Page 23 of Playing to Win

Chapter 8

izzy

This is mortifying. Maybe my parents were right. God, if they could see me now. That song pops into my head, “If My Friends Could See Me Now,” from the musical and movie Sweet Charity. Except, if my friends could see me now, I’m not eating fancy chips and drinking fancy wine. No, I’m sitting at a table in Barnes & Noble on Fifth Avenue, feeling utterly embarrassed. One book. From the stack of twenty on the table and the box full of additional copies hidden by my feet, I’ve sold and signed one copy of my book.

“It’s one signing, Izzy. It’s your first signing. We’ll work on more promo,” Kerry tells me, returning from wherever she disappeared to ten minutes ago.

It doesn’t matter what she says because I know this is bad. Presales aren’t going well. It’s my first book, so I knew it wouldn’t hit the best-seller lists or anything—although there was a small part of me that hoped—but so far it has sold a couple thousand copies, that’s it.

How can I go home and look my parents in the face and tell them I made the right decision to follow my heart, then immediately ask them to write me a check to help with my rent?

Maybe Mum is right. I should give up on my need to perform and be something more than ordinary. Perhaps I should do something stable. Something with a steady income that could pay my rent.

A lump forms in my throat and pressure builds behind my eyes. I take out my phone and check Facebook. Not because I want to especially, but because I can’t let Kerry know that I feel…defeated. Well and truly, buried six feet under defeated.

“I’m going to take off,” Kerry says, checking her watch. By that, I suspect she means, she needs to deal with clients who make her money. “The store will take care of any leftover copies. My suggestion is to sign them and we’ll have them put on the shelves on release day. I’ll chat with the manager on the way out. I need to go review your blog post.”

“My blog post, right.”

“Oh, don’t be like that. It’s just a little spice to your usual dry health and fitness stuff. Trust me, this will be worth it.”

I hug her good-bye and flop back down on my seat. Will it be worth it? The blog I wrote was not nice. I demeaned Brooks’s gym, his techniques, and worse, him as a person. I mean, sure he behaved like a knob and the man has such a shitty, abrupt, mean… What was I saying? I picture his biceps bulging under his white T-shirts. The tattoos decorating his arms and poking out through the top of his T-shirt. I bet his toned pecs and abs are covered in ink. I wonder if his back is—

Stop, Izzy. I shuffle on my seat, clenching my thighs together. Okay, so his looks have got me a little…wired. But he is an absolute tool. I mean, I only wanted a green smoothie, for Christ’s sake. And it wasn’t my fault Kerry had a crappy attitude with him.

But the blog? Is that really me? Is that what I’ve become? It feels dirty.

But there’s no way I can face going back to Chelsea and telling people, telling friends and family, that I failed at this.

And I have failed. Just look at this. I lift my head from my iPhone to the empty space in front of me and feel like crying again.

I have no choice but to try to drive more readers to my blog. I have got to do something.

As my vision starts to cloud, I see three women tottering on heels toward me. I glance across my shoulder, knowing there’s nothing but a wall behind me but really not believing that these women might be coming to see me.

“Hey! Izzy? Oh my gosh, we love your salsa videos. I’m Sarah. This is Becky.”

“I’m Kristie.” She thrusts her hand at me to shake but the look on her face is more inquisitive than friendly.

“Hi, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” I stand up and the tall, immaculate brunette, Sarah, leans in to hug me. “Would you like me to sign a book for you?”

“Absolutely,” the smaller blonde says in a British accent.

“Hey, you’re British,” I say, stating the obvious. “It’s nice to meet another one of us across the pond.”

“I am. And I’ll take three copies, please. I’m always looking for new food ideas. I’m a chef.”

“Oh, gosh, that makes me nervous,” I tell her, genuinely.

I take three copies of Be Green. Be Clean from the pile I never thought would go down and open each to the first page. My hand trembles as I take a Sharpie to the page and sign the books. When I’m finished, Sarah asks for four copies, and Kristie, who seems slightly chirpier now, asks for one.

“Oh, hey, ladies, over here.” I look up as Sarah waves over another two women in suits. “This is Izzy. If you haven’t seen her salsa classes you must.”

I chat with the women until there’s only Sarah and Becky left. They’re easy to talk to and seem genuinely interested in my book. Becky is flicking through and commenting on recipes she says she is going to try for breakfast. Sarah asks about the video I was shooting this morning. It doesn’t occur to me for a few minutes that news of the DVD hasn’t broken yet. It is in my blog post—which also slags Brooks Adams—but that hasn’t gone live yet.

“Hey, how did you know about the shoot? Do you go to the Brooks Adams gym?” I ask.

Sarah bites her bottom lip, like she’s been caught playing truant from class. “Mmm, I do. But I know about the shoot because we’re actually friends of Brooks.”

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