The Year of Living Famously Read Online Free PDF

seemed as if the other might be ready to run.
    I almost laughed at his wary face. I could see him thinking that he’d only just got here and already he was forced to meet my de facto parent.
    â€œNot exactly,” I said. “She fed and clothed me. She got me into school and signed me up for ballet classes. You know what I mean?”
    â€œI understand food,” Declan said, “but not the ballet.”
    â€œWell, she’s not really the mothering type, and believe me, she’s someone you should meet. She is the grande dame of New York.”
    â€œI thought that was you.”
    â€œI’m the second one.”
    â€œAh,” Declan said. “So I might fall for Emmie.”
    I stood above him on the stoop so that I was a little taller than he. “I’ll fight her for you.”
    His eyes widened in mock delight. “It’s what I’ve always dreamed of,” he said.
    â€œC’mon.” I used my key and opened the lobby door.
    He still didn’t move. “A little kiss for strength?”
    I looked him up and down. “Why do I get the feeling you’ll want a grope next for good luck?”
    â€œThat’ll work.”
    â€œI better just hold your hand for now,” I said coyly. I took his hand and pulled him inside.
    Â 
    â€œEmmie, it’s me!” I yelled as I stepped into her place.
    â€œKyra, sweetie!” I heard her call from the bedroom. “I’ll be there in a minute.” I hadn’t phoned Emmie to let her know we were coming, but I knew it wouldn’t matter. She was used to people stopping by all the time. She thrived on it.
    â€œCome in,” I said to Declan.
    He took a step in, glancing around the place.
    Emmie has owned her apartment since the sixties. Sometime before I came along, she bought the apartment next to hers, knocked out the center wall and created a large, eclectic space where nothing matched, but everything had its place. One half of her living room, her original living room before she bought the other side, was lined with dark wood bookshelves from floor to ceiling. But even with all those shelves, books were stacked everywhere—under end tables, at the sides of the maroon velvet couches, on the wide round coffee table. This was Emmie’s side of the apartment. Her bedroom and kitchen lay behind the living-room wall.
    On the other side of the living room, the books continued their dominance, but there the decor was more functional. Groupings of chairs and coffee tables took up most of the space, and the kitchen had been decked out with restaurant appliances for entertaining purposes. This side was where Emmie had her “salons,” as she called them, the gatherings of the crème de la crème of the New York publishing world. Famous authors, editors and fellow agents from work—they all came here to talk books, to gossip.
    When I moved in as a child, Emmie gave me the tiny bedroom on the salon side of the apartment. That room was my own, papered with clippings from Vogue and my own childish sketches, but the rest of the place was decidedly Emmie’s. I knew how quickly people could be wrenched from your life, and I didn’t want to lose Emmie, too. So I learned fast to tiptoe around the Dresden figures on the end table and to always make sure there was scotch in the crystal decanters, ice in the silver bucket. There was no official bedtime at Emmie’s. If one of her salons was in full swing, I could slip through the apartment and stay up as late as I wanted. I liked it better when there was no one there with us, but that wasn’t often.
    â€œKyra, Kyra.” Emmie’s voice trilled from the hallway.
    She stepped into the living room, wearing gray wool slacks pressed to a fine point and a black cashmere turtleneck. At that time, Emmie only worked two days a week, acting more as a figurehead at the literary agency than anything else, but she always dressed for the