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Eliza forced a smile, then perused the menu. She pointed out some sort of eggplant parmesan dish that the server assured them was served on a beautiful platter.
“Why don’t I get the zucchini blossom?” Eliza said. “Then you can take a picture with whichever looks better.”
“I like the way you think,” Marguerite said. “Do you like zucchini?”
“Does anyone?”
A gleam entered Marguerite’s eyes. “Color me interested. You know, I was quite shocked when I got the email that you and Harold were parting ways. The rumors are that you were let go.”
“I’m going the road alone.” Eliza dodged the question.
“How does Roman feel about that?”
“He’s supportive.”
“Is he, then?” Marguerite’s eye flicked over to Eliza’s with a deliberate pause. “That’s good.”
“It’s not exactly his choice, seeing as it’s my career.”
“I agree it shouldn’t be his choice. I just wondered how he took the news.”
“I don’t really understand why you seem to dislike Roman so much.”
Eliza’s bluntness surprised even her, but it was a thought that had pricked at her mind for months. Ever since the author had started infusing little comments about Roman into the conversation every chance she could get. While she was embarrassed for blurting it out, Eliza wanted to hear the answer.
“I don’t trust him,” Marguerite said. “I think he’s holding you back.”
“Holding me back from what?”
“Are you happy in your relationship?” Marguerite’s cool blue eyes met Eliza’s. “Is Roman everything to you? Because that’s what you deserve. If he’s not, you have options.”
“Options,” Eliza echoed.
“I can help,” Marguerite said. “After all you’ve done for me, it’s the least I could do in return.”
“No, I—” Eliza shook her head, but her nerves were jangling. What had Marguerite seen in Roman to set her so off-kilter around Eliza’s husband? “Let’s forget about Roman for now.”
“Doll—”
“He’s not my biggest concern—that’s you. I’m opening the doors to Eliza Tate PR, and I’d like you to be my first client. I can assure you that with your next book, we can shoot you higher in ranks than ever before. The New York Times list. The Wall Street Journal.”
“Can you get Be Free on Oprah’s book club?”
“Better,” Eliza gushed, leaning forward. “Reese Witherspoon is in.”
“Tell me more about your proposal. And take the book off the table. Reading makes my eyes ache.”
Eliza removed the binder and stashed it in her bag. “Let me start by saying that you’ve got a great platform, and I’m going to make it better. You’ve roped in the mommy crowd, but I think we can do more. Let’s focus on the younger readers—those twenty-somethings who are perpetually scrolling through Instagram, sharing posts, shouting about their favorite authors, taking pretty photos of books and socks and—”
“Yes.” Marguerite pointed a finger at Eliza. “I love it. You understand me. And I understand you, Eliza. Better than you know.”
“I think I do,” Eliza said diplomatically. “And I’m ready to get started now. Let’s kick off your next project with a launch party.”
As she spoke, Eliza kept a constant watch on Marguerite’s wineglass to ensure it never got too empty. She herself hadn’t had more than a sip—she needed to stay sharp—but Marguerite was two and some glasses in and going steady. A greedy gleam had appeared in Marguerite’s eyes.
“A launch party? When?” Marguerite murmured. “Be Free doesn’t come out for another year.”
Eliza watched with pleasure as Marguerite reached for a hunk of warm bread and buttered it up, popping a slice in her mouth, too distracted by the images of success and fame to care about calories from gluten.
