By Nina Siegal
Valerie Vane used to be an up-and-coming way of life reporter at a well-liked ny urban day-by-day. Then she stumbled, relatively publicly, and misplaced it all—her column, her fiancé, her entry in the back of the city's velvet ropes. Now she's at the obituary table writing demise notices, and it sounds like a lifeless finish.
However, whilst she writes a few lately deceased once-famous graffiti artist, the telephone calls begin. A mysterious voice at the different finish of the road tells her the artist's dying used to be a murder—and if she have been a true reporter, she'd examine.
But can Valerie alternate her stilettos for gumshoes?
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Additional info for A Little Trouble with the Facts: A Novel
I was about to say it, to articulate my celluloid dream, as if he’d been in on it with me all along. Jeremiah touched my face, placing two ﬁngers under my chin. “Don’t you read the papers, princess? ” “You’re engaged to an . ” It took a minute to sink in. “I didn’t know. . I thought . ” “Yeah. I know you thought. Funny. Girls and their ideas. ” He hopped back into the limo and gave me a halfhearted wave. Then the car door shut with a decisive thud. I stood there for a long time, until I saw the sun coming up over Avenue C, like an egg over hard.
The door swung open to admit us into a tiny room with a glittering wall of spirits. It was a drinking establishment all right. But the bartender, a Teddy boy in an Edwardian zoot suit, had vetted all the guests. Cinderella Redux | 25 Teddy cleared a spot for us at the bar and Jeremiah helped me up onto a stool. He ordered us a round of dirty martinis. I asked him what made them dirty, and he said, “The person you’re with,” placing a hand on my knee. ” But I didn’t move my knee. ” His ﬁrst guess: “I bet in a few weeks you won’t even remember the girl you are today, the girl in front of me in this cottoncandy dress, these pink pumps, the big eyes, hungry for a taste of everything.
Which room do you want? ” The parties, the clubs, the nightlife—it was fun for a while. But my dreams didn’t revolve around a measly gossip column in a second-rate glossy. I wanted my own roll of bills, my own limo, my own classy clique, my own designer coif and duds, vetted by my own stylist, my own, my own, my own. So, at the end of my twenty-ﬁfth year, I decided to cash in. I asked Zip for time off the column so I could work on a feature. I wanted a yard, not just inches. It took me three weeks, but in the end I had a six-thousand-word exposé, a detailed tell-all about the habits and habitats of the celebs on the gold-plated clipboards.
A Little Trouble with the Facts: A Novel by Nina Siegal