by Karma Brown
should be the one to watch out.” He chortled into his glass,
amused with himself.
“ Mmm‑ hmm,” Alice mumbled, only half paying attention.
James was often free with his praise when he was drunk, but it
didn’t usually amount to much, she had learned.
“I like you, Alice. There’s something different about you.
You’d make a great character. You’re soft and sweet on the
outside . . .” His fingers reached for her, but she was far enough
away to avoid his touch. He stood, swaying, and poked her
breastbone with a sharp finger, hurting her. “But not on the
inside. No. You’re hard in there. Calculating. You have secrets,
all locked up. I can tell.”
Alice stepped back so his finger no longer made contact. “Is
that right?” She was so done with James Dorian. She couldn’t
wait for that director title; she had earned it a hundred times
over.
“Tell me one of your secrets, Alice.”
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Her phone buzzed in her clutch, the sound of it reverber‑
ating on the glass coffee table. Likely Georgia.
“I don’t have any secrets.”
“Everyone has secrets!” He laughed, delighted by her resis‑
tance. Feeding on it. “I’ll tell you one if you tell me one.”
This was typically how their interactions went. James un‑
interested in doing what was required of him, trying to change
the game ever so slightly. They’d also had a similar conversation
a few weeks earlier, at a dinner with Georgia and his agent, where
they’d discussed the plan for his next venture— a screenplay he’d
been promising to write for a year but hadn’t yet gotten to.
While Georgia went to freshen up in the ladies’ room and the
agent took a call, James asked Alice to tell him something that
scared her and he promised to do the same. She made up some
bullshit about a plane crash— she had fears, but that wasn’t one
of them— and he told her his was being irrelevant. So predictable, she’d wanted to say.
“We have to get down there. We can talk secrets later.”
He pouted, crossed his arms over his chest. “All work and
no play makes James a very dull boy.”
He poured more bourbon into his glass, then filled another
one, which he handed to Alice. He generally stuck with vodka
until later in the evening, so the addition of bourbon this early
on meant things were going to get messy.
“If I tell you a secret, do you promise to come downstairs
with me?” Alice asked.
He took a gulp of the bourbon, nodded.
“Fine.” Alice sipped her drink. The bourbon burned, but
she didn’t mind the flavor. “I ran over the neighbor’s cat when
I was sixteen and told everyone it was the FedEx driver.” She
tipped her glass back, finished the drink so quickly her eyes
watered. “I’m allergic to cats. It might not have been an ac‑
cident.”
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James stared at her, a small smile playing on his lips. “Really?”
“Really,” Alice said. It wasn’t entirely true. It was her high
school friend who drove over the cat (by accident, backing out
of the driveway too fast, the day after she got her license), and
then blamed her elderly neighbor. But when her friend’s dad re‑
minded her they had security cameras trained on the driveway,
she’d had to confess.
“See?” James said, pointing his glass toward Alice. “You are
hard on the inside. And I’m getting hard just thinking about
it.” He said the last part quietly, as though he never intended
Alice to hear it. But she did, and it took everything in her to not walk out the door.
“Okay, drink up and let’s go.” Alice’s phone continued to
beep and buzz. They were late, and James Dorian was not going
to keep her from this promotion.
“Don’t you want to know my secret?” he asked, eyelids
drooping as he drained his glass. Damn. She’d have to water down his next few drinks if they had any hope of getting through
the ceremony. “It’s a good one.”
“Sure,” she said, grabbing her purse and checking her phone.
Georgia. “Tell me your secret.” She typed back a quick response, letting Georgia know they were on their way. She expected to be
underwhelmed by whatever Dorian said, so she was barely paying
attention. He was one of those men who believed everything he
did was fascinating. He was a brilliant writer, she’d give him
that, but the rest of him could use an upgrade.
“Sit, sit,” he murmured. Alice contemplated telling him there
was no time to sit; they had to go. But curiosity won out and so
she sat. He rested his hand back on her thigh, tickling her skin
through the skirt’s fabric.
“James,” she said, warning in her voice. Her phone buzzed
again. “So what’s this secret?” Alice was impatient, irritated by
his fingers and by Georgia’s constant texts.
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“Oh, it’s a good one.” His hand slid higher.
“Stop it,” Alice said, her jaw tense as she clenched her teeth
to prevent herself from spitting in his face, or telling him exactly what she thought of him. There was a moment of tension be‑
tween them before James shrugged, letting his hand drop.
“Christ. Take it easy, Alice.” He got up from the couch,
swaying like a flag in a stiff breeze, and walked to the full‑ length mirror. “So, my book, Widen the Fall?” he said, trying to
straighten his bow tie as he looked in the mirror, making it more
crooked. Widen the Fall was his most famous novel, published eight years earlier, which launched him from a highly acclaimed
yet soft‑ selling novelist to his current status of world‑ famous, award‑ winning author.
“What about it?” Alice held her impatience in check. Georgia
was getting more pissed with every passing text. Alice needed to
speed things along and went to stand beside James so she could
straighten his tie.
But he turned and leaned close to her, rested his hands on
her shoulders (letting one settle too close to her breast), and
used them to prop up his weight. She flinched but engaged her
muscles to hold him up. Alice raised her eyebrows. Waited.
“I didn’t write it.” He released her all at once, putting her
off‑ balance. The he clapped his hands together and said, “Okay,
let’s go.”
“Wait. What do you mean you didn’t write it?” she asked,
steadying herself. But James was rifling through his pockets,
talking to himself under his breath as he did. Completely oblivious now that he had her undivided attention. “James, what do you
mean you didn’t write it?”
“I
didn’t write it. It was my idea, and I had an outline obvi‑
ously.” Sure you did. “But I paid this college kid in one of my classes— Robbie Jantzen— who was desperate for a grade I would
never give him otherwise and was a total suck‑ up. But he was
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talented. I could tell right away, and I knew,” he started, holding up one finger, “I knew he could do it. Raw talent. Terrible
judgment, but an excellent writer.”
“Does Georgia know about this?”
“Now, come on, Alice. Don’t tell me I misjudged you.” He
gave her a wry look. Yes, Georgia knew. She didn’t take on clients
whose narratives she couldn’t control, and being able to do that
well meant knowing their secrets.
Alice stood motionless, taking in what James said. That his
most famous work— the one the New York Times called “bril‑
liant and cunning and sure to become an American classic”—
was in fact written by a twenty‑ something college student with a
debt to pay and a hard‑ on for the elusive A grade James Dorian
never handed out.
James put his finger to his lips and let out a long Shhh-
hhhhh. “But don’t tell anyone, sweet Alice. Maybe one day you and I could collaborate on something. You want to write a
novel, right?” Alice couldn’t remember ever having shared that
with him. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. All you girls want to
write a goddamn novel. As transparent as your short skirts and
desperate ambition.” Alice pressed her lips together, wishing she
could tell the loathsome James Dorian where he could stick his
assumptions. But he wasn’t wrong, at least about the ambition
when it came to writing— Alice had on occasion imagined her
name printed on the cover of a book, had been playing around
with a loose idea set in the public relations world.
“Anyway, I bet we could come up with something fantastic.”
He swayed again, fiddled with the fly on his pants. Alice looked
away. “I have to take a piss. Be right back.”
James went on to win his award, and Georgia gave Alice a
loaded look after they stuffed the semiconscious author into the car service limo, smiling as she said, “That was your ticket, my dear.”
Alice burst into the bedroom when she got home, woke
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Nate up, and told him the promotion was hers. He was so proud
of her. “No one deserves this more,” Nate said. Alice agreed and,
feeling altogether powerful and accomplished, gave Nate a blow
job without any added encouragement.
But then Alice made a grave mistake. It was so stupid, actually,
she was still trying to sort out how she let it happen.
She and Bronwyn had gone shopping the evening after the
award event, trying on dresses for a friend’s upcoming wedding
in side‑ by‑ side changing rooms shortly before the store closed.
Alice had already filled her best friend in on her latest James
Dorian story and, thinking she and Bronwyn were alone, con‑
fessed the Widen the Fall ghostwriting secret. She did mention she couldn’t be sure it was true— James was drunk and gen‑
erally couldn’t be trusted in that state— but imagine if it was?
How the mighty would fall. They’d laughed somewhat cruelly
and when they came out to show off their dresses were shocked
to find another person in the changing room area. A woman
around their age, who gave them a quick look before leaving the
room. At which point Alice had gasped and turned to Bronwyn,
clutching her friend’s hands. “Oh my God. Do you think she
heard me? Did I actually say his name? Shit. Did I say his name?”
Bronwyn assured her she hadn’t, or at least she didn’t think so,
and even if she did, who cared? They made their purchases and
went to have dinner, and by the next morning Alice had for‑
gotten all about it.
At her performance review the next day, Georgia did give
her a promotion of sorts— a few thousand dollars extra on her
salary, an office with a window, and the promise she could soon
ditch babysitting James Dorian, but, “For now, I need you to
keep doing what you’re doing, Alice,” Georgia had said. “He
likes you. And a happy James is what we want.”
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Alice had been at first shocked, and then furious. She asked
about the director position. “Like I said, keep doing what you’re
doing and it will be yours within a year,” Georgia announced,
before kicking Alice out of her office to take a call. A year? No.
She couldn’t.
She strode back into Georgia’s office and waited for her boss
to finish her call, like she had every right to barge in and interrupt.
“James Dorian didn’t write Widen the Fall. ” Alice spoke
calmly, folded her hands in her lap so Georgia couldn’t see them
shaking. “But I suspect you already knew that.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“He paid one of his students. Some Robbie Jantzen. Appar‑
ently, a great writer,” Alice said. “James spilled it the other night.
Drunk and loose‑ lipped as usual.” While her insides quivered—
she had never spoken to Georgia like this before— she was fierce
on the outside.
“You won’t say anything,” Georgia said, her voice not car‑
rying its usual bravado. She pushed her shoulders back, hardened
her expression. “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, I might, actually. But it’s entirely up to you.” Alice
leaned forward, held Georgia’s gaze.
“What do you want, Alice?”
Alice rested her forearms on the desk, her sweaty palms
sticking to the papers stacked there. “I want the promotion you
promised me. Director.”
“No.”
“No?” Alice was confused, certain her strategy would work.
“No, Alice, I am not going to let you blackmail me— or
blackmail our biggest client. You know why I didn’t give you
the job?”
Alice stared at Georgia, her heart beating furiously.
“Because you aren’t good enough. Not yet, anyway. You
have to earn it here. I’ve always made that clear, Alice.”
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Without another word Alice walked out of Georgia’s office
and into the washroom, unsure if she was going to throw up or
burst into tears. Shaking, she splashed water on her face and
then, once composed, told Sloan she was sick and going home.
She didn’t look well, pale‑ faced and red‑ eyed, so it wasn’t a hard sell. Curled under her duvet a few hours later, she almost didn’t
answer her phone, but when it rang for the
fourth time she be‑
grudgingly picked up to Georgia shrieking, “What did you do,
Alice?”
Confused, Alice had bolted out of bed. “What are you talking
about?”
Turns out, as terrible luck would have it, the woman in the
changing room that evening with Alice and Bronwyn was a New
York Post reporter, and she had, in fact, heard everything. What are the fucking chances? Alice thought, as Georgia continued to yell at her. This reporter’s editor was an acquaintance of Geor‑
gia’s and, as a professional courtesy, had called her before they
ran the story. The reporter had been able to quickly corroborate
it thanks to Robbie Jantzen, who was glad to finally take credit
where credit was due— especially because his debut novel had
recently published (to little fanfare) and he believed any publicity was good publicity.
Georgia hung up on her after only three minutes, her parting
words being, “You’re fired, Alice. I’ll have your things sent to
you.” Stunned by how swiftly things had fallen apart, Alice sat
with her phone to her ear for another couple of minutes in shock.
Her career was over— Georgia, well connected in Manhattan’s
publicity world, would see to it. And once the Post story ran, ev‑
eryone would know what Alice had done; she was upset, but she
was also deeply humiliated. The repercussions of this one stupid
blunder would cling to her like pet hair on black pants— there
for all to see, including her husband, who up to this point be‑
lieved her wise and talented and certainly not someone who
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would screw up her career by sharing gossip in a changing room.
And with sudden clarity, she understood she had to get ahead of
the story. Quickly. Like she had been trained to do, she prepared
her spin, starting with Nate.
Early the next morning, she snuck out of their tiny bedroom
while Nate slept and ate a big bowl of cereal, before sticking her
finger down her throat, leaving the bathroom door open so Nate
would hear her throwing up. When he came in to check on her
she told him she had to quit because Georgia was verbally abusive
and denied her the promised promotion despite everything Alice
had done for her (for James Dorian), and she couldn’t deal any‑
more. Alice was sick from the constant negativity of the office,