Excerpt from As If by Isabel Waidner, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Meanwhile Korine lifted one of several available tweed overcoats, grey herringbone, floor-length, and inspected it. The way he rejected it. The contempt. Not giving it a second thought, he dropped it on the floor. He pulled out a similar garment, waist-length this time: he seemed taken by it. A maybe. Still, he felt there was something better out there for him. The optimism. The leap-before-you-look sort of attitude and complete lack of self-awareness: I learnt a lot about Korine, observing his process. He threw this latest coat over his shoulder and dug deep. I felt my throat close on account of the smells released as he continued to disturb the historic arrangement: damp lanolin, decaying mineral oil, something blueberry, all in there. Korine found a scratched-up wax jacket, olive, with the corduroy collar. He tried it on. The sleeves were too short. He took that off. Returned to the waist-length tweed coat, square cut, and threw it on. It worked better in terms of sleeve length, but was too short down the torso. Still, he kept it on. He proceeded to put on the wax jacket over it. I closed my eyes and counted backwards from ten. Five. Three.

What now. Korine, in double layers, was going through one of the cardboard boxes by the side of the sofa. He selected a Christmas angel, of all things, and placed it on the table. Made out of brightly coloured foil, the thinnest of sheet metals, it was blowing its trumpet in Korine's direction. Naturally, it had its back turned on me: I was at the receiving end of its wings, the sharp edges of them, I felt insulted by that. The turquoise and brown vase my wife had loved and I hated? Korine was holding it. He put that on the table, too.

'What are you doing,' I said, meaning don't do this.

Korine declared it was spiritually frosty in here. Bare and unwelcoming. He was fixing it.

Old tinsel: not that. Probably made of lead, I used to catastrophise. Christmas was killing us, I declared every year. Cancer, not Christmas, ended up killing Laurie. This current spring was starting to feel increasingly dangerous, too.

I can't have looked happy if Korine noticed: he held up his hands, fine, and closed the box. He promised to stop. But he left what he'd taken out of the box out, including the angel with the trumpet. I imagined I heard its silly fanfare.

It was madness. By which I meant, all of it. I began to entertain the idea that none of it – least of all Korine – was actually real. Why would there be anyone here: there never was, was the whole point. Likelier, I was seeing things. I had finally completely lost my mind: it had been a matter of time. I was having, what do they call it, a delusional episode. It would pass: and by this I meant quickly. I-close-my-eyes-and-when-I-reopen-them-Korine-will-be-gone sort of quickly. Never to be seen or heard of again. I would take down the decor which I'd have to accept I'd retrieved myself while, temporarily, not with it. I would put the entire affair down as one of those things. It wasn't as if I didn't know why this was happening: against my better knowledge, I had met with the director yesterday, Fran Howe. Why go. Why do this to myself. A particularly cruel form of optimism, was why. An irrational holding on to the possibility of a comeback, if that was the word if no one noticed you'd retired in the first place. Howe claiming she wanted me, I let it affect me. She foisted that paperback on me, too. Had I accepted what I already knew, namely that my acting career was over, and so was I, Aubrey Lewis, then Lindsey Korine would never have happened.

Here we go, I thought, closing my eyes. Breathing, like Laurie had taught me. In. Out. Again, in. Out. When I look, he'll be gone.

Ok no. He was still here. Making the most of the sofa, as it were. Lying on his side, head propped up on his elbow. His legs projected out over the end of it. Restlessly, he turned onto his back – a feat, given his double layers – crossing his arms behind his head. No good either: he sat up again. Tested the resilience of the cushioning. Made himself at home.

Excerpted from As If by Isabel Waidner. Copyright © 2026 by Isabel Waidner. Excerpted by permission of FSG Originals. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.