I was going to write a post about what really happens on a book tour. The nitty-gritty stuff. I drafted a long rant about flying economy on American Airlines out of London Heathrow. (Summary: Arrived at 6:20 a.m. for an 8:30 a.m. flight. Stood in line for 75 minutes waiting to check in. Took 20 minutes to get through security. Finally got to the terminal to see two signs: “FLIGHT CLOSING” and “Time needed to reach Gate 22 from here: 15 minutes.”)
But you don’t want to hear about that. You want to hear the REAL story. The glamour. The excitement. The thrills. So forget about surly TSA screeners, and shoes that get mangled in x-ray machines, and a blue blouse that I ironed every day so it would look good for book events.
Here’s my story.
Monday. Limo drops me off at the terminal. Trixie — one of my people — carries my bags and hat case and the Chihuahuas into the terminal. She checks me in while I sign autographs. It’s so cute when pilots rip off their shirts and beg you to sign a big red heart on their pecs.
Monday, mid-air. What’s this? The flight attendant refuses to serve Dom Perignon to the Chihuahuas? The nerve! Trixie, slap her in the face!
Tuesday. Kiki — one of my new people — irons my blouse and socks and hair while a team of beauticians does my nails and makeup. I don’t like the look of those creases, Kiki. I hope Trixie is released from jail soon.
Tuesday, noon. Midtown Manhattan. I’m walking along Fifth Avenue and — yet again — I have to fend off hordes of screaming fans, plus marriage proposals and desperate pleas to solve the latest world crisis. I brush the Secretary General aside. The Chihuahuas have locked onto Bill Clinton’s calf to keep him back. Fleur — one of my people — is beating Oprah Winfrey off with a stick. Good girl, Fleur!
Such a life I lead.