“Sure thing,” said Todd. “I better go. I—”

Another pause.

“You what?” said Sara.

“I… will see you soon,” said Todd.

“And I will see you soon,” Sara said, good-humouredly. “Bye, Todd.”

She put the phone down.

“Okay then,” said Todd, and opened the New York Times.

The book reviews were snuggled away in the heart of the paper, but it wasn’t too hard for Todd to find what he was looking for. It was opposite a full page ad for a stage production of Blithe Spirit, and it was easy for Todd to find because right in the middle of the page was the same photograph of Todd that had been in the Beacon (the same, except that in the Beaconfused, the image had looked cool and stylish, whereas in the Times, Todd’s picture looked like a hick who’d recently tunneled out of a hay bale). There was a large headline—”A Different Rainbow”—and a whole lot of words. In all his years of reading reviews, essays, and theses, Todd had never seen so many words aimed at just one book. He set about consuming the piece.

Ten minutes later, his mind ticking over, Todd was sated. According to the reviewer, All My Colors was the book of the year, if not the decade. It combined a modern attitude to life and society with an almost arch 1950s feel, “almost as if,” the reviewer had written, “Mr. Milstead’s novel had been transported from an earlier time, with a frank contemporary take on the war between men and women running through it like a seam of anachronistic yet fitting iron.” Todd wasn’t sure if iron could be anachronistic yet fitting but he didn’t really mind. The short gist of the very long review was as Nora had said: the reviewer thought the book was great, and wanted everyone to know that. Todd didn’t know the circulation figures of the Times, but he guessed that an awful lot of people would know about All My Colors now.

Todd looked at his watch. He had just enough time to shower and change before walking to the venue for his event that night. As he dressed afterward, he thought of calling Sara back—hey, if you get a moment, you might want to step out and pick up a New York Times for yourself. Oh, no reason—but decided she’d find out soon enough. Besides, he could pick up a few copies of the paper before tomorrow, as souvenirs.

Todd took the elevator down to street level and walked across the lobby. He wondered if anybody was looking at him and thinking, hey, I just saw a picture of that guy in the paper or even wow, isn’t that Todd Milstead, America’s hottest new author? He doubted it, but it was fun to imagine.

*  *  *