Page 79 of My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

Another liveried man stands beside an inlaid wooden desk. “How may I help you?”

“I’m here to see Lauren Jameson.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Is Ms. Jameson expecting you?”

“She should be.” I lift the suitcase I’m holding as if it’s proof that I’m not dangerous and have a legitimate reason to be here even though I wish I were somewhere else.

“Your name?”

“Brianna. Brianna Williams.” I arrange what I hope is a trustworthy smile on my face. And I think how different this building is from the dangerous places Lauren was forced to live in when she first arrived.

“I don’t see your name on the list,” the man says, and I wonder if this is an intentional snub or just an oversight.

He picks up a gilded phone and presses several buttons. “Yes, ma’am. A Ms. Williams is here to see you.” He listens then nods. “Yes, of course.

“Right this way.” When the elevator arrives he ushers me inside then pushes the number eight with a gloved finger. “It’s the third door to your left when you exit the elevator.” Hedoesn’t exactly salute but he does stand at attention until the elevator doors close. I am duly impressed.

On the way up, I stare at myself in the gleaming wood and brass of the elevator. “Oh no you don’t,” I say, spotting the droop of my shoulders and feeling my chin pressing into my chest. “You are not walking in there like some pathetic loser.”

Though all I want to do is curl up in a ball, I straighten. In the richly carpeted hallway I raise my chin and throw back my shoulders.

Given the formality I’ve just come through I brace for Lauren’s public author persona, but when the door opens she gives me a hug and a smile. “Come on in.”

Compared to the elegance of the building the apartment is warm and welcoming with a small, square foyer and a dark wood floor that contrasts nicely with the white walls and trim. It opens into a contemporary white kitchen. A Plexiglas stair floats up the opposite wall.

“The bedrooms are upstairs. We can carry your suitcase up later.” She takes my bag and stashes it beside the first step then leads me toward a marble island with red leather barstools. “Would you like something cold to drink?”

“A glass of water would be great.” I slide onto a barstool and glance nervously to my right, where the space opens into a double-width living room with brilliantly colored area rugs, marble-fronted fireplace, and two full walls of windows. The first lets in sunlight and impressive views of the park. The wall that abuts it frames part of a tree-lined street filled with brownstones.

She sets two glasses of water on the counter then slides onto a stool beside me.

“Your place is beautiful,” I say, pushing the words past a lump of envy.

“Thanks. My original apartment was a lot smaller and it didn’t have a park view. I lucked into this corner unit when the original owner died.”

We consider each other. Wednesday evening was fueled by alcohol and my excitement. Lauren’s presence opened doors I would have never walked through on my own. It was thrilling to be a part of the publishing world even briefly. But now it’s just the two of us, and I’d give anything not to have stumbled on those rejections before I had to face her. Once she would have been the person I’d run to with any disappointment. Now I keep my chin up and my shoulders back and pray she can’t see theLfor loser I feel forming on my forehead.

“How’d the rest of the conference go?”

“Great,” I say truthfully. “It was... Just being around other writers was inspiring. I haven’t really experienced anything like that since we... you...” I stop stuttering long enough to look up and catch her expression. Has she taken that as a jab? Was it? “I’m not sure if I thanked you for the introductions.”

“The ones you kept insisting I not make?”

“Yeah, those.” I blush at the memory of my reluctance, the timidity that made me want to run and hide. “Your editor asked someone else from Trove to meet with me. I gave her the pitch you helped me come up with and she asked to see the full manuscript.” I remember the initial thrill, but I now have proof that this is not going to be a slam dunk. Or maybe any kind of dunk at all. “I... Maybe you shouldn’t be recommending me andHeart of Goldwhen you haven’t read it.”

Another uncomfortable look flashes across her face and I realize what I’ve just said. “I didn’t mean that Iexpect you to read it or anything. But...”

Lauren gets up abruptly to refill our glasses, and I can tell I shouldn’t have brought up the idea of her reading my book. I know she’s got her own deadlines. And I’m still not at all sure I even want to hear her true opinion. I mean, what if she reads it and hates it? Worse, what if she reads it and hates it and tells me? “Will it hurt your reputation if someone reads my work because you asked them to and they don’t like it?”

“No, not really. Editors and agents are like readers. They like what they like.” She places the waters on the island. “I have the connections to get people to read something, but no one buys a novel just to please someone else.”

“So a whole lot of people could readHeart of Goldand not want it.”

“It’s possible.” She says this matter-of-factly, but she doesn’t quite meet my eyes and I wonder if she’s already heard something through her editor. “Anything’s possible.

“But it only takes oneyesto render thenos meaningless.” She hesitates and I catch that odd look again. In the same way that I sensed that Lily recognized something new going on between Clay and me, I recognize Lauren is holding something back. What I don’t know is what it could be or why.

Thirty-five

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