"What is it now, Annabelle?"
B. A. King, publicist and former literary agent, studied his new manicure, while reflecting on the problems of having a former lover as a client, especially a lover/client like Annabelle Pace. The chief problem was that there was never a decent out, not that decency was a quality B. A. prized too highly.
"Don't use that tone with me," came a voice over the phone at a volume calibrated to shatter B. A.'s whiskey glass. "You've got me signing books in some godforsaken town no one ever heard of in a store no one can find. I drive around for two hours and when I finally get there, ten people show up and half of them thought they were there for Patricia Fucking Cornwell. The other shoppers skittered around me like I was harboring the Ebola virus. You call this a promotional tour?"
B. A. sighed heavily. How many times? "It's not the readers here in New York you need to cultivate," he said patiently-for him. "It's the people in the heartland who never heard of you. Name recognition comes by increments. There is no such thing as overnight fame."
"Tell that to Monica Lewinsky. I want you to cancel the rest of this tour. Whether you cancel it or not, I'm not showing up."
"That will certainly add to the fund of goodwill you've been building up with the independent bookshops. Listen, Annabelle. You've only got two more days and then you have to get on a plane to Scotland anyway. If you think they haven't heard of you in Iowa, just imagine the reception you'll get in Scotland. But that's exactly the point of getting yourself out there. So you will become better known by the people who've never heard of you yet. Do you follow me?"
Somewhat mollified, or rather, somewhat deeper into the wine bottle she'd ordered from room service, Annabelle said, a wheedling note in her voice: "You will be there, won't you? You did promise."
"Of course, darling Annabelle. Your invitation to Easterbrook's little fling is something I'll be busy exploiting to the fullest. It's quite an honor he included you, you know. You're the only American on the list. Well, apart from Tom Brackett and his wife. And, I suppose, Joan Elksworthy-she lives here now, even though she's from Scotland or somewhere."
"Well, that's four of us, even if you don't count Kimberlee Kalder," said Annabelle. "She's half American, I've heard. In fact, I've been hearing too much about her lately. She must have one hell of a publicist."
"Not at all, Annabelle. Some books sell by word of mouth."
He felt somehow it would be wisest not to mention that his main-his only-interest in being in Scotland was the opportunity it afforded him to talk with Kimberlee and see if he couldn't woo her into his stable. Not that Annabelle wasn't perfectly aware of that. Yet another of the pitfalls of having a former lover as a client: She simply knew him too well.
"What exactly is that supposed to mean? My books sell by word of mouth."
He supposed she had a point: For grizzly autopsy scenes it was hard to beat Annabelle and her "plucky, zany, forensic-scientist sleuth," as Lord Easterbrook's marketing department would have it. And maybe the mistakes Annabelle rather famously made in writing about police and medical procedure caused the pros to snap up her latest for a good laugh.
"What's that you say? We're losing the signal." A near impossibility, since he was on a land line, but hopefully she wouldn't recall that.
"See you on Thursday, then," he shouted into the phone. "'Bye!"
He hung up hastily, just in time to miss the next salvo.
It was time to get rid of Annabelle, he decided. One way or the other.