I FIRST MET JANINE Kang when our daughters were in second grade. Everyone knew her; she’d been host of the city’s most popular six o’clock newscast for several years. Many of the parents found her intimidating with her sleek style, her unflinching eye contact, and her measured delivery. But when Liza and Grace chose each other as besties, Janine and I were thrown together. I discovered a wise, warm, and darkly funny woman underneath the polished persona.
“Haters are part of the deal when you put yourself in the public eye,” Janine assures me over peppermint tea at a homey coffee shop equidistant from our homes. While I live in a mixed-income neighborhood, a blend of low-rise apartments and modest but expensive family dwellings, Janine lives waterfront. Her home is narrow, modern, and stylish (not unlike her and her real estate developer husband), with breathtaking views of the city, the mountains, and the towering evergreens of Stanley Park. It is accessed by a private road closed off to traffic. The busy thoroughfare was shut down by a former mayor who proclaimed it a bike lane, but everyone in town considers it a gift to the multimillionaires who live along it and donated to his campaign.
“I’ve been putting up with email attacks and negative comments for years,” Janine continues, her unique emerald ring sparkling as she picks up her tea. “Unfortunately, it comes with the territory these days. Especially for women, LGBTQ, and BIPOC journalists.”
“I don’t get it.” My fingers are warm on my mug. “What is wrong with people these days?”
“In my case, it’s usually about an imagined political agenda. We live in tense, polarized times.” She sips her drink. “What happened with Burnt Orchid?”
My face is warm as I tell Janine about Ingrid Wandry’s claims that I’m exploiting my students. “I know not everyone will love my book and that’s totally fair. But the accusations this woman is making are dangerous. To my writing career and to my job as a counselor.”
“You have to ignore them. It’s your only option.”
“Could I set the record straight, at least? Leave a comment explaining that I’m a trained professional and I would never, ever invade my students’ privacy?”
“Don’t engage.” Janine sets her cup down. “I know it’s tempting, but these people can be dangerous. Trust me.”
My stomach twists. “Dangerous? How do you mean?”
Janine inhales, sits back in her chair. “Early in my career, I was working as reporter in Montreal. I started getting hateful emails from this guy who didn’t like what I was saying on the air. I tried to reason with him, to make him understand that I was doing my duty as a journalist. It didn’t go well.”
“I’m so sorry, Janine.” My voice is gentle. “What happened?”
“This guy bombarded me with misogynistic, racist emails. Up to a hundred a day,” she elaborates. “Then he Photoshopped my head onto a bunch of pornographic images. He sent them to my parents, my bosses, everyone…”
“Oh my god! That’s horrific.”
“It got worse. He came after Grace. She was just a baby. He said he’d grab her from daycare. Said he’d free her from my lies. That’s when I went to the police.”
“Did they arrest him?”
“They did. We went to court. And he got a slap on the wrist.” Her eyes fill but her voice is strong. “The judge agreed that what this man did to me was vile and abusive. But our laws don’t take online stalking seriously. He got probation. And an order not to contact me.”
“That’s so awful.” I reach for her hand. “I had no idea you went through something so traumatic.”
“It was honestly the worst time in my life.” She composes herself quickly, a consummate professional. “You need to be careful with the haters, Camryn. You don’t know who’s behind the keyboard.”
A frisson runs through me at the thought. This could be worse than I even imagined. “Good advice. Thanks.”
Janine reaches for her phone in her five-thousand-dollar bag. “Let me look at this review.” I give her the web address and she taps at her screen, waits for it to load. Her face falls when she sees it. “Oh shit.”
“What?” My stomach drops.
She turns her phone to face me, and I peer at the tiny type. There are now at least thirty one-star reviews.
When I get home, I call my publicist, my chest tight with panic. Janine had done her best to console me. “You have a strong, experienced team behind you. They’ll know how to handle this.” But so had she, and her online assault had turned into the stuff of nightmares.
Olivia answers on the third ring. “I’m glad you called,” she says. “I wanted to apologize for the miscommunication about the in-person book signing. Britt Marsters set that up with a publicist who is no longer working here. I’m so sorry.”
“It was fine,” I say, the unpleasantness of the experience now a distant memory. “But there’s something else. I don’t know if you’ve looked at my online reviews lately…”
“No, I haven’t. Why?”
I tell Olivia about Ingrid Wandry, about her accusations in my inbox and online. I tell my publicist that the sentiment seems to be contagious, that more reviewers have been giving the book a one-star rating.
Down the line, I hear Olivia’s fingers tapping on her keyboard. “I see,” she mumbles as she scans the page. “But you have a lot of positive reviews. A few one-star reviews won’t have a huge impact on your overall rating.”
“I’m more concerned about the false accusations.”
“Let me look into it,” she says calmly. “I’ll check the review guidelines. We might be able to have them removed.”
“It’s on other sites, too.” My voice wobbles. “It’s everywhere.”
“Okay,” she says gently. “Stay offline for now. Try not to worry about it.”
“Easier said than done,” I mumble, feeling (and sounding) pitiful.
“I have some good news that might help,” Olivia offers. “You’ve been invited to a book festival in Miami.”
“Oh my god!” My spirits instantly lift. This will be my first-ever book festival. I’ve heard about the fancy hotels, the hospitality suites, the schmoozing with bestselling authors. This will also be my first time in Miami. It’s all so glamorous.
“It’s a new festival celebrating page-turning fiction,” Olivia continues. While writers’ festivals have traditionally been the purview of literary works, they’ve moved to include more plot-driven, commercially successful books. Lucky for me.
“It’s a great lineup of authors,” Olivia continues. “They want you to be on a panel. They’ll provide flights and accommodations. I’ll send the invitation through to you on email.”
“Thank you, Olivia.”
“Congratulations. We’re really thrilled with the positive buzz Burnt Orchid is getting, and early sales numbers are strong.”
I hang up, my despair nearly forgotten. The online mob will lose interest in me, move on to the next target (poor soul). All that matters is that my publisher is thrilled. The buzz is positive. Sales are strong. And I’m going to Miami.
I will cling to that.