Will Presser had been waiting for her at the bar, wearing a black shirt beneath a blazer made of silky black suede. She could remember his teeth, flashing startling white in the darkness of his neatly trimmed mustache and goatee, when he rose to greet her. He’d kept his hand hovering above the small of her back as they walked to the table, where he’d pulled out her chair with a flourish. The sushi had been decadent, delicious, especially to someone who’d been living on ramen and beans and rice. Sarah remembered the unctuous bits of fish, rich and fatty, slipping down her throat, the bright crunch of seaweed salad, slicked in sesame oil, the burn of warm sake, tracing a fiery path through her chest each time she’d swallowed. They’d talked about publishing first, played Do you know and Have you read. They’d discussed different editors at different publishing houses, the new Reese pick, the most recent scandals. An author who’d cheated on her wife at Yaddo, another, formerly sober, who’d gone on a bender at Bread Loaf that had concluded with him naked on a snowmobile; the pair of young women who wrote a series of mysteries together, only, Will said, lowering his voice, they didn’t actually do any of the writing at all.

“So who writes them?” Sarah could feel the alcohol humming pleasantly in her blood; the taste of raw fish lingered on her tongue. She felt good, relaxed, and happy, at ease in her own skin, for once.

Will lowered his voice, leaning in so close that his knee bumped hers beneath the table. “You know Victoria? Their agent?” Sarah did know Victoria, who was a plump, grandmotherly woman in her seventies. “She does the writing. The girls—” Will made a dismissive, brushing-off gesture with one long-fingered hand. “They’re just there for the author photos.”