Made For Sex (51 page)

“I love you too, Mom. And give my love to Daddy.”

The two women blew kisses into the phone and then the line went dead. Slowly Fran hung up the receiver. She lay on the bed for several minutes, then went to her laptop and began to type. “
Pleasures
. A book proposal by Nichole St. Michelle.”

The following day whizzed by in a blur. Fran sat at the velvet-covered table in the main room of the conference and signed books for gushing women who were, “So honored to have an autographed copy.” Many confided that they already had copies of the book but they wanted another one, signed to them personally. Several women whispered that they had had great sex with their husbands after reading a particular scene. And the questions soon became repetitive and she gave that same charming answer each time.

“Ms. Michelle, who makes better lovers, French men or Italians?”

“I love men, no matter where they're from,” she would answer.

“Don't you just love the Louvre?”

“You know, I prefer being with people to being with great art.”

“I've always wanted to write a book like yours, Ms. St. Michelle. How did you get started?”

“I just sat down at a word processor and began to type. I used both my life and my fantasies in the book.”

“Have you done
everything
that Rhona did?”

She smiled. “And more.”

It was the most exhilarating afternoon of her life.

As the afternoon wore down, she chuckled internally as she realized that she hadn't really needed all the “education” she'd worked so hard to get. She talked a good game and that was all that mattered. And with Jason, she'd been intelligent and witty, without pretense.

At five, she dashed back to her apartment to change for the dinner. She put on a black sequined top with a gold geometric design and her long black skirt. She fluffed her hair, put on shoulder-dusting gold earrings and carefully applied her makeup. She had a serious look at herself and realized that she was an amalgam of Nichole and Fran, and she liked it that way. She was herself and that was wonderful.

When she arrived at the door of the ballroom, there was a slight delay in finding her table assignment so she stood to one side, waiting. A woman's voice hissed from behind her. “Well. I'm surprised you even showed up.”

Fran turned to see Diane Barklay. Her stomach clenched, but she forced her muscles to relax. She took a deep breath. “You know,” Fran said, gently, “I hope you win.”

“Excuse me?” Diane said.

“I just said that I hope you win. You obviously have so little that this is enormously important to you.” She brushed some nonexistent lint from her shoulder. “I have so much that this is of little consequence. Obviously you need it more than I do.”

Diane's mouth fell open as someone handed Fran her place card and she walked away.

She found her table and joined Sandy and Eileen and their husbands, and Carla and several other editors from Majestic Books. The evening sped by. At one point, she slipped Eileen a fifteen-page proposal for her new book. “It's really good,” Fran whispered. “I can't wait to get started on it.”

“I have no doubt that it's wonderful. Sandy and I loved the idea when you told us about it so I'll read it and, unless there's some problem, I'll pass it along to Sandy.”

Later, she and Carla again discussed the possibility of Fran's moving to New York. “It would be so great,” Carla said. “I'm really down at the thought of never seeing you again. We've gotten so close. And, besides Ronnie, I don't have a lot of real friends.”

Fran grinned. “Me too. I think you'll be hearing from me sooner than you might expect.”

The lights dimmed and a man walked up to the podium. “That's Peter Hunt,” Sandy whispered in Fran's ear.

“Who's he?”

Sandy turned to her. “Only the most influential literary agent in New York.”

“Oh,” Fran said.

After several stale jokes, Peter Hunt said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the time has come to announce this year's winner of The Madison Prize. Let me take a minute to congratulate all the nominees.” He called the five names and each stood to loud applause. Fran's was the last name called and she rose, listened to the ovation, then quickly sat back down.

“Each of this year's novels had something a little different to offer and our choice was a difficult one. We had Alaska, World War I, we had passion and great writing.”

He paused as the audience again applauded the nominees. “We discussed it all at great length and finally decided to give this year's Madison Prize to an author whose work has grown and expanded over the years, who has taken us from Barbara Cartland's fade-to-black-in-the-bedroom to Nichole St. Michelle's wonderfully erotic novel.”

Fran realized that, although it was obvious that she hadn't won, she was being paid a great compliment.

“So I am proud to award the prize to Virginia Cortez.”

Amid a tremendous round of applause, a large woman, clothed in lots of flowing rayon, rose and walked to the podium. Sandy squeezed Fran's hand. “I'm really sorry.”

“You know,” Fran whispered, “I'm disappointed, of course, but I'm going to write
Pleasures
and I'm going to enjoy doing it. I just love all of this.”

“That's a great attitude.”

After the presentation, the crowd quickly dispersed. Fran caught a glimpse of Diane on the arm of an attractive man. She looked dejected but Fran knew she would adjust and probably be nominated again.

As she stood up to leave, she gathered Carla, Eileen and Sandy around her. “You know what I've discovered?” Fran said to the three women who had become so important to her. “It took all this to help me understand what makes me happy. First, and most important, friends.” She hugged each woman tightly. “And then my writing and living life to the fullest. If not now, when? So I'm going after it. I think I'm going to move here and do what I love.” She winked at Carla, whose eyes sparkled with amusement.

“All I can say is that I'm thrilled and excited and I can't wait to begin.”