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“And what’s up with avoiding celebrities?”

Again, Cam struggled with how to explain herself without sounding bonkers. She thought of all the time she had spent getting sucked into the orbit of musicians who were just famous enough for her mother, Flora, to chase. She had learned the word groupie as a preteen, but that didn’t exactly describe her. Flora had been an aspiring folk singer who wanted to be them, not just sleep with them. “It’s just the drama that’s usually involved,” Cam finally answered. “And the egos. I would rather just keep things simple. Stay anonymous. Stay away from drama.”

“Then you are absolutely going to hate the idea I just had,” Russell said, stopping in his tracks and placing the paperweight back on his desk. “Even though it’s perfect. How badly do you need the money?” he asked, a slight smile playing on the corners of his mouth. He looked pleased with himself. “God, I’m brilliant,” he said, confirming her suspicions about his self-regard.

Cam didn’t have to think too hard about that question. At this point, there wasn’t much she wouldn’t do for the money. Whatever it was Russell had up his perfectly cuff-linked sleeve, she would do it.

“Let’s just say I’d start an OnlyFans profile if I thought there were enough pervs out there who would be into a mousey thirtysomething with intimacy issues,” Cam told Russell. She was kidding, but it was depressingly close to the truth.

Russell shook his head. “You know, Cam, for an observant person, you can be pretty blind about yourself. But that’s a topic for another day. On the pertinent question—the matter of this eighty-K—I just might have a proposal that would keep you from stooping to such desperate measures.” He reached into a desk drawer, pulled out a form, and then slid it in front of Cam. “Sign here,” he ordered.

She scanned the NDA and was confused. Usually, a ghostwriter signed an NDA once they had been hired on a project. “But I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” she protested.

“For this one,” Russell said, “I need you to sign this to even discuss it with you. Welcome to the major leagues.”

Cam inwardly groaned.

An hour later, Cam stood in front of the Biblio Literary Agency’s building, gratefully inhaling the scent of sidewalk, hot dog, and pot smoke, which was what passed for fresh air in the thick of the city. With clammy fingers, she reached into her tote bag and touched the edge of the check. It was half of the advance, which was probably enough to get a contractor started on Birdie’s house. The other half of the money was to be handed over upon “satisfactory completion” of the contract she had just signed. When she had touched pen to paper, Cam had felt like she was selling her soul to the devil. In fact, she swore she could feel the flames raising the temperature in Russell’s office by a few degrees and causing a little pool of sweat to gather at the base of her back. But there the check was in her zippered pocket, and just feeling the edge of it calmed her jangling nerves.

She reached for her phone and called Birdie. “Good news,” Cam said after her grandmother answered, the knot in her chest nearly betraying her effort to sound cheerful and confident. There was no need for Birdie to worry about her, not after she knew what her grandmother had sacrificed on her behalf. “I’ve got the money. You don’t have to sell. Tell that developer to go to hell. It’s going to be okay. I promise.”

Later, Cam sat curled up on her squishy sofa under a block-print quilt, scrolling through Instagram, a glass of red wine in hand.

“What have we gotten ourselves into, Parsley?” she asked, taking another sip. The dog lifted his chin from the spot on her feet where it had been resting. “We can do this, right?” Cam asked him, aware of how desperate she sounded. She was seeking affirmation from a forty-pound terrier mutt.

From the colorful screen in her hand, images of her new “partner” beamed up at her.

Perfectly sun-streaked blond hair. Skin so glowy it looked like it was lit from within by magic elves.

“Hello, Izzy Jones,” Cam murmured.

Cam had known the name as soon as Russell said it, which meant that Izzy was a certifiable big deal. Cam was used to not recognizing the names of half the reality TV stars and pop singers on her Instagram feed or in the magazines she scanned at the nail salon while she waited for the polish on her toes to dry. But everyone knew Izzy Jones.

Cam had managed to find enough profiles of Izzy to fill in the details of her life that she didn’t already know. Izzy had been a breakout movie star as a teenager and quickly rose to become one of Hollywood’s hottest commodities. By the ripe age of thirty, she’d won an Oscar and been nominated for another. She had the pick of whatever roles she wanted, from superhero movies to quirky indie films. Which might have been enough for some women—but not every woman was Izzy Jones.

In addition to acting, Izzy in recent years had become a full-fledged mogul as the head of a “lifestyle brand” that bore her name. She had a line of skincare potions and cosmetics and an array of “wellness products.” She’d written a memoir, which Cam had ordered. She had modeled for endorsement deals but only the really high-class kind.

And all of this was fueled by Izzy’s carefully crafted social media image. She shared scenes from her life, which smartly mixed the aspirational (stand-up paddleboarding on white-sand beaches and behind-the-scenes red-carpet prep) with the relatable (makeup-free Netflix sessions on the sofa). And most importantly to Cam, she regularly posted photos of food she made—bowls of luscious pasta, whole grilled fish, herb-strewn wood-fired pizzas—often with self-deprecating captions. Hence the cookbook deal, which was for an eye-popping amount, according to Russell, whose eyes didn’t often pop.

Izzy created the image of a life exactly attuned to the moment: She came off as the coolest friend you’d ever dreamed of having, the woman who had it all but didn’t take herself too seriously. Izzy Jones, Cam concluded, admiring the perfectly imperfect photos, knew precisely what she was doing.

But Russell had also clued Cam in to Izzy’s big secret: She couldn’t cook. Not a lick. She couldn’t boil water, even if she could figure out how to turn on her La Cornue range that sometimes appeared in the corner of an off-center kitchen pic. (Izzy would never brag about such things, but the zillion-dollar cooking equipment appeared like a magic backdrop, just like all the other status symbols casually strewn through her life, like the vintage Chanel bag tossed on the table of the outdoor cafe on the Amalfi Coast where she and a friend were enjoying #thatNegronilife.)

And then Russell had told Cam something he said wasn’t just covered by the NDA but that he swore he would personally deny ever uttering: Izzy Jones wasn’t your dream gal pal. In fact, she was a ginormous pain in the ass. She had fired the last three ghostwriters he had paired her with—the most recent one just the minute before Cam had walked into his office, which would explain the desk-pounding she had overheard. Each of them had written a few recipes that Izzy deemed unusable for a variety of vaguely expressed reasons, and they were summarily dismissed. At this rate, Russell was getting nervous that they might not make the publisher’s deadline in time, which would mean, in his words, a real shitshow, not to mention no payday for him either.

Cam took another sip of wine as she continued scrolling through Izzy Jones’s fabulous life. The deadline to get the manuscript to the publisher was February 1. Cam ran the numbers. Twelve weeks. Fifty recipes. And one impossible-to-please celebrity.

Cam cast her eyes heavenward and imagined Julia Child, serene and beatific. “I’m gonna need help here.”

A week later, Cam felt like she was stepping into the war zone that was Izzy Jones’s duplex condo on the Upper East Side. She was armed with a rough plan for the cookbook and a handful of recipe ideas, all of which she had printed out in addition to having emailed them to Izzy earlier. Cam wasn’t sure what to expect. Would Izzy be a micromanager? Hands-off like Meredith had been lately? Russell only warned her that her new partner was “unpredictable.” But his bottom line was simple: Izzy Jones had to be happy with Cam’s work. Or else.

Cam had chosen her outfit carefully with the express aim of not looking like she was trying too hard. Low-top Frye boots, boyfriend jeans, and a tee that said “casual” while a blazer said “business.” Or so Cam hoped as she perched on the low-slung sofa admiring Izzy’s gallery wall of modern art.

“Can I get you something? Sparkling water? Tequila?” The young woman in head-to-toe black who had let her in and instructed her to wait for Izzy had appeared silently at the door, and her voice made Cam jump.

“No thanks,” she answered. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

“Looks like Izzy’s running a little late,” the woman said, consulting her phone. “You’re sure?”