Potatoes and Pink Vodka

By Julia Dovey

Ever since their first writing class together, Diane Dew has been Mindy’s literary nemesis. Try as she might, Mindy’s successes could never surpass those of the prissy, perfect rich girl.

Mindy isn’t shocked when Diane’s latest novel squeezes out a good review from a notoriously tough critic. However, she is shocked to receive a message from Diane out of the blue. Her life, it turns out, is far from perfect; her success has resulted in the online attention of a hateful, anonymous stalker.

When danger seeps from computer screen to reality, Mindy finds herself aiding Diane in her search for the truth. Mindy also faces unending resentment from family due to ghosts from the past. Eventually, she learns that the villain of a story depends on who reads it, and love stories often come out of the blue.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Mar 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9780228624608

Book preview

Potatoes and Pink Vodka

Julia Dovey

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 9780228624608

Kindle 9780228624615

PDF 9780228624622

Print ISBNs

BWL Print 9780228624639

LSI Print 9780228624646

Amazon Print 9780228624653

Copyright 2023 by Julia Dovey

Cover art by Michelle Lee

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

Dedication

For Mum and Dad

Chapter 1

Getting tickets to Queen was like birdwatching in a hurricane. Daniel the funeral director nodded sagely. He was in his sixties, and had, from what Mindy gathered, been to as many concerts as funerals. Mindy welcomed the incongruously cheerful conversation. It kept her mind occupied and her dance card full.

With any luck, this would be one of the last times she interacted with the people in the chapel. Friends of her mothers, a couple of her ex’s, relatives. Not that they were evil. They were people, and she didn’t like people all that much. Or at least, she didn’t like talking to them. She was used to hiding behind characters she typed up on the screen.

A vice gripped Mindy’s upper arm, and she twisted around to meet the stormy gaze of her sister, Kim.

You haven’t talked to anyone. Kim shot a smile at Daniel, like a brief flash of sun through a storm cloud before the irritation took hold again. Do I have to tell you how to do everything?

Mindy gestured with her plastic cup of cheap white wine. I was having a conversation with Daniel.

"The funeral director. You have to talk to our relatives."

Why? They were moving through the throngs of people. Mindy received a few consoling strokes down her arm, and though they were meant to comfort, she suppressed the urge to swat them away.

The two sisters stopped by the food table. You’re already not popular with everyone, Kim whispered through a smile broadcast to the room. Now you’re just flirting with the funeral director.

Mindy took a long pull of her wine so she wouldn’t say what she wished to—that far from talking her up, Kim was the first to talk badly about Mindy to anyone who looked half-interested. They know I wouldn’t be flirting with him.

That’s not the point. You don’t even look sad.

Everyone grieves differently.

Kim’s lips tightened. She was starting to get lined at the mouth. Noticing this made Mindy’s gut twist. When had Kim gotten old enough for mouth lines?

A flash of memory. Mindy, biting a pillow so hard in frustration that the fabric squeaked against her teeth. Kim, looking drawn and scared beside their mother on the couch, whose eyes flashed as she glared at Mindy. Her youngest.

Those eyes wouldn’t flash like that again. They were sunken in their sockets, hidden beneath glued eyelids and the lid of the ash casket across the chapel.

Mindy downed the rest of her wine. I have to get going.

Kim exhaled hard through the nose. You can’t even stay until people start leaving?

I have to get home. I have a lot of work to do.

It’d be nice if you thought of me today. Kim’s voice was low. Right until the end, I cared for Mum. She didn’t say anything more, knowing Mindy would understand the words unsaid.

Mindy put her cup down hard on the food table. That’s what makes you noble, and me an asshole. People will understand that.

She almost made it out of the chapel without being noticed, but a small, crackling voice cut through the chatter and stopped her with a hand on the door.

Aunt Mindy? Are you leaving?

Brooke was standing on the edge of the crowd, clutching a Dr. Pepper. She was wearing a dress, into which Mindy was positive Kim had all but stuffed her. The girl had that hunched look of someone whose body had grown without her permission.

Mindy remembered that feeling well. She gave her niece a tight smile. Sorry, stinker. I have work I need to get done tonight.

Another book?

Yes.

Can I read this one?

Absolutely not.

Because it’s bad?

No, because it’s not for kids.

You told me not to read the last one because it got awful reviews. There was a small grin on Brooke’s face.

As always, Mindy was shocked and annoyed at how quickly her niece was growing up and, subsequently, less likely to let Mindy’s passing comments fade from memory. Well, you’re not reading this one because it’s not for kids.

I’m not a kid. Brooke was pensive as she took a sip of her Dr. Pepper. So…

What’s up?

Are you actually sad? About Grandma? Or no?

Mindy’s veins were, suddenly, running hot. Is that what your mum told you?

Brooke gave a jerky nod. Kinda. But I mean… She took a breath. I know she’s full of shit sometimes.

Mindy let go of the doorknob. Where in the hell did you learn that language? She snapped her mouth shut, closed her eyes briefly, then refocussed on Brooke’s broody expression.

So she was right? Brooke pressed.

Mindy didn’t know what to say. It was easy to snark at Kim, but Brooke was fast developing a keen bullshit sniffer. Would you be sad if it was your mum?

Brooke blinked. Yeah?

I said my mum was full of shit, too. A lot.

Mum says a lot about you. Brooke seemed to vibrate with the mixed anger, fear, and thrill of spilling gossip. She’s always ranting at Mike.

I’m sure she does. Mike. It took Mindy several seconds to remember that Mike was Kim’s newest boyfriend. Mindy had met him twice: he was thin as a rail, with an angular balding head and a laugh that always skimmed the edge of panic.

Mindy checked her phone for the time. I have to get going.

Did you talk to Mike? I think he’s scared of you.

Bye, Brooke. Mindy walked over and gave her niece a tight one-armed hug. Vehugular manslaughter.

Brooke struggled against the hug, screeching like she always did.

* * *

Mindy’s apartment was as messy as she left it, which was rude.

She dropped her bag and kicked her shoes one by one into the closet with twin thunks against the wall, which was dotted with so many black marks that it was starting to look like a deliberate decorating choice.

Mindy prepared a pot for her Sapporo Ichiban chicken noodles and undressed as she waited for the water to boil. She’d worn her pinstriped pants and a good shirt, but decided against her green tie, knowing it would’ve just brought attention. She just wanted to be left alone.

It was hard being left alone when it was your mother’s funeral.

She felt bad for lying to Brooke, who was just about the only person she liked these days. But she was embarrassed. She hadn’t started writing the book she’d claimed to be working on. In fact, she hadn’t written a worthwhile word in months.

She was stirring noodles when her phone buzzed on the counter. It was Ollie. She tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder as she reached for a bowl from the cupboard. What’s up?

Did you see that the review is up?

My mother’s funeral was great, thanks.

Oh. Sorry. There was a pause. Wait, it was great?

No.

What happened?

It was a funeral.

Did you see the review? Ollie’s tone was impatient.

Mindy sucked on her lip. No. Which one?

The one about Diane fucking Dew.

Paige reviewed her new book already, huh? Mindy poured her dinner in the bowl. She hoped that Ollie would froth his way through his trademark delighted rage before the noodles got too soggy. Horrible, I expect? Worst thing they’ve ever read?

I haven’t read it yet. Can I come over?

I’m deep in Noodletown.

Deep throat them. Click.

Mindy sighed heavily into the phone, then took her bowl into the living room and flopped into her cuddle chair. She’d found it at MCC and decided that, despite the tiny size of her living room, it definitely needed a big circular couch in the middle. The thing was horrendous for company, and perfect for her.

She knew why Ollie was so obsessed with this review. Why many people who frequented the book blog site waited impatiently for the next review of Paige Turner Reviews. Because Ollie, like the crowds who watched gladiator battles two thousand years ago, loved seeing things torn apart.

The first time Mindy had faced a harsh review of her writing was at the age of nine. Her mother had read a school assignment and made cutting jokes about the spelling and plot. Years later, she jokingly accused Mindy of basing the villain off her, a truth that Mindy denied.

Mindy had a choice when she was nine. A big part of her swore to never write another word. But even at nine, she possessed a growing mulish streak. If her mother said jump, Mindy would find a shovel.

And so Mindy wrote. She wrote stories, and though her mother didn’t read them, Mindy gloried in knowing how much she’d hate them. After getting her first crime-fiction novel published, Mindy didn’t receive many reviews. But the bad reviews didn’t faze her. Much.

And bad reviews were what made Paige Turner Reviews infamous.

Paige Turner Reviews had gained popularity amongst the Canadian book blog site Mindy was a part of online. In the sea of pleasant critiques and positivity, Paige Turner Reviews’ reviews were exclusively, viciously, ridiculously negative. One ignorant glance at a review would convince someone that a book, far from being publishable, should have been burned before it was even written.

It didn’t take long for writers to realize that this reviewer, quite literally, couldn’t give a positive review. It became a rite of passage for small Canadian authors to receive a scathing review by Paige Turner Reviews.

And yet, it came as a surprise to all when Mindy, whose books were middling at worst, received the very first—and only—negative five out of five.

"Mindy Adams, one author that truly puts the ‘anus’ in manuscript…"

Mindy ploughed through her noodles at top speed, then did a cursory sweep of the apartment. She wasn’t particularly neat, and Ollie knew this. He was forever amused by Mindy’s messy life, and delighted in drama, especially drama from a distance. And his favourite drama from a distance involved Diane Fucking Dew.

Diane Dew was Mindy’s nemesis.

Oh God, she’s your nemesis, Ollie had gasped after Mindy told him about Diane one day over brunch.

It was in Mindy’s first creative writing class where she met Diane. The tables were set in a circle, and Diane sat right next to the professor, surveying the room like a monarch over her land, clearly a seasoned student. During discussions, she spoke with unerring confidence, and had an air that immediately put Mindy on the defensive.

I have to write every day, Diane said in the first class, when asked about herself. Which is crucial for literary success. Ninety-nine percent of published authors aren’t hugely talented. They simply finish their novels.

Are you one who is hugely talented, or one that finishes? the professor asked, gazing at Diane as though she were Christ.

Well, I have finished several. Diane showed her perfect teeth and tucked a wavy blond lock of hair behind her ear. I’ve sent off a few queries. I suppose those will tell me if I have the talent part.

The class laughed. Diane’s eyes passed over Mindy, who was not laughing.

I’m hugely interested in other writers’ processes. Diane zeroed in on Mindy again. Mindy? You look… She lifted her fists in a mock boxer’s stance. Ready to go to war. Have you written a full novel?

If Mindy were a porcupine, all her quills would’ve been on-end. I haven’t tried yet.

The professor had assured the class that, although it was a novel writing course, they of course weren’t expected to write a full novel. However, she’d continued, is there anyone who is going to try?

Two hands had shot up. Diane’s, and—a second later—Mindy’s.

Diane let out a bell-like laugh that shook Mindy to her core.

They were put in a group together, and although it was a group of four, it very quickly became the group with Diane and Mindy. They were the quickest to get their submissions in, had the longest submissions, and reserved their most brutal and in-depth critiques for each other’s work—critiques they only barely sheathed in a thin skin of civility. Diane, in particular, had the knack of gussying up her notes. Her tone suggested she was unfairly saddled with the unhappy task of delivering bad news. As though she was simply a messenger of the Editing Gods.

If Mindy’s early on exposition was a touch tedious and heavy-handed, Diane’s main character was a frustrating doormat.

If Mindy’s love story was sluggish, Diane’s plot twist could be seen from space.

Both handed in a draft of a full novel by the semester’s end. Both got A’s. Thus, a stalemate.

Or it would have been, had Diane not waltzed into the last day of class, a humble smile on her face and a printed-out letter from a publishing house offering her a contract.

Mindy’s vision had tunnelled. The book she’d written for the class, she knew, was not good enough. It was promptly thrown in the garbage, and Mindy began again. She researched and wrote and queried, that beautiful, humble smile leering in her brain.

She would not be beaten by Diane Dew.

It was a long few years, working retail and menial jobs while writing in the evenings, one eye on Diane’s growing social media presence. Diane’s cover reveal was particularly gut-punching—as was reading the tearful, grateful caption about things finally feeling real. And when it was released…that was agony. For days, Mindy’s finger had passed over the buy now button like a plane circling the airport in a storm.

Finally, after nearly a hundred queries, Mindy had found a publisher willing to take her on. Her book wasn’t breaking records, but she was published, and that was enough.

Until Diane posted a picture of a coffee cup next to a laptop screen, on which a new Word document shone, and below which the caption read: Novels are journeys, but you pave the path yourself. That was when Mindy realized that she, too, couldn’t stop at one. She managed to produce a second book from pure spite and panic.

The novel being reviewed by Paige Turner Reviews was Diane’s third book. However, it was the first of Diane’s to receive a Paige Turner review. Ollie had been counting the days.

Mindy’s phone buzzed with Ollie’s here text, and she took a last sip of her broth before launching off the cuddle chair and buzzing him in. It took several minutes before he arrived at the door in his bizarre teaching outfit of sensible khaki trousers and a loud, multi-coloured crochet cardigan. He’d before described his style as grandma chic, and committed to the idea with his recent adoption of sequined cat-eye glasses, though his short stubble and dyed red hair threw the look off a smidge.

He breezed into the apartment, waving above his head a bottle of wine. Your elevator is broken. I had to climb the stairs like I was working off baby weight.

It’s how the rent stays low. Did you drive here? Mindy closed the door behind him.

I did. So it means I’ll have to sleep in that frigging cuddle chair, won’t I? Ollie set the wine down and went into Mindy’s kitchenette to search for glasses. It was twelve dollars for the wine, so you owe me six.

What if I actually needed to be alone in my apartment tonight? Mindy returned to the condemned cuddle chair.

Ollie rounded on her, one eyebrow raised high. Do you? Mindy? Is there something you’re not telling me?

Mindy held his gaze.

Please don’t tell me you hooked up with someone at your mother’s funeral. Please tell me you’re not that desperate.

What if I just wanted my apartment to myself.

He snorted, then pulled out two mugs and poured into each a generous amount of wine. He pushed one into Mindy’s hand and flopped down next to her. I had a long day of teaching shitty teenagers. I need something to cheer me up. He pulled out his phone and tapped away on it. You had to look at your dead mother, so your day wasn’t great.

I didn’t have to look at her, Mindy muttered. It was closed casket.

Right. Are you ready to hear Little Miss Perfect be taken down several delicious literary notches?

Mindy took two massive gulps of her wine. Yep.

Ollie cleared his throat. "‘The Waxing Moon is Diane Dew’s third attempt to interest readers in her particular style of using the word slightly in nearly every sentence and