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Please enter recipient e-mail address es. The E-mail Address es you entered is are not in a valid format. Please re-enter recipient e-mail address es. You may send this item to up to five recipients. The name field is required. If Abigail can't finish her next book she will be out of a job. Now here is where it begins. She knows nothing about twitter but is still willing to give Abigail Donovan is an Author who is down on her luck.
She knows nothing about twitter but is still willing to give it a shot.
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While jumping on Twitter for the first time is where she meets Mark Baynard. Mark is a total pro on Twitter. Since Abigail needs a crash course Mark will show her the ropes. Soon Abigail and Mark are carrying on conversations that are absolutely hilarious. This is the first book I have read by Teresa Medeiros and I loved it!
I loved the fact it had to deal with Twitter. It's not only funny and romantic, but emotional at parts. I cried. Although there is break your heart crying and happy crying don't let that put you off. It is an excellent read. I can't say enough how much I loved this book. It touched my heart and made love the characters. You will get a complete surprise.
As they are tweeting you kinda get the feeling that something is going on but you will love it because it is all apart of the mystery in there conversations. I really felt a connection to Abigail and Mark. Both were actually very appealing. I was totally rooting for them to meet and get together.
Mark was a sweetheart himself. The connection they shared was genuine. The ending was great. I would recommend this book. Now that I have been introduced to this talented author, I am looking forward to reading more books she has written and the ones she will continue to write. Goodnight Tweetheart is a must read! Feb 13, Greta is Erikasbuddy rated it liked it. So sweet, So ewwy gooey, So rich This book could be a Lifetime movie It was definitely a RomCom and while there's nothing wrong with that I have to admit that I probably wouldn't sit through it.
After getting on twitter and trying it out she meets Mark, an English Lit professor on sabbatical. This book is a relationship through tweets. I found this almost as a beginners manuel for Twitter, felt the characters should have been older than their late 20s to early 30s, and had a hard time believing that a dude would call his Blackberry his Crackberry even though my husband reassured me that men do say that I would however recommend it to my Mom, Grandma, and anyone out there that liked the movie "Sleepless in Seattle" or "You got Mail".
I probably would have liked it better if this book was more like "The Lakehouse" and the tweets were going back in time to a Beefy Highlander ; But that's just me ;P View all 28 comments. Nov 28, Autumn rated it really liked it Shelves: i-own , contemp-romance , personal-favorites , inspiration.
This book its the sort of book that can leave room for many different opinions. Mar 19, Linda rated it really liked it Recommended to Linda by: Lyuda. Shelves: chick-lit , humorous-moments , trust-issues , silly-moments , teasing-or-banter. A lighthearted yet bittersweet story of two people who 'meet' when they find themselves tweeting each other. I enjoyed the funny banter. I found myself smiling while reading Mark and Abby's dialog.
I sensed the ending long before it happened just because Feb 19, SheLove2Read rated it it was amazing Shelves: , best-of Not a single thing about this book I didn't absolutely adore. It made me laugh, cry and do both at the same time! Definitely going on both the keeper shelf and the best reads. Jan 20, Hope Welsh rated it it was amazing Shelves: contemporary-womens-fiction. Goodnight Tweetheart was a quick, fun read. Anyone familiar with Twitter will find it really easy to get. Non-Tweeters will be able to understand Twitter based on Mark's explanations to the non-Tweeter Abby-so you don't have to understand Twitter to enjoy the book.
Abby is a terrified she can no longer write--after all, how do you top an almost-Pulitzer and Oprah Pick? She's past deadline and still on Chapter Five. She's more than willing to play with the Twitter account her publicist sets up for Goodnight Tweetheart was a quick, fun read. She's more than willing to play with the Twitter account her publicist sets up for her--since it lets her avoid her blank document page. Her first message is "Halloo As one that enjoys sarcastic wit--I loved the discussions!
I found myself laughing one minute and on the verge of tears by the end. Both Mark and Abby are witty and charming. It's clear they have a lot in common as they 'tweet' each other over the next several months. Just when she's wondering if she can have a relationship with someone 'online', she discovers Mark has lied to her all along.
Will she walk away? Will she ever get past Chapter Five? You'll have to read the book to find out! Beware: This is not a traditional romance. You won't find the HEA strict romance book readers have come to expect. As Ms. Medeiros said, though, "It doesn't have a bad ending" I nominated this book for a book club I moderate--just so I'd have an excuse to read it, LOL.
It worked--the group chose it. We just picked it on Friday Dec 10, Melissa rated it really liked it. A former bestselling author joins twitter and meets former prof for fun and snark. Lies told, truth descovered. Will love be in final chpt? Did it. Well, not exactly, but I still think the concept is innovative and fun. And while I enjoyed the quick banter I wondered why they stayed in DMs on twitter. I mean, most would have moved to Skype which does not have the limit Okay I mean, most would have moved to Skype which does not have the limit of characters that has the added security of a private conversation.
Might be an idea for another book. However, bringing it to a new format might be what threw me a bit as a reader. Still, it didn't distract from the enjoyment of the novel. It was a fun and enjoyable book with a bit of bittersweet toward the last fourth of the book.
So, if you are curious as to reading a chick lit book that is innovative, you might enjoy Goodnight Tweetheart. Go HERE to see a deleted scene of tweets and some of the pictures they give each other in the book. It also gives you an idea of how the snarkiness flies with each other. There is also a place to send ecards. Dec 18, Leah rated it really liked it Shelves: 4-stars , adult-lit , m-f. This book was very cute. Cute, sad, and then cute again.
It's my second Teresa Medeiros book and, while it's nothing like the other one I read, I wasn't disappointed with it. I liked that it was written almost entirely all through text because that was an interesting way to tell the love story. Usually, I don't like reading books in that form Twitter, texts, Instant Messages, etc. But I liked seeing Mark and Abby's relationship blossom This book was very cute.
The only thing I didn't like was the ending. Sure, Mark and Abby finally met in person, but the man had a fucking deadly disease! And they didn't even tell us if he beat it this time around! It just ended. So it left me wondering, did he die? I mean, Abby and Mark technically have a happily-ever-after, but we don't really know, now do we?
For all we know, he could have died on the next page! Thank God I had Sam to get me through this ending because I probably would have gone slowly insane inside my mind if I couldn't vent about this horrible ending to her! All in all, I really did like this book, but that ending How the hell could you do that to me, Teresa Medeiros?! Dec 14, Monica rated it it was amazing Shelves: reviewed.
I don't read a lot of contemporary romance if you follow my blog you know this. I was pleasantly surprised by this book, contemporary though it is. This book is different than any other book I have read and I have to admit when I read the excerpt from her Wicked Intentions book I was wary about it.
I couldn't have been more wrong. This book is amazing. The story is heart-wrenching and warming at the same time. There are no naughty bits but Teresa Medeiros makes up for that with witty banter and b I don't read a lot of contemporary romance if you follow my blog you know this. There are no naughty bits but Teresa Medeiros makes up for that with witty banter and beautiful characters.
Seeing as I have never read a book like this I have to say I had no idea what would happen as I read. It was amazing to get to know Mark and Abby especially in the format that we got for them. I think the tweets were perfect and genuine and there was enough actual story to get to know the characters and truly fall in love. I can't say how much I loved this book.
It touched my heart and made me fall head over heels for the characters. I teared up towards the end and I really hope we see more books like this from Teresa Medeiros.
This is the perfect book to read on a cold blustery night, it will warm your heart, I promise you that. Jun 26, Crista rated it liked it Shelves: contemporary , 3-star , lol. Goodnight Tweetheart was a very cute, quick read. It revolves around an online friendship that slowly develops into something more.
Most of the book revolves around "tweets" back and forth and was very reminiscent of my favorite movie You've Got Mail. My favorite part of this book was the witty banter between Abby and Mark. They understood each other and each other's humor. It was easy to believe that these two people could and would fall in love without ever meeting. The ending was a big bumme Goodnight Tweetheart was a very cute, quick read. The ending was a big bummer. Do not read this if you crave endings that are nicely tied up.
This one left me a bit disappointed and "wanting more". I definitely would categorize this as more chick lit than romance, and unfortunately, I wanted more romance. Overall, very funny but in the end somewhat disappointing. Dec 31, Mary rated it really liked it Shelves: book-challenge , from-publisher-author. Finally, You've Got Mail updated for the 21st century. I knew someone had to do a twitter book and I was thrilled that the first one I read was pitch perfect.
GOODNIGHT-TWEETHEART by lishalippold - Issuu
Yes, this will be the romantic twitter book that all others will be judged by in my little world. I can totally see this one as a movie. You will have to have a bit of twitter-ese to understand parts of the book. Medeiros does a great job of working in those details. The witty, little bon mots are what I live for in a book like this. Abby a Finally, You've Got Mail updated for the 21st century.
Abby and Mark come across as real people even though you only get a bit about Mark from his writing and Abby's theories about him. Of course, the book is a condensed version of a normal romance, but the emotion, word play and appeal are all there. Of course, there is a bit of a twist at the end, which was nicely done and kept the story from becoming entirely predictable and too sweet.
I don't believe I've read anything by this author before, so I went into this practically blind. However, I loved this book! It reminds me of the old Lurlene McDaniel books I used to read as a pre-teen. I enjoyed all the pop culture references, and while I didn't understand much of the Twitter culture that made it into the book, I could appreciate more because it was there. She picked up the framed photo sitting on the corner of her desk. They were standing on Carolina Beach against a backdrop of sand and sea. He was grinning at the camera like a mischievous nine-year-old while her mother laughed up at him, her eyes hidden by a pair of oversize sunglasses and her long brown hair dancing in the wind.
The hint of sadness that usually haunted her smile had vanished, if only for the instant it had taken for Abby to freeze that moment in time. One of them had always been holding the camera. She supposed this was what came of pouring your heart out to a total stranger.
Mooning over old photos while listening to the lonely wail of a saxophone, two cats your only company. She closed the screen of her laptop with a decisive click. She glanced at her Far Side desk calendar. It was only Monday. She had four days to decide whether or not she was going to make an appearance at the appointed time or stand up her cyberdate in favor of a real man, one who might be able to offer her more than just words on a screen. She had four days to forget all about Mark Baynard. She much preferred taking a long, leisurely stroll in the park or Partying Off the Pounds while Richard Simmons shouted that she was born to be a star.
She had always hated to run unless something was chasing her— preferably a hungry bear. She shot Margo a resentful glance. Margo had the long, lean muscles and regal posture of an Amazonian queen. She ran with her head straight up, her cocoacolored eyes fixed on some invisible kingdom she had yet to conquer. She gleamed. You hardly ever leave your apartment except to go to Starbucks and visit your mom in the nursing home.
I get out! Finishing your book? Or her work not in progress. The title page? The dedication? At least if he dumps you he can do it in one hundred forty characters or less, which is so much better than on a Post-it note. It was only after she and Margo had drawn their numbers and ended up sitting across a table from each other at a crowded bar in Soho that they had realized it was a gay speed dating service.
His first marriage ended badly, possibly from adultery—hers, not his. He knows a lot about pop culture and classic TV. Or even Mr. Right Now. Maybe you should consider EscapedConvicts. Abby blew out a sheepish sigh. She turned off her treadmill. Before the full forty-five minutes of her workout was over. Margo stepped off the treadmill and made a brief show of toweling the nonexistent sweat from her throat and chest, no doubt to make Abby feel marginally better about the steady stream of perspiration still trickling between her own breasts.
The only way this guy could be less attainable was if he was still married. Which, for all you know, bless your little heart, he is. This guy is like the Old Spice guy but without the towel and horse. An empty Armani suit you can fill with whoever you want him to be. Maybe I should just let the whole thing drop before it gets out of hand and he wants to start naked Skyping or something.
Goodnight Tweetheart by Teresa Medeiros
On second thought, maybe RuPaul will be available. Her eyes glued to the Direct Message column on her Tweet-deck, Abby took another nervous sip from the glass of chardonnay perched on the desk next to her MacBook. Given how rapidly it was disappearing, she should have kept the bottle within reach instead of tucking it back in the fridge. Not even when wearing a bunny costume and reading badly rhymed poetry to a squirming herd of preschoolers.
There was no reason for the frantic fluttering of the butterflies in her stomach. Yet she felt every bit as edgy as she had when waiting for Brad Wooten to pick her up for the junior prom. The two of them had celebrated their reunion by slipping away for a quickie in the backseat of that same Ford Explorer while Abby found a pay phone and called her dad to come and get her.
Catching a glimpse of her reflection in the screen only made Abby feel sillier. Groaning, she dropped her head down on the keyboard. If there was any hope of holding on to even a shred of her dwindling self-respect, she should do exactly what she knew Margo would do—close the laptop, take her de-scrunchied, perfumed, and nearly thonged self down to the nearest club, pick up the first passably good-looking stranger who asked her to dance, and bring him back to the apartment for some safe but anonymous sex.
Darcy emerge from the pond at Pemberley for the four-hundred-and-fifty-first time in the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice. Either alternative beat sitting in front of the computer waiting to be picked up for a cyberdate by a man she knew so little about he was beginning to make the Phantom of the Opera seem like an extrovert. She was reaching to close the laptop when a familiar chirp sent her pulse into overdrive. MarkBaynard: Better offer? Darcy and make it a foursome. MarkBaynard: Naughty girl! And to think I had you pegged as a Bronte woman! MarkBaynard: Could you explain that to my Lit class?
And Team Mr. MarkBaynard: I found this charming little cafe in Volterra just a short walk from here. Hang on … let me grab my chiffon scarf and trade my heels for some sandals. How about if I go all Cro-Magnon on you and drape my jacket over your shoulders? It smells nice … like your aftershave. Is it Michel Germain? MarkBaynard: Old Spice. I borrowed it from my grandfather. MarkBaynard: It would make you more nervous if you caught me staring at your chest while you talked instead of gazing deep into your eyes.
MarkBaynard: Ah, here we are. I reserved a candlelit table on the terrace. Would it offend your feminist sensibilities if I pulled your chair out for you? MarkBaynard: Do you like the music? I put in a special request. What is it? Oops … too late! Here comes the waiter with the specials. MarkBaynard: Let me ask the sommelier which vintage he recommends with those. Price, of course, is no object. MarkBaynard: You heard the lady. MarkBaynard: Sorry. No trust fund until I turn 21, remember? Are you staring at my chest? MarkBaynard: We get to know each other.
Especially if you get married later. As can my ex. So … toilet paper … over or under? Ginger or Mary Ann?
- Generation Z: The Zombie Generation.
- Chick Lit Central: Book Review: Goodnight Tweetheart.
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- Goodnight Tweetheart by Teresa Medeiros.
- Teresa Medeiros, Romance Author, Goodnight Tweetheart!
- Goodnight Tweetheart | Book by Teresa Medeiros | Official Publisher Page | Simon & Schuster.
- Goodnight Tweetheart | Book by Teresa Medeiros | Official Publisher Page | Simon & Schuster;
MarkBaynard: Oh, definitely Mary Ann. Everybody knows those wholesome, corn-fed Kansas farm girls are easy. So passionate. So misunderstood. So green. Yankees or Red Sox? MarkBaynard: Braves. Gilligan or the Skipper? Dorothy, Blanche, or Rose? MarkBaynard: Sofia. Betty White will always be da bomb but I like a woman with experience. Angel or Spike? I never could resist a jerk with a Billy Idol complex, a Brit accent and a snarky sense of humor.
MarkBaynard: Whew! At least the jerk part. MarkBaynard: Think you love me? Ah … here comes the food! MarkBaynard: Shall we share a noodle like Lady and her Tramp? MarkBaynard: Abby? Did my charms sweep you off your feet or did a power surge knock you off the Internet? I think I might be blushing. MarkBaynard: If you want me to keep my hands to myself, I will. Wait … did that sound as bad as I think it did?
MarkBaynard: Worse. MarkBaynard: Cannoli, biscotti, or tiramasu? MarkBaynard: Or the bottom of your shoe. MarkBaynard: No … Krispy Kreme fetishist. Or Ginger. MarkBaynard: If you could take one book on your 3-hour tour, what would it be? But none I think do there embrace. Beagle, Marvell was wrong. MarkBaynard: How so? MarkBaynard: Is that what you believe? What do you believe? Is it without meaning? MarkBaynard: There are meaningful deaths. And there are absurd and utterly meaningless deaths. MarkBaynard: Is that why you have an electric oven? Less temptation?
MarkBaynard: Death of choice? Choking to death on a Krispy Kreme. Which brings us back to Spike. Buffy or Faith? MarkBaynard: Which brings us back to that threesome. You never know when you might be interviewing your next ex-wife. MarkBaynard: 9 years, 11 months and 17 days. Saved me from having to buy an expensive anniversary gift.
Were you the proverbial couple who got married too young? By the time I was ready to grow up, she was ready to grow apart. MarkBaynard: A son. Their unrequited love is truly one for the ages. As long as the age is 3. MarkBaynard: Dylan from If we had twins I was going to name them Brandon and Brenda. MarkBaynard: No. I hope to see him soon. So have you ever taken a stroll down the aisle? I was going steady for a while after I came to New York but he broke up with me before I could make him Mr.
Abigail Donovan. MarkBaynard: Threatened by your meteoric rise to fame? Dumped me for a sculptor in Soho who had never even had a show. MarkBaynard: Specialized in miniatures, eh? MarkBaynard: Did he break your heart? I prefer to keep it in my safe deposit box at the bank. MarkBaynard: Let me guess. You sleep with the key under your pillow. MarkBaynard: I know this fabulous locksmith. Shall we go? MarkBaynard: That would be the one. You are paying for dinner, right? A love of books or of shaping young minds?
MarkBaynard: A love of being tenured before I was thirty-five. The books and young minds were fringe benefits along with the K and the dental plan. MarkBaynard: Plus it was really the only possible vocational choice for a kid who used to carry a briefcase to grade school. MarkBaynard: The Kama Sutra, of course. Especially if Ginger and Mary Ann were on board. MarkBaynard: No Biff the Bunny, huh? I would have pegged you as more of a Hunter S.
Thompson man. MarkBaynard: He was gonzo, but Irving, like Jerry Seinfeld, knows the only way to survive this life is to view it as some sort of absurdist tragi-comedy. In a John Irving novel, nobody ever dies a meaningless death. Ah, here we are back at your villa. MarkBaynard: Because you care enough to play hard to get. MarkBaynard: His loss. My gain. MarkBaynard: Then why are you trembling? MarkBaynard: Goodnight Freckles I toss over my shoulder.
Several new tweets from people she was Following flitted across the left column of the screen, but her Direct Message column remained empty. He turned, glancing over his shoulder at her, his eyes filled with humor and tenderness. She frowned. He was just Mark. Her Mark. Both friend and stranger. She touched a hand to her cheek, remembering the odd tingle she had felt both times he had pretended to touch her.
She tried to remember the last time she had felt that tingle—that unspoken promise that something magical was about to happen. Had it been like that the first time Dean kissed her? She frowned, struggling to remember exactly where that kiss had taken place. Had it been on the steps of the Met after the Frida Kahlo exhibit? Or over the morel risotto at Balthazar on Spring Street? It had only been a little over a year since their breakup, but she could barely remember their first date, much less their first kiss. She had always been a good girl and he had been her first real bad-boy crush.
So how to explain the delicious little thrill that had made the hair on the back of her neck stand up when Mark had simply pretended to brush his lips tenderly over her temple? Had Margo been right? Was he the perfect lover for a budding agoraphobic, a woman who had built so many walls around her heart she was in danger of ending up imprisoned behind them forever? Abby absently reached for the glass of wine, grimacing when it touched her lips.
Neglected and forgotten, the char-donnay in the bottom of the glass had grown warm while she sipped an imaginary Diet Coke with her imaginary date at a very real cafe on the other side of the world. MarkBaynard: Miss me? What did you say? MarkBaynard: So how is the writing going today? Or why you have a stuffed gorilla? MarkBaynard: Another bad writing day? One for a. One for p.
MarkBaynard: Have you thought about supplementing your writing income with an endorsement deal from Starbucks? Such is the plight of the tortured artist. MarkBaynard: At least if you end up in the gutter like Poe, sympathetic gawkers can toss quarters into your little plastic cup. You might need a change of scenery. Then I realized it was my house shoe. And you just drank a pitcher of bellinis.
MarkBaynard: So roughly the equivalent of a long novella, right? MarkBaynard: I could send you a dime for each Direct Message. MarkBaynard: You must be doing something right. MarkBaynard: A hobby. Did you know it was Cankle Awareness Month? MarkBaynard: What in the hell is a cankle? Is it contagious?
Sexually transmitted? Is there a foundation I can donate to? MarkBaynard: Oddly enough, I think I would. So what prompted you to become a writer in the first place? A story to tell. I figured that would give me a lifetime of material. MarkBaynard: Ah … the romantic fantasy of toiling in obscurity! You could be starving in a garret instead of a posh apartment overlooking Central Park. Oh, wait … Tilt-AWhirls make me hurl. Dust the baseboards. Put all my photos in albums, etc. MarkBaynard: Maybe you just need to learn to embrace your natural rhythms—in life and in writing. MarkBaynard: Works for me.
Or the activity. MarkBaynard: A witty, talented woman who meets a mysterious but strangely irresistible man on Twitter. MarkBaynard: Have chloroform, will travel. Would you mind leaving a key under the mat? Said you were probably really an escaped convict. MarkBaynard: I think I just saw two sparrows having that outside the window of my bed-and-breakfast. Looked like fun. Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous? MarkBaynard: That depends. Are there also tweetgasms? We never turn down sex, no matter how ridiculous. Or dehuman. I think we should try it. You go first. I can hear you! MarkBaynard: What do you have to lose?
My dignity? My self-respect? MarkBaynard: Coward! Which means all of your Followers just read it. MarkBaynard: But look! MarkBaynard: ! MarkBaynard: Are you blushing? MarkBaynard: I was only joking with you! And when I do, you will suffer a slow, excruciating death. MarkBaynard: Will you have my babies too? MarkBaynard: Only when it comes to getting the restraining orders. MarkBaynard: ? MarkBaynard: So which offer are you going to accept? So where will you be next week?
MarkBaynard: At the bottom of the Hudson River, if you and your new boyfriend have anything to say about it. MarkBaynard: I thought I sensed a disturbance in the force. Why so non-serious? He looks a lot happier than the gorilla. MarkBaynard: You started Chapter Six? Mark Baynard, English lit professor and inspiration to women everywhere. MarkBaynard: Are you excited about seeing your editor or getting a free lunch at some swanky French joint? MarkBaynard: I heard Pam Anderson was available.
MarkBaynard: It would if Pam Anderson was in it. MarkBaynard: Just how many extensions has she granted you so far? Are you going through a tunnel? MarkBaynard: That many, eh? Maybe I just need to feel like somebody still believes in me. MarkBaynard: I believe in you.
MarkBaynard: I like to think of myself as more of a butch Deanna Troi. Or maybe Yoda during his Dagobah swamp phase. The Jedi master of misplaced pronouns. MarkBaynard: Deeply offended am I by your heartless mockery. Because I look a lot more like the Swedish Chef when I try to do kung fu. Especially with those cleavers. MarkBaynard: You should do what Einstein did. Have an identical suit for every day of the week.
Conserved his brain power for more important activities. Or tweeting? MarkBaynard: I heard Einstein was more of a Facebook fan. Or maybe Relativityville. What if WE had met on Facebook? MarkBaynard: And have two kids. MarkBaynard: And a second mortgage. MarkBaynard: And … oh, the hell with it. MarkBaynard: Forget the shoes. What you need is the right attitude.
MarkBaynard: Try picturing yourself at this lunch looking productive and confident and successful beyond your wildest dreams. Bitter, jaded women are so much more fun. But with underwear. Or not. I just love to pay strangers money to rub my body! I used to take my seniors to NYC every spring for a Broadway play. MarkBaynard: Did your parents put your picture on a milk carton? MarkBaynard: I was more like Mr.
But I promise to check in as soon as I get back. Does she give better tweetsex than I do? MarkBaynard: Baby, nobody does it better than you. MarkBaynard: Oops … sorry … I digress … Break a leg at the lunch, dollface. Or at least an elbow. Its ivory linen tablecloths and sleek teak accents created the perfect marriage between mellow old-world elegance and modern design.
Dark oil paintings adorned the light walls. Graceful sprays of fresh cherry blossoms bloomed from tall glass vases perched on marble-topped dividers, giving many of the tables a carefully crafted illusion of privacy. The restaurant smelled of the genuine leather padding of its chairs, fresh fish swimming in a succulent sea of beurre blanc , and money, both old and new. It was a place where the stars of stage, screen, and Wall Street came to eat in fourstar elegance.
A place where careers were launched, fortunes were made, and hearts were won. Just stepping through the glass doors of the restaurant and breathing the rarified air made Abby feel a little light-headed. A smiling hostess with a sleek blond bob took her name and went to see if the rest of her party had arrived. Abby clutched the leather portfolio containing the first five chapters of her book, plus the new notes she had scribbled down after her last tweet session with Mark, and peered discreetly around the restaurant, trying to look as if she still belonged there. She bit back a smile, wondering what Mark would have to say about that name.
She was afraid it might take the Jaws of Life to get her out of it. The hostess returned to escort her to the table. Her editor was a statuesque brunette with impeccable taste in both fashion and literature and the creamy Botoxed brow and cherry red lips of an aging Snow White. Her agent was a petite and unassuming-looking blonde who swore like a cast member of Jersey Shore and fought like a Valkyrie for her clients. Both women abruptly stopped talking and rose from their chairs as Abby made her way toward the table, their welcoming smiles a shade too bright.
Abby felt her own smile begin to falter. By the time greetings were murmured and air kisses traded all around, she knew exactly how Jesus must have felt when Judas asked him to pass the bread basket at the Last Supper. She could almost smell the notes of guilt and regret beneath the delicate jasmine fragrance of the Jean Patou perfume her editor always wore. While the sommelier went to fetch their wine selection and Abby gazed blindly at the menu, they dispensed with the obligatory small talk.
They asked about her mother. She asked them about their husbands and children. Nobody asked about the leather portfolio she had discreetly tucked beneath the table. Ravel faded, making way for the mournful notes of a Bach cello solo. While her agent sat in mute misery, nursing a beautifully plated portion of pan-roasted monkfish, her editor set aside her fork and began to speak. Since Le Bernardin was as well known for its flawless French service as it was for its culinary charms, the waiter came rushing over the instant her fingertips left the plate.
If he pitied her for being abandoned so abruptly by her lunch companions, he hid it behind a veneer of impeccable courtesy. Her former editor. Would you care to see the dessert menu? Her stomach was still churning with disbelief. The waiter continued to hover over her, but when she showed no sign of rising and surrendering her table to the next patron, he smiled awkwardly.
This was the last time her publisher would ever pick up the tab for her. She smiled up at him, having already chosen the perfect vintage to celebrate a not-so-special occasion. To go.