The bestselling author of The Party and The Drowning Woman returns with a twisted tale of fame, obsession, and the dark recesses of social media.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Robyn Harding’s The Haters, which is out July 9th 2024.
Camryn Lane is living her dream. After years of struggle and rejection, her first novel has finally been published. Her editor is happy; her teenage daughter is proud; and her boyfriend and friends are all excited for her. She’s on top of the world—until she receives a disturbing message from an unknown sender.
Rattled by the accusations she finds there, Camryn swallows the sick feeling in her stomach and resolves to put the missive out of her mind. But when she checks her ratings on a popular book site, she finds a scathing one-star review. The reviewer is so articulate and convincing that soon, Camryn’s book is flooded with bad reviews. Could the reviewer be the same person who sent the ugly email? And why do they want to ruin her?
As the online harassment creeps into Camryn’s personal life, she vows to find out who’s behind it. Is it really a disgruntled reader? Or could it be someone she knows? The troll’s actions are escalating, and when the abuse turns deadly, it will take everything Camryn has to unmask the enemy so intent on destroying her—and finally learn why she’s being targeted.
My bestie, Martha, hurries up to me, her eyes shiny and unfocused. She has no reason to curtail her free champagne intake, and she clearly hasn’t. “Okay, babe, let’s do this.” She squeezes my free hand. “I’ll introduce you and then I’ll call you up onstage for the toast.”
“Thanks.” I squeeze her hand back. Martha had insisted on playing emcee. She loves the spotlight, I know this about her, but she also loves me. When I told her that a publisher had offered six figures for my debut novel (just barely six figures but still!), she’d reacted with a pure, unadulterated joy that almost matched my own. “I knew you could do it!” She’d wrapped me in a hug so tight my ribs ached. There was no envy. No resentment. No doubt that I was worthy. The same could not be said for some others in my orbit.
Martha turns to Theo. “Have you got the book?”
“Got it.” He presents a copy of my novel, a bookmark slipped into the first chapter.
“I’ll call Camryn up for the toast,” Martha continues. “After that, you take her glass and hand her the book for the reading.”
“Thanks, you two.” I smile at them each in turn, my eyes glistening, a thickness in my throat.
“Oh my god, stop,” Martha chides. “You’re so emotional.”
And I am. Because this is my dream realized. After years of rejection and false starts. After paying money I didn’t have for workshops and courses. After being scammed by a fake agent; neglecting my daughter so I could write; doubting my talent, questioning my tenacity, and cursing my luck, I am a published writer. An author. It’s a validation my soul has craved since I was a girl.
My best friend steps onto the small stage where a musician with a guitar plays cover tunes on the weekends. Theo and I sink into a darkened corner beside it. Martha moves to the mic, taps it. Thunk, thunk. “Thank you all for coming.” The crowd quiets in response. “We’re here tonight to celebrate the launch of my dear friend Camryn’s first novel, Burnt Orchid.”
Applause. A few exuberant hoots. I dab at a tear that threatens my smoky eye. Looking out at the crowd of well-wishers, my heart swells. All these people have come out for me. To show their support and toast my achievement. I’d reached deep into the friend archives for this event. Martha said we needed to fill the room. And I want people to buy my book, of course. There are over fifty people filling the sticky little bar I’ve rented for the occasion, and I appreciate every one of them.
Closest to the stage is a cluster of my colleagues: three high school counselors, a handful of teachers, some of the admin staff. They work hard for mediocre pay at a school in a rough neighborhood. It’s Thursday night, and tomorrow they’ll have to wrangle angry, troubled, recalcitrant teens. But they’re imbibing freely, nibbling the circulating canapés, happy for an excuse to blow off steam. To celebrate a co-worker rising out of the trenches. Partway out, anyway. I’m still working three days a week. For now.
Behind my co-workers is a mishmash of friends and acquaintances. Martha’s husband, Felix, nurses a beer, eyes bright as he watches his gregarious partner of eight years. I note the gaggle of stay-at-home moms from Liza’s private school (Adrian’s parents insist and pay the fees), their clingy outfits skimming their yoga-toned bodies. They had all but dropped me when Adrian and I divorced. No one wants a single woman at their dinner party. What if she drinks too much and flirts with the husbands? What if they flirt with her? But when they heard my publishing news, they came out of the woodwork, my exile forgotten.
My college roommate is here, now an orthopedic surgeon with three sons in high school. I spy my hairdresser and her pals; a cluster of neighbors; a crew from the gym I never have time to go to. My publisher has invited some local salespeople, and a woman in a wrap-dress who works for the distributor. A few high school friends whisper among themselves, accustomed to Martha’s rambling speeches.
At the back of the room, huddled together in a tight little knot, is my writers’ group. There are five of us: Rhea, Marni, Spencer, Navid, and me . . . although Rhea isn’t here tonight. A head cold, she said, though I have my doubts. Up until now, Rhea had been the most accomplished in our circle, publishing a few short stories and winning a prestigious but obscure literary award. I know my success is hard for her, for all of them. Because it would be for me. I remember the envy, the visceral longing to be recognized. This is what they are all striving for, the end goal of their years of work. They’re all smiling but I see the strain in it.
My phone vibrates in my tiny purse: a notification. It will be one of my loved ones who couldn’t make it tonight: my mom or my sister on the other side of the country; or Liza, stuck at her dad’s place because she’s too young to attend a party at a bar. Maybe it’s my agent or my editor, wishing me luck tonight. Martha is still talking, moving on to our meeting in the eighth grade, and I realize this introduction might be longer than my reading. I set my flute on a table and pull out my phone.
It’s an email, sent to my author account. I’d been encouraged by my publisher to set up a website, to include a “contact me” form. It feels fortuitous to receive my first fan mail moments before I take the stage. Eagerly, I tap to open the message.
INGRID WANDRY
RE: Burnt Orchid
I just finished reading your book and I enjoyed it, for a piece of mindless garbage. But when I read your bio that says you are a high school counselor, I was disgusted. Your novel has a prominent teen storyline, and you’ve obviously exploited the psyches and crises of your vulnerable public school students to make a few bucks. Shame on you. I hope their parents sue you.
Humiliation burns my cheeks, makes me feel dizzy and sick. I wobble in my heels as though this woman has reached out and slapped me. Theo cups my elbow to steady me.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, but I can’t talk. My mouth is dry and sour. I wasn’t prepared for such hatred and vitriol. The ugliness of the words has rattled me, dredged up all my self-doubt and insecurities.
“Please raise your glass,” Martha says, glancing into the wings. It’s my cue. “To the success of Burnt Orchid. And our good friend Camryn Lane.”
Blindly, I stumble onto the stage.
Excerpted from the book THE HATERS by Robyn Harding. Copyright © 2024 by Robyn Harding. Reprinted with permission of Grand Central Publishing. All rights reserved.
