It sat in a drawer, gathering dust. A lonely little manuscript that I never sold. But I never stopped thinking about it. I blogged about it, I talked about it, and then a funny thing happened: I sold it!And today, THE LONELY HEARTS CLUB makes its big debut!
I really hope you'll check it out. You can get it on your favorite e-reader:
Amazon
And, just for you, my favorite readers, here's a little sneak peek from chapter one:
THE LONELY HEARTS CLUB
by Brenda Janowitz
Chapter One: Money for Nothing
“Jo,
you’re fired,” he says. Just like that.
Fired.
And I’m utterly shocked. I know, no one ever expects to be
fired, but I really didn’t see this
coming. My mouth is wide open as I stare back at him.
“Fired?” is all I can choke out. The
room begins to spin. That may be because I was out until sunrise last night
drinking vodka tonics at an underground club in Williamsburg, but I’m pretty
sure that it’s the news that’s doing it to me, not the hangover.
“Yes. I’m sorry, Jo, but it’s not
working out here,” he says. His skin is gleaming when he says it. His skin
always gleams. He’s a dermatologist, so it has to gleam in order for him to
stay in business. My skin doesn’t ever gleam. At the very most, it shines and
turns red when I get hot or embarrassed. I feel it beginning to shine and my
hand immediately flies to my cheek, which, of course, only makes it get hotter.
We are in his office when he tells me and he is sitting at
his desk, his head framed by his many diplomas and awards that are hung on the
wall behind him. They are, as they are always, shining brightly as if they’d
been dusted and cleaned that very morning. I look at the picture he keeps
framed at the edge of his desk—a photograph of his family taken at a New Year’s
Eve party, framed in a sterling-silver picture frame that his wife lovingly
picked out for their thirtieth wedding anniversary—and then look back up at
him.
“You can’t fire me,” I say, which I
wholeheartedly believe. I really didn’t
think that he ever would or could fire me.
“I can,” he says, “and I am.” He
begins to toy with one of the pens sitting on his desk.
“I’m your best employee!” I plead.
“You wore a ‘Save CBGBs’ T-shirt to
work,” he says.
“CBGBs was a New York institution,”
I say. He gives me a blank stare. I shrug in response. Is it my fault that this
man has no sense of culture? Of history? “What does it matter what I wear under
my assistant’s coat anyway?”
“You know the dress code—scrubs or
business casual,” he says.
“Jeans and a concert tee is business casual!”
“People can see the prints on your T-shirts
right through the fabric,” he says. “And sometimes you wear ones with dirty
words on them,” he continues, whispering the ”dirty words” part as if his
grandmother is somehow listening from up above and would be appalled by this
particular bit of information.
“Like what?” I ask. Watching him
squirm is kind of fun.
“You know which one,” he says. And
then, in barely a whisper, “Free Pussy Riot.”
“That’s a band,” I say, “not a dirty
word.” You’d think a doctor would have no problem saying the word “pussy” out
loud.
“Jo, it’s not just the T-shirts. You’ve called in the wrong
prescriptions for my patients more times than I’d like to admit.”
“Some of those drugs have very
complicated names,” I say in my own defense. And for the record, they do.
“That doesn’t mean you can give a
patient a more pronounceable drug without consulting me first.”
“Then maybe you and your colleagues
should start prescribing more
pronounceable drugs,” I argue. He furrows his brow in response. “But I’m your
favorite employee!” I plead.
“You balanced the company checkbook
wrong the last three out of four quarters.”
“You know that I’m not an accountant.” When he hired me for
the job two years ago, I knew that there would be some accounting involved. What
I hadn’t realized at the time was that I would have to be quite so specific
with the numbers. Which is a challenge for me, seeing as I’m really more of a
right-brain kind of person.
“But you know how to balance your own checkbook, don’t
you?” he says.
For the record, I don’t.
“Of course I know how to balance my own checkbook,” I say
and laugh, as if to say, “Doesn’t everybody?” “A business checkbook is much,
much different than a personal checkbook,” I explain.
For the record, it’s not.
“I’m your most loyal employee,” I say. My last resort. I
find myself alternating between staring into his solid gold, monogrammed
Tiffany belt buckle and his shellacked black hair, because I can’t meet his
eyes.
“This is difficult for me, too, you
know,” he says, even though I know that it’s not.
“Do you realize how embarrassing this is going to be for
me?” I say. Manipulative, I know, but it’s not exactly like I have anything
left in my arsenal.
“I thought you don’t get embarrassed,” he replies, looking
into my eyes, challenging me.
“I don’t,” I say, frowning like a little girl who hasn’t
gotten the piece of candy that she wanted.
“Don’t take this personally,
Pumpkin.”
“You can’t call me Pumpkin when
you’re firing me, Daddy.”
I’m the author of SCOT ON THE ROCKS and JACK WITH A TWIST. My third novel, RECIPE FOR A HAPPY LIFE, was published by St. Martin's on July 2, 2013. My fourth novel, THE LONELY HEARTS CLUB, was published by Polis Books today!!
My work’s also appeared in the New York Post and Publisher’s Weekly. You can find me at brendajanowitz.com or on Twitter at @BrendaJanowitz.
I’m the author of SCOT ON THE ROCKS and JACK WITH A TWIST. My third novel, RECIPE FOR A HAPPY LIFE, was published by St. Martin's on July 2, 2013. My fourth novel, THE LONELY HEARTS CLUB, was published by Polis Books today!!My work’s also appeared in the New York Post and Publisher’s Weekly. You can find me at brendajanowitz.com or on Twitter at @BrendaJanowitz.
