Truth be told, the old Todd was coming more and more to the surface these days. The novelty of normal life was wearing off—he’d been with Sara for months now, for goodness sake, and a man can only take so many friendly smiles at breakfast and long walks in the park. Plus, wasn’t he a published author now? There was a world of fame and money out there and Todd was champing at the bit to get at it. Saturday nights with Mike were all very well (they weren’t all very well, they were fucking dull), but where were the Saturday nights with, Todd didn’t know, Anthony Burgess and Herman Wouk? Maybe throw Farrah Fawcett in the mix too, why not. If he was honest, Todd had no idea what the life of an author was like, but he did remember that the guy who wrote Death of a Salesman had been married to Marilyn Monroe and that sounded like a good starting point. Of course, that guy was a playwright and they got out more, but Todd bet writing a number one bestseller put you in a position to meet swimwear models. He had no idea where this might happen; maybe on a chat show.

Yeah, that sounds about right, Todd thought. Go on Johnny Carson and make ’em all laugh, and then afterward screw the swimwear girl.

Todd’s view of celebrity was a simple one.

*  *  *

Old Todd was still in there, but new Todd was the boss. New Todd liked to sit on the couch, Sara on his lap, flicking through the book pages in the Sunday papers and wondering what it’d be like to be in them. New Todd drank his one glass of wine with dinner and helped with the washing-up (he got through that by imagining he was being photographed for a magazine feature—”I’m no macho pig,” says Todd Milstead).

Life was sweet and Todd liked it that way. In his head he was planning an itinerary for his life. Get rich and famous from the book, move out of DeKalb—Chicago seemed a good bet, being familiar and a decent city with enough of a cultural scene to sustain his pretensions (and also, he was fully aware, slightly more robust and Todd-like than Los Angeles or New York). Divorce Janis and give her the chump change she was still whining about. Marry Sara (because he loved her) and try not to screw around (see reason above). Become richer and more famous, travel around the world and die from a massive heart attack sustained during fellatio on a bed made of solid gold at the age of a hundred and two. There were worse ways to go.

*  *  *