Dearest Clementine (34 page)

I don’t know how long I sit, trying to absorb what’s happened tonight, but as I walk into the bathroom to splash my face with cold water, I see my red dress.
I missed Gavin’s show.
Crap.

Grabbing my phone, I realize Jenna sent me a tex
t.

 Get your ass over here!

I’m about to write her back when I notice the attachment. As the picture opens, I see the red hair.

Shit. It’s a photo of Angelique and Gavin standing side by side, laughing.

Okay, that doesn’t mean anything, just that she was at his show.
And you weren’t.

I leave a brief message for Jenna, who doesn’t pick up. If she’s still out with Ryan, it’s possible she can’t hear her cell ringing.

I grab my coat and run out the door because there’s only one person I want to see right now.

* * *

As I knock on Gavin’s door, I start to wonder about what led Robertson’s investigation to Wheeler. Kicking myself for not asking more questions, I realize how long I’ve been standing here. I smooth down my dress. Although I didn’t go to the show, hopefully I still look presentable
.

I check my phone. It’s 1:30 a.m. Maybe no one’s home. Gavin might have gone out with Ryan after their gig. It’s probably totally obnoxious that I’m here anyway.

I start to turn back toward the elevator when I hear laughter from within his room. Female laughter. My stomach knots.

Then the door opens.

And my heart free-falls out of my chest.

Angelique answers only wearing a t-shirt, one of Gavin’s. She eyes me coolly and runs her hand through her tangled long hair. Her lips are smeared with what used to be lipstick, and black mascara rings her eyes. She looks like she’s been…
Oh, God.

“Cat got your tongue?” she asks with a smirk. “Guess you’re looking for Gavin, huh? Well, he’s busy.”

Behind her, a voice calls for her. “Angie, who’s there?”

He calls her Angie. He calls her Angie, and he fucks her. Guess he got tired of waiting.

I don’t wait for her response before I bolt for the stairs, going as fast as I can in heels. I stop a few flights down and sob into my hands.

Maybe I did this. Maybe I drove him to her. But that doesn’t make the cleaver in my heart hurt any less.

-
27 -

How do you prepare for a national interview after discovering that your boyfriend is sleeping with his ex?

He’s not your boyfriend. You were on a break, remember?
 

I dry off another tear.

Whatever. He told me to wait. No, he begged me to wait and swore he wasn’t sleeping with Angelique.
But you let him think something was going on with Daren.
But all he had to do was tell me what he was doing in Rhode Island, and I said I’d explain.

I continue arguing with myself as I drink my first cup of coffee. It’s still early. I have a couple of hours before I need to meet my publicist and attorney downstairs.

My eyes are bloodshot and puffy, and I would kill for one of my blue pills, but they’re back home. Guess the Regent Hotel doesn’t come fully stocked with meds. So I opt for the next best thing. Room service.

“Yes, this is the Vega Suite.” My voice is hoarse, and I cover the phone to cough. “I’d like an ice cream sundae with chocolate syrup, a rum and coke, and a plate of chilled cucumber slices.” The silence on the line makes me wonder if there’s a problem with the connection, but then the woman realizes I’m serious and tells me it’ll be up in fifteen.

After a shower where I cry some more, the food arrives. I take a few half-hearted bites of the sundae, place slices of cucumber on my eyes and sprawl back on the bed.

God, how many times will I do this to myself? Let myself get crushed by a guy? Salty tears stream down my face as I think about how much he’s hurt me.
It could have been worse. You could have had sex with him.
The insidious thought that if I had slept with him, I wouldn’t be here alone right now, haunts me. I can almost hear my mother saying those exact same words she told me years ago.

I think of all the times Gavin and I snuggled in bed together, talking, touching, falling asleep together.
And now he’s doing the same things with Angelique.
Of course he wanted to have sex. What twenty-one-year-old male doesn’t? But I thought we had more. And I was so close to going all the way so many times. Not that my body needs to be hermetically sealed because I definitely wanted to take that step with him, but I feared this very situation. Being with a man who would be unfaithful. Having my heart broken. Falling apart.

Well, I’m not going to fall apart. Fuck that. I’ve come too far to have a man rip me to shreds. I’m not going to let myself dwell on this. Not right now. In about three hours, when I’m done with my interview, I plan to curl up in this bed and cry some more so that when I see him next week or the week after, I won’t look like I want to die, like he’s eviscerated my heart, even though he has. I’ll be stronger than that.

Trudging back into the bathroom, I place my rum and coke on the counter and spread out my makeup. Using lots of concealer and eyeliner helps hide the fact that I’ve been up half the night crying. I get out my iPhone and earbuds and blast some music. By the time I’m dressed in a pair of black pants and a gray blouse, I think I’m put together enough to do this.

* * *

On the ride to the news studio, my attorney Kate, an intense-looking woman in her early thirties, goes over a few topics I should try to avoid and some standard types of comments to get the reporter to back off. Although she’s not pleased I won’t let her do the interview with me, she says that this early in the media cycle, it’s probably good to “not look lawyered up.”

I don’t care how it looks. I just think having her sit next to me during my interview will make me nervous.

My publicist Maeve, in contrast, looks pleased as a petunia to have me doing something to market my book and simply says that any attention is good attention.

I don’t mention the FBI’s visit last night to either of them. That’s a hurdle for another day.

When we get to NBC, I’m briefly introduced to the anchors before I’m escorted to a seating area that has two small couches that face each other. Maeve and Kate stand off camera. The reporter who sits across from me looks young but polished. I’ve seen her around campus. Her long, black hair is swept back into a mock bun, and she looks stunning in a pinstriped suit.

“Hi, Clementine,” she says, reaching out to shake my hand. “I’m Madeline McDermott, but my friends call me Maddie.” She lowers her voice. “I heard
The Today Show
wanted to fly you to New York to be interviewed by Matt Lauer tomorrow morning, but you preferred to be interviewed by a BU intern.” Her flawless face scrunches up in confusion.

Maeve almost had a heart attack when I explained this point was non-negotiable. If I’ve learned anything from my mother it’s that you can make demands when you’re in demand. In the scheme of things, I don’t think this is such a big deal. But I see why this perplexes Maddie.

“I’ve gotten a few breaks professionally, and I thought I could pay it forward and provide one for someone else.”

I think back to how my book sales took off in the first place. A blogger with a huge following stumbled across
Say It Isn’t So
and loved my story, so she shared it with her fans. The next day my novel began jumping up the charts.

Maddie smiles brightly. “Well, I can’t thank you enough.”

“I’ve seen you cover stories around campus, so I know you’re good at what you do.”

Her head tilts to the side as she appraises me. “I think you might be my new best friend.” She laughs, and I return the smile.

A guy behind a giant console adjusts the lights, and after a few minutes of clipping mics to our blouses and making sure they’re picking up the audio, he explains how the New York station will cut to our segment.

My heart slams into my chest, and, strangely, I think of my mother who is a combination of steel and stone when it comes to situations like these. With that in mind, I take a deep breath and brace myself for what’s to come.

“We’re on in five,” the camera guy says as he counts down on one hand, finally pointing to the red light that indicates we’re live.

On a monitor, I see the New York host introduce the story before the screen splits to show Maddie next to him.

She takes a deep breath, which she holds briefly as she stares back at the camera. Then, as though she’s done this a million times, she starts talking in a broadcast voice, which is smooth with a kind of melodic cadence.

“I’m here with Clementine Avery, the Avery International heiress, who’s been in the headlines this week because her identity as the elusive bestselling author known as Austen Fitzgerald was recently revealed during a heated discussion in one of her writing classes. Clementine, it’s great to meet you.”

“Thank you for having me, Madeline.”

“Is it true that until now, none of your professors knew who you were?”

“Only one professor who helped me edit my book three years ago knew that I wrote under a pen name.”

“Young Adult author Jason Wheeler? The son of the former Rhode Island governor Richard Wheeler?”

“Yes.”

She sits up just a bit straighter and glances down at her note cards.

“As I understand it, Wheeler criticized your book and accused you of plagiarism during your creative writing class when you revealed that you are Austen Fitzgerald. What do you have to say about his accusations?”

“I’m suing him for slander. I have two years’ worth of writing journals and diary entries to prove that what I wrote is mine. Did he suggest that I tweak a storyline or reword certain things? Absolutely. But to claim that those ideas are anyone’s but my own is ludicrous.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see my attorney giving me the thumbs up.

Although I’m nervous, I speak slowly, deliberately, like we have all the time in the world. That’s how powerful people talk, like they are confident you want to hear what they have to say and nothing will rattle them. Maybe the years of growing up with my screwed-up family will pay off after all.

“Why do you think he would criticize you so publicly?” Maddie leans forward, tilting her head slightly.

“I believe he wanted to make me miserable, to inflict emotional distress. He knows I cherish my privacy, and I doubt he thought I’d call him on his lies.”

“You make it sound like he had some kind of vendetta against you.”

Taking a deep breath, I nod. “During my freshman year, Jason Wheeler wanted more from our relationship than what I was willing to give. I saw him as my mentor, and he was interested in something more romantic. I think this is his way of getting back at me.”

She raises her brows but doesn’t continue with this line of questioning.

“In your book, the main character is the daughter of a wealthy family who falls in love with the star quarterback at her school. The boy cheats on her with her best friend and breaks her heart. I know this is a fictional book, but the similarities to your life are striking. You dated Daren Sloan, who now plays football for Boston College and is in contention for the Heismann trophy. He’s engaged to Veronica Rogers, who used to be your best friend in high school, and you’re the daughter of the heiress Jocelyn Avery, who is the president and CEO of Avery International.”

And there it is. My worst nightmare. My whole life spilled out before me. I take another deep breath. I don’t know where to start.

“Was there a question?” I ask with a laugh. This is what my mother would do. Pretend like the Hiroshima bomb is simply a gnat in her salad.

“Well, did Daren cheat on you?” Maddie furrows her brow and leans forward again. “Is this story based on your relationship?”

“Maddie, I didn’t set out to write an autobiography, so while I might have used aspects of my own life as inspiration as any writer does, I can unequivocally say that this is a work of fiction. Yes, Daren and I dated in high school, but that’s where the comparisons stop. We broke up because we grew apart, but he remains a dear friend. I wish him and his fiancée the best.”

Breathe. Breathe.

I make deliberate eye contact and smile. Maddie seems surprised by my answer but nods. She probably thought I’d rip into Daren. Even if he and I hadn’t recently made amends, I could never publicly humiliate him.

“What about your mother? In your book, the mom wanted her daughter to sleep with her boyfriend, claiming that sex was the way to keep a star athlete satisfied. Is that what happened with your mother? And are you estranged because she wanted you to be a spokesperson for her fashion line and model her clothes, but you refused?”

Fuck.

I consider my words carefully.

“Jocelyn and I are not close. Anyone can tell you that, but I’m not going to speak disparagingly about my mother. I will say that she’s a leader in her industry and has worked hard to get where she is today. I admire her many successes. Furthermore, our family continues its decades-long friendship with the Sloans.”