Читать книгу Not Quite Perfect - Annie Lyons, Annie Lyons - Страница 10

The cavernous room is filled with a murmuring hubbub as two thousand or so publishers, authors and their celebrity guests look towards the stage in anticipation. Stephen Fry stands at the podium, smiling; wise and waiting for hush.

‘Esteemed guests, ladies, gentlemen and publishing scamps, it is my unbridled pleasure and bowl-clenching joy to announce that the winner of this year’s Best Novel Category is the astounding, Red Orchid by Richard Bennett.’ Thunderous applause. The crowd is on their feet. Richard rises to greet his public pausing only to kiss his beloved editor, Emma Darcy. There are cheers from the Allen Chandler table. Richard is greeted and embraced by Stephen Fry. A sea of photographers capture the moment with a myriad clicks and flashes. The applause is enthusiastic and heartfelt. Richard speaks to his people.

‘I would like to thank the judges for this great honour. I am truly humbled, but I have to say that I could never have achieved it without the singular devotion of one woman: Emma Darcy, this one’s for you, babe.’

Babe? Emma looks up confused as Richard grabs the microphone and starts to sing a heartfelt version of Dido’s ‘Thank You’. As she looks closely at his face, she is astonished.

‘Martin! Is that you?’

She is even more surprised when Stephen Fry picks up the backing vocals and the people in the room join in too, all turning as one to smile at Emma.

‘Oh. It’s another bloody dream,’ mumbles Emma as her brain tunes in to the song playing on her radio alarm clock. She opens her eyes feeling queasy at the thought of the day ahead. ‘Today is the one I day I will not, must not be late,’ she says to the room.

‘Drop you at the station, gorgeous girl?’ asks Martin returning from the shower and pausing to kiss his fiancée.

‘Brillo pads. Thanks, handsome.’

‘Can I suggest, endearing as it is, that you don’t use the phrase “brillo pads” in this meeting?’

‘Right-ho. Good point.’

‘Or “right-ho”.’

‘Understood,’ she says with a small salute.

On boarding the train, Emma makes a beeline for her favourite seat: second carriage from the front, facing forwards in a two-seater. She pulls out the manuscript and her notes. A few stops later a man listening to an iPod takes the empty seat next to her. They have a barely perceptible tussle over elbow territory, and she is just settling into her work when he cranks up the volume and starts to hum along.

Emma is considering making a comment when she notices that he is reading her notes. She snatches them to her chest, like a schoolgirl trying to prevent her neighbour from cribbing.

‘Sorry,’ he says grinning.

‘It’s fine but actually would you mind turning down your music please,’ says Emma trying to sound as reasonable as possible.

‘Sure. Sorry, again.’

Emma looks at him for the first time. He’s quite good looking in a public school sort of way. His smile reveals a dimpled cheek, which reminds her of Martin.

‘You must be busy, having to work on the train,’ he says gesturing at her papers.

‘Oh, I’ve got this pitch meeting today with an author. I’m an editor you see,’ she says proudly.

‘Oh wow. You’re an editor – that must be fascinating. Who’s the lucky guy?’

Emma smiles, enjoying some innocent flirting. ‘He’s a relatively new writer called Richard Bennett. His novel is amazing but I’ve heard a rumour that he’s a bit of a lothario,’ she says conspiratorially.

The train is making its final, slow passage into Victoria past the gasholders and dormant power station that Emma thinks makes this part of London look abandoned.

‘Men eh?’ smiles the man. ‘Well I hope he doesn’t give you too much trouble.’

‘Thanks, I’m hoping I can charm him.’

‘I have no doubt you will. Well good luck –?’

‘Emma. Emma Darcy.’

‘Emma Darcy. Like a character in a novel. I hope you get your book, Emma Darcy,’ he smiles and then disappears into the crowd of commuters. Emma gathers her belongings, takes a deep breath, and steps off the train into Monday morning chaos.

‘Want breakfast naaaaaow!’ yells Alfie.

‘Ok, Hitler-in-a-nappy. Mummy’s going as fast as she can.’ Rachel throws crisps, a drink and a packet of something claiming to be 100% fruit into Will’s lunch bag and counts down the seconds until the microwave gives its final ping. She snatches open the door to find that the milk has boiled over and Alfie’s porridge now resembles molten lava with a temperature to match. ‘Bollocks!’ she mutters as quietly as she can, emptying the rest of the carton of milk into the bowl in a desperate attempt to cool it down. It now has the consistency of slurry and Rachel knows that this will not pass the Alfie taste-test. She bins her first attempt and gives the microwave a cursory wipe before starting again.

‘Naaaaaow Mummeeee!’

‘Look, young man, either you wait or you work out a way of making it yourself. I’m doing my best, OK?’

‘‘kay,’ says Alfie uncertainly. ‘Mummy cwoss.’

‘I am not cross,’ and then she catches sight of his chubby jowls and blue eyes and smiles, ‘Mummy’s sorting it, sausage.’

‘Cuddle, cuddle,’ he implores, and Rachel gives in, nibbling at his soft little neck.

‘Nooo, Mummy,’ he giggles.

‘Right you, into your chair and, Lily! Will! Breakfast time!’

‘Coming!’ shouts Will. ‘Just got to take this penalty to win the World Cup for England.’

‘I’m having a poo!’ bellows Lily.

‘Breakfast in paradise, darling?’ asks Steve, grabbing a banana on his way through.

‘Oh yeah, baby, it’s like a week in Mauritius.’

‘Bless you, Mummy. Achoo!’ says Alfie mishearing.

Rachel removes the second batch of cereal from the microwave and pours a pot of something pink, gloopy and organic all over it.

‘Naaaaaooooo, Mummy, want bananaaaaa!’

‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Alfred!’

‘Maaaarrrrm,’ shouts Lily, ‘I’ve run out of bog roll!’

‘Did you teach her to call it that?’ Rachel asks Steve.

‘Darling, I thought you were the queen of spade-calling. Got to dash.’

‘You’re a bit early, aren’t you?’

‘Lots to do, my sweet. Got to start early so I can be home on time. Let’s talk later. Properly? Over a bottle of something nice? Love you.’ He plants a kiss on her cheek and on each available child’s head.

‘Bye Lils!’

‘Bye, Daddy. Love you.’ Her voice is sweet and charming and then changes as she shouts, ‘Maaarrrm!’

‘OK, Lily. I’m coming!’

‘Mummy, banana!’ insists Alfie.

‘OK, OK. Will, please can you sort out your brother while I attend to your sister.’

Lily looks disappointed at Rachel’s entrance.

‘I want Daddy.’

‘Well, unfortunately you have Mummy.’

‘Oh.’

Five minutes later, the ladies of the house come downstairs to a suspiciously peaceful kitchen.

Rachel looks pleased and then horrified. ‘Will, what have you done?’ she cries, seeing that Alfie’s face is smeared with the remains of a packet of Giant Chocolate Buttons, which his obliging brother has tipped over his cereal.

‘What? He likes them.’

Rachel is about to open her mouth when her phone beeps with a text. It’s from her friend, Sue: ‘Fancy Baby Bump and Grind aka Bounce and Rhyme at the library at 10?’

Rachel fires off a reply: ‘In the absence of an offer from George Clooney, you’re on. Got to pop home after school run. Save me a tambourine.’ And then as an afterthought, ‘Shall I text Christa?’

The answer pings back: ‘Good idea.’

Christa, who has recently moved from Switzerland, is clearly pleased to be asked: ‘Danke viels. Roger and I would that love. Bis bis.’

Rachel smiles and takes a deep breath, making ready to coax, cajole and nag her family out of the house.

Emma walks into Allen Chandler’s impressive, marble lobby. She smiles at Derek on reception, who gives her a wink and a thumbs-up.

‘Hold that lift!’ orders a voice.

Emma turns to see Joel Riches marching through the door radiating an air of self-importance. He ignores Derek, who in turn shakes his head in disgust. Emma is tempted to pretend she hasn’t heard, but knows this won’t work. Joel is a persistent force in her life. Every book she publishes or pitches for, he’s there ‘thinking outside the box’ or ‘campaigning above the line’, ready to disassociate himself from things which don’t work and take the glory for things that do. As a member of the ‘say what you mean and mean what you say’ club Emma loathes him.

‘Hi, Emma,’ he says with a condescending lilt. ‘So Richard Bennett? It’s either going to be a huge opportunity or a complete drain on resources and the bottom line. Thoughts?’

Emma bristles at his patronising tone but answers as calmly as she can. ‘I think it’s a formative work for an emerging talent in a brave new world of modern fiction destined to win awards and generate sales and profit for the company,’

‘Well done, Emma. Good work,’ he says, which makes Emma want to stave in his head with the manuscript she’s holding. ‘Personally, I prefer something a little meatier. Did I tell you I’d read Don Quixote last summer?’

‘Several times.’ They have reached the twelfth floor and the lift doors open. ‘Got to dash, Joel. Got a book to buy.’

‘Good luck. Don’t be nervous. Mind you, I would be. Digby’s relying on this one.’

‘Tosser,’ mutters Emma under her breath as she makes her way into the open-plan office. Ella has left a small bunch of butter-yellow freesias on her desk with a card that says, ‘I know you can do it.’ Emma is touched, but at the same time feels a little inadequate as she doesn’t know if she would have been so thoughtful herself. Behind the lovingly placed flowers is a less lovingly placed Post-It note slapped onto her computer’s blank face. It’s from Miranda and it simply says, ‘Emma – please pop in at 9. Digby wants a word.’

Emma feels as if she might regurgitate her breakfast. It’s not that she’s afraid of Digby: He’s a pussy cat compared with the bottom-line obsessed powers that now run the company. But he is one of Miranda’s oldest friends and was a traditional, independent, gentlemen publisher, who launched a whole host of seminal works, as well as being the founding member of the day-long publishing lunch. Emma takes a deep breath and knocks on Miranda’s closed door with what she hopes is an air of quiet authority. There is no answer, so Emma inclines her ear towards the door, just as it is flung open by the literary powerhouse that is Miranda Winter.

‘Ah, Emma. I thought I heard something. Morning. Morning. And how is my brightest and best on this exquisite day? Come, my child, don’t be shy. Digby won’t eat you. He’s had his breakfast.’

Miranda’s office is a shrine to the great and good of publishing, books and reading. Her walls are adorned with photographs, sketches and mementos from her forty-odd years as the matriarchal founding editor of Chandler and now Allen Chandler. The world of books and publishing may have changed, but Miranda Winter is not a woman to be trifled with and the newer suits at Allen Chandler simply wouldn’t dare. They’re terrified of her and she makes them far too much money. The photographs of Miranda with everyone from John Gielgud to John Updike read like a history of cultural movers and shakers from the post-war years. Emma is particularly impressed by the rumours that Miranda has slept with most of the men photographed here, even the gay ones. They are like the photographic equivalent of notches on her bedpost.

As Emma enters the room, Digby is perched on the edge of Miranda’s dark oak monster of a desk, a pudgy hand pawing at one of his many chins. Although publishing today is a very different world to that of fifty or even twenty years ago, when lunch neatly segued into afternoon tea, cocktails and dinner, no one seems to have told Digby and he remains the very picture of old-school corpulence. He is suited by a little man in Saville Row and his Oxford brogues are always shiny. He prefers a dickey bow to maintain the air of an eccentric publisher and today his pink shirt looks fit to burst as his belly extends over his blue pinstriped trousers.

‘Ah Ella,’ he begins, raising his fat hands in a sort of waving gesture.

‘It’s Emma.’ She corrects him. ‘Ella’s the other one.’

Digby snorts with amusement as if having two people with vaguely similar names is the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

‘Sorry, so sorry. Now, Emma, I know I don’t need to tell you how much our hopes are resting on you today. And I just wanted to say good luck. I know you can do it.’

Emma tries to speak but only manages a squeak of agreement.

Miranda leaps to her rescue. ‘Well, Emma and I will do our darndest to bring home the bacon, eh Emma?’

Emma nods vigorously, deciding that it is probably best to remain mute for now.

‘Quite so, quite so,’ says Digby with customary vagueness. ‘Well, the very best to you both. I look forward to hearing good news!’ And away he shuffles.

‘So tell me how you’re really feeling’ says Miranda when he is gone.

‘Honestly? I’m bloody terrified. I mean, this is this most exciting book I’ve read since Marquez. Do you really think we can get it?’

‘The agent is touting it hither and thither after the publisher with the most money, but I know we have more to offer.’

She looks at Emma with glassy eyes. It’s the look Ella and Emma call her ‘mirror to the past’. Ella always jokes that Emma is her protégé and it is clear that Miranda does see something of herself in Emma. At last year’s Christmas party, Miranda threw her arms around her and told her that she was like Boudicca, but they were all very drunk.

‘Ten o’clock then. We pitch our ideas, gush, enthuse and generally plump up their egos like sumptuous cushions. OK?’

‘Ok. Do you think Richard will go for it?’

‘Oh, it’s not Richard we have to worry about, darling. It’s the agent.’

The light is flashing on Emma’s phone when she gets back to her desk. It’s a text from Martin: ‘Good luck Mrs Almost-Wifey. Hope you get the book. I’m proud of you. Love M.’ She smiles but is starting to feel a bit sick and desperate to get on with it. She checks her watch: 9:34. twenty-six minutes to go. She leafs through her notes again and realises that her hands are shaking. The book is beautifully written and Emma desperately wants to be the one to publish it. She gives herself an internal pep talk: ‘You can do this. You are good at your job. You love this book and you want the world to love it too.’

The phone rings shattering the peace. Emma leaps up, knocking coffee all over her notes. ‘Fuck!’ she says involuntarily into the mouthpiece.

‘Emma?’ asks Miranda with no notable surprise at the outburst.

‘Yes? Sorry. I’m here.’

‘And so are they. Are you ready?’

Emma looks at the coffee-steeped notes and realises that she’s going to have to wing it. ‘I’ll come straight over.’

‘Fine. I’ll go and welcome them, roll out the red carpet as it were. And remember, you should be bloody nervous but it’s just another book. OK?’

‘OK,’ says Emma feeling anything but.

Miranda’s office is filled with the heavy perfume of pink lilies, mingled with the welcome aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Emma realises that she needs to pee, but daren’t leave the room now. The table is covered with a selection of Danish pastries. Her stomach groans appreciatively, but she decides against the risk of icing down her top and flaky crumbs on her upper lip. She can hear Miranda coming, jollying their guests along in a warm but business-like way. She decides that standing is the best option as sitting might seem somehow presumptuous or complacent or both.

The woman who enters first is known to Emma by fearsome reputation only: Joanna Uppington is ball-breaker number one of the publishing world. Emma is pretty sure she’s never smiled in her life. She is immaculate and tiny in her fitted, designer trouser suit. The only aspect to her that gives her any height (and which Emma suspects is the actual source of her power) is her hair with its impressive four-inch power-bouffant held in place with enough hair spray to finish off the ozone layer.

‘Joanna, this is Emma Darcy, our most talented editor.’

Joanna looks Emma up and down as if seeking to identify a new life form and thrusts out a bony hand like a poison dart. ‘And this is my most talented author, Richard Bennett,’ she retorts.

And there he is. Of course. As if God, Beelzebub and his wizards, and the spirit of Joel Riches were all conspiring as one against Emma. The man from the train.