Devil May Care: A Novel

Devil May Care: A Novel

3.8 5
by Sheri McInnis

View All Available Formats & Editions

Do you think you could resist temptation? Not a piece of cheesecake. Or another martini. Or a one-night stand. Real temptation. The kind they warn you about in the Bible...
Sally Carpenter is a struggling actress in New York City. She hasn't had a real gig in two years, her agent has stopped returning her phone calls, and she hates her day job. She's justSee more details below


Do you think you could resist temptation? Not a piece of cheesecake. Or another martini. Or a one-night stand. Real temptation. The kind they warn you about in the Bible...
Sally Carpenter is a struggling actress in New York City. She hasn't had a real gig in two years, her agent has stopped returning her phone calls, and she hates her day job. She's just about ready to go home to Wisconsin and finish her psych degree. Then she meets Jack Weaver. Jack's rich, charismatic, gorgeous -- and the president of one of the biggest TV networks in the country. When he starts showing an interest in Sally's career, she's grateful but wary. She's heard rumors about Jack -- he's a bit of a womanizer and ruthless in business. Even so, when he asks her out to dinner, she doesn't say no. Almost immediately, Sally's luck begins to change. Producers are scrambling to hire her, her biggest professional rival lands in the hospital with a mysterious illness, and, best of all, Sally's falling in love with the most wonderful man she's ever met. For the first time in her life, she is happy. Yet she can't shake the feeling that things seem too good to be true. When a series of bizarre coincidences and grisly accidents start happening, Sally finds herself wondering: Has she really met Mr. Right? Or has she fallen for the Devil himself?
Loaded with dead-on comic timing and pitch-perfect dialogue, Devil May Care stars one of the most exuberantly realized heroines in recent years -- not even Bridget Jones had it this bad. Newcomer Sheri McInnis takes us on a journey that will speak to anyone who's ever had to choose between doing what is right and what feels right.

Read More

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
In this frothy romantic comedy from debut novelist McInnis, aspiring actress and used book store clerk Sally Carpenter may not be in a living hell, but she's far from heaven. Sally hasn't yet landed her dream part (or even bit part), she sleeps on a futon in a small New York apartment, and she's fallen into a too-comfortable routine with her longtime boyfriend, David. Her fortunes turn the day she auditions for a walk-on part as a bank teller on a cop show, and to her amazement gets the job, despite the casting director's longstanding animosity. Could her luck have something to do with the handsome stranger she met in the studio's hallway, who turns out to be Jack Weaver, sexy television network president? Sparks fly, and soon our perky heroine is swept away by the man of her dreams, caught up in a blissful romance unlike any she's ever experienced. And when her career suddenly takes off, she's thrilled-at first. But when her rivals are eliminated in horrible accidents and her loved ones wind up in the morgue, Sally starts to wonder whether her new flame may be not merely the date from hell but the devil himself. An unusually substantive plot (considering the light packaging) makes for a brisk and savvy read, with poignant flashbacks to Sally's father's suicide adding further depth. Though a wishy-washy ending weakens the novel's climax, the author has clever fun with the idea of the devil falling in love-and being completely bewildered by the situation. (Aug.) Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
Network executive Jack Weaver is handsome as sin and rich as the devil. But is he really Satan? As Sally Carpenter zooms from struggling actress to major star, awful accidents begin to happen to people who might stand in her way. Eventually, she begins to wonder about her new love and the long string of morbid "coincidences" that have accompanied their relationship. The question is whether her soul worth fame, fortune, and a really hot boyfriend? Readers will have a sinfully good time following Sally's meteoric but costly rise to fame. Bridget Jones's Diary meets The Omen in McInnis's debut; each chapter begins with a famous quote about the Prince of Darkness himself. McInnis, formerly a broadcaster for Canada's public television system, lives in Toronto. Recommended for fiction collections in libraries of all sizes.-Shelley Mosley, Glendale P.L., AZ Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Soul for sale, in a first from Canadian author McInnis. Sally Carpenter is a veteran of many auditions-but she can't exactly call herself a working actress. She can't even land a part on a stupid soap like Dusk Until Dawn (acronym: DUD). At least her crummy job at Backburner, a used-book store in Greenwich Village, lets her take time off to go to auditions, though it's never going to make her rich-not with a boss like Jeremy, a failed artist who scrawls faintly obscene nudes behind a tattered curtain while leaving her to take care of the few customers. Now, just her luck: she's reading against her nemesis Dara Dempsey for the part of a bank teller. Practically perfect Dara is sure to be picked-after all, she's the Pizza Hut girl. Sally is flabbergasted when her agent calls to say that the role is hers, though Dara gets a better part. Could this stroke of good fortune have anything to do with the presence of fabulously successful and sexy network exec Jack Weaver? Apparently he saw something in her . . . but Sally is troubled by the devilish look in his eyes. Still, she's drawn to him like a moth to a flame. And her luck just keeps getting better: During a sudden seizure on the set, Dara effectively ends her acting career-and Sally is headed for stardom. She bids adieu to boyfriend David as she strolls down the red carpet at movie premieres with a dazzling line-up of celebrities, wondering how an unhappy girl from Tecumseh Falls, Wisconsin, ever got this far. She can't forget the memories of her alcoholic father's suicide, or the travails of her mother, a drab saleswoman left to cope with Sally's pot-smoking brother. Further memories of her dismal Catholic education bring up the BigQuestion: Is Jack the devil? Anyone who crosses him somehow ends up dead. It's all, like, really strange . . . and stuff. Sometimes gruesome, sometimes giggly. Uneven debut, not helped by talky style.

Read More

Product Details

Atria Books
Publication date:
Sold by:
Sales rank:
File size:
0 MB

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

Be sober, be vigilant;

because your adversary the devil,

as a roaring lion, walketh about,

seeking whom he may devour.

1 Peter 5:8


"Sally Carpenter."

She skims the list of names with her pencil. "You're not here," she says.

"Yes, I am."




Sigh. I plunk my finger on the list. "There."

"Oh." She looks up at me with large blinking eyes. "Sawwwry!"

"Am I late?"

"A little," she says, shoving the crumpled scene pages at me. "But don't worry about it. They're running behind."

I exhale in relief and turn to face the broadloomed waiting area. It's filled with the shifting, murmuring figures of what must be every actress in Manhattan who could get the lunch rush off. Some are tall, some are short, some are sitting, some are pacing, some are cross-legged, doing breathing exercises on the floor. The only thing they seem to have in common is that they're all muttering the same words under their breath in a great monotonous chorus:

"Good morning, sir. Welcome to First Fidelity....Good morning, sir. Welcome to First Fidelity...."

It's the opening line for the part of Candace, "a buxom bank teller" who gets taken hostage during a bank robbery that goes wrong on UBN's prime-time cop drama. I'm not exactly perfect for the role, anatomically speaking, but my agent told me to explore the wide world of Wonder bras and sent me out for it anyway.

"Salleee! Sallee-hee!" I hear my name called in a breathy, singsongy whisper. I look over to see a blond woman in a pink T-shirt and A-line miniskirt bouncing excitedly up and down on the edge of her seat, fluttering her fingernails atme.

Shit. Dara Dempsey. Now I'm never going to get the part.

I tuck the script under my arm and reluctantly walk over, sitting down into the cloud of CKOne that surrounds her.

"I haven't seen you in ages," she whisper-trills, tapping my knee. "How are you?"

"Oh, not bad, Dara. You?"

She sticks out her tongue in a little pant. "I'm so busy I can't take it! Did you hear I got the part on Dusk Until Dawn?"

"You got that part?" I ask innocently. "Congratulations."

But of course I know she got that part. I auditioned for it myself. Dara and I always end up on auditions together—not that it's surprising. We're both about the same age, same height, same hair color, same blue eyes (okay, well, mine are sort of grayish blue, but I put blue on my r - sum - because it sounds better). The only real difference between us, besides the fact Dara doesn't have to wear padded bras to "buxom bank teller" auditions, is that she always gets the part.

"Thanks," she says, "but it's no big deal. Just a soap. What about you? What have you been up to?"

She has to ask? Isn't it obvious from my scuffed boots and second-(possibly third)-hand leather jacket that I haven't had any disposable income since they canceled Melrose Place? And definitely not since the last time we saw each other. Dara and I used to hang out. We weren't best friends or anything, but we'd sometimes find ourselves at the nearest Starbucks drinking skinny lattes after acting class. We'd commiserate over our lack of prospects, bitch about other actors getting work, and whine about being broke. When it got really bad, we even threatened to drop out of acting and find something useful to do with our lives before it was too late. She wanted to be a teacher. I wasn't so sure—maybe I'd go back to Wisconsin and finish my psych degree.

But then she got that walk-on part in an HBO movie.

And a national ad campaign.

And now the soap.

So I'm drinking my skinny lattes alone.

She's still waiting to hear what I've been up to, and I'm fumbling over the most impressive way to say "absolutely fucking nothing!" when the casting assistant, wearing a mustard-yellow shirt and brown argyle vest, leans around the corner and consults his clipboard.

"Sally Carpenter?"

"That's me!" I say, springing from my chair.

"Break a leg in there!" Dara says. "And if you can't break a leg, whatever you do—don't break a nail!" She throws her blond head back and giggles.

I laugh like it's the first time I've heard the line, but she uses it before every audition.

I catch up to the quickly disappearing argyle vest. He has one of those abrupt, tense walks where his knees seem to lock after every step. We take a left, then a right, then another left down a long white corridor. I make a mental note of a water fountain and two rubbertree plants so I don't get lost on the way out. I always get lost after auditions at UBN. Everyone does. With its labyrinth of white hallways, closed doors, and nondescript exit stairwells, actors have a nickname for the place—we call it Purgatory.

"Wow. I'll never understand how you guys know your way around here."

"You get used to it," he says. "Hey! Wait a sec! I know you!" He clicks his fingers and points at me. "You're in that Pizza Hut commercial, aren't you?" He can tell by the look on my face that it's a case of mistaken identity. "Whoops! Sorry. I thought for sure it was you."

"Don't worry. Happens all the time." And it does. But Dara's the Pizza Hut girl. I, naturally, made an idiot of myself in the audition. There were about sixteen of us at the call, all gathered in a stuffy room, surrounded by stacks of pizza boxes. The casting director told us that for authenticity's sake, and to test our natural aptitude for cheesestretching, which is essential to the success of any Pizza Hut campaign, the pies were hot—very hot. "Now remember," he said. "Forget the fat grams. Forget the carbs. This is the best pizza you've ever tasted. You're in pizza rapture." On cue, we enthusiastically sank our teeth into our slices. He hadn't been kidding about the "hot." I felt the sizzling cheese immediately graft itself to the roof of my mouth. My eyes started to water. My throat started to close up. Pizza rapture. Pizza rapture, I was thinking. But I couldn't take it. I gave the slice such a violent jerk that the sizzling toppings slid off the crust and flopped onto my chin, sending the production assistant running for the first aid kit. Dara got the part. And I ended up smelling like Ozonol for a week.

"So," I begin, lightly, "who am I reading for?"

I cross my fingers and look heavenward:


"Hazel Grippe," he announces.

Shit. I might as well just go home.

"Why? You know her?"

"Oh, I know her, all right," I grumble.

He opens the fingerprint-smudged door to the audition room. Like most audition spaces, the room seems expressly designed to cause as much anxiety as possible in every actor who walks into it. It's too small, too cold, and too bright—more like a walk-in freezer than anything else. The argyle vest quickly hurries to a video camera set up in the corner and begins puttering around it like an executioner polishing his gun.

There are two other people in the room, both sitting behind a cluttered table. One is Precinct's Emmy Award­winning director, Foster Maclean, a middle-aged man with silver hair and a round belly. He's leaning back in his chair, stroking his beard, his thumb hooked into a loop on his multipocketed khaki vest. He seems to be staring with great intensity at no particular spot on the floor. The other person, of course, is Hazel Grippe. The most-feared casting director in the city. Or at least the one I fear the most. With her glossy cap of red hair, her red business suits, and her sharp little fuse of a nose, if you had to categorize Hazel as something other than a casting director, a stick of dynamite wouldn't be too far down the list. She's furiously scribbling on the back of someone's r - sum - and doesn't so much as glance in my direction.

The director's gaze travels from no particular spot on the floor and comes to rest in the general vicinity of my bustline. He squints and strains curiously. I know what he's thinking:


Finally, Hazel puts down her pen. "Hello, Sally," she says tonelessly.

"H-hi, Hazel."

"Did you lighten your hair or something?"

"Uh...a little."

"Uh-huh," she says without approval. She reaches for her can of Diet Coke with a menacing flurry of her red fingernails while quickly glancing at my old leather jacket and jeans. "We asked everyone to dress in character this time, Sally. Or at least to take an honest stab at it."

"I know," I say apologetically. "But I was at work when I got the call and I didn't have time to change."

She arches an eyebrow. "Well, at least you didn't wear the dress."

Wait a second. Did she say "the dress"? It can't be. She couldn't have said "the dress." All this time I've been telling myself that the reason Hazel Grippe hasn't hired me in eighteen months wasn't because of "the dress"—because that would be shallow and catty and unprofessional—but because I was too tall or too short or just wrong for the part. But there it is. She brought up the fucking dress.

"The dress?" the argyle vest asks.

"Last year," Hazel begins, "Sally and I showed up at a wrap party in the exact same little red Versace number, didn't we, Sally?"

The argyle vest lets out a loud gasp—the kind of hopeless, sympathetic noise people emit when they hear very young children are dying of cancer.

"It was a year and a half ago now," I correct Hazel, hoping to remind her it may be time to bury the hatchet.

"It was still a tad embarrassing, wasn't it?"

"It was worse for me." I laugh. I flatter. "You looked way better in yours."

"That's because mine wasn't a knockoff."

"That's enough," the director says. "Can we get on with this? My ass is falling asleep."

The argyle vest comes over with a Polaroid. "Say Brie!" he announces. The bulb flashes, eternally capturing what I am sure is the thespian equivalent of a deer caught in the headlights. Through the shifting phosphorescent images that follow the flash I hear Hazel's voice: "Okay, Sally. Knock us dead."

Copyright © 2003 by Sheri McInnis

Read More

What People are saying about this

Jennifer Weiner
Sexy and stylish — for any woman who's ever wondered just how wrong her Mr. Right can be.
Laura Caldwell
Hip, witty, and gorgeously hell of a good time.
Kathleen DeMarco
I loved this book. It's smart, it's real, and, most importantly, it's genuinely funny.

Customer Reviews

Average Review:

Write a Review

and post it to your social network


Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See all customer reviews >