I stopped by the house when your nanny was there and he had me arrested for trespassing. But I was determined. So much so that the girls made me go back to Paris because the next time—and there would have been a next time—I’d be sent to prison.
They promised a steady flow of pictures, report cards, and updates if I promised to stay out of trouble, get a lawyer, and fight this the smart way. So that’s what I did. But Charles fought, too, and he always won. But I never gave up. Getting you back was all I thought about for fourteen years. Because fourteen was the magic number. When you turned fourteen you could live with whomever you wanted. And when you heard what a terrible man your father was, you’d choose me. You’d choose light.
But the girls refused to let me go through with it. You were having a hard time fitting in at school (you were an early bloomer and had been getting teased), your father’s new wife was a twat, and you and David Golden had just been suspended for smuggling booze into a dance. They thought even the tap of a feather would hit you like a ton of bricks and meeting your “dead” mother was no feather. And so I died all over again.
I invested the money I had saved for our new house in Liddy’s bookstore. I knew you were a big reader and I liked imagining you surrounded by the stories and adventures we never got to share. It’s my only legacy, Addie, and it’s all for you. Make it your own or sell it. It’s worth more than the last present you got from me. Do you remember it? It was a gold wing necklace. I bought it after I read Fear of Flying because I wanted to wear my freedom where the world could see it. Unlike Gloria, Dot, and Liddy, flying was never my fear, landing was. That’s what got me into trouble: when to land, where to land, and what situations were worth it. I never could figure that out until I had you, and well, we all know how that turned out.
I’m certainly not suggesting that you stop flying. I gave you that necklace so you never would. What I am saying is: look down every once in a while and if you spot something that matters, find the courage to land. And wherever you end up—be it right or wrong, good or evil, light or dark—know that I love you. That you, Addie Oliver, are worth landing for. Maybe someday you’ll let me prove it.
Heart, soul, and wings,
Marjorie Richards-Oliver
(Mom)
CHAPTER
Twenty-Six
New York City, New York
Friday, September 30
New Moon
“YOU’RE NOT HAVING second thoughts, are you, Ms. Stark?”
M.J. glanced up from the contract, the tip of her pencil still pressed firmly against the blank line that awaited her signature. “No.” She smiled. “Why?”
The Suit removed a pen from his breast pocket, demonstrated its usefulness with a jaunty click-click, and then slid it toward her. The Godfather with an offer she couldn’t refuse. “My client has concerns.” He blinked twice, a nervous tic that couldn’t have served the lawyer well in other, more heated, negotiations.
“Concerns?” Ignoring the pen, M.J. leaned back against her rigid chair, gripped the velvet upholstered armrests, and wondered how Louis XIV remained king of France for seventy-two years with such uncomfortable furniture. “What kinds of concerns?”
“That you’re going to back out at the last minute.”
“Why?”
“They’ve wanted this for a while now and—” He folded his hands across his ink blotter and managed a How shall I put this? smile. “Let’s just say erasable signatures don’t exactly scream, ‘binding.’ ”
Blushing, M.J. apologized, though more to her parents than the suit. Had she gone with them to the Montblanc store she wouldn’t have needed his pen, her “pencils only” rule wouldn’t exist. But that afternoon, M.J. took the gold-plated Parker, and for the first time in three years, used it anyway.
“Well, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” He blinked as he placed the contract in his briefcase, snapped it shut.
“It really wasn’t,” M.J. said. And then, instead of a handshake, she hugged him. Because after months of aimless flying M.J. finally knew where she wanted to land. And he was the only one there when she made it official.
CHAPTER
Twenty-Seven
The Good Book
Pearl Beach, California
Eighteen Months Later
New Moon
HANDS GRIPPING THE sides of the podium, silver neck of the microphone arched toward her mouth, M.J. looked out at the filled-to-capacity crowd, who were finally seated and silent, and blanked.
Why had she been so averse to note cards? Who cares if her sentiments seemed staged? At least she’d be saying something right now instead of catching whiffs of her melting deodorant.
M.J. reached for the bottle of Smartwater, lifted it shakily to her lips.
She could always begin with her background: loving parents; the outstanding writing program at NYU; the years she spent at City magazine “paying her dues”; Gayle, her mentor, who was kind enough to attend the event and was still doing that restless cross-uncross thing with her legs.
Or she could jump ahead to the rich couple in #5F. How she sold her New York apartment to them last September (even signed the contract in pen!), and used the money to buy the Good Book back from Verizon. And Addie, of course, who, with the help of her mother, Marjorie, has been keeping the store profitable with a tasteful X-rated section (batteries included), so she could reimburse M.J. for the loan.
Then there was Dan, her favorite ex-boyfriend and occasional roommate (he preferred a thatched-roofed mud hut in Central Africa to an ocean-front cottage in Pearl Beach), who flew twenty-three hours to cheer her on. Her dear friend Jules, the lead makeup artist for Goddard Cosmetics, who spent hours perfecting M.J.’s “natural” look for tonight’s event. Easton, Jules’s boyfriend, who also happens to be the reason why the Good Book has a liquor license and a full-time bartender who responds “As you wish” to his customer’s requests. Britt, who folded M.J. into her loving family and lets her babysit the twins each time she and Paul jet off to one of his job sites. Or that little girl inside her who never stopped tugging.
She could ask Gloria, Liddy, Dot, and Marjorie to stand up. Applaud them for coming all the way from France to be with her tonight, and for bravely letting her share their secrets with the world. She could thank them for showing her the power of female friendship, the magic of the full moon, and how to get out from under Fortune’s fucked-up wheel.
But M.J., still speechless, couldn’t find the words.
She had poured them all into The Dirty Book Club: the novel she had spent the past year writing. The one she now held in her clammy hand and would sign after tonight’s presentation. Everything she felt and everything she wanted to say was already inside.
And so she opened the cover, flipped past the dedication to January, August, and April Stark, and then kicked off her book tour by reading the first chapter . . .
“ ‘If Gloria Golden were being honest, she’d say that Potluck Fridays weren’t really about making the most of her newly renovated kitchen. Nor were they an excuse to connect with Dot, Liddy, and Marjorie, since best friends didn’t need excuses. Honest Gloria would say their weekly get-togethers were the one thing she could rely on . . .’ ”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
DID YOU ENJOY The Dirty Book Club? Detest it? Either way blame my editor, Karen Kosztolnyik. Without her you would not be reading this. Literally. It took four years for me to deliver this novel (it was supposed to take one), and there was Karen, the skilled midwife, guiding, listening, advising, enthusing, trusting, and waiting when most others would have lost patience and let me bleed out. Karen, you believed in this novel when tequila and I pitched it to you over the phone from Mexico—and you never stopped believing. (Well, maybe you did but you never told me, so thank you.) Waiting along with you, or should I say “champing at the bit,” was the publisher of Gallery Books, Jen Bergstrom and the president, Louise Burke; your collective patience tops my gratitude list on a daily basis.
And then there’s my meticulous copy editor, Erica Ferguson, who righted every misplaced comma, flagged every continuity error, and let me know that “three inches of exposed butt crack was too much butt crack”; and my production editor, Sherry Wasserman, who made sure it stayed that way. Thank you, Erica and Sherry. My thanks also to Audrey Sussman and Katie Haigler for their indispensable editorial backup.
Thank you always to Richard Abate, my straight-talking agent and friend of fifteen years (FUPM). Thank you to my longtime lawyer, Alex Kohner, for always having my back and for taking the time to craft my margaritas from scratch. Thank you, Hallie Jones and Henri Maddocks, my former assistants, who helped weed through all the terrible ideas, character names, and unnecessary mechanical-bull scenes until I arrived at the right ones.
Thank you to Clay Tarver for spending many happy hours helping me retool chapters, writing Bs beside the jokes that could be better, and for tolerating my mood swings—of which there were many—while I birthed this labor of love.
Thank you to Rey Anthony for being brave enough to write The Housewife’s Handbook on Selective Promiscuity. Thank you, E. L. James, for reminding women that sex can be a wonderful adventure with your Fifty Shades trilogy. Thank you, Erica Jong, for your seminal and hilarious Fear of Flying. Thank you, Anaïs Nin, for the beautifully written, fearlessly honest Henry and June. Thank you, Jenna Jameson and Neil Strauss, for the candid and wildly entertaining How to Make Love Like a Porn Star: A Cautionary Tale. And thank you, Judy Blume, for writing Forever. It launched my real-life book club, reminded me of the power of first love and the importance of female independence, and that, like Ralph, all penises should have a name.
Thank you to my Canadian family: the Gottliebs, Coopers, Mom, Dad, and Denise. You are always there to cheer me on, make me laugh snot bubbles when I’m crying, and give me hell for not returning calls. That’s love. Thank you to my American family: the Harrisons, Regans, and Foxes for your unwavering support, not only in my professional life but also in my personal life. Talk about gratitude. Thank you, Kevin Harrison, for being my one-stop surf source and for drinking milk with sushi—I couldn’t have possibly made that up.
Thank you to my friends who remember who I am when I emerge from the cone of silence, the ones I will guilt into buying this novel whether they want to read it or not.
And a massive special thanks to my sons, Luke and Jesse Harrison. Every day after school they’d greet me by asking how many pages I wrote. And even on those dry days when I managed only a paragraph, they’d hug me and say they were proud. One afternoon we were driving along the Coast Highway and the sun was beating on the Pacific Ocean. I asked Luke to describe it. He said it looked like “raining diamonds.” I stole that line and gave it to M.J. Luke, I owe you a bag of gummies.
I’d also like to thank my eyes. Five minutes before I sat down to write the acknowledgments I accidentally spritzed hair spray on my face instead of rosewater face mist. They’re still burning, but my vision has been restored. And my lashes? They have a firm new hold that will not be stirred by today’s high-wind advisory. So out into the world we go . . . finally!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
GILLIAN CRANE
LISI HARRISON left her position at MTV Networks in 2003 to write The Clique series. That series has sold more than eight million copies and has been on the New York Times bestseller list for more than two hundred weeks, with ten titles hitting #1. The Alphas was a #1 New York Times bestseller, and Monster High was an instant bestseller. Her latest YA series is Pretenders. Lisi lives in Laguna Beach, California, and has been a proud member of her own dirty book club since 2007.
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Gallery Books
An Imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Lisi Harrison
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Gallery Books hardcover edition October 2017
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Interior design by Davina Mock-Maniscalco
Cover design by Chelsea McGuckin
Cover photograph by © Karin Lips/Trevillion Images
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Harrison, Lisi, author.
Title: The Dirty Book Club / Lisi Harrison.
Description: First Gallery Books hardcover edition. | New York : Gallery
Books, 2017.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017003781| ISBN 9781451695977 (hardcover) | ISBN
9781451696417 (softcover) | ISBN 9781451696424 (ebook) | ISBN
9781501166006 (export)
Subjects: LCSH: Book clubs (Discussion groups)—Fiction. | Self-realization in women—Fiction. | Female friendship—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Contemporary Women. | FICTION / Humorous. | FICTION / General. | GSAFD: Humorous fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3608.A783573 D57 2017 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017003781
ISBN 978-1-4516-9597-7
ISBN 978-1-4516-9642-4 (ebook)
The Dirty Book Club Page 24