I Know a Secret

Nineteen

Everett is getting to be a problem.

I knew this would happen. He’s the sort of man who craves deep connections, who actually likes waking up in bed with the woman he fucked the night before. It has been my experience that 90 percent of men my age don’t want to wake up with a woman. They’d rather hook up with a girl they found on Tinder, enjoy their quickie, then go their merry way. No dinner, no date, no need to rack their poor little brains for topics of conversation. We’re all like billiard balls these days, briefly bouncing up against each other and then rolling away. For the most part, that’s exactly the way I like it too. Uncomplicated and unencumbered. Come on, baby, rock my world; now get out of here.

This is not what Everett wants. He stands in my apartment doorway, holding a bottle of red wine, a tentative smile on his face. “You haven’t returned my calls the last few days,” he says. “I thought maybe if I dropped by, we might spend the evening talking. Or go out to dinner. Or just have a glass of wine.”

“I’m sorry, but my life is crazy right now. And I’m just on my way out the door.”

He looks at my coat, which I’m already buttoning, and sighs. “Of course. You’ve got places to go.”

“Actually, I have to go to work.”

“At six in the evening?”

“Don’t, Everett. I shouldn’t have to explain myself.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! It’s just that I really felt something between us. And then suddenly you got skittish again. Did I do something? Say something wrong?”

I accept his bottle of wine, set it on the table by the door, and step out into the hallway. “I need a little breathing space right now, that’s all.” I lock the door behind me.

“I get that. You’re independent; you told me that. I like my independence too.”

Sure you do. That’s why you were standing in my doorway, eyeing me like a worshipful puppy dog. Not that it’s such a bad thing. A girl can always use a loyal hound, someone who’ll adore her and overlook her faults and keep her happy in bed. A man who’ll lend her money and fetch her bowls of chicken soup when she’s sick. A man who’ll do whatever she asks him to.

Even things he shouldn’t do.

“Oh, look at the time. I really have to get going,” I tell him. “I need to be at the Harvard Coop in half an hour.”

“What’s happening at the Coop?”

“One of my clients is doing a book-signing, and it’s my job to make sure everything runs smoothly. You’re welcome to come, but you can’t be my date. You have to act like just another one of her fans.”

“I can do that. Who’s the author?”

“Victoria Avalon.”

He gives me a blank stare, which makes me think better of him. Anyone who actually recognizes the name Victoria Avalon is, by my definition, a moron.

“She’s a reality-TV star,” I explain. “She was briefly married to Luke Jelco.” Again he gives me a blank stare. “You know, the tight end? New England Patriots?”

“Oh, football. Right. So your client wrote a book?”

“Her name’s on it anyway. In the publishing business, that’s close enough.”

“You know what? I’d love to come. It’s been a while since I went to a book-signing at the Coop. Last year I met the woman who wrote the definitive biography of Bulfinch, the architect. It was kind of sad, because only three people showed up.”

For a biography of Charles Bulfinch, three people would constitute a crowd.

“I hope to God more than three people show up tonight,” I tell him as we walk out of the building. “Or I’ll be out of a job.”

Even snooty Harvard students aren’t immune to the siren call of celebrity tits and ass. They’ve shown up in droves, filling every seat in the small performance area on the third floor of the Harvard Coop bookstore. They’re packed into the aisles of science and technology books and they even spill over onto the curving staircase. Hundreds of brainiacs, the future leaders of the free world, have come to worship at the feet of Victoria Avalon, who, and I swear this is true, once asked me: “How do you spell IQ?” The large crowd has made Victoria very happy tonight. Only last week she was yelling at me over the phone because I couldn’t get enough media coverage for her new memoir. Tonight she’s at her seductive best, beaming, wriggling, touching the arm of every fan who’s come to get her autograph. Whether men or women, they’re all enthralled. The women want to be her, and the men want to — well, we know exactly what the men want.

I stand at Victoria’s left side, moving things along, flipping open the books to the title page, sliding them in front of her. She signs with a flourish, a big swirly VA in purple ink. The men ogle (there’s a lot to ogle, because she’s about to spill out of her low-cut bodice), and the women linger to chat, chat, chat. It’s my job to bring the conversations to a quick close and nudge the fans along; otherwise we’ll be in this bookstore all night. Victoria probably wouldn’t mind that, because she feeds on adoration like a vampire, but I’m anxious to get this evening over with. Though I can’t spot Everett among the crowd, I know he is patiently waiting for me to finish the event, and I feel the familiar tingle of anticipation between my legs. Maybe it’s a lucky thing he stopped by to see me tonight. Sex is just what I need to relax me after a night of catering to this demanding bitch.

It takes two and a half hours for Victoria to greet all her fans. She’s autographed one hundred eighty-three books, signing faster than a book a minute, but when we’re done there’s still a stack of sixty books left unsold. This of course makes Victoria unhappy. She wouldn’t be Victoria if she was ever, for a moment in her life, satisfied with anything. As she signs the unsold stock, she whines about the venue (“more people would come here if they didn’t have to drive into Cambridge!”), the weather (“it’s too damn cold tonight!”), and the date (“everyone knows tonight’s the final episode of Dancing with the Stars!”). I let her complaints roll off my back as I keep sliding her the books to sign. Out of the corner of my eye I spot Everett watching me with a sympathetic smile. Yes, this is what I do for a living. Now you understand why I’m really, really looking forward to that bottle of wine you brought me.

As Victoria signs the last book, I notice one of the store employees walking toward us with a bouquet of flowers in his arms. “Miss Avalon, I’m so glad you haven’t left the store yet. These just arrived for you!”

At the sight of the bouquet, Victoria’s pout instantly transforms into a thousand-watt smile. This is why she’s a celebrity; she can turn it on and off like a switch. All she needs is a proper dose of adoration, and here it is, in the form of a plastic-wrapped bundle of roses.

“Oh, how lovely!” Victoria gushes. “Who sent them?”

“The deliveryman didn’t say. But there is a card.”

Victoria peels open the envelope and frowns at the handwritten message inside. “Well, this is kind of weird,” she says.

“What does it say?” I ask.

“Remember me? That’s all it says. And it’s not signed.” She hands me the card, but I scarcely look at it. My gaze is suddenly riveted on the bouquet itself. On the foliage tucked in among the roses. This is not the usual fern leaf or aspidistra, bundled into bouquets by florists everywhere. While this bit of greenery means nothing to Victoria, who wouldn’t know the difference between a hydrangea and a hydrant, a palm leaf does mean something to me.

Symbol of the martyr.

The card slips out of my fingers and flutters to the floor.

“These must be from one of my old admirers,” Victoria says. “How weird that he didn’t sign his name. Oh, well.” She laughs. “A gal does love a little mystery in her life. He could have just come up and said hello. I wonder if he’s here right now?”

I glance wildly around the bookstore. I see women browsing the shelves and three studious-looking young men hunched over their textbooks. And Everett. He notices I’m rattled, and he’s frowning as he comes toward me.

“Holly? What’s wrong?”

“I need to go home.” I snatch up my coat. My hands are shaking. “I’ll call you later.”