unsaid, You should expect more from yourself, but her mother, who’d never been to college, who smiled with her lips pressed together because she was missing a molar and couldn’t afford to have it replaced, turned away, with that terrible, hurt look on her face. Eighteen months later, she was dead. Ovarian cancer, very fast-moving. Laurel had joked to her brother that they should have buried her with that Colleen McCullough book in the casket. Only, before her mother had died, when she’d been just a ninety-pound skeleton with enormous, pain-haunted eyes, she’d called Laurel into her bedroom. I told your brother I want him to find someone and settle down. But not you. I don’t see you having children. Or a husband. Or friends, even. Her mother tilted her head, her gaze shrewd and assessing. Just lots of texts. And I don’t think they’re going to be much of a comfort when you’re old.
God, how long has it been since she’s thought about her mother, now almost fifty years in her grave? A long time. But that night, in Paris, it occurs to Laurel Spellman that Tess Kravitz’s book would have made her mother very happy.
• • •
The next day, Laurel wakes up sweating, tangled in her sheets. She kicks off the bedspread, swings her feet onto the threadbare carpet, and moans out loud, pressing her hands to her low belly. Pain knifes through her as she sits on the toilet in the tiled bathroom. It feels like she’s peeing gasoline. She needs a doctor, but she can’t ditch the sheep again. There’s already a threatening-looking email from the paper’s publisher lurking in her inbox. Subject line: PLEASE DO NOT ABANDON YOUR TRAVELERS. Laurel can’t bring herself to read it.
She washes three Advil down with a miniature bottle of vodka, chews a breath mint, and walks the sheep along the rue Mazarine and the rue de L’Ancienne Comédie, past Le Procope, an old café that was once frequented by Balzac and Moliere. “There are some little bookshops, and antique stores selling original manuscripts,” she tells them. She can see the way they’re looking at her, the glance that Salt and Pepper exchange, the way the cluckers murmur. “Dear, are you feeling all right?” one of the little old ladies asks. Laurel shakes her off briskly. “I’m fine,” she says again. “I’m fine.” They’ve barely turned the corner onto the bookstore-lined street when Tess Kravitz stops the crowd.
“Oh, look! There’s Cal Hardinger’s new book!” She points, in case anyone’s missed it, and turns to Laurel with a conspirator’s grin on her face. “Cal and I know each other. I told you that, didn’t I? We have the same agent. And he’s a friend of yours, too! Right, Laurel?”
Laurel’s lips feel frozen. She opens her mouth, then shuts it. There’s not a thing she can think of to say.
Ten years ago, Cal Hardinger was just thirty-two when he published his debut, Double Helix, the story of father and son scientists, and the secrets each was keeping. Luminous, incandescent—the arrival of a major new voice in American fiction, Laurel had written. She’d met Cal at his book party, at Housing Works, the day both her review and his book had come out. Cal’s hair was long and curly, gathered in a ponytail at the nape of his neck, and he had a lean dancer’s body beneath his boxy, cheap suit. When they’d been introduced, he’d looked up at her, his pupils wide, cheeks and lips flushed. “You’re a goddess,” he’d said. They’d ended up in a dim corner, on a velvet couch, drinking the champagne his publisher had paid for. Candles flickered on cocktail tables while they talked about climate change, about Tomas Transtromer’s poems; about Dale Peck and James Wood and The Things They Carried and the dying art of literary criticism. She told him that maybe the Examiner’s Sunday magazine would run a profile of him. “I know a few people there,” she’d said, and giggled like a girl. In the dark, all cats are gray, she told herself . . . and in the candlelight, she didn’t look a day over forty-five. At one in the morning, before the bartenders could turn the lights on and send them home, Laurel leaned close to Cal and brushed his lips with hers. It had been the same kind of kiss that had launched her interludes with each of the sad young literary men she had taken to bed over the years. She had expected her kiss would be received with familiar enthusiasm. But Cal jerked away as if her lips had been an electric fence. “Oh, um,” he stammered, staring at her, his eyes so wide she could see white all around the irises. “Holy shit. Jeez. No.” Laurel looked down and saw, with horror, that he was holding both hands out in front of him, keeping her at a distance, fending her off. “Are you . . . did you . . .”
“Cal,” Laurel said, and her own voice, thank God, was steady. “This is a misunderstanding.”
“Jesus!” he said. He gulped, wiped his mouth, and blurted, “Did you sleep with Jonathan Ridgeway? And Jonathan Kahn? Do you fuck all the guys whose books you like?”
“Of course not!” Laurel had snapped. Just some of them, her mind supplied.
Cal was on his feet, backing away from her, one hand rubbing at his mouth, like he was trying to erase her touch. “Hey, listen. Obviously, you know, I’m grateful for your review, and I’d love it if the magazine wrote about me, but, ah . . .”
She got herself off the couch. She said, again, that this was a misunderstanding, and that she was sorry. For the long, sleepless nights that had followed, nights when she’d felt like she was living under Damocles’s sword, waiting for Cal to tattle to his agent or his editor or one of the gossip websites. He’s probably gay, she told herself. Gay would explain the look she’d seen on his face, that mixture of surprise and revulsion. He probably hated all women, not just her. He w
as probably gay, and she was still attractive, and even if she wasn’t, she was still powerful, and that mattered more, and no one, especially not some little Raymond Carver imitator with a ponytail, for God’s sake, could take her power away.
• • •
Laurel limps along the slippery cobblestones, beneath a sky that’s an unhealthy shade of yellow, feeling a stabbing pain in her belly and between her legs, and delivers a lecture on Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas that she’s cribbed from Wikipedia. When she stumbles, Tess Kravitz is there to grab her elbow; when she flags, Tess steers the group to a bakery and orders a round of éclairs. “The comfort diet!” she crows, and when the French kid behind the counter looks confused, Tess reaches into her ever-present tote bag and hands him a copy of her book. Little Miss Chamberlain announces to the table that she’s decided on a topic for her college essay. “I’m going to write about patriarchy-proximate women. You know, women who derive their power from propping up sexist, regressive power structures. Kellyanne Conway, Sarah Huckabee Sanders . . .” The girl lets her voice trail off and looks at Laurel indicatively, and Laurel doesn’t even have the energy to defend herself.
“Hey, so, no offense, but you don’t look too good. Do you want me to find you a doctor?” Tess asks, as Laurel huddles over her tea. Laurel shakes her head. The last thing she needs is to be indebted to this vapid hack, this idiotic, dopey piglet who keeps her glasses in her bra.
“I’m fine,” she says.
“Are you sure?” asks Tess.
Laurel gives a curt nod, shoving her éclair away and getting the group moving again.
That night, there’s no book on Laurel’s pillow, none in her little sitting room, none on the bedside table, or in the bathroom. Laurel doses herself on vodka and Advil, chases that with Scotch, and lies down. She dreams that her bed is a book, that her body is resting against its spine, cradled in the crease between two pages. Tess Kravitz’s face looms above her.
You tried to fuck Cal Hardinger, Tess whispers, blond curls and white teeth gleaming, pink lips lingering over the words. I know. I’ll tell.
You don’t know anything, Laurel says.
I know that none of those guys wanted you, says Tess. They took Viagra to get hard. They laughed about it later. They all laughed at you.
Laurel wants to say that it’s a lie, that the men did want her, that no one laughed. The problem is, she can picture it—that little shit Cal Hardinger, at Will Presser’s Christmas party, leaning against a grass cloth–papered wall with a drink in his hand, embellishing the story as only a writer can. He’d tell Will all about it, and Jonathan Kahn and Jonathan Ridgeway would chime in with their stories, and Tess Kravitz, with her dimpled cheeks and her blond curls, would lap up every word, like a cat licking cream. And she’d laugh.
I know, dream-Tess whispers. I’ll tell.
Laurel tries to wriggle free, but she realizes she can’t move, can’t breathe. She tries to scream as the pages press against her, squeezing her, forcing the air out of her lungs, mashing her organs into stew. And now my tale is told, Tess whispers, and slams the covers shut.
Laurel jerks upright in her bed, a scream clawing its way up her throat. She’s gasping, her hair matted to her cheeks with sweat. “No more,” she whispers. “Enough.” On the bedside table, her phone starts buzzing, wriggling itself toward the edge of the table. Will Presser’s name lights up the screen. Speak of the devil, Laurel thinks.
“Hello?”
“Laurel? Will Presser here.” Across the ocean, she can hear him breathing. “I spoke to Tess this evening.”
“Oh, thank goodness. This has gone too far. You won’t believe—”
“In person,” Will interrupts. “She’s not in Paris. She’s here. In New York.”
Laurel hears herself gasp. “But . . .” she stammers. “No. She’s here. I was with her all day! She’s staying in my hotel!”
“I had drinks with Tess Kravitz at the King Cole Bar not an hour ago.” Will’s voice is gentle. “Listen. I’m going to call the hotel concierge. They’ll send up a doctor.”
“I don’t need a doctor!”
“Laurel.” He’s kind but firm. “You’re having delusions. Did you take Ambien on your way over?”
“Just one,” she whispers. She can’t be having delusions. She can’t be getting sick. She can’t give the Swedes a single excuse to replace her.
“Well, there you go. Now, listen to me. I want you to lie down. Just close your eyes and try to get some rest. I’ll call the hotel.”
She hangs up the phone. She lies down. She rolls onto her side, and her cheek collides with something hard. When she turns on the bedside light, she screams. There’s a copy of The Comfort Diet in the bed with her. Another one sits on the bedside table. She sits up, blinking, and sees two more copies on the coffee table. Another one sits on the couch.
“No,” she whispers. “You’re not real.”
The books don’t answer back.
Laurel gets herself out of bed, but she thinks if she opens the door the hallway will be full of books, flooded with them, and they will pour into her room and smother her. I need help, she thinks, and starts to laugh, the sound loud and high and screamy. Who do you call when you’re being haunted by a book?
She doesn’t want to see what’s waiting for her in the bathroom, but it’s like her body is possessed, and she’s powerless to stop it. Her nerveless legs march her across the floor. Her fingers flick on the light, grasp the shower curtain, and pull it back. For one terrible instant, she thinks she’ll see her mother in the bathtub, naked and scrawny and suffering. Instead, the tub is overflowing with copies of The Comfort Diet. Tess’s author photo seems to wink at her. Laurel knows that if she lifts the lid of the toilet, there will be a book in there, too, water-bloated, like a dead toad in a puddle.
She turns toward the mirror. Her mother is in there, looking out at her. Lank black hair, white at the roots, the way it was at the end. Colorless lips and sagging jowls; long, yellowish teeth protruding from pale pink gums. Her mother, who’d read every book Judith Krantz had ever written, who’d pronounced the word nuclear as new-cue-lar, who’d put down The Corrections after ten pages, saying all of the characters were boring and jerks, who called Laurel Miss La-Di-Da. In the mirror, her mother is grinning. Look at Miss La-Di-Da. All alone with her books.
Laurel turns, slamming her hip on the side of the bathroom door, and runs back to the bed. There are more books there, a dozen copies at least, books upon books upon books. As she looks, one slithers off the bedspread and thumps softly onto the floor. Maybe, she thinks, the ones in the closet had sex while I was away. Maybe these are their babies. She gathers up four of them in a clumsy embrace. With her elbow, she wrenches open the French doors. As she steps out onto the tiny balcony, her foot skids on a slick patch of marble. She slides forward, legs spreading. All but one of the books squirt out of her hands and thump to the balcony floor. Laurel is bending to retrieve them when she feels a hand at the small of her back. The hand gives her a single vicious shove that sends her over the railing. The last book leaves her hands and arcs through the air. Eyes closed, mouth open, long white nightgown trailing behind her, Laurel plummets six stories and smashes face-first into the sidewalk.
• • •
“It breaks my heart,” Tess Kravitz says, and sniffles.
“Tell me,” says the talk-show host, touching Tess’s arm, “did you see any signs that this was coming?”
“She definitely seemed a little off during the trip. She had a UTI—older women are especially prone to them, you know—and I smelled alcohol on her breath a few times, too, but I never thought . . . ” Tess sniffles again. “And then when I learned that she, you know, that she jumped with a copy of my book in her arms, at first I felt terrible. Like maybe my prose made her want to kill herself.” Tess’s voice thickens as she attempts a smile. “I mean, I kn
ow I’m not James Joyce, but I honestly didn’t think my book was that bad.” The talk-show hostess puts a consoling hand on her shoulder. The audience gives a sympathetic sigh.
Tess draws a shuddering breath, pressing one fingertip under each eye, then firms her quivering chin to face the cameras bravely. “But, then, after she . . .” Tess swallows, throat working beneath her pearls. “After she died, I told myself that maybe my book was a comfort to her. That she wanted it with her . . . you know . . . at the end.” Tess raises her head and, as if reciting something she’s recently been taught, she says, “I believe there’s something after this world, someplace we go, and I believe that stories go there with us.” The audience’s applause is restrained and sober. The cheers and whoops come later, after the hostess announces that there’s a copy of The Comfort Diet under everyone’s seat for them to take home and enjoy, along with a tube of her favorite small-batch tomato paste, cashmere ankle socks, and a verbena-scented candle.
• • •
That night, agent and client toast each other in the King Cole Bar. “Gregory Plontz said that, with what Laurel was costing them, they can hire three freelancers,” Will says.
“Is that what they’ll do?” asks Tess, sipping her drink.
Will shakes his head. “The plan is to just open up the space for readers to post commentary. They’ll grab reviews from Amazon and Goodreads, too, and have an intern post them. They’re going to call it Everyone’s a Critic.”
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