YOU'LL NEVER GUESS WHO I RAN INTO AT RANDOM HOUSE
I hobbled across the plush carpet to the elevator, and jabbed the UP arrow. The doors whooshed open.
A woman with long blonde hair, fiftyish, stood inside cradling a manuscript, much bulkier than mine. She stepped aside as I entered the lift. I acknowledged my fellow author with a brief smile, before pressing the 6th floor button.
The woman looked alarmingly familiar as she glanced down at my surgical boot.
“Nasty accident?” Her vowels were distinctly Transatlantic.
I chuckled grimly. “You don’t want to know.”
How could I explain that I’d broken my foot on a stack of her hefty hardbacks at a midnight launch party, in a Barnes & Noble store that denied shelf space to my paperback YA mysteries? All my writing life I’d wanted to rub shoulders with such a literary giant, a rags-to-riches success, for the luck to rub off on me. On school visits, kids had asked me whether I knew her, being from the same country.
Now I had the chance, and all I could think of was my throbbing, swollen foot. I seethed with resentment and envy.
We reached our floor, the offices of the Acquisitions Editor. But as I limped out, I thrust a pen and a sticky note under the author’s nose.
“May I have your autograph for my nephew, please, Ms. Rowling? He loves Harry Potter.”