was changing, and “If you just look at this chart here, Frances—no, here; that’s it—you’ll see that your sales have been on kind of a, well, sorry to say this, but you kind of have to call this a downward trend, and we, like, really need to reverse that, like, super fast. Oh, and one other thing …” Ashlee looked pained, as if she were about to bring up an embarrassing medical issue. “Your social media presence? I hear you’re not so keen on social media. Neither is my mum! But it’s kind of essential in today’s market. Your fans really do need to see you on Twitter and Instagram and Facebook—that’s just the bare minimum. Also, we’d love you to start a blog and a newsletter and perhaps do some regular vlogs? That would be so much fun! They’re like little films!”
“I have a website,” replied Frances.
“Yes,” said Ashlee kindly. “Yes, you do, Frances. But nobody cares about websites.”
And then she’d angled her computer monitor toward Frances so she could show her some examples of other, better-behaved authors with “active” social media presences, and Frances had stopped listening and waited for it to be over, like a dental appointment. (She couldn’t see the screen anyway. She didn’t have her glasses with her.) But she wasn’t worried, because she was falling in love with Paul Drabble at the time, and when she was falling in love she always wrote her best books. And besides, she had the sweetest, most loyal readers in the world. Her sales might drop but she would always be published.
“I will find the right home for this book,” said Alain now. “It might just take a little while. Romance isn’t dead!”
“Isn’t it?” said Frances.
“Not even close,” said Alain.
She picked up the empty Kit Kat wrapper and licked it, hoping for fragments of chocolate. How was she going to get through this setback without sugar?
“Frances?” said Alain.
“My back hurts a great deal,” said Frances. She blew her nose hard. “Also, I had to stop the car in the middle of the road to have a hot flush.”
“That sounds truly awful,” said Alain with feeling. “I can’t even imagine.”
“No you can’t. A man stopped to see if I was all right because I was screaming.”
“You were screaming?” said Alain.
“I felt like screaming,” said Frances.
“Of course, of course,” said Alain hurriedly. “I understand. I often feel like screaming.”
This was rock bottom. She’d just licked a Kit Kat wrapper.
“Oh dear, Frances, I’m so sorry about this, especially after what happened with that horrendous man. Have the police had anything new to say?”
“No,” said Frances. “No news.”
“Darling, I’m just bleeding for you here.”
“That’s not necessary,” sniffed Frances.
“You’ve just had such a bad trot lately, darling—speaking of which, I want you to know that review had absolutely no impact on their decision.”
“What review?” said Frances.
There was silence. She knew Alain was smacking his forehead.
“Alain?”
“Oh God,” he said. “Oh God, oh God, oh God.”
“I haven’t read a review since 1998,” said Frances. “Not a single review. You know that.”
“I absolutely know that,” said Alain. “I’m an idiot. I’m a fool.”
“Why would there be a review when I don’t have a new book out?” Frances wriggled upright in her seat. Her back hurt so much she thought she might be sick.
“Some bitch picked up a copy of What the Heart Wants at the airport and did an opinion piece about, ah, your books in general, a mad diatribe. She kind of linked it to the Me Too movement, which gave it some clickbait traction. It was just ridiculous—as if romance books are to blame for sexual predators!”
“What?”
“Nobody even read the review. I don’t know why I mentioned it. I must have early-onset dementia.”
“You just said it got traction!”
Everyone had read the review. Everyone.
“Send me the link,” said Frances.
“It’s not even that bad,” said Alain. “It’s just this prejudice against your genre—”
“Send it!”
“No,” said Alain. “I won’t. You’ve gone all these years without reading reviews. Don’t fall off the wagon!”
“Right now,” said Frances in her dangerous voice. She used it rarely. When she was getting divorced, for example.
“I’ll send it,” said Alain meekly. “I’m so sorry, Frances. I’m so sorry about this entire phone call.”
He hung up, and Frances immediately went to her email. There wasn’t much time. As soon as she arrived at Tranquillum House she would need to “hand in” her “device.” It would be a digital detox, along with everything else. She was going “off the grid.”