Adventures with Max and Louise by Ellyn Oaksmith

who had come along to hold my hand, raked his hand through his hair. I could tell he agreed with them. And so did I. But I couldn’t do it. Not then. I’d listened and nodded and probably gave them the impression that I agreed with them, but really it was fear.
    Dave had given it one last try, telling me that Julia Child was the pioneer. She came on television like a baster-wielding Amazon, and American attitudes about food changed. Her show launched a thousand vol-au-vents. The children of her vision, Emeril Lagasse, Bobby Flay, Rachael Ray, even the Jamie Oliver, all climbed to the top through television, books, magazines, and radio. Not one of them sat back and waited for the people to come to them.
    “You need to be 100 percent focused on joining their ranks,” he said. “That means radio, television, print, and anything else you’re lucky enough to get. The top of the heap is a show on the Food Network. Do you know how many people are out there peddling cookbooks who would kill to get a meeting like this? Liz here is one of the best publicists I’ve ever worked with. If she’s telling you her plan, you’re damn lucky.”
    And for the last time, I’d said no. Liz muttered something under her breath about being done with first-time authors. She and Dave rushed off to catch a car service to the airport. Martin, who’d set up the meeting, was silent the entire drive home. He never mention the meeting again. He didn’t have to. I was furious with myself.
    Now he’s eyeing me cautiously as we stroll through salon shoes, wondering if I’m going to balk again. “She wants it if you’ll do media. All media,” he says ominously. “Web, radio, TV.”
    “That’s all I have to do, and I’m a published author?”
    “She wants it in writing, Molly. She wants to know that you will absolutely do all publicity with no backing out. It will be part of your contract. They’re so sure of this they’re going to rush the book into production if you agree. Cookbook sales are booming, and they want your book to ride that wave.”
    We are descending smoothly toward the bustling main floor. I concentrate on the metal grooves of the escalator sliding into the floor. I take a deep breath, lift my shoulders, and concentrate, for a moment, on my posture. If I can just stand straight and think, maybe everything will stop moving so fast. First Chas and now this. I’ll be able to publish my cookbook if I do publicity, and that’s a big if. One part of me cringes in the corner, thinking it’s not too late to hide. The other half wants to jump up and down and shout to the world, “I’m going to be published! I wrote a great cookbook, and Sidney-Brace agrees!” The tingling in my spine expands into a warm glow. Could I really face crowds of people and share my philosophy of cooking for every stage of life, from baby purees to casseroles for elderly relatives?
    “A published author. Chas would find it bloody sexy,” Max interjects. “I can get you through those interviews like a flippin’ star. Scout’s ’onor!”
    Before we reach the main floor, I give Martin my answer.

 
    Chapter Eleven
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    B Y ONE O’CLOCK, I am a slightly trampy Cinderella. Angeli has applied lotions, powders, lipstick, and glosses to give me what she considers a “natural” look. Natural is achieved with face cream, toner, eye cream, two shades of blended under-eye concealer, lip and eyeliner, cream blush, carefully smudged eye shadow in three coppery hues, a puff ball of whispery light powder over it all, a smudge of lipstick, then gloss, and a tub of mascara.
    “Voilà you have the fabulous dewy skin of a teenager,” she proudly pronounces.
    “I look like a hooker.”
    “No, you don’t. It’s a fall palate. Faded summer tan with raspberry lips. Tell her, Martin.”
    Martin nods in agreement. “She’s right.” I can’t tell if he’s lying.
    I take one last look in the mirror before I face them both. “Wish me luck.”
    “Break a