Derek made himself comfortable on the turquoise couch, pulled some papers from his briefcase, and began to skim through them.
No way did I trust his calm facade, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it, since I had to finish my own work. Sitting down at the dressing table, I picked up the next book the producers had chosen for me. It was a first edition of Truman Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Within minutes I was in my own world.
I went online to check some of my favorite antiquarian-bookstore sites. I wanted to determine the going rate for a first edition of this quality. I found copies worth anywhere from two thousand to ten thousand dollars. The most highly prized versions still had the dust jacket intact and were in excellent condition, which meant that the colors were still vibrant, and there were no torn edges and barely any fading.
Now that I had some parameters, I examined the book that was in my hand. The text paper had been gathered and sewn together in groups of eight, so the book was officially referred to as an octavo.
The binding was tight; the boards were straight and showed very little wear and tear. The pages were bright white and free of any writing, marks, or bookplates.
The big difference between the book in my hand and the ones online was that instead of the usual pink cloth cover, my book had been bound in pink morocco leather by a specialty bindery in England.
In the center of the pink front cover was a slinky black leather silhouette of Holly Golightly holding her trademark cigarette holder. She wore a diamond necklace and tiara. Tiny gems embedded in the black leather sparkled like diamonds. The cutout silhouette was elegant and fun, and I was looking forward to discussing the book on camera.
I had always loved the movie version of Breakfast at Tiffany’s. George Peppard and Audrey Hepburn were magical together. I could still picture that last scene in the rain, looking for the cat. That damned wonderful cat.
After falling in love with the movie, I had read my mother’s copy of the book. The ending was nothing like the movie’s and it was my first realization that books and movies were completely different species.
The fact that I preferred the happy-sappy ending of the movie to the more starkly ambivalent ending in the book should’ve given me some insight into my own happy-sappy psyche.
My mind wandered for a moment as I considered the name Holly Golightly for my kitten. Would Derek approve? I glanced over at him and almost sighed. Without even trying, the man looked ruggedly handsome and masculine sitting there on that shabby turquoise sofa.
At that moment, he looked up at me and smiled.
I wanted to melt. Instead I said, “Tiffany?”
He paused for only a second, then scowled as comprehension struck. “Absolutely not.”
“Audrey?”
“No.”
I shrugged and returned to my work. I was jotting down the last of my appraisal notes when Angie, our intrepid stage manager, knocked on my dressing room door to walk me out to the stage. Derek followed close behind us.
It was so much fun to see the book owner tear up at my announcement that his beloved Breakfast at Tiffany’s was worth eight thousand dollars. The book had belonged to his recently deceased father, who had purchased the specially bound version in England. He assured me that he wouldn’t dream of selling it for any amount of money because of all the sentimental value the book held for his family.
It was nice to know that not everyone wanted to run out and resell their treasures, like Vera planned to do. Not that I was judging her—much. Vera needed the money more than the book, and that was fine. But I had to admit, I really loved it when people appreciated the book itself.
I stood and said good-bye to the guest, then glanced around the studio, looking for Derek. I’d seen him standing off to the side earlier, watching my segment, but now he had disappeared. Maybe he was back in the dressing room. He’d left his office earlier than originally planned so he probably had some work to finish.
On the way back to my room, I passed Randy at the catering table and stopped to grab a cup of coffee.
“You do a good job with those books,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said, surprised and pleased with the compliment. “You obviously see a lot of different appraisers in this job.”
“I do, so I know what I’m talking about. All the experts know their subject well enough, but a lot of them are as dry as dirt. You make the books come alive.”
“Wow, I love hearing that. I guess I’m pretty crazy about books.”
He grinned. “Lucky for you it comes across as enthusiasm, not insanity.”
“Good to know,” I said with a laugh.