Orla scanned the comments, the blog posts analyzing it; Floss had reclaimed her relatability, because Floss had been so honest. Everyone did, as it turned out, think they were special in their own way. Everyone was again Floss Natuzzi some days. Orla heard Floss and Aston leaving again, often, sounding like they really had places to go and needed to be on time. They were no longer people who could afford to make others wait.
One morning, Floss skipped into Orla’s room as if they had never fought. She threw an arm over her head and dropped into a squat, writhing like a stripper on an invisible pole. “Guess who you’re having lunch with today?” she said.
“Whom,” Orla said. “And no one.”
“Wrong.” Floss popped up and swiveled her hips. “Polly Cummings.”
Orla sat up straight. “You don’t know Polly Cummings.”
“The agent. Big lady, blonde, Parisian vibe?” Floss swayed from one foot to the other. “I met her last night at a thing. I told her about your book. I told her all about you, actually, except for the part where you’ve been, like, jerking off to her business card since you were little.”
Orla’s heart was pounding. “You’re disgusting,” she said. “I don’t believe you.”
“Excuse me, I know book people,” Floss said. “I read.”
Floss owned, Orla knew, exactly three books. They sat on the windowsill in her bedroom. They were all by an heiress who wore stretchy dresses and dispensed tips on having it all. When Orla opened one of them once, its spine crackled with newness.
“What did I say back in the day?” Floss said. “An agent would come to you. Now get up. Lunch is an hour. We have to find you an outfit.”
* * *
Orla ended up wearing the same thing she had worn to meet Marie Jacinto. It was not ideal. The black pants had to be held shut with a shoelace Floss threaded through the fly, and the owl-printed blouse was so snug that the outline of Orla’s belly button bled through. Her flats honked with each step, fighting the swell of her feet. When Orla saw Mrs. Salgado dozing on her chair outside, she tiptoed to make the shoes silent.
Orla spotted Polly Cummings as soon as she stepped inside the restaurant. Polly was seated at the back of the sunken, blush-lit dining room, facing away. Her fierce blond bob swung forward over her menu. Her linebacker shoulders were wrapped in an olive-colored scarf. Orla took a moment to will her sweating to stop as the maître d’ stood eyeing her. She could tell he took her for someone who wasn’t staying, who only wanted to use the bathroom. She lifted her head and walked past him.
Then she was standing at Polly’s table, looking at the woman she had only seen in the trades and watermarked party pictures. Polly looked up and snapped her menu shut. “Orla Cadden,” she said. “Sit.”
Under Polly’s menu was a stack of papers with a Post-it on top, and on the Post-it was Orla’s name. Orla looked at the page, the paragraphs that spread around the sticky note, and felt a streak of dizziness. It was her book. Floss must have gone on her laptop and emailed Polly the manuscript, without asking or telling Orla.
Orla sat down hard. Across the table, Polly seemed to be counting each flyaway buzzing on top of Orla’s head, each pill dangling from Orla’s blouse. When Polly’s eyes moved down to her stomach, Orla blurted, mostly to bring up her gaze, “I’m so honored to meet you, but I have to say one thing up front, based on, ah, past experience.”
Polly blinked at her through her glasses, the frames of which were green and heavy-looking, like they were carved out of stone. “Go ahead,” she said.
The busboy poured their waters, holding his tie with one elegant hand. “I don’t want to write about Floss,” Orla said. “Natuzzi,” she added, blushing, in case Polly didn’t watch TV.
Polly nodded. “Thank you, Darrell,” she said to the busboy, and then to Orla, “That’s fine. I’m not interested in that from you.” She tapped the papers in front of her. “I see promise here,” she said. Orla almost laughed. It was the same thing Polly’s assistant had said about the pages years ago, back when Orla was seventeen. Back when she knew how to finish things.
“I like the first chapter,” Polly went on. “And there are certainly some bold choices. The experimental elements—the drawings, the lyrics. The Orthodox Jewish character who metaphorically