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Spanish Disco
Erica Orloff
Real life was messy. Sloppy bathrooms I could handle. Love I could not.For thirty-three-year-old Cassie Hayes, life is about to get messier. She can't cook, unless you count coffee as a meal (she does). She can't commit (just ask her ex-husband). She drinks too much (tequila for breakfast). Of course, she has guided her share of authors to the bestseller list for the literary publishing house where she works (when she makes it to the office). And now she must coax a sequel out of a Pulitzer Prize-winning author-turned-recluse. Moving in with the recluse is one thing, but teaching him the hustle so he can win the heart of his Spanish housekeeper is way beyond the call of duty.Cassie slowly unravels, with no coffeehouses, no bagels and nothing but sand for nightlife. On top of that, she's having phone sex with her favorite author, the mysterious, London-based Michael Pearton, who has suddenly decided to ruin their perfect affair by insisting that after five years they meet in person. Add a tabloid reporter who is after the literary story of a lifetime, and Cassie's dance card is full.
ERICA ORLOFF
is a transplanted New Yorker who now calls South Florida home. She is a writer and editor who has worked in publishing for over a decade. She is the coauthor of two books of humor writing, and the coauthor of The Sixty Second Commute about the home office phenomenon, as well as two books for children, including The Best Friends’ Handbook, aimed at empowering teen and preteen girls. As an editor and ghostwriter, she has worked behind the scenes on many publishing successes.
Erica despises the “c-word” (cooking) and likes to write on her laptop, poolside. She presides over a house of unruly pets, including a parrot who curses as avidly as she does. She loves playing poker, a game she was taught by her grandmother, and regularly enjoys trying to steal her crew of wonderful friends’ money playing five-card stud.
Spanish Disco
Erica Orloff
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my parents, Walter and Maryanne Orloff.
And to the memory of Robert and Irene Cunningham.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my wonderful, beloved agent, Jay Poynor, for always believing in me and my work. You are friend, cheering section, critic, confidant, and family.
To my father, Walter Orloff. I am a writer because, first and foremost, you are a terribly interesting character. Second, you are the father in chapter thirteen who challenged me to read well beyond my years. All I am is because you challenged me.
To my mother, Maryanne Orloff, who bears no resemblance to the mother in the pages herein. My love of reading stems from your love of reading. Thank you for taking me to the library in second grade, letting me sign out seven books on a Friday and taking me back on Monday to sign out new ones.
To my sisters, Stacey Groome and Jessica Stasinos, and to my girlfriends, Pammie, Cleo, Nancy, Kathy L., Kathy J., Lisa, JoAnn and Meredith…for your friendship and support. To Kathy Levinson, in particular, for tolerating my trips to New York (and giving me a place to stay) with my over-the-top fear of flying. You are my personal “flying shrink.” Thanks to Marc Levinson, as well—same reasons. And to Pam Morrell, especially, thanks for believing I am “winsome.”
To the members of Writer’s Cramp: Pam, Gina, Becky…and Josh.
To the members of my women’s book group, for your friendship (and great food once a month).
At Red Dress Ink, thank you to Margaret O’Neill Marbury, for your insight and wisdom and belief in this book. And to all the people at Red Dress who made this book possible.
To Alexa, Nicholas and Isabella. Thank you for giving me a reason to breathe.
To my godmother, Gloria, and to my cousin Joey D., because I always promised you I would mention you in my book.
To the late Viktor Frankl. I live because of your philosophy.
To anyone I’ve somehow left out. You know I’m not that organized, so please forgive me.
And finally, to J.D.
You know all my secrets, even the ones I share with no one else, and you know all my pain and joys. And though I often want to kill you, you make me laugh every day.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Book Group Questions
1
“H ello, Buttercup.”
Most people panic that a jangling phone at 4:09 in the morning is a death call—the one in which a cop is about to tell you he’s found your sibling or mother or father plastered like a bloody possum on the pavement of I-95. Instead, I uttered his name like a curse: “Michael!”
“Yes, darling, it’s me.”
I reached in vain for the lamp.
“I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking if you know what time it is.”
“What would David have for breakfast?”
“Breakfast?”
“Because I think eggs indicates a surprising lack of concern about his health. After all, his wife has been nagging him for years about his cholesterol. His smoking. And this could be his lone act of defiance. His way of telling the world to fuck off, as you, my dear, would so eloquently put it.”
“Or he could merely like sunny-side up and a side of bacon, Michael. Is it that important what your character eats for breakfast?”
My fingers found the little pull-chain on my bedside lamp. I squinted and reached for the glass of warm bourbon and water I keep on my nightstand for conversations precisely like this one.
“Vitally.”
“Michael, you know I am not at my best until a good, solid six hours from now. And that only after a pot of coffee. Can’t this wait?”
“Be a love,” he said, his English accent trying to charm me through the phone line. “Greet the dawn with me.”
“Greet the dawn? Michael, I don’t want to greet the dawn with you. I don’t want to greet noon with you.”
“Impossible! You don’t want to enjoy the splendor outside your balcony with me? Your favorite author?”
“Favorite is not—most definitely not—the word that comes to mind right now.” I sighed. “Those acknowledgments better drip with praise.”
“To my dream editor, the love of my life, Cassie Hayes, without whom this book would not be possible and without whom I would curl into a fetal position and remain there. For life without the beautiful and witty Miss Hayes would, in fact, be life not worth living at all.”
“That’s a start.”
“And she has a remarkable sense of the sublime and a true command of all dangling participles.”
“And?”
“And she’s simply charming before the dawn.”
Stretching, I sighed. “All right. Let me grab my robe and start a pot of coffee.”
“Are you naked, Cassie?”
Michael Pearton was, quite possibly, the best writer I had ever worked with or read. He was also faintly mysterious. His back cover head shots showed a man with black curly hair and a crooked smile offset by a long, ragged scar on his decidedly square chin. He was both movie-star handsome and bar-fight dangerous. We’d never met but indulged in flirtation bordering on phone sex. Because I wasn’t getting any other kind of sex, I tolerated his predawn ramblings.
“Why, yes, Michael, I am,” I murmured. “Stark, raving naked. My nipples are hard because you know I keep my house colder than a meat locker regardless of what the weather is outside. And I am now shoving said nipples into my robe and shuffling in my bare feet to the kitchen where I will start a pot of coffee.”
I rested the portable phone on my shoulder, talking in my pre-coffee rasp as I tied my green silk kimono, a gift from another author’s trip to Singapore.
“I do so love it when you talk dirty, Cassie.”
“I do so love it when you call me in the middle of the day.”
“So nasty when you haven’t had that cup. You know you should switch to tea, love. Do you ever use the set I shipped you?”
I flicked on the kitchen light, shielding my eyes from the brightness as it reflected on my Florida-white tile and cabinets, and stared at the sterling tea set perched, never used, on my breakfast bar. He had bought it at a flea market of some sort and shipped it over to the States. It was tarnished, but the elaborate handle on the teapot was ornately baroque, and though it matched nothing in my condominium, I adored it.
“Yes. It’s gorgeous.”
“You’re a horrible liar. But I know it probably looks lovely wherever you have it.”
“Michael, why does inspiration only strike you in the middle of my night?”
My Mr. Coffee machine started making noises, and I willed it to brew faster.
“It’s very odd really. I go to sleep and wake up in the middle of the night absolutely certain of what must happen next. Oh…and showers. I get inspiration in the shower. And now, everyone else in London is getting ready for lunch, and I just have to finish this scene. It’s sad, really. I have a twenty-thousand-dollar antique cherrywood desk good enough for the queen herself, and I never write a damn word sitting at it.”
I knew he was sitting stark, raving naked in his bed, with his laptop and a hard-on for companionship.
“So your inspiration is that David is worrying about breakfast?”
