Goodnight Tweetheart Page 2

  That’s when Abby realized the limp carcass draped over her arm wasn’t roadkill scraped off the Queensboro Bridge after all, but a Biff the Bunny costume, probably shipped directly from Claire Carroll’s publisher so it would be there in time for her appearance.

  “Oh no,” Abby said, shaking her head and backing toward the door. “You can’t ask me to impersonate an author.”

  “You wouldn’t be impersonating an author because you are an author,” the woman pointed out, her voice softening on a wheedling note. “You’d be impersonating a bunny. All you’d have to do is read Biff the Bunny’s Adventures in Carrotland and hand out some candy. How hard would that be?”

  “But I didn’t come here to read Biff the Bunny’s Adventures in Carrotland,” Abby protested, her own desperation growing. “I came here to read my novel.” She flipped the book in her hand around, hopefully displaying her literary equivalent of a glamour shot. “You know—the one I wrote.”

  Natalie shook her head disapprovingly and popped her gum. “I don’t think the rug rats would like that. Last week one of the parents threatened to sue Corporate because we let the story hour volunteer read Where the Wild Things Are. Claimed the Things were too wild.”

  The manager seized Abby’s arm, having saved her most persuasive argument for last. “If I could squeeze my ass into this thing, don’t you think I would?”

  Abby closed her eyes to escape the woman’s pleading look, but all she could see was a circle of hopeful little faces shining up at her. The little boy in the children’s section had been right. She wasn’t Biff the Bunny. She didn’t even seem to be Abigail Donovan the Bestselling Novelist anymore. She was nobody. But it was still within her power to keep the dreams of those children alive. To preserve their innocence for just a little while longer so they could believe a fey bunny who wanted nothing more out of life than to tend his carrot garden and have tea with his friends could actually survive in this ruthless world.

  Opening her eyes, she tossed her own book into one of the folding chairs, where it promptly slid facedown onto the floor, hiding Oprah’s seal of approval.

  “Where can I change?” she asked grimly, already knowing the answer before Natalie Who Was There to Help Her and the grateful manager began to wrest her cashmere sweater over her head.

  Chapter Two

  Abby stabbed the lighted button for the ninth floor, then slumped against the elevator wall. The doors slid closed, making her wince as her reflection came into view in their polished brass surface. She looked exactly like a woman who had spent her morning trapped in the suffocating confines of a bunny costume being heckled, stomped on, and repeatedly groped by savage little hands. She’d sweated off every last drop of her artfully applied makeup and contracted a terminal case of bedhead.

  She’d received only the most cursory of glances while trudging up Fifth Avenue from the Fifty-ninth Street subway station in the bright April sunshine. She could have probably been hopping along still wearing the bunny suit and nobody would have noticed. This was Manhattan, after all. One sweaty, shell-shocked writer could hardly compete with a Kid Rock lookalike wearing nothing but a pair of tighty whities and a smile while he played guitar in the middle of Times Square.

  The low point of her day had come when an overzealous mother had plopped her chubby little girl down on Abby’s lap. Gawking at Biff’s exaggerated whiskers and floppy brown ears in abject terror, the toddler had screwed up her angelic face and let out a piercing wail. As a suspicious dampness began to seep through the fur over Abby’s knee, it was all she could do not to burst into tears herself.

  The elevator doors slid open and she went limping down the hall to her apartment. To add injury to insult, her new Stuart Weitzmans had rubbed a painful blister on the back of one heel.

  She fished her Robot Chicken keychain out of her purse and let herself into her apartment. She triple deadbolted the door, then collapsed with her back against it as if to ward off a horde of marauding preschoolers.

  Three years ago, when still riding high on the wave of her newfound fame, paying $6,500 a month to rent a 695-square-foot apartment in the glorious old building once known as the Plaza Hotel had seemed like a perfectly sane idea. After all, what kid who had ever read Eloise hadn’t dreamed of romping through the venerable halls of the Plaza while everyone else was asleep? And what writer hadn’t imagined penning their latest masterpiece while 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 lif
e 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 proved to be nothing more than the publishing industry’s equivalent of a one-hit wonder—a possibility that grew more likely with each passing day.

  She glanced at the log-in information Hillary had sent. Several of her writer friends were already all abuzz about Tweeter or Flitter or Titter or whatever the heck it was. From what she could gather, it involved communicating only in sound bytes that consisted of 140 characters or less.

  Prompted more by her lingering reluctance to haul her weary body into the bathroom than out of genuine curiosity, Abby clicked on the link Hillary had sent, then used the log-in information to access her account.

  According to the page that popped up, she was now “Abby_Donovan” and she already had seventeen Followers. Having “followers” made her feel like some sort of kooky religious cult leader. Instead of using her pub photo as her profile pic, Hillary had left it a neutral brown square. Which pretty much summed up the way she was feeling at the moment.

  An empty box invited her to answer one simple question—“What’s happening?”

  Her fingers hovered over the keys, torn between typing, “None of your business” and “I’m throwing myself a pity party. Bunny costume optional.”

  Hoping her readers would possess both a sense of humor and a sense of irony, she finally settled on, “I’m sipping Cristal on the beach at St. Tropez with Brad Pitt.”

  Nothing. Apparently users of Twitter had better things to do with their time than applaud her shallow witticisms.

  She drummed her fingers on the MacBook’s touchpad for a minute, then typed, “Hallooo…? Is anybody out there?”

  She refreshed her screen two times in quick succession. Still nothing. She decided to try one more time before retreating to the steamy oblivion of the shower. A message popped up on the screen, rewarding her persistence: “R U a virgin?”

  Taken aback, Abby studied the cheery little profile pic of a plump bluebird that appeared to belong to one MarkBaynard for a long moment before cautiously typing, “That depends. Are you auditioning for TO CATCH A PREDATOR?” and hitting the Update button.

  MarkBaynard’s response was almost immediate: “Glad to see you have such highbrow taste in entertainment.”

  A reluctant grin curved her lips as she typed, “What can I say? ROCK OF LOVE: TOUR BUS reruns can’t be on every night.”

  “Yeah & who hasn’t dreamed of marching up to some pedophile & saying ‘My name is Chris Hansen from DATELINE NBC & your sorry ass is toast’?”

  “Ha!” Abby typed, hitting the exclamation mark with a triumphant flourish. “So you HAVE watched TO CATCH A PREDATOR!”

  “Only when PBS is having a pledge drive. But I digress—R U a Twitter virgin?”

  “This is my first time,” Abby confessed. “But you’re not being very gentle with me.”

  She was growing increasingly comfortable with the rhythm of their exchange on the screen. It was like being in a tennis match with their words as the ball. Before she could draw back her racket, he lobbed another volley across the Internet:

  MarkBaynard: What can I say? I like it rough. So how did you end up here? Attention span too short for Facebook?

  Abby_Donovan: I didn’t like the answers to those silly Facebook quizzes. They kept telling me I was the love child of Marge Simpson & Marilyn Manson.

  MarkBaynard: Maybe you’re just secretly one of those people who would rather have Followers than Friends.

  Abby_Donovan: Yes, it’s part of my diabolical plot to achieve world domination.

  MarkBaynard: If you start hanging out over here, won’t your Facebook Friends miss you?

  Abby_Donovan: Those people weren’t my friends. If they had been, they wouldn’t have sent me all those annoying quizzes.

  MarkBaynard: A true friend never asks you to feed their imaginary fish. Or fertilize their imaginary crops.

  Abby_Donovan: Although with a little coaxing, I might be persuaded to take home your imaginary kitten. So how is Twitter different from Facebook?

  MarkBaynard: Twitter is the perpetual cocktail party where everyone is talking at once but nobody is saying anything.

  Abby_Donovan: Then why are YOU here?

  MarkBaynard: Because no one will invite me to their cocktail parties.

  Abby_Donovan: I can’t imagine that. Not with your warmth, wit, and charm.

  MarkBaynard: Well, if you must know, I was considering a career as a DEmotivational speaker.

  Abby_Donovan: And just how would that work?

  MarkBaynard: You get a fabulous, innovative new idea, then pay me to come to your house and explain why it’ll never work.

  Abby_Donovan: What time can you be here?

  Abby leaned back in her chair, bemused by how quickly she had been drawn into a conversation with a total stranger. Before he could reply, she started typing again.

  Abby_Donovan: How do I know you’re not a serial killer or some lonely 14-year-old living in your mom’s basement?

  MarkBaynard: For all you know, I’m a lonely 14-year-old serial killer living in my mom’s basement.

  Abby_Donovan: With your girlfriend’s head in the refrigerator?

  MarkBaynard: That would be my EX-girlfriend, thank you very much. I tried to tell her I didn’t care for cream in my coffee. Or wire hangers.

  Abby_Donovan: Is that your mom I hear knocking on the basement door?

  MarkBaynard: No, it’s the police. Did you just call 911?

  Abby_Donovan: C’mon…who are you really? Are you hiding a secret identity? Are you Batman? Ashton Kutcher?

  MarkBaynard: Would you believe I’m just a lowly college professor on sabbatical?

  Abby_Donovan: Let me guess. You’ve taken a year off from teaching English lit at Cornell to travel the world and write the Great American Novel (snort).

  Abby waited. She refreshed the page half a dozen times, but still nothing. She felt oddly relieved when the bluebird reappeared.

  MarkBaynard: If you must know, I’ve taken a year off from teaching English lit at Ole Miss to travel the world and write the Mediocre American Novel.

  Abby_Donovan: Oops. My bad. I’m Abigail Donovan, the author. But you can feel free to pretend you’ve never heard of me if you like.

  MarkBaynard: Um…that shouldn’t be too hard…since I’ve… um… never heard of you.

  Abby_Donovan: Oh. Reading limited to SPORTS ILLUSTRATED SWIMSUIT EDITION?

  MarkBaynard: And the special double Christmas issue of JUGS.

  Abby_Donovan: I’m not quite sure how all this works yet. I just assumed you were one of my Followers.

  MarkBaynard: I am now. Your name popped up when I just happened to be trolling Twitter looking for new vic—um…friends.

  Abby_Donovan: So…now that we’ve successfully humiliated each other, maybe we should start over.

  MarkBaynard: Why not? So what are you wearing?

  Abby_Donovan: I was wearing a bunny suit earlier today.

  MarkBaynard: Playboy?

  Abby_Donovan: Biff.

  MarkBaynard: Ah, does this mean you’ll be expecting Felicity the Fawn and Biff’s main squeeze Henrietta Hedgehog for tea this afternoon?

  Abby_Donovan: Given Biff’s fondness for paisley and PROJECT RUNWAY, I just assumed that would be Henry the Hedgehog.

  MarkBaynard: Henry/Henrietta likes to take advantage of Biff’s “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy.

  Abby_Donovan: So you’ve actually heard of that wascally wabbit and his furry little posse?

  MarkBaynard: Hasn’t everyone? After all, he inhabits the exalted toddler stratosphere formerly occupied only by Barney the Dinosaur and Tinky Winky.

  Abby_Donovan: At least Tinky Winky had an inkling of fashion sense. Biff wears an apron and no pants.

  MarkBaynard: Who are you kidding? Tinky Winky’s purse looked like something Queen Elizabet
h would carry.

  Abby_Donovan: Somebody peed on me today. I bet nobody ever peed on Queen Elizabeth. Or Tinky Winky.

  MarkBaynard: How do you think he got the name Tinky Winky?

  Abby_Donovan: So what are YOU wearing?

  MarkBaynard: The trench coat and fedora Bogie had on when he said good-bye to Ingrid Bergman on the tarmac in the last scene of CASABLANCA.

  Abby_Donovan: Sigh…we’ll always have Twitter.

  MarkBaynard: I’m afraid not. I have to go now.

  Abby_Donovan: Oh. Well, tell your mom I said hi. Or your parole officer.

  MarkBaynard: If you’ll log on Monday around 3 PM, I’ll teach you a few Twitter survival tricks.

  Abby_Donovan: What makes you think I have nothing better to do with my time than take Twitter 101 lessons from a serial killer?

  MarkBaynard: Because somebody peed on you today while you were wearing a Biff the Bunny costume?

  Abby_Donovan: Sigh…point taken.

  MarkBaynard: You can click on my Profile and hit the FOLLOW button if you want to Follow me.

  Abby_Donovan: And just why would I want to Follow you?

  MarkBaynard: Because I make really tasty Kool-Aid?

  Abby_Donovan: So if I do Follow you, does that mean we’re going steady?

  MarkBaynard: It’s more like a quickie in the back of a cab where we trade fake cell phone numbers afterward.

  Abby_Donovan: That would be the longest (and most meaningful) relationship I’ve had in quite awhile.

  Abby refreshed the screen four times but there was still no reply. She was wondering if her last post had made her sound too pathetic when the words “Me too” appeared on the screen.

  A smile touched her lips. “It was nice meeting you, Mark.”

  “It was good for me too,” he replied. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go smoke a cigarette and brag to my buddies.”

  “Or at least unlock the basement door for your mom.”

  Then he was gone and she was left staring at the empty box he had left behind. She slid the cursor down to his last entry and clicked on his profile pic. According to his Twitter profile, his name was Mark Baynard, his location was Wish You Were Here and he didn’t have a website. His bio consisted of three simple words: Dreamer in Exile.