Janice typed fast and paused at times to read some illegible words.
Christine carried a plate of cold cuts and crackers, and set it on the table in the living room. “You’re doing excellent work, Janice, and your errors are minimal.”
“Thank you. You’ve been generous. I appreciate it more than you know.”
“It’s nothing, really. You sure make a great typist, you know that?”
“So, I’ve been told,” Janice said with a hearty chuckle. “I gotta tell ya, after five days of typing, I’m still marveling that this woman has done such atrocious things. I’m having nightmares. This is the stuff best sellers are made of. Be sure you go for wide distribution of the book with mass marketing and lots of publicity. The publishing company, whichever you choose, will help you with that. I don’t doubt you’ll get millions from this. Aren’t you worried about getting sued by this woman for invading her privacy and having such damning and incriminating information published for all the world to see?”
“Why the hell not, huh? Christina Crawford did it.”
“Yes, but her mother was dead. Joan Crawford wasn’t able to defend herself.”
“Who cares? I guarantee you the old turd won’t live long enough to see much of anything once it’s printed,” Christine said with a smirk. “For once, I’m going to be in the limelight and she’ll most likely end up in total darkness—six feet under.
That’ll put her other foot in the grave. Hey, maybe the exposé will cause her to have a heart attack or a stroke or maybe she’ll commit suicide. Su-weet!”
“You really hate her, don’t you?”
“With a purple passion.”