Goodnight Tweetheart Read Free Page A

overlooking the sweeping green expanse of the most famous park in the world?
    What the apartment lacked in size, it made up for in chic. The kitchen, living room, and sleeping area might share the same long room, but it was painted a tasteful taupe and beautifully lit with a sparkling Baccarat chandelier. To the French countess who had sublet it to her, it was just one pied-à-terre among many scattered throughout the most exotic cities in the world. To Abby, it was home.
    Even though she knew her days there were as numbered as the zeroes in her shrinking checking account, returning to her cozy little nest still gave her a rush of pleasure.
    Her lips softened in a smile as her two fluffy gray cats came trotting up to greet her. As long as Buffy the Mouse Slayer and Willow Tum-Tum were around, there would always be someone happy to see her.
    The cats took one horrified look at her, then wheeled around and went careening away to seek refuge in the bathroom. Abby sighed, the last of the fight going out of her. She probably smelled even worse than she looked.
    She was desperate for a scalding shower, but at the moment even the simple act of dragging herself into the bathroom and turning on the water seemed like a monumental task.
    She tossed her bag onto the sleek leather Bottega Veneta sofa chosen for her by an overpriced decorator, tugged off her shoes, and padded over to the desk in front of the window. Sinking into her task chair, she flipped open the screen of her MacBook.
    Her e-mail inbox was populated by the usual suspects. A dozen fellow writers bemoaning the wretched state of the industry. A couple of investment bankers bemoaning the wretched state of their industry. A friend who worked for the post office bemoaning the wretched state of his industry. A generous Nigerian requesting her checking account number so he could deposit millions of tax-free dollars into her account. Someone promising her a lower mortgage rate, cheaper prices on Canadian drugs, and a longer-lasting erection—the holy trinity of modern happiness.
    She was about to close her inbox when a joyful ding heralded the arrival of another e-mail.
    Abby flinched. It was from her publicist.
    She cautiously clicked it open, wondering if one of the parents at the bookstore had somehow managed to recognize her in the bunny costume and posted the most humiliating moment of her life on YouTube.
    Hillary’s tone was as doggedly cheerful as ever. As she scanned the message, Abby could not help reading between the lines:
Hi Abby ,
I hope your appearance today was a smashing success! At this point, I don’t feel like we can afford to overlook any opportunity to get you in front of the public. (Even if that public consists solely of incontinent toddlers.) I hope you don’t mind, but I also took the liberty of signing you up for a Twitter account today. (Because you obviously can’t be trusted to do it yourself any more than you can be trusted to finish Chapter Five of your new book.) A lot of our writers (you know—the ones who are still actually writing) are finding Twitter a great way to maintain a rapport with their readers without investing much time or creative energy. (They use their hefty royalty checks to hire assistants who impersonate them online while they finish their books on time.) I’ve attached your login info below. I think this will be a great way to make sure your devoted readers don’t forget you! (Or at least the three devoted readers who haven’t already forgotten you.)
The smiley face emoticon at the bottom of Hillary’s e-mail appeared to be smirking at her. It obviously knew what Hillary was refusing to admit, which was that Abby could write countless blogs, send out insufferably cheerful monthly e-newsletters that made her life sound more fascinating than John Mayer’s, and post a hundred Facebook updates an hour, but it still wouldn’t stop her readers from flocking to the next hot new literary phenomenon. Especially if she