by Wendy Wax
Onstage Kristen smiled her trademark smile, but there was a question in her clear blue eyes, as if she were somehow reserving judgment.
“Kendall Aims is not an overnight success,” Kristen informed her audience. “Kendall Aims was in the trenches of publishing for years. She wrote eight books that did OK, but not quite well enough. The editor who first championed her left to have a baby and never came back. The new editor assigned to Kendall didn’t like her. And things began to go downhill.”
Kendall drew a deep breath as unobtrusively as she could. She knew a camera was pointed at her face to record her reactions. She tried to figure out what kind of facial expression would go over best, but it took everything she had to avoid imitating a deer in the headlights. She tried for humbly interested, but had no idea if she was pulling it off.
A movement to her left drew Kendall’s eye and she spotted Tanya, Mallory, and Faye seated four or five rows up. Faye was wearing beige and had kept her makeup to a minimum; she fit right in with the audience members around her. Mallory was not so easy to disguise, but Kendall could tell she’d tried. Her dark brown hair had been pulled back into a French braid and her pantsuit, though undoubtedly designer, was black and simply cut, her jewelry understated. Tanya’s big hair and overly made-up face would never blend in, but while some present might know her name, they were unlikely to recognize her face.
“But Kendall Aims took the disasters that befell her and built a book around them,” Kristen intoned. “And that book is now on the New York Times Bestseller List, which is, of course, a very big deal. Sticks and Stones is first and foremost a story about friendship, and that’s what we’re going to talk about in just a minute.”
They stopped for what would be a commercial break and Kristen considered her carefully. “You all right?”
Kendall nodded then managed a somewhat wobbly, “I think so.”
“Good,” the host said, though the warmth of her words didn’t seem to be making it to her eyes. “We’re going to be seated for the rest of the interview. When we come back from the break, I have a few things I’d like to clarify.”
Kendall drew another breath and tried to smile benignly at the audience as she followed Kristen to the sofa and chair at the other end of the set. Through sheer willpower, she kept her gaze from straying to Tanya, Faye, and Mallory. She was glad they were there but worried about it at the same time. She made a conscious effort to relax, but hundreds of pairs of eyes were trained on her and something in the way Kristen had said, “I have a few things I’d like to clarify,” had sounded more aggressive than Kendall had expected.
A young woman whose headset was plugged into the center camera raised her hand above her head and began to count down on her fingers. When only one finger remained, she pointed it at Kristen, who welcomed the audience back.
The interview began innocently enough. How, Kristen asked, did Kendall feel about her success after so much struggle? Was she surprised by how well Sticks and Stones was doing? What tips would she offer aspiring writers who hoped to one day be published?
Kendall found her voice and answered as clearly and succinctly as she could. None of the questions seemed meant to trip her up. Kristen seemed genuinely interested in hearing about the writing process. When she asked what it felt like to make the New York Times list, Kendall did her best to explain it, jettisoning her guilt about having had help with the book and focusing on her very real amazement and excitement.
When she stole a peek at the audience, Kendall could tell they were interested in her insights into the publishing world. Kendall stopped worrying and began to enjoy herself. She even managed to squeeze in a small joke about chaining her refrigerator shut when the words weren’t flowing, and she got a laugh.
As she spoke, she became aware of the strangest things: how straight and white Kristen’s teeth were. The way she seemed focused on Kendall but also managed to play to the audience. Kristen Calder might be co-opting Oprah Winfrey’s city and format, but the manner in which she drove the interview forward was her own.
Then something in the air changed subtly. Kristen’s attention on her sharpened. All three cameras slid closer. A red light glowed on the camera on her far left, which she had been told would get her close-ups.
It was then that the tone of Kristen’s questions began to change. “Readers are always curious how much of an author’s characters are based on real people,” Kristen said. Kendall’s close-up camera rolled even closer. “The character of Kennedy Andrews is awfully close to your real life, Kendall. My staff has confirmed that the problems your character Kennedy experiences with her publisher are almost identical to the ones you ran into at Scarsdale. Like you, Kennedy Andrews was up for a Wordsmiths Incorporated Zelda Award she didn’t win. Like you, Kennedy Andrews has three very close writer friends she’s been critiquing with for a decade.”
Kristen paused then and Kendall realized that the talk show host was heading somewhere completely intentional. “Like you,” Kristen said carefully, “Kennedy Andrews discovers her husband has a girlfriend and wants a divorce.”
The blasted red camera light was still on and Kendall could just imagine what her face must look like right now as all the horror and confusion she was feeling displayed itself across it.
Her mind raced at the surprise of the attack. Kristen Calder and her staff had spent time comparing her life to her character’s. Kendall blinked rapidly, trying to regain her composure. Kristen Calder knew about her impending divorce. How could Kristen know when she hadn’t even told her children yet? Oh, God, she couldn’t let Melissa and Jeffrey find out this way. . . .
“All of this started me wondering how much more of your book might be based on reality. What about the writer friends who help Kennedy write the book? I wondered. Could they be based on real people? I asked my staff to check it out.”
Kendall’s mouth opened and closed but no words came out. No doubt she looked like a dying fish, aground on a beach gasping for water to run through its gills.
The audience had fallen unnaturally quiet, everyone straining to hear what Kristen would say next.
“We happened on this photo in this morning’s Chicago Tribune,” Kristen said. The newspaper photo of Kendall and Faye confronting Faye’s daughter, Sara, replaced the cover of her book up on the rear screen. “Isn’t that Faye Truett, inspirational author and wife of televangelist Steve Truett? And wasn’t this photo taken yesterday afternoon after your book signing when Mrs. Truett confronted her daughter, who was picketing against the store for carrying erotica?”
Kendall’s gaze swung to the blowup of the photo in which Faye and her daughter, Sara, had squared off. Kendall stood by Faye’s side as silently stunned then as she was now.
She wasn’t sure what Kristen wanted from her. Would admitting that Faye was a friend be an admission of something more? Given the picture, how could she possibly deny it?
“Faye Truett’s a friend of mine. I’m staying at her house and as you can see she came to my book signing with me yesterday. I’m not sure how any of this applies?”
Now the gigantic photo from yesterday’s picket line was replaced by an equally gigantic shot of Kendall, Mallory, Faye, and Tanya taken during the WINC conference just before the Zelda Awards. They were all dressed in evening clothes, all smiling. All of them still believing that Kendall was going to win for Dare to Dream.
“Do your friends mind you using their lives as fodder for your book?” Kristen asked.
“Fodder?” Kristen’s whole line of questioning left her reeling. She’d been afraid all along that someone would realize she hadn’t written the book alone, but it had never occurred to her that anyone would accuse her of using her friends’ lives.
She didn’t understand where Kristen was going with this, but wherever she was headed, Kendall didn’t want to go there.
“I’ll admit I skimmed a little closer to my own life than I probably should have,” Kendall stammered. “But writers use their own lives an
d the lives of people they know as jumping-off points all the time. That doesn’t make them . . . fodder.”
Kristen cocked her head and raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. She reached out a hand and someone handed two books to her. One of them was Sticks and Stones. Kendall didn’t recognize the other.
“And what about ‘borrowing’ their words?” Kristen asked, turning to address the camera head on. “I believe they call that plagiarism.”
She continued to stare directly into the camera. “As my staff was looking into what seemed like potentially damaging revelations that Kendall Aims had made about her writer friends, one of our researchers noticed that portions of Sticks and Stones felt awfully similar to one of those author’s works. In fact, there is an entire scene—a love scene—in Sticks and Stones that is virtually word for word out of this book.”
Kristen held up the second book. It was In Plain Sight by Mallory St. James.
Behind them the photo of the four of them was replaced by another visual—a split screen with her cover and Mallory’s cover side by side. The next was a divided screen with a page from each book. Kendall’s gut clenched as she started to read; the scenes were virtually identical.
Kendall was very glad they were sitting. Her legs had turned to rubber and her hands had begun to tremble. She thought back to her dead faint when she’d discovered Calvin’s infidelity and craved that oblivion.
Kendall stole a glance at Faye, Mallory, and Tanya and saw the same stricken looks she felt covering her own face. Then they hunched down in their seats as if attempting to disappear.
Kristen continued to speak to the camera. “We’re going to take a small break now,” she said smoothly. “But don’t go away. When we get back we’re going to give Kendall Aims a chance to explain herself.” She folded her arms across her chest and allowed herself a small, dubious smile. “If she can.”
38
My line of work makes you aware of the fragility of life. You can get up in the morning, eat your cornflakes, blow-dry your hair, go to work, and end up dead.
—KATHY REICHS, CRIME WRITER
Kristen Calder stood and moved away from Kendall to confer with an assistant. Kendall tried deep breathing and positive thinking, but she didn’t hold much hope that they’d actually calm her down. She was desperate to huddle with her “peeps” but she was afraid to call attention to them.
There was a noise as the studio doors burst open. Naomi Fondren, her hair flying, raced in followed by Cindy and Lacy. Don was trying to hold them back, but the gentle man was no match for the three New Yorkers. Shooting a look at Kendall that said she’d deal with her later, Naomi approached the star.
She held out her hand, but Kristen ignored it.
“I’m Naomi Fondren, head of PR for Scarsdale Publishing,” Naomi said. “I’m not sure what’s going on here. But I’m sure there’s some sort of misunderstanding.”
Kristen’s face registered her irritation. “I think we passed the possibility of a ‘misunderstanding’ some time ago. When the commercial break is over, I’m going to give your author a chance to explain herself to my audience. I guess there could be some miraculous justification for the way she’s exposed and plagiarized her friends. I can hardly wait to hear it.”
To her credit, the PR woman didn’t try to argue. She simply pulled herself up to her full height then turned and walked off the stage looking neither left nor right, stopping at the studio doors where she slipped back between Lacy and Cindy.
If Kendall could have worked up the nerve to leave the stage, she wouldn’t have stopped there. She would have just kept going. Even if it meant walking back to Atlanta.
The floor person’s hand went up and the countdown began. Kristen took her seat and on cue, she recapped the situation, holding up the two books, Mallory’s and Kendall’s, in her hands as she addressed the camera. Then she turned to Kendall. “So, Ms. Aims,” she said. “Inquiring minds would like to know how this could have happened.”
Kendall felt her breakfast rise in her stomach and wondered what would happen if instead of answering she simply bent and threw up on Kristen’s feet. She wished she could say, “Why don’t we ask Mallory?” or “Maybe we should double-check with Faye and Tanya.” But she’d promised them anonymity. That promise, at least, she intended to keep.
The studio was tomblike in its silence as the audience awaited her response. Every eye as well as all three cameras were glued to Kendall’s face. She was as surprised as Kristen to find out that Mallory had been plagiarized and she would have given a lot to find out how that could have happened.
But the truth was that, without the truth, Kendall had no defense. She was going to have to admit to plagiarism and co-opting her friend’s secrets and be prepared to live with the consequences. What she couldn’t live with was Melissa and Jeffrey hearing about their parents’ impending divorce on television. She and Calvin would have to reach them before this show aired in the afternoon.
Kendall’s chin went up a notch. The time had come. “As you could probably tell from the photo, Mallory St. James is also a very close friend of mine.” Kendall paused. “I certainly never intended to ‘steal’ her life and I never would have knowingly ‘used’ her words.”
Kendall’s gaze dropped to the floor and her voice trailed off. There was no way to defend the indefensible. “I don’t really know how to explain this because . . .”
The studio remained silent as Kendall searched for a possible explanation. No one stirred. There wasn’t a single cough.
“Because she didn’t plagiarize me!” Mallory’s voice rang out in the studio as she stood at her seat. “I did!”
Kendall’s gaze flew to Mallory, who was now crossing her arms across her chest and staring at Kristen and Kendall. The lights made her dark hair shimmer. The black suit was severely tailored and probably cost more than the whole rest of the row’s clothes combined. She looked irritated and unhappy.
Mallory was, in fact, royally pissed off. She’d spent the last ten minutes commanding herself to stay silent, not to get involved, not to make this worse than it already was, but she didn’t seem to be listening.
Her instincts for self-preservation were finely honed; Mallory never would have survived her life without them. But she couldn’t bear to watch the talk show host accusing Kendall of something Kendall hadn’t done.
So what was she supposed to say now? She could feel Faye and Tanya tightening into even smaller balls beside her, a reminder that she had to be careful not to incriminate anyone but herself.
She shot Kendall a bracing smile then took the handheld microphone an assistant rushed over to her. The audience waited expectantly. A camera moved in for a close-up. Even before she opened her mouth, Mallory knew she was about to make a mistake of mammoth proportions. But she could not let Kendall take the blame for her mistakes.
“Kendall Aims is one of my best friends,” Mallory said. “And although her publisher hasn’t appreciated her, she’s a very talented writer in her own right. She’d never steal anything from me. In fact, when I offered to help with her book because she was so overwhelmed by everything that had gone wrong in her life, she refused. At first.”
There were murmurs from the audience. Tanya turned to look up at her. Kristen’s face bore an expression that was equal parts surprise and satisfaction.
Mallory closed her eyes, opened them. She’d written the truth and look where it had gotten them. After all these years of lying, what had possessed her?
It was too late to sit down, but maybe she could soft-pedal the truth a little. Not exactly take it back, but burnish it and twist it in some way that . . .
She cut her gaze to Kendall’s tortured expression and knew that dissembling was out of the question. But could she tell the truth she’d hidden so carefully all these years? Mallory tried to force it back, but like the levees in New Orleans, her long-held barriers had been compromised.
“Kendall didn’t ‘steal’ my real life. She couldn’t have
if she’d wanted to.” Mallory paused and looked away from Kendall, unable to look her in the eye. “Because she never knew it.”
“My real name is Marissa Templeton,” she proclaimed in a tone a new member of AA might use. “And I wrote all of Miranda Jameson’s scenes in Sticks and Stones.”
Kristen and her audience gasped aloud. And so did her friends. Mallory hadn’t even thought of her real name in more than a decade; she couldn’t believe she had just claimed it on national television. But once breached, her defenses began to crumble. She knew what was coming next and was powerless to stop it.
“In fact, I gave the character Miranda my whole sordid past: parents who committed suicide. Years spent barely getting by. The creation of a whole new identity. A talent for storytelling, and a fear of losing control of her life again, which ultimately saved her.”
The studio was completely silent. Even Kristen’s mouth hung slightly open in surprise. Whatever she’d been expecting, it apparently wasn’t a confession from Mallory St. James.
“But Kendall didn’t know I was writing the truth. Nobody did. Because I never shared it with anyone.” Mallory swallowed, appalled at the words spilling out of her mouth. “Not even my husband.”
Mallory stole a glance at Kendall. Her friend was looking at her as if she didn’t know her, which, Mallory realized, was the case.
“So you’re claiming you plagiarized yourself?” Kristen seemed to be feeling her way now, trying to regroup, apparently not yet certain whether Mallory’s confession was a good thing or a bad thing.
Mallory knew without a doubt that it was a bad thing, but she’d come too far to stop now. “Well I’m hoping that’s not legally possible,” Mallory said. “I mean I think I could be accused of redundancy and recycling, but the words were mine, both times. I don’t see how Kendall or I could be prosecuted for that.”
