Running Footman, a nice pub just up the road. It would be lovely if you’d join us.”
“Let’s see how I feel.” I offer a halfhearted smile. “My wrist and hand really hurt.”
Before I can continue, Felicity Marchman’s voice, amplified by a scratchy microphone, booms through the room. “Could I have everyone’s attention, please?” She pauses. “Would our keynote speaker kindly approach the podium? I believe our other featured authors are already seated here behind me…”
“I have to go,” I tell Alec. “Ms. Marchman clearly despises me.”
“Dayle, no one could despise you.” Alec winks, then his expression turns serious. “Are you certain you’re up to this? Because if you aren’t, I can let them know—”
“I’ll be fine.”
He smiles. “Well at least allow me to escort you to your seat.”
His offer surprises me, but I comply. He helps me stand, and once I’m steady on my feet he leads me from the Small Drawing Room through the Long Drawing Room and into the Churchill Ballroom, a glorious, 1000-square-foot space resplendent with rich, dark Louis XIV walnut paneling, a gleaming wooden floor, and enormous chandeliers dripping with crystal. This is a room where I imagine serious things taking place—kingdoms divided, treaties signed, monarchs usurped.
High-backed wooden chairs are arranged in a row behind two long tables and a podium, where Felicity Marchman stands, square shouldered, just before the enormous marble fireplace featuring a roaring fire of orange and amber flames. The long tables are manned, I quickly realize, by the seven other authors who have presented at today’s conference, including Beatrice Allenby, who sits on the far end in her size 2 Prada suit and looks bored as she tosses her head, running her manicured nails through her sheaves of long blond hair.
Alec walks me to the first empty seat behind the table and holds out his hand for support as I sit heavily, slightly off balance due to my cast. He bends to whisper in my ear. “If you need anything, just nod. I’ll be right in front.” I smile my thanks, then glance at Felicity Marchman, who eyes me icily.
I barely have time to settle myself and clear my head before I’m called to speak. One moment Ms. Marchman is introducing me as American novelist Candee Cronin, author of the bestselling Assignment novels, and the next I am standing behind the podium, staring out at an attentive crowd of around 250 mostly middle-aged men and women who breathlessly await my first words.
Celia should be here tonight. That’s how I pictured it, as soon as I accepted the conference invitation. Celia sitting in the front row, rolling her eyes, desperate for a cigarette, stretching her arms and pantomiming a yawn. I would have had to cajole her to come, of course. She would not have wanted to seem too outwardly supportive or anything. Yet behind my back she would have been telling everyone at the conference how brilliantly subtle Assignment: Sao Paulo really is; deconstructionist and self-referential, she would call it, with faint yet palpable echoes of John Le Carré and Graham Greene.
I clear my throat and begin. “In Mrs. Dalloway , To The Lighthouse , and other works, Virginia Woolf gave us some of the greatest literature, not just by a female author, but by any author, of the twentieth century. And yet I propose that if Virginia Woolf were alive today, she would not be penning the character-driven literary fiction for which we remember her; no, she would instead be creating GBLTQ romances and other genre works…”
When I finish speaking the audience politely applauds while Alec winks his approval from his seat in the front row. Following some brief closing remarks, Felicity Marchman announces that Beatrice Allenby will be signing copies of her novel during a wine-and-cheese reception in the Small Drawing Room. Yes, it occurs to me, Beatrice Allenby is this month’s flavor. Candee Cronin is already fading; she will be a
“Let’s see how I feel.” I offer a halfhearted smile. “My wrist and hand really hurt.”
Before I can continue, Felicity Marchman’s voice, amplified by a scratchy microphone, booms through the room. “Could I have everyone’s attention, please?” She pauses. “Would our keynote speaker kindly approach the podium? I believe our other featured authors are already seated here behind me…”
“I have to go,” I tell Alec. “Ms. Marchman clearly despises me.”
“Dayle, no one could despise you.” Alec winks, then his expression turns serious. “Are you certain you’re up to this? Because if you aren’t, I can let them know—”
“I’ll be fine.”
He smiles. “Well at least allow me to escort you to your seat.”
His offer surprises me, but I comply. He helps me stand, and once I’m steady on my feet he leads me from the Small Drawing Room through the Long Drawing Room and into the Churchill Ballroom, a glorious, 1000-square-foot space resplendent with rich, dark Louis XIV walnut paneling, a gleaming wooden floor, and enormous chandeliers dripping with crystal. This is a room where I imagine serious things taking place—kingdoms divided, treaties signed, monarchs usurped.
High-backed wooden chairs are arranged in a row behind two long tables and a podium, where Felicity Marchman stands, square shouldered, just before the enormous marble fireplace featuring a roaring fire of orange and amber flames. The long tables are manned, I quickly realize, by the seven other authors who have presented at today’s conference, including Beatrice Allenby, who sits on the far end in her size 2 Prada suit and looks bored as she tosses her head, running her manicured nails through her sheaves of long blond hair.
Alec walks me to the first empty seat behind the table and holds out his hand for support as I sit heavily, slightly off balance due to my cast. He bends to whisper in my ear. “If you need anything, just nod. I’ll be right in front.” I smile my thanks, then glance at Felicity Marchman, who eyes me icily.
I barely have time to settle myself and clear my head before I’m called to speak. One moment Ms. Marchman is introducing me as American novelist Candee Cronin, author of the bestselling Assignment novels, and the next I am standing behind the podium, staring out at an attentive crowd of around 250 mostly middle-aged men and women who breathlessly await my first words.
Celia should be here tonight. That’s how I pictured it, as soon as I accepted the conference invitation. Celia sitting in the front row, rolling her eyes, desperate for a cigarette, stretching her arms and pantomiming a yawn. I would have had to cajole her to come, of course. She would not have wanted to seem too outwardly supportive or anything. Yet behind my back she would have been telling everyone at the conference how brilliantly subtle Assignment: Sao Paulo really is; deconstructionist and self-referential, she would call it, with faint yet palpable echoes of John Le Carré and Graham Greene.
I clear my throat and begin. “In Mrs. Dalloway , To The Lighthouse , and other works, Virginia Woolf gave us some of the greatest literature, not just by a female author, but by any author, of the twentieth century. And yet I propose that if Virginia Woolf were alive today, she would not be penning the character-driven literary fiction for which we remember her; no, she would instead be creating GBLTQ romances and other genre works…”
When I finish speaking the audience politely applauds while Alec winks his approval from his seat in the front row. Following some brief closing remarks, Felicity Marchman announces that Beatrice Allenby will be signing copies of her novel during a wine-and-cheese reception in the Small Drawing Room. Yes, it occurs to me, Beatrice Allenby is this month’s flavor. Candee Cronin is already fading; she will be a
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