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"You look great--don't stress," David assured her from the bathroom, where he was fixing his tie.
Mara nodded and smoothed down the folds of her skirt. She'd chosen a pretty Diane von Furstenberg shirtwaist, a crisp black cotton dress that she hoped said "serious writer." "So, how many pages of the blog should I bring?" she asked, kneeling down and unzipping her suitcase to show him the printout of all the posts she'd done. It was a hefty stack of paper. "Do you think the first fifty are enough?"
"Don't worry about that; you can just leave it here." David waved his hand as if it were a silly suggestion as he pulled his tie into a knot with a definitive tug.
"I shouldn't bring it?" Mara asked, surprised. She put on her best heels--the silver Manolo Blahnik rhinestone sandals she'd gotten for free one summer. If the dress was meant to communicate her serious ambitions, the shoes were to remind everyone she had glamorous aspirations as well. "But what will your mom look at?"
"You're so cute." He came back into the room to kiss her on the head. He stroked her hair, petting her like a puppy. "She'll look at you." He shook his head as he moved over to the dresser, slipping into his navy blazer.
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"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You know what I mean. . . . It's all about fitting a marketing profile." He buttoned his gold cuff links and shrugged. "Young, cute, perky blogger girl writes a chick-lit book; publishers will salivate at the sight of your author shot alone," he finished, putting on his horn-rimmed glasses and smiling at her. "I'd drool at your author shot," he added huskily, with a wink.
Her author shot? Mara's face fell. "But you said it was funny. ..."
"You are funny," David assured her. "You're a very entertaining writer." She knew he meant it as a compliment, but "entertaining" sounded a lot like "dumb" to Mara's ears.
He grabbed a pair of argyle socks from his drawer and slipped them on his feet. "It's the reality of the market these days. It never matters what the writing is like anymore; it's the concept of the thing. My mom just sold some memoir from twin seven-year-olds. I'm sure it's awful, but who can resist precocious young kids writing a book?" He shrugged and grabbed his wallet from his desk, sticking it in his pants pocket.
Mara stopped putting on her shoes and sat down on the bed, suddenly feeling a bit dizzy. "So what exactly is my hook?"
"You know, cute au pair lit. Chick lit with the nanny angle. From the cutest au pair of all." He came and sat down beside her on the bed, smiling. "What's wrong? Are you feeling sick?"
Okay, so maybe she wasn't writing Remembrance of Things Past here, but she'd worked hard on that blog. She slaved over every sentence. It was very difficult to make writing look effortless.
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"Seriously, are you okay?" David asked, leaning over and putting a hand on her face to check her temperature.
Mara couldn't look at him. All this time, she'd thought David was interested in her writing, but he was really just being condescending.
"So you don't think my writing's any good."
"Mara, I just told you," he said, looking exasperated. "It's not about that. Your writing isn't what's going to sell your book."
Something in Mara snapped. She didn't need him or his mother. There were other agents in the city. Besides, she had a lot of readers now--who were interested in what she had to say, not just what she looked like. She did not have a webcam, thank you very much, and she wasn't about to whore herself out to an agent who simply wanted a sexy author photo.
"You know what? I'm not okay." She stood up and began stuffing her clothes back into her suitcase haphazardly. She grabbed her cosmetics from the bathroom and threw them in, not caring if the shampoo spilled on her new Eliza Thompson tunics.
"What are you doing?" David asked, aghast. "My mother is waiting for us."
"I'm not going to dinner. I'm leaving," Mara said, looking him straight in the eye. "I'm not your little squirrel," she added icily.
"Squirrel?" he asked, confused.
"Ibsen. A Doll's House" she snapped, just to show that she too could make hoity-toity literary references if she wanted to.
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"But why? I don't understand." He looked truly distressed, and for a moment she felt bad for him. He really didn't get it. "Just because I said you couldn't bring your blog? For God's sake, bring it if you'd like. It doesn't make a difference to me."
It didn't make a difference to him? She didn't feel so bad anymore. Mara stuffed her manuscript into her laptop bag and it bulged a little. "It's not just that, David. And if you can't figure it out, then I can't help you."
"Mara, don't be an idiot. You clearly have no clue what a huge opportunity this is," he warned. His voice suddenly had a frightening edge, one she'd never heard before.
"Oh, I don't, don't I?" She hoisted her suitcase upright and marched for the door, wobbling on her heels a little. It was a little difficult to make a graceful exit in a tight dress and spindly high heels.
