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dependable, if not incredible, money—or if you’re willing to risk it all by walking away and hunting the big cats. It’s a huge gamble. It doesn’t always work. At the very least, it doesn’t work fast.”
    Barbara Ann pushed Sable into going over all this again and again and she never quite followed it. It was too ambiguous. It might work for a certain type of author to fire five agents, change publishers, piss off a lot ofpeople and stage a veritable raid on the publishers and finally get the money she wants. But another author could try it and find themselves disliked, avoided and basically out of work. One type of author with a certain type of book might be able to sell copies by developing a massive marketing campaign on her own while in another case it would only serve to bankrupt the author, annoy the marketing department and make the next book even harder to sell. It was all individual, Sable kept saying. Your strategy must exactly fit your ability, personality, type of work and potential.
    Why the hell wouldn’t Sable admit she’d just been lucky? And console Barbara Ann that she had not been?
    “Of course there’s luck involved in publishing, Barbara Ann,” Sable relented wearily. “Lots of luck. Bestselling authors are always lucky. But they’re not accidental.”
    Barbara Ann did not understand.
    And then there was Barbara Ann’s dirty little secret. She had conquered their group. She had pushed her way into Gabby’s life because Sable was there and she needed what they had. It hadn’t mattered to her whether or not she liked these women. She wanted Sable’s help and influence because she wanted her own phenomenal success to come to her. She had too many obligations to take all these risks Sable talked about even if she could figure out what they were.
    Nine years ago, in the very beginning of this writing endeavor, Barbara Ann had taken a short workshop course from Gabby because she heard that Gabby hung out with Sable Tennet. In fact, the little writers’ group she belonged to kept trying to get Gabby to get Sable to come and speak to them. Sable was not easily got. She was very particular about where and when she was seen. Sable wassingle-minded; there had to be something in it for her. She drew a fee—something not many writers’ groups willingly paid. They’d let you autograph books and they’d fuss over you. What more should you need? But Sable didn’t hang out with other writers, unless they were sensationally famous. Her only regular friends were Gabby and Elly.
    So Barbara Ann put the rush on Gabby. She phoned her, invited her to lunch, asked her many questions, made herself available. Gabby, being the friendly, approachable woman she was, gave in to the prospect of friendship. Barbara Ann knew that success was imminent. Before long she met the famed Sable, and Sable impressed the hell out of her. She was chic, elegant, arrogant and sought after. Sable would get important business calls while she was hanging out with the girls at the Olive Street house. Barbara Ann would eavesdrop as Sable went through various stages of wheedling, throwing a tantrum, cajoling or threatening, and everyone would eventually come around, give Sable what she hankered for. The advance would be upped, the advertising promised, the cover changed, the tour accommodations improved or the special invitation provided. Sable was psychic. She knew when to suck up, when to whine, when to scream. She always got what she wanted. Barbara Ann wanted that.
    From the very beginning, Barbara Ann found the friendship between Gabby and Sable to be an odd one. Gabby was a very attractive, small woman who put more emphasis on her feelings and her intellect than on her wardrobe or lifestyle; Gabby valued things like friendship, honor, loyalty and sensitivity. Sable, you could tell after one meeting, mostly valued success and power. She was a classy, slender, gorgeously dressed blonde.She wore specially made suits and slacks