by Ann McMan
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Gwen sighed. “Do I need to slap you?”
Shawn shook her head. “I think I’m having an out-of-body experience.”
“Trust me. Anyone who can cough up a wad of masticated bread and shoot it halfway across a room the size of an airplane hangar, definitely is not having an out-of-body experience.”
Shawn groaned. Why was this happening now? A thought occurred to her. She looked at Gwen, who was busy scanning the room, probably trying to pinpoint Ba-Ba’s location.
“Does Kate Winston know about this yet?”
Gwen met her eyes. “I’d assume so. Linda Evans was going to give her the happy news.”
Happy news?
If it was such happy news, then why did Shawn suddenly feel so miserable? She didn’t want to spar with Kate. Not any more, and certainly not on national T.V. Not after last night. Last night had been amazing. Last night had been incredible. Last night had been full of mystery and innovation—a no-holds-barred practicum on lesbian romance. Last night had been like a tour of the romance writer’s ultimate laboratory—a giant petri dish, brimming with hackneyed clichés and overblown conventions that were growing like wild flowers. Last night had laid waste to all of her sanctimonious protestations that mind-blowing sex never happened on a first encounter.
And last night had also been a testament to how many stains a two-ounce packet of mustard could make on a set of hotel sheets.
“What’s the matter with you?” Gwen asked. “I thought you’d be in transports about this. It’s the break we’ve been waiting for.”
Transports? Shawn thought. I’d like to be on a goddamn transport. Out of here, and away from this whole mess.
“I just need a little time to adjust to the news,” she said instead. “And I’m a little nervous about this session.”
Gwen handed the cup of coffee back to her. “You’ll do just fine. If you feel yourself tensing up, just remember everything the bitch said.”
She remembered, all right. The things Kate said to her last night would cause her toes to curl up inside her shoes.
In fact, her toes were curling up right now.
Gwen straightened. “There she is. I gotta go make nice. You get ready to knock her socks off.” She patted Shawn on the arm. “Make us proud.” She walked off so quickly that leaves on the palm rustled in her wake.
Shawn stood there in a daze.
Oy, gevalt.
“Say that again?”
Kate was certain she’d misunderstood Linda.
Her editor had caught up with her just as she was about to limp into one of the hotel’s four thousand Starbucks cafés. The damn things were omnipresent—about as plentiful as the massive potted palms that seemed to be the hallmark of this joint.
“I said Barbara Walters is here to catch the opening session, and ABC News is sniffing around you as a possible weekend contributor to GMA.”
Kate was stunned. “GMA?”
Linda nodded. “How about that? This feud between you and Shawn Harris has been the best thing to happen to lesbian fiction since Radclyffe Hall got her first haircut. It’s a gold mine, Kate, and it’s going to launch both of you into the national spotlight. And the notice you’re bringing to the entire genre will open doors for lots of others, too.”
“I need coffee.”
“You need coffee?” Linda was incredulous. “This is your reaction? You need coffee?”
Kate looked at her in a daze. “If you want something more dramatic, I could probably throw up on your shoes.”
Linda took her by the arm and hauled her inside the small lobby café. It took her a moment to notice that Kate was walking unsteadily. “What’s wrong with your leg?”
“It’s not my leg, it’s my ankle. I twisted it last night in the gym.” Kate held up a hand to forestall Linda’s further expressions of concern. “It’s not that bad, I promise.”
“Well, shit. Let’s find you a place to sit down. I’ll get us some coffee.”
Kate nodded.
“Try to relax.” Linda glanced at her watch. “We’ve got about twenty-five minutes before show time.”
Kate plopped down on the first unoccupied sofa she came to. She didn’t even bother to brush the ubiquitous trail of crumbs off its stiff cushions.
Oh god. This was not happening. Not now. Not this way.
“Do you want something to eat?” Linda asked. “You do look pretty green around the gills.”
Kate looked up at her. “What?” She had no idea what Linda had just said.
“Food,” Linda repeated. “Do you want something to eat?”
Kate shook her head. “No. Thanks. Just coffee.”
Linda nodded and walked off toward the counter. Kate watched her go.
“Extra hot,” she called out.
Linda stopped and turned around. “Is that it?”
“Venti.”
“Okaaayyy.” Linda turned back toward the waiting barista.
“With an extra shot.”
“Right.” Linda called over her shoulder.
“No cream.”
Linda stopped and faced her.
“Seriously?”
Kate shrugged.
“Anything else?”
Kate thought about it. “Maybe a biscotti?”
Linda sighed. “Okay.”
“But not one of the chocolate ones.”
“Kate,” Linda said with more than a trace of annoyance, “is your goal to get me to throw up on my own shoes? If so, you’re doing great.”
“Sorry,” Kate apologized. “I’m a little off my game this morning.”
“Well, try to calm down. We need to focus.” She glanced at her watch again. “Now let me get us some coffee before we run out of time.”
Kate nodded, and Linda walked off.
Oh my god, she thought. Why is this happening now?
The night with Shawn had been amazing. Surreal. It changed the entire landscape of her life in ways she never would have believed possible. By mutual consent, they had agreed to bury the hatchet—publicly. But now? Now what?
And what did Shawn know about this? Anything? They had only parted about an hour ago, and neither of them had bothered to check their messages. They’d been too . . . preoccupied to care.
And she had a headache, to boot. It was from that damn second bottle of wine they drank. Something horrible that had been in the CLIT-Con welcome basket. Who in the hell thought it was a good idea to buy wine from a vineyard in Indiana?
Her head was spinning. She needed to talk with Shawn. She looked over her shoulder at the counter. Linda was still standing there, bent over the glass cabinet, pointing to some kind of confection.
She pulled out her cell phone and typed a quick message.
Kate Winston
Where are you?
Ten seconds later, her phone buzzed.
Shawn Harris
I’m in the ballroom. I’ve been looking all over for you.
Kate Winston
We HAVE to talk.
Shawn Harris
No shit, Sherlock! Have you heard the news?
Kate Winston
Yes! I’m with Linda right now.
Shawn Harris
What the hell are we going to do?
Kate Winston
The only thing we CAN do. We’re going to have to go through with it.
Shawn Harris
Oh shit. What if I came down with something?
Kate Winston
Like what???
Shawn Harris
I don’t know . . . how about Legionnaire’s Disease?
Kate Winston
Shawn . . .
Shawn Harris
Hey . . . I’m doing the best I can on short notice.
Kate Winston
Right.
Shawn Harris
I mean it!
Kate Winston
Face it, Sparky . . . we’re going to have to go through with it.
<
br /> Shawn Harris
How? It’s fucking Barbara Walters.
Kate Winston
I know.
Shawn Harris
Okay, genius. What’s your plan?
Kate Winston
I don’t HAVE a plan. We’re just going to have to give them what they want.
Shawn Harris
You mean continue to pretend that we hate each other?
Kate Winston
Yes. According to Linda, the success of the entire lesbian publishing world now hinges on the media circus generated by our feud.
Shawn Harris
Give me a break!
Kate Winston
I think that’s precisely what this is, Sparky: a BIG break—for each of us.
Shawn Harris
Are you sure?
Kate thought about that. Was she sure? It was what they both wanted. They’d talked about it last night, while they drank that nasty Indiana wine. Shawn said that her ultimate fantasy—besides the one or two more esoteric ones they’d already satisfied—was to write a crossover novel that would have equal appeal to a mainstream audience. Kate confessed that her goal was to become a regular columnist for one of the leading media syndicates.
She looked up. Linda was on her way back with a tray containing two cups of coffee and some kind of enormous sugarcoated something.
Kate Winston
Yes. I’m sure. Look . . . Linda is coming. I gotta go.
Shawn Harris
Okay. I guess we’ll find out. Hey, Poodle?
Kate Winston
Yes, Sparky?
Shawn Harris
I had a great time last night.
Kate smiled. She felt like a schoolgirl who’d just been passed a note on the bus.
Kate Winston
Me, too.
Now it just remained to see what they could make of it.
She tucked her phone back into her shoulder bag and waited on Linda.
Barbara Walters. Good god.
Cricket MacBean, the moderator of the Con’s opening session, was a tough, no-nonsense ex-Army nurse who took no prisoners. That’s why Barb Davis chose her for this impossible assignment. Cricket was the editor of a prestigious series of lesbian fiction anthologies. She knew everybody and took shit from nobody. Barb described her as an unrepentant M*A*S*H nurse on steroids, and that made her the perfect candidate to manage a session that was sure to become a raucous, free-for-all.
The hall was packed. Late last night, Con organizers had begged, pleaded, and cajoled their way into one of the hotel’s largest ballrooms after Barb found out that three busses loaded with Sapphic book clubbers were en route to San Diego from Portland—the lesbian mecca of the great northwest. Fortunately, hotel personnel were able to move the “Honoring Your Marriage Vows In Accordance With Biblical Principles” group into a smaller venue down the hall. More than one Hilton employee expressed concern about the wisdom of the last minute change and worried that no amount of signage would be sufficient to keep the two groups separated.
It was anybody’s guess. In any case, it was Cricket’s problem now.
At the crack of ten, she banged her gavel, and the Plenary Session of the Fourteenth Annual Creative Literary Insights and Trends Conference was underway. After some opening announcements the two antagonists were introduced, and the hall erupted into a cacophony of applause, cat calls, wolf whistles, and boos.
Kate and Shawn were seated on opposite sides of a riser located at the front of the giant meeting space. Cricket stood between them. The feisty redhead barely topped the tall podium, but made up for it in attitude as she laid out the rules of engagement.
“Go ahead and get this noise out of your systems,” she shouted over the din. “Because once we get started, there won’t be any more of these outbursts. If you don’t think you can conduct yourselves appropriately, I invite you to collect your crullers and leave.” She stood, stone-faced, until the whooping and hollering quieted to a titter.
Cricket glared at the crowd over the rims of her half-eye glasses.
“Welcome to our opening session, ‘The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly: Dealing with Negative Reviews.’ Our two special guests are Shawn Harris, author of the bestselling novel Bottle Rocket, and Kate Winston, blogger and book critic for the online journal, Gilded Lily. After brief opening remarks, we’ll get the ball rolling with a few prepared questions. Then we’ll open it up to the audience. There are two microphones up here on stands at opposite sides of the stage. If I call on you, please come forward to ask your question. There will be only one question at a time—no exceptions. Is everyone clear about how this will work?”
There were nods all around the room.
“Good.” Cricket turned to Shawn. “Shawn, if you would be so kind? Step forward and start us off.”
Shawn stood up and approached the center of the stage to a thunderous round of applause. Cricket allowed it to continue for about twenty seconds, then shut it down by slamming her gavel repeatedly on the podium.
Shawn stepped up to take Cricket’s place behind the mike and looked out over the sea of faces.
“Thanks, Cricket,” she said. “And thank you to the organizers of this conference for giving me the opportunity to be here with all of you today. Thanks, too, to our colleague, Kate Winston, for agreeing to participate in this important discussion.” She placed her notecards down on the slanted top of the podium. “Bottle Rocket is a novel about the futility and emptiness of a life without aspirations, and the salvation that is borne of strength and hope.”
With those words, the San Diego CLIT-Con commenced its fabled journey toward myth, legend, and forty-two cases of aggravated assault.
Things were heating up.
The questions were getting more and more fractious, and Cricket was banging her gavel with more energy and frequency. Kate was certain she’d heard the sound of wood splintering during that last round of frenzied hammering.
A frizzy-haired zealot wearing snakeskin jackboots was at the mike right now, demanding to know why Gilded Lily hadn’t fired Kate’s ass for maligning the integrity of one of the “best writers in all of lesfic.”
In fact, Kate would have been hard-pressed to explain that one herself.
As discreetly as she could, she sent Shawn a text message. They’d been communicating this way pretty much since the start of the session.
Kate Winston
What is it with your fans and the funky-ass footwear?
Shawn Harris
Python is very hot this year.
Kate Winston
How the hell am I supposed to respond to this question?
Shawn Harris
Hand her off to Linda. All she’s doing is sitting there in the front row, pretending not to stare at Barbara Walters.
Kate Winston
GREAT idea! Sparky?
Shawn Harris
Yes, Poodle?
Kate Winston
You know what else is hot this year?
Shawn Harris
Enlighten me.
Kate Winston
You are.
Shawn Harris
Oh, gosh. Eraserhead? You say the sweeeeeetest things.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Kate jumped and nearly dropped her cell phone.
Cricket was smacking the podium so hard that shards of wood were flying up around her head like sparks from an acetylene torch. The noise in the hall was getting out of control again. Members of the pro-Kate faction were trying to drown out Ms. Python Boots by banging empty Frappucino bottles against their tabletops, causing the pro-Shawn types to retaliate by pelting the drummers with some of the cellophane-wrapped Starlight mints that sat in bowls on each table.
CLIT-Con was famous for cheap candy.
“This behavior is unacceptable!” Cricket yelled into the microphone. “Take your seats right now, or we’ll clear the room!”
A red- and white-striped mint whizzed by her ear.
“I saw t
hat, Vivien.” Cricket was fuming. “There will be no more of these sophomoric shenanigans, or partisan grandstanding. Do you understand me? Do not request to ask a question or make a comment unless you can behave with dignity and professionalism.” She cast her eyes over the assembly, and the scores of raised hands. “You . . . standing there against the back wall? Do you have something appropriate to share?”
A well-dressed woman, wearing stilettos and black-patterned hose, nodded and slowly made her way to the front of the room. A chorus of catcalls followed her.
Kate Winston
Who in the hell is THAT?
Shawn Harris
Beats me. Maybe there’s a breakout session on how to improve your drag.
The questioner reached the microphone and held up a thick, leather-bound book.
“I didn’t realize at first that I had stumbled into the wrong meeting room,” she explained. “Although I did wonder why there were so many men with bad haircuts in here. Then I realized that I wasn’t at the right meeting at all, and that this room was filled with perverted Naomis.”
A cascade of boos grew up around her. She just talked louder.
“The Lord sent me here today for a reason—to tell you all that Leviticus 18:22 says ye shall not lie with a man as with a woman.”
“You got that right, sister,” someone yelled from the side of the room.
“Order!” Cricket slammed her gavel.
“Not unless he buys my ass dinner first.”
“I said, come to order,” Cricket repeated.
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, honey.”
“That’s enough.” Cricket walked around to the front of her podium. “The next person who speaks out of turn will be forcibly evicted from this hall.”
She gestured wildly at two hotel security guards who were stationed near the rear exit.
“Fuck that shit. It’s a free country.”
Cricket strode to the edge of the stage and pointed her gavel at a very large woman wearing ripped jeans and a white t-shirt with a bright purple labrys on it.
“My session. My rules.”