Everyone’s probably at the coffee bar.”
It was so soothing to have a Kardashian by her side. Kat was like the pony, leading the racehorse to the starting gate.
There was Charles Ardai engaged in a conversation with Lars Stiegsson, taking about porn, or whatever straight men talk about. Paula blew a kiss to Charles, but he was too engrossed to notice her. Paula’s agent Janet came over to Kat and seemed enamored when she heard the word, “Kardashian.”
“Where are my fans?” Paula whined to Janet. “Where are my handlers?”
So much for soothing.
“I’m not sure,” Janet said distractedly. Then to Kat, “So what was it like on the kibbutz?”
“Never mind, I’ll do it myself,” Paula said, and stormed away.
This was perfect—a tantrum, that’s what all the celebs did, right? Maybe she should start toppling bookshelves, kicking and punching security. It would be very AlecBaldwinian; was TMZ here? In the aftermath, she could blame her fame, then admit she had a problem and check in for some rehab, and then get out, pull a Lindsay, and go on a coke binge. Or what was that new drug she’d read about, the one related to those shootings in Brooklyn? PIMP. Yeah, PIMP. She’d go on a PIMP binge.
Paula returned to the ground floor, still surprised she hadn’t already been stopped numerous times for autographs, and sashayed to the information desk. That’s right,
sashayed
, because she was the new female literary star and that meant she could be as big of a sexy tart as she wanted to be. Goldfinch that.
She approached a lanky James Bond type at the desk.
The guy said, “Help you?” The accent was southern, and it sounded polite but not interested. The clothes weren’t speaking to him, probably one of those schmucks who did stuff to sheep. She adopted her best little-girl-lost voice, never failed, whimpered, “I’m Paula Segal. I’m reading here tonight.”
Being modest about it, but not because she was feeling modest. Saying with her modesty that I’m such a big deal, I can afford to be modest.
“Oh wow,” the guy said. “It’s an honor to meet you. I’ll get the Events Manager, but first…” He reached under the desk, brought out an advance copy of
Bust
and said, “Signature only.”
“Selling it on eBay, huh?” Paula asked.
The guy’s face flushed as if she had nailed it.
As she was signing the book, she asked, “Where you from?”
“Florida panhandle.”
Yep, definitely a sheep fucker. Good thing Paula wasn’t wearing wool, the guy wouldn’t be able to control himself.
Paula was waiting for the Events Manager when she saw a fat guy in a crumpled suit chewing on a disgusting cigar and staring at her. She knew he wasn’t about to make her the next supermodel, gave him the finger.
He smiled and she thought,
Whack job
.
He came over, said, “A moment of your time, Paula.”
Was he a fan? And with no book, of course? Did they even
sell
books at this store anymore, or was it really a giant coffee bar? And where was her publicist to protect her from this vermin?
“I can’t sign now,” Paula said.
“I don’t want you to sign anything,” he said.
“What the hell’s wrong with you people?” Paula screamed. “Don’t you understand that this is a bookstore? Meaning a store that sells
books
?”
He showed a badge, went, “Joe Miscali, Manhattan North.”
The name registered. She knew Miscali, of course, as she knew all the major players in Max Fisher’s life. He was the partner of Kenneth Simmons, the cop who was killed by Angela Petrakos’ boyfriend. Simmons was a major character in
Bust
. While Miscali appeared in
Bust
as well, Paula had renamed him “Fusilli,” a shout-out to her writer friend, Jim Fusilli.
She shot back, “A little out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you, officer?”
She had no idea if this were true but had seen it on
Law & Order
and had stolen it for the book.
He smiled, displaying nicotine-stained teeth, said, “Max Fisher.”
It was so soothing to have a Kardashian by her side. Kat was like the pony, leading the racehorse to the starting gate.
There was Charles Ardai engaged in a conversation with Lars Stiegsson, taking about porn, or whatever straight men talk about. Paula blew a kiss to Charles, but he was too engrossed to notice her. Paula’s agent Janet came over to Kat and seemed enamored when she heard the word, “Kardashian.”
“Where are my fans?” Paula whined to Janet. “Where are my handlers?”
So much for soothing.
“I’m not sure,” Janet said distractedly. Then to Kat, “So what was it like on the kibbutz?”
“Never mind, I’ll do it myself,” Paula said, and stormed away.
This was perfect—a tantrum, that’s what all the celebs did, right? Maybe she should start toppling bookshelves, kicking and punching security. It would be very AlecBaldwinian; was TMZ here? In the aftermath, she could blame her fame, then admit she had a problem and check in for some rehab, and then get out, pull a Lindsay, and go on a coke binge. Or what was that new drug she’d read about, the one related to those shootings in Brooklyn? PIMP. Yeah, PIMP. She’d go on a PIMP binge.
Paula returned to the ground floor, still surprised she hadn’t already been stopped numerous times for autographs, and sashayed to the information desk. That’s right,
sashayed
, because she was the new female literary star and that meant she could be as big of a sexy tart as she wanted to be. Goldfinch that.
She approached a lanky James Bond type at the desk.
The guy said, “Help you?” The accent was southern, and it sounded polite but not interested. The clothes weren’t speaking to him, probably one of those schmucks who did stuff to sheep. She adopted her best little-girl-lost voice, never failed, whimpered, “I’m Paula Segal. I’m reading here tonight.”
Being modest about it, but not because she was feeling modest. Saying with her modesty that I’m such a big deal, I can afford to be modest.
“Oh wow,” the guy said. “It’s an honor to meet you. I’ll get the Events Manager, but first…” He reached under the desk, brought out an advance copy of
Bust
and said, “Signature only.”
“Selling it on eBay, huh?” Paula asked.
The guy’s face flushed as if she had nailed it.
As she was signing the book, she asked, “Where you from?”
“Florida panhandle.”
Yep, definitely a sheep fucker. Good thing Paula wasn’t wearing wool, the guy wouldn’t be able to control himself.
Paula was waiting for the Events Manager when she saw a fat guy in a crumpled suit chewing on a disgusting cigar and staring at her. She knew he wasn’t about to make her the next supermodel, gave him the finger.
He smiled and she thought,
Whack job
.
He came over, said, “A moment of your time, Paula.”
Was he a fan? And with no book, of course? Did they even
sell
books at this store anymore, or was it really a giant coffee bar? And where was her publicist to protect her from this vermin?
“I can’t sign now,” Paula said.
“I don’t want you to sign anything,” he said.
“What the hell’s wrong with you people?” Paula screamed. “Don’t you understand that this is a bookstore? Meaning a store that sells
books
?”
He showed a badge, went, “Joe Miscali, Manhattan North.”
The name registered. She knew Miscali, of course, as she knew all the major players in Max Fisher’s life. He was the partner of Kenneth Simmons, the cop who was killed by Angela Petrakos’ boyfriend. Simmons was a major character in
Bust
. While Miscali appeared in
Bust
as well, Paula had renamed him “Fusilli,” a shout-out to her writer friend, Jim Fusilli.
She shot back, “A little out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you, officer?”
She had no idea if this were true but had seen it on
Law & Order
and had stolen it for the book.
He smiled, displaying nicotine-stained teeth, said, “Max Fisher.”
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