Spotlight of Someone Had To Do It by Amber and Danielle Brown

 

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SOMEONE HAD TO DO IT

AMBER AND DANIELLE BROWN

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ALL INFORMATION IN THIS POST IS COURTESY OF JUSTINE SHA |SENIOR PUBLICIST | PARK ROW BOOKS | HANOVER SQUARE PRESS | MIRA BOOKS | GRAYDON HOUSE | INKYARD PRESS | HARPER COLLINS PUBLISHERS | HARLEQUIN TRADE PUBLISHING

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December 27, 2022

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PRAISE FOR SOMEONE HAD TO DO IT:

A December LibraryReads Pick

Readers Digest Online, 27 Best Mystery Books You Won’t Be Able to Put Down

"will have you turning pages as fast as you can....With biting social commentary and critiques of capitalism and privilege, this juicy, intelligent novel is utterly compelling." -Readers Digest Online, 27 Best Mystery Books You Won’t Be Able to Put Down

"Inspired by their time in the New York fashion scene, influencers Amber and Danielle Brown have crafted a taut and sexy debut thriller about a young Black woman struggling to make it in that cutthroat industry....Fresh dialogue, extravagant parties, and an inside view of the glamorous lives of the filthy rich grab the reader’s attention from start to finish.” -BOOKLIST

“Sister team Amber and Danielle Brown bring their own experiences of the fashion industry into this fast-paced and intriguing thriller.… Brandi is a well-developed protagonist who will be admired for her resolve and ambition….Fans of Alyssa Cole and Zakiya Dalila Harris, whose characters navigate the issues women of color face in the workplace, and of psychological thrillers like Paula Hawkins’s The Girl on the Train will enjoy this one.” –LIBRARY JOURNAL

"A disturbing peek into the world of privilege. Someone Had to Do It is a tense page-turner that had me yelling out loud at the characters."

-Lucinda Berry, bestselling author of The Best of Friends and The Perfect Child

"Someone Had to Do It has everything. A dark and riveting page turner that has the allure of pulling off the perfect crime with an intelligent twist."--Nadine Matheson, author of THE JIGSAW MAN and THE BINDING ROOM

"Amber and Danielle Brown’s debut is a juicy, brilliant treat of a thriller that combines sexy fashion-world glamour with salient points about privilege, racism, and the corrosive effects of extreme wealth. Somehow, Someone Had to Do It manages to be both a scathing critique of our late-stage capitalist hellscape, and the perfect mental escape from it. I couldn’t put it down!"-Layne Fargo, author of They Never Learn

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ABOUT SOMEONE HAD TO DO IT:

Brandi Maxwell is living the dream as an intern at prestigious New York fashion house Simon Van Doren. Except “living the dream” looks more like scrubbing puke from couture dresses worn by hard-partying models and putting up with microaggressions from her white colleagues. Still, she can’t help but fangirl over Simon’s it-girl daughter, Taylor. Until one night, at a glamorous Van Doren party, when Brandi overhears something she shouldn’t have, and her fate becomes dangerously intertwined Taylor’s.

 

Model and influencer Taylor Van Doren has everything…and is this close to losing it all. Her fashion mogul father will donate her inheritance to charity if she fails her next drug test, and he’s about to marry someone nearly as young as Taylor, further threatening her stake in the family fortune. But Taylor deserves the money that’s rightfully hers. And she’ll go to any lengths to get it, even if that means sacrificing her famous father in the process.

 

All she needs is the perfect person to take the fall…

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EXCERPT OF SOMEONE HAD TO DO IT:

BRANDI

I had a ton of illusions, vivid fantasies of what it would be like to score a coveted internship at Van Doren. Deluded old me thought I would be strutting around the stunning tri-story headquarters in single-soled heels, flitting from design concept meetings to on-location photo shoots, living my best fashion-girl life. Instead, I’m in the back corner of the two-thousand-square-foot ready-to-wear samples closet scrubbing fresh vomit from a slinky gown worth double my rent during my lunch hour.

Italian Vogue’s current cover girl borrowed the hand-sewn dress for a red-carpet event last night, and apparently getting it back on a rack without ruining it was too much for one of the other interns to handle. She was so hungover when she came to the office this morning that she vomited all over the dress before making it out of the elevator. But of course this dress needs to be ready for another model to wear to some big extravaganza tonight, and since I’m the designated fuckover intern, I have to clean it by hand because the satin-blend fabric is too delicate to be dry-cleaned.

This is what it takes.

I chant this to remind myself why I’m here as the lactic acid builds up in my biceps. Working for Van Doren has been on my proverbial vision board ever since I reluctantly gave up the idea, in middle school, that I could be Beyoncé. It’s a storm of hauling hundreds of pounds of runway samples around the city and sitting in on meetings with the sketch artists. A glorious, next-to-holy experience when I’m on duty at photo shoots and one of the stylists sends me to fetch another blazer, not a specific blazer, which means I get to use my own vestiary inclinations to make the selection. Which has only happened once, but still.

Just as I get the stain faded by at least seventy percent, I hear the sharp staccato of someone in stilettos approaching. I turn around and see Lexi. Lexi with her bimonthly touched-up white-blond hair and generous lip filler that she’ll never admit to having injected. When she steps closer in her head-to-toe Reformation, I am grateful that I remembered to put on a few sprays of my Gypsy Water perfume. The one that smells like rich people. But the way she’s staring at me right now, it’s clear that no matter how much I try, I am still not on her level. I do not fit in here. She does not see me as her equal, despite the fact that we are both unpaid, unknown, disposable interns. It’s become glaringly obvious that at Van Doren, it’s not actually about what you contribute, but more about how blue your blood is. Lexi doesn’t even know my name, though I’ve been here a solid nine weeks and I’m pretty sure I’ve told her at least a dozen times.

I’m already on edge because of my assignment, so I jump in before she can ask in her monotone voice. “Brandi.”

“Right,” she says, like she does every time yet still forgets. “Chloé wants the Instagram analytics report for last week. She said she asked you to put it together an hour ago.”

Which is true, but completely unfair since Jenna from marketing also asked me to run to Starbucks to buy thirty-one-ounce cups of liquid crack for her and her entire department for a 9:00 a.m. meeting, an effort that took three trips total, and technically I’m still working on the data sheets I promised Eric from product development. Not to mention the obvious: getting rid of the puke from the dress.

“I’m still working on it,” I tell her.

Lexi stares at me, her overly filled brows lifted, as if she’s waiting for the rest of my excuse. I understand her, but also I’m wondering how she still hasn’t realized this is not a case of Resting Bitch Face I have going on, that I am actually intolerant of her nagging.

Normally, I am not this terse. But nothing about today has been normal. Since this week is my period week, I’m retaining water in the most unflattering of places and the pencil dress I’m wearing has been cutting off the circulation in my thighs for the past couple of hours, and being that I’ve spent most of my break destroying the evidence of someone else’s bad decisions, it is not my fault that I’m not handling this particularly well.

“I’ll send it over as soon as I’m done,” I say to Lexi so she can leave. But she doesn’t.

“HR wants to see you,” she says with what looks like a smirk.

My mouth opens. I have no idea what HR could want, and although I’m still new to this employee thing, I know this can’t be good.

“Like, now,” Lexi barks and pivots away in her strappy, open-toe stilts.

I hang the sample next to the door, and before I leave the room I pause to briefly take in the rest of the dresses stuffed on the racks, each one in that chic, elevated aesthetic that is the cornerstone of Van Doren. This is my favorite part of the day, the chaotic nature of this room a little overwhelming but also inspiring, and I can’t wait for the day that this is my world, not just one I’m peeking my head into. A world in which I command respect.

I cross through the merchandising department, where everyone has their own private office with aerial views of Hell’s Kitchen, Soho and the Garment District, and then move through the maze of the sprawling suite in a mild sort of panic until I remind myself that I have done nothing wrong. Ever since spring semester ended, I’ve been putting in more hours than the sun. I slip in at six-thirty when the building is dark and vaguely ominous, my eyes still puffy with sleep, and when I finally drag myself into the elevator at the end of the day, it’s just as black and quiet outside. I religiously show up in current-season heels despite the blisters, albeit mass-produced renditions of the Fendi, Balenciaga and Bottega Venetas the other summer interns casually strut around in, and mostly stick to myself. I am careful about raising my voice, even if I vehemently disagree with my neurotic supervisor. I keep my tongue as puritanical as a nun’s, even when fucking incel or coddled narcissistic bitch are on the tip of it. I’m not rude or combative. I stay away from gossip. I complete all my tasks with time to spare, which is usually when I check Twitter and help out some of the other interns, even though I’d rather FaceTime Nate in the upstairs bathroom with the magical lighting. I even entertain the gang of sartorially inclined Amy Coopers in the making who insist on obnoxiously complaining to me about all of their first-world, one-percenter problems. I’ve done nothing but consistently given them reasons to think I am a capable, qualified, talented intern who would make an exceptional employee.

I have nothing to worry about.

When I knock on the door to Lauren’s office, she looks up from her desk and waves me in through the glass. I have a feeling this will not go my way when I see that my supervisor, Chloé, one of the more amiable assistants, is also here, fiddling with her six-carat engagement ring in the corner and avoiding eye contact.

“Have a seat, Brandi,” Lauren says, and I tell myself to ignore that her bright pink lipstick extends above her lip on one side.

There is no small talk. No hello or how’s it going? Under alternate circumstances, I would feel slighted, but because I’m growing more anxious by the second, I’m grateful for her smugness.

As I sit down, Chloé shifts in her chair, and I speak before she can. “I’m sorry. The Instagram report is at the top of my task list. I’ll definitely have it to you before I leave today. I just—”

“That’s not why you’re here, Brandi,” Lauren interjects.

“Oh.” I pause, and as she glances down at her notes, I try to make meaningful eye contact with my supervisor, but she is still actively dodging my eyes.

Lauren begins by throwing out a few compliments. My work ethic is admirable and I have great attention to detail, she says, and the whole time my heart is pounding so loud, I can barely make out most of her words. Chloé jumps in to effusively agree, then Lauren finally stops beating around the bush and looks me directly in the eyes.

“We just don’t feel like you’re fitting into the culture here at Van Doren.”

Every word feels like a backhanded slap across the face, the kind that twists your neck and makes the world go still and white for a few disconcerting moments, like an orgasm but not like an orgasm. It’s obvious what they mean, yet can’t quite bring themselves to say.

They just don’t like that I’m black.

They don’t like the way I wear my braids—long and unapologetic, grazing my hips like a Nubian mermaid.

They don’t like that I’m not the smile-and-nod type, willing to assimilate to their idea of what I should be, how I should act.

Culture.

That’s their code for we-can’t-handle-your-individuality-but-since-we-don’t-want-to-seem-racist-we’ll-invent-this-little-loophole.

Black plus exceptional equals threat.

“If we don’t see any improvement in the coming weeks, we’re going to have to let you go,” Lauren says with no irony, her mouth easing into a synthetic smile.

I blink. I cannot believe this is happening right now. It wasn’t supposed to go like this, my internship at Van Doren, the one fashion company whose ethics align with mine. I wasn’t just blowing smoke up Lauren’s ass when I interviewed for this job, though I was looking at her sideways, wondering why she had not a stitch of Van Doren on. I’d splurged on a single-shouldered jumpsuit from this year’s spring collection that I couldn’t really afford just to impress her, while she hadn’t even felt the need to represent the brand at all as she shot out all those futile questions interviewers love propelling at candidates, I’m convinced, just to see them squirm. Even minuscule amounts of power can be dangerous.

This is bullshit, being put on probation, and I’d give anything to have the balls to call them on it. As I sit here paralyzed, Lauren’s words reverberate in my head and I rebuke them, want to suffocate and bury them.

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ABOUT THE AUTHORS:

Photo Credit: Deidhra Fahey Photograph

Amber and Danielle Brown both graduated from Rider University where they studied Communications/Journalism and sat on the editorial staff for the On Fire!! literary journal. 

 

They then pursued a career in fashion and spent five years in NYC working their way up, eventually managing their own popular fashion and lifestyle blog. 

 

Amber is also a screenwriter, so they live in LA, which works out perfectly so Danielle can spoil her plant babies with copious amount of sunshine.

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Spotlight of Frank Costello - A Novel by Ronald K. Fried

PHOTO SOURCE:
TYPORAMA
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FRANK COSTELLO - A NOVEL

RONALD K. FRIED

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ALL INFORMATION IN THIS POST IS COURTESY OF JENNIFER MUSICO, BOOK AND AUTHOR PUBLICITY - JENNIFERMUSICO.COM

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In 1951, TV was a new medium and it was the first time in America that a congressional hearing was televised. 

 

Americans who didn’t own TV sets flocked to movie theaters to watch the Kekauver committee as it investigated organized crime. 

 

Why would Frank Cosetello, acting head of what is now called the Genovese Crime family, choose to testify in public when most other mobsters just took the Fifth? 

 

As a result of Costello’s decision, his lifelong lies and criminality were displayed for the whole country to see. 

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December 1, 2022

SUNY Press/Excelsior Editions

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PRAISE FOR FRANK COSTELLO - A NOVEL:

"This book crackles with the same energy I felt when I prosecuted real-life mobsters in New York—the cinematic personalities, the whip-sharp dialogue, the humor, and the ever-present sense of menace. Some mob books and movies are cartoonish, but not this one. Frank Costello: A Novel is fiction, but it's also genuine, the real deal. It could only be told by somebody who has studied the life and truly understands all that it reveals about mobsters, and about ourselves." — Elie Honig, CNN Senior Legal Analyst and author of Hatchet Man: How Bill Barr Broke the Prosecutor's Code and Corrupted the Justice Department

"Frank Costello's raspy-voiced tale is rendered with unmitigable brio by Ron Fried in this deeply researched and evocative novel, which rivals E.L. Doctorow's masterpiece, Billy Bathgate. I cannot laud this book enough." — J. Michael Lennon, author, Norman Mailer: A Double Life

"A brilliant work of fiction by a man who knows the true story of the mob inside out." — Kevin Baker, author of The Big Crowd

"I loved this chilling, crackling yarn that feels like an inside job." — Robert Lipsyte, author and former New York Times columnist

"There is more truth about Costello in this historical novel than many 'nonfiction' histories of Cosa Nostra. A terrifically fun read for mob history aficionados." — Alex Hortis, author of The Mob and the City: The Hidden History of How the Mafia Captured New York

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ABOUT FRANK COSTELLO - A NOVEL:

In Frank Costello, A Novel, Fried weaves a historically accurate tale in Costello's imagined, bitter, streetwise voice. As Frank Costello looks back over his life as head of the most powerful crime family in America, he doesn't focus on the triumphs of his bootlegging empire, his nationwide gambling network, or his de facto control of Tammany Hall. Instead, Costello—the politically connected "Prime Minister of the Underworld"—remembers the lies he's told, the mistakes he's made, and his fateful decision to testify before the televised Kefauver hearings investigating organized crime in America.

The novel reaches its climax as Costello—in a naïve attempt to preserve the patina of respectability he's spent his life creating—tries to defend himself before senators out to expose the full extent of the Mafia's reach. The result is a humiliating, very public lesson about who holds the real power in America.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Ronald K. Fried is a writer and television producer.  Fried is a frequent contributor to The Daily Beast where he's written about everything from Honoré de Balzac, Elizabeth Hardwick, and Martin Amis to Trump, boxing, and the Mafia. His writing has also appeared in The New York Times, Newsday, The Millions, and The Norman Mailer Review. He contributed a chapter to Norman Mailer in Context (Cambridge University Press).

Fried's television credits include producing shows for Dick Cavett, Tina Brown, and Alec Baldwin. During his long association with Cavett, Fried produced shows with writers such as Saul Bellow, August Wilson,Gore Vidal, and John Cheever and John Updike (in a joint appearance), as well as Richard Pryor, Jean-Luc Godard, Billy Joel, and many others. He's been a writer and producer on series for PBS, AMC, History, USA, Amazon, and Netflix. He also produced Tina Brown's video interviews with Philip Roth, Ian McEwan, and David Remnick for The Daily Beast.

As Vice President and Executive Producer at MetroTV, a division of Rainbow Media (now AMC Networks), Fried earned five New York Emmy Awards and multiple nominations for a series shot entirely in the New York City subway system and coverage of New York's Fashion week. Production of Two Mailers, Fried's play about Norman Mailer and his son, John Buffalo Mailer, has been postponed owing to the pandemic.

Fried graduated from Columbia University where he won the Bennet Cerf story competition and the Cornell Woolrich Fellowship as outstanding undergraduate fiction writer. He was a 2010 Fellow at the Norman Mailer Writers Colony.  He is married to the writer Lorraine Kreahling. They live in New York City.Fried is a member of PEN America and the Authors Guild.

 

Find out more about the author here:  https://www.ronaldkfried.com/

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Spotlight of The Strange Courtship of Kathleen O'Dwyer by Robert Temple

PHOTO SOURCE:
TYPORAMA
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THE STRANGE COURTSHIP OF KATHLEEN O'DWYER

ROBERT TEMPLE

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ALL INFORMATION IN THIS POST IS COURTESY OF THE AUTHOR.

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The novel follows the protagonist on a journey of self-discovery in 1828 across the Great Plains, into Nuevo Mexico, and through the Rocky Mountains.

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December 21

Five Star Publishing / Gale / Cengage

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ABOUT THE STRANGE COURTSHIP OF KATHLEEN O'DWYER:

What would drive a woman in 1828 to head west across the Great Plains into the Rocky Mountains, risking death among hostile Native Americans, brutish mountain men, and wild animals? 

Why the same reason as a man, of course—freedom. Like fur trappers of the early western frontier, Kathleen is a misfit.

Growing up in the Irish slums of Boston and watching her mother die giving birth to a dozen children, Kathleen has decided to escape into a career as a school teacher, free of men; but when she sets out along
the Santa Fe Trail for distant Nuevo Mexico, she finds that dry powder and steady aim are as important as reading, writing, and arithmetic.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

PHOTO CREDIT:  SHEILA C. TEMPLE

 

Born in Alaska in 1952, Robert Temple grew up a military brat across the United States. 

 

After a three-year hitch in the 82 nd Airborne, he received a B.S. in journalism from the University of Florida and an M.A. in English from Florida State University and then taught creative writing, composition, and literature at several Florida colleges. 

 

While teaching, he and his wife also raised and bred Suri alpacas for eighteen years. 

 

Throughout his teaching career, Robert kept writing, publishing the novel NCOs and numerous short stories, winning several awards for fiction. Today, he and his wife, Sheila, reside in Talking Rock, Georgia in the Appalachian Mountains.

 

Find Mr. Temple on Goodreads.

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Spotlight of A Small Affair by Flora Collins

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A SMALL AFFAIR

FLORA COLLINS

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ALL INFORMATION IN THIS POST IS COURTESY OF JUSTINE SHA |SENIOR PUBLICIST | PARK ROW BOOKS | HANOVER SQUARE PRESS | MIRA BOOKS | GRAYDON HOUSE | INKYARD PRESS | HARPER COLLINS PUBLISHERS | HARLEQUIN TRADE PUBLISHING

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A twisting novel of psychological suspense about a young woman whose life is torn apart when her wealthy ex-lover is found dead, along with his wife.

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December 27, 2022

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ABOUT A SMALL AFFAIR:

Vera is ruthlessly ambitious, beautiful by her own account, and knows how to get exactly what she wants--no matter who stands in the way. When she starts a relationship with a wealthy older man who tells her he’s separated from his wife, she thinks litte of it. After only a few dates, she ends things, but that’s only the beginning. Days later, the man and his wife are found dead in their home, leaving behind a note saying Vera’s rejection had driven him to the horrible act of violence.

Vera is immediately blamed for the couple’s deaths, demonized by the press, fired from her job, and when stalkers and paparazzi begin to haunt her apartment, she flees to her mother’s house upstate. A year later, emerging from a cocoon of self-pity, she tries to re-enter the world, to get her job back—or any job—but the specter of scandal still clings to her. Then she’s invited to a memorial for the wife of the man she had an affair with. As she learns more about the family, and about the couple and their friends, she begins to suspect there was much more to the story than a simple affair gone wrong. In a quest for redemption, Vera soon begins uncovering layers of lies and close-kept secrets held by an inner-circle of filthy rich tech millionaires who will go to any lengths to protect their reputations.

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EXCERPT OF A SMALL AFFAIR:

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One year ago

We met on an app, one of those achingly boring, exclusive ones. White text on a black background. Where you have to work in a certain industry, have a certain type of education, a pedigree to differentiate yourself from the riffraff.

 

Oddly, or perhaps not oddly at all, I remember the exact moment we matched. I was on my couch under a heavy knit green blanket, my legs splayed across my best friend and roommate’s legs. We were watching Real Housewives—though which franchise, I can’t recall—ignoring each other, ignoring the TV. Classic millennials on our phones, doom scrolling.

 

I wish with all my might I could do that again. Sit next to Quinn on that olive green couch we’d found in a West Village Housing Works and ignore each other without these ghosts separating us, sitting on my chest. Incapacitating me. Incapacitating all my relationships.

 

“Ugh, can you move your legs? Mine are asleep,” Quinn whined, throwing his end of the blanket in my face and getting up on unsteady feet, stretching. He padded across to our small kitchen and took out a beer, watched me on my phone, my face lit by the glare of the TV.

I looked up. “Want to help? I’m back on the apps.” Quinn set his beer down and clapped his hands. Quinn didn’t date much. He’d been on and off with his partner, Sam, for seven years now, since we were sophomores in college. Right then they were off, had been off for the past six months or so. I knew it would only be so long until they got back together; they rarely dated other people. It was like they were actually meant for each other.

But he loved to live vicariously through me. Loved to vet and interrogate all the guys who had come home with me over the years, commenting on their clothes, their hair, their smell, to their faces, forcing me to tell every minute detail about the sex, the morning after, whether they snuggled me up close at night. Whether they followed my instructions in bed, asked what I wanted, needed.

So I wasn’t surprised when he plopped back down on the couch, grabbed my phone away from me and began to swipe. 

“All these people have liked you?” he asked, eyes roving over the screen. I nodded. “Damn, Vera, you haven’t been on this app in ages, have you? You have like fifty likes.” I nodded again. I hadn’t gone out with anyone in a few months, mostly because of new responsibilities at work. It wasn’t even like I felt incapacitated by those responsibilities; I just had no wish to spread my enthusiasm for work thin. Dating forced me to spread it thin, and if I were being honest, the whole process of dating made me utterly exhausted.

But now I had a handle on everything. I was ready to start anew, begin the process yet again like every other mad straight woman always assuming the next man will be different. And I was bored. I hate that most of all, that I was bored. My whole life in pieces because I didn’t buy a good enough vibrator.

“So you get to ‘like’ them back? And that’s a match?”

“Yes. If you gave me my phone, I could show you.” But it was no use; he was already at it. “You know, we have different tastes. You keep swiping no on people I think are cute.”

But Quinn kept the phone. “Babe, I have better taste than you. Just trust me.” And I did.

In a few minutes he passed back my phone. He’d only “liked” three people back: a tall, built guy with too many selfies. A dweeby-looking dude with excellent education credentials, but barely any neck.

And Him. Tom Newburn. Older, the oldest end of the spectrum I’d set. Thirty-seven—ten years older than I was then. Square jaw. Slicked back, dark hair. Shapely lips. One child. Liberal.

Within minutes, he’d messaged me. And it occurred to me, as my phone buzzed with a notification, that there was no way to tell when he’d “liked” me first, that he could have been waiting for months, since the moment I’d first logged off the app. And just like that, he pounced the moment I “liked” him back.

Are you a fan of Eyes Wide Shut?

And that made me smile, because that was my answer to the prompt “What’s one thing you can never stop talking about?” And I’d said: “Nicole Kidman’s poison green Galliano for Dior dress from the 1997 Oscars.” It was a cheeky answer for a straight woman to give; it easily filtered out the men who would automatically dismiss me as a “fashion chick” and swipe left.

I typed out a reply. Then deleted it. Typed it out again. Quinn wasn’t paying attention to me anymore; he was back on his own phone. I didn’t want his opinion, anyway.

Yes, but I prefer To Die For if you really want vintage Kidman.

That was the beginning of the end, I guess.

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Excerpted from A Small Affair by Flora Collins, Copyright © 2022 by Flora Collins. Published by MIRA Books.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Flora Collins was born and raised in New York City and has never left, except for a four-year stint at Vassar College. 

 

When she's not writing, she can be found watching reality shows that were canceled after one season or attempting to eat soft-serve ice cream in bed (sometimes simultaneously).  

 

Nanny Dearest was her first novel.

SOCIAL LINKS:

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BUY LINKS:

Bookshop.org

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Books A Million

 

Amazon

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