The second reading, everyone who was there agreed afterward, was nowhere near as good as the first. It wasn’t that the extract was no good—the chapter that Todd read out was excellent. It was more the actual reading. He kept stopping, looking over at the bookshelf, mumbling to himself, taking a sip—a big sip—of red wine, and then starting again, and stopping, and starting. The whole thing was a mess, people said afterward, and if the book hadn’t been so damn good, they might have just gone home.

The Q&A part of the evening was, at Leah’s suggestion, abandoned, much to the relief of several people in the audience who’d noted Todd’s stammering, confused demeanor and had decided that tonight was not the night to ask him who his influences were or if he’d found it hard to write convincing female characters.

The signing was awkward. Some people who’d bought books earlier took them home without coming forward to get them signed, while those who did form a line for Todd’s John Hancock—and there were plenty of them—found it hard to engage the author in conversation.

“I never read a deeper novel,” said one middle-aged man with a ponytail who’d found himself looking down on a seated and exhausted-looking Todd.

“It’s pretty deep all right,” said Todd, signing the book.

“Can you put—” began the man with the ponytail, but Todd was already handing the book back to him.

“Next,” said Todd, wearily.

“If I didn’t know better,” said a lady with dyed red hair, coquettishly, “I’d say someone’s wife wrote this novel.”

“My wife is divorcing me,” said Todd, as he scrawled something in her book.

“Okay,” said Leah, “that’s pretty much it for tonight. We have to close up now.”

“It says event until nine thirty,” said a whiny boy.

“Mr. Milstead will be signing store copies before he leaves,” said Leah.

“But I bought a book already,” said the whiny boy.

“Then write your name down on this,” Leah said, shoving a flyer at him, “and Mr. Milstead will be sure to write you a fulsome dedication.”

Right now, Todd looked like he could barely write an X. He looked confused and worried, and ready for nothing. “Out!” shouted Leah, and the room emptied like the people in it were steam and someone had opened a window.

Leah made Todd sign fifty books (she was a woman of her word) and brought him coffee and a pastry.

“We had Charles Bukowski here last year,” she said.

“Don’t tell me,” Todd replied. “He got high and attacked the audience with a cleaver.”

“Actually, he was really polite and charming,” said Leah.

“I take your point,” Todd said. “I don’t know what came over me.”