Читать книгу Unofficial and Deniable - John Davis Gordon - Страница 17

Harker woke up about midnight. Josephine was sprawled on the bed beside him, one long leg bent, her blonde tresses spreadeagled across the pillow. The bedside lamp was on, the night lights of Manhattan glowed in the big window.

He looked at her lying there: he could see the small scar on her left breast where she had shot herself, the exit scar near her armpit. Oh, she was beautiful, the swell of her hip, the line of her legs seemed the loveliest he had ever seen. And their lovemaking had been the most glorious he had ever known. The evening seemed a dream, a haze of breathtaking sensuality. And, oh, it felt like love.

What was he going to do about this?

He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.

He had lived long enough to know it couldn’t be love yet, of course. But it was certainly the start of that delicious phenomenon, and what was absolutely certain was that he did not want to let this woman go – he simply had to pursue it. But what was equally clear was that no way could he betray her.

So there was only one honourable thing to do: get this publisher-author masquerade right out of the way, tell her that Harvest House could not publish her book, tell Felix Dupont that Josephine did not want him to do so because she had a better publisher in mind – and tell Dupont that he would learn absolutely nothing new about her anti-apartheid activities because she wasn’t interested in seeing him again.

Harker sighed grimly at the ceiling.

Yes, but when Dupont found out that he was still seeing her – as he would, sooner rather than later – the bastard would rub his hands in glee and put the screws on him to deliver information about her. He could not be party to a deception like that, so he would either have to deceive Dupont, or deliver insignificant information the bastard knew already.

Or refuse.

Yes, and if he refused he would be fired. Being fired from the CCB didn’t worry him – but fired from Harvest House? His American work-permit revoked? Sent back to Pretoria?

Harker sighed again. The only alternative was to take up her offer of walking out: drop her right now. Tell her that last night was all a big mistake. And that Harvest House didn’t think it wise to publish a political book …

Harker lay there beside her on the double bed in the glow of Manhattan’s lights. Yes, undoubtedly, that is what he should do. Get out of this potential briar patch of multiple deceit while he could still do so with reasonable grace and a reasonably clear conscience. It would wound her feelings, but only her pride and that would be good, she’d keep well away from him, from the clutches of the CC fucking B. In fact he would be the only one to be hurt.

He lay there, thinking it through. At least he had to go through the motions of reading her book and rejecting it.

He hated this. With all his lustful heart he just wanted to roll over and take her beautiful body in his arms again. But he had best get up and start reading that book so he could tell her when she woke up that Harvest would not publish it.

He got up off the bed carefully so as not to waken her, and pulled on trousers. He picked up her folder and walked barefoot across the room. He stopped at the door and looked back at her. What a crying-out pity …

It was one o’clock on a Sunday morning in June. He was wide-awake now. He went into his kitchen, opened the refrigerator and got a beer. He snapped the cap off and upended it to his mouth. He sighed grimly and returned to the living room, picked up the folder, and sat down on the sofa.

And within ten minutes he knew that his decision, this whole thing, was an even bigger crying tragedy. Because this book was going to be brilliant.

Harker went to the kitchen and got himself another beer. Christ, it was good. He had only speed-read thirty pages in ten minutes but if the next two hundred were as good it was going to be a bestseller. Oh, it needed editing, she was a slash-and-burn writer who wrote wrote wrote, letting it all hang out, repeating herself shamelessly, flying off on descriptive tangents that left the reader both breathless and impatient. But it was brilliant. Harker returned to the sofa with his bottle of beer. He stared out of the bay window at the pretty little courtyard.

What was he going to say to her about this? How could he tell her that her book didn’t have promise?

He took a tasteless swig of his beer.

You tell her it’s got loads of promise but you don’t consider it’s suitable for Harvest House because Harvest doesn’t publish political works, you solemnly advise her to take her brilliant book to Random House when it’s finished, or Doubleday or one of the other big guns who throw money around like confetti hyping up books.

He sighed. Just the book Harvest needed to really put itself fair and square at the upper part of the publishing totem pole. But worse than that, much, much worse, was that not only did he have to tell her it wasn’t worth Harvest’s while publishing, he also had to watch this beautiful, talented woman walk off into the morning, freeze her out, tell his secretary to make excuses that he wasn’t in, not return her calls. Whereas all he wanted to do was walk back into that bedroom and take her glorious body in his arms.

Harker took a deep breath, and reverted to her typescript.

It was called Outrage. It showed an astonishing grasp of the causes of the great South African historical drama: in the first forty pages Josephine Valentine transported the reader through the Frontier Wars of the eastern Cape, through the Great Trek that followed, the turbulent opening up of the Cape Colony’s northern frontier by the Dutch wagoneers rebelliously moving away from the recent British occupation of the Cape of Good Hope and their Abolition of Slavery Act. Then came the horrors of the Mfecane, Shaka’s crushing, the battles with Mzilikazi’s Matabeles and Dingaan’s Zulus, the establishment of the independent Voortrekker republics, the discovery of gold and the bitter Boer War that brought them back into the British Empire, through the horrors of two World Wars where the defeated Boers fought for their British victors against their German soulmates. It was a gripping piece of storytelling. Somehow, through these opening rampant pages, Josephine Valentine had managed to weave in her principal characters, American clipper-ship captains who traded, lived and loved amongst these rough tough Boers until the reader leapt a hundred years to 1948 when the Boers triumphed in the elections, won their beloved South Africa back from the British and immediately instituted their policy of apartheid to contain the Black Peril.

Harker stared through the window at the dark courtyard. The book showed a professorial understanding of the background to the modern curse of apartheid, its roots in the battles of not so long ago. All this Josephine had squeezed digestibly into forty bounding pages, making it high adventure: it showed remarkable narrative talent. How could he tell the author differently? Harvest House should jump for joy and shout Hallelujah for stumbling upon this book which should make any publisher a lot of money.

He gave a sigh, took a swig of his beer and read on.

The next thirty pages encapsulated the oppressive doctrine of apartheid in a speech in parliament by the descendant of the American traders which tore the doomed policy to tatters, heaping shame upon its creators, proving its folly, its cruelty, its repressiveness, evoking pity for its black victims. It was a brilliant speech made poignant by the vivid character who articulated it – everything anybody would want to allege against apartheid, logical argument unfolding irresistibly, yet all in narrative form.

Christ, this woman can write.

Harker got up off the sofa and walked back to the kitchen. He reached for a bottle of whisky and poured a big dash. He stood at the sink, staring out of the back window.

It squeezed his heart to turn down a book like this. And it broke his heart to walk away from this woman.

But he had to do both. If he did not, Dupont would get his hooks into her, Harker would either have to betray her or lie to Dupont – either way led to a treacherous, duplicitous life. No – he had to be cruel to be honourable, cruellest of all to himself – because all he wanted to do right now was walk back into that bedroom and enfold that beautiful, talented, captivating woman, and then wake up beside her at midday and take her to brunch and drink wine while he looked into her big earnest eyes and told her how great she was, how Harvest House was behind her all the way, what a talented person she was, how captivating, how she was stealing his heart … He walked back towards the living room and abruptly halted in the doorway.

The most beautiful, most talented, most captivating woman in the world stood before him, fully dressed, her book clasped to her breast, her hair awry.

‘I’m going home now,’ she announced. ‘I’m afraid this has all been a mistake. Forgive me.’ She stared at him from under her eyebrows.

Harker was astonished. ‘What’s a mistake?’

She waved a hand. ‘Mixing business and pleasure. You’re supposed to be my goddam publisher – I mean, that’s what I hoped you are. And here I am falling into bed with you like a goddam Hollywood starlet flinging herself on the casting couch.’

Harker closed his eyes. Oh, this was being made easy for him. He heard himself say, ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘I’ve already been ridiculous!’ she hissed softly. ‘Not you – no man’s got any sense when it comes to willing womanflesh!’ She glared at him from under her dark eyebrows, then said, ‘Believe me, Jack, that as a totally liberated woman I consider myself fully entitled to as much sexual freedom as you guys. And I’ve been around, in plenty of tighter corners than this. But this book –’ she thumped it against her bosom – ‘is the most important thing in my life right now and I was a fool to give you – my potential publisher – the impression that I’ll whore for it, that I’m a brainless fuck-the-boss bimbo. So I’m going home, to spare you the embarrassment of dropping a panting wannabe author and to spare me the embarrassment of being dropped.’ She pointed at him across the sofa: ‘But I want you to know, Jack Harker, that I did not jump into bed with you in the hopes that thereby you would be persuaded to publish my pathetic book – I did so because, in my inflamed, intoxicated state I wanted to do so. And before I disappear out that door, never to darken it again, I want you to know that I do not, repeat not, expect you to publish my book. Goodnight and sorry I was such a pest.’ She flashed him a brittle smile and turned for the door.

‘Josie? It’s not a pathetic book. It’s brilliant.’

She stopped. She turned slowly and looked back at him. ‘You’re just saying that to protect my feelings.’ She turned for the door again.

‘Josie,’ he said, ‘it’s brilliant. If the rest is as good as the pages I’ve read it deserves to be a bestseller.’

She had stopped again, her hand on the doorknob. He thought, Why am I saying this? He continued, to assuage his guilt, ‘And please don’t feel bad about last night. These things happen.’

‘You mean your female authors are always hopping into bed with you?’

‘I mean,’ Harker said with a bleak smile, ‘that I don’t misinterpret your motive. Indeed,’ he added, trying to make a joke of it, ‘I rather hoped it was because of my big blue eyes.’

She looked at him, unamused. ‘So, I should come back to bed now, huh?’

Oh, he would love her to come back to bed now. ‘No. And no hard feelings, that’s the deal we made yesterday.’

She looked at him, then demanded, ‘Do you want me to stay?’

Oh Christ. ‘Only if you don’t want to go.’

She snorted sulkily. Then: ‘It’s just that I feel such an ass. Christ, I’m twenty-six years old, I’ve been in half the battles of the world, and here I am giving a vivid impersonation of a silly little tart.’

Harker snorted. ‘Please don’t feel that, it’s not true.’

Her hand was still on the doorknob. ‘Do you really like my book so far?’

Harker had to dash back to his guns. ‘Yes, it’s good –’

‘You said “brilliant” before!’

Harker had to steel himself. ‘Yes, when it’s edited.’

Josephine groaned. ‘But I spent the whole of last fucking week re-editing for you!’

‘Well, authors don’t always make the best editors of their own work.’ Stick to your guns. ‘Josephine, it’s good but I don’t think Harvest House should publish it. I think that you’ll do much better with a bigger house, like Random or Doubleday.’ He added for good measure: ‘I’m afraid it’s too political for Harvest.’

He could see the cloud cross her soul. She stared at him a moment; then said, ‘Of course. Thank you for the advice.’

‘Josephine, your agent will advise you – you must get an agent – but I’m sure he’ll tell you the same. Harvest is too small.’

She smiled thinly, still holding the door-handle. ‘Thank you for that selfless advice.’

‘Josephine, believe me –’

‘The trouble is I don’t believe you, Jack. If another publishing house can make it a bestseller I don’t understand why Harvest is passing up the opportunity to do the same and make money!’

‘Josie, we simply haven’t got the budget to do all the publicity razzmatazz your book will need – will deserve.’

‘Of course,’ she said quietly. ‘I understand. Perfectly. And, as you say, it’s rather too political.’ She forced a bright smile. ‘And there’s one thing I want you to understand perfectly, Jack: I went to bed with you only because I was inflamed by strong drink and lust – not because I hoped thereby to persuade you to publish my pathetic book!’ She flipped the lock and opened the door.

Oh Jesus. ‘Josephine – let me call you a taxi.’

‘I’ve already called one, from your bedroom telephone. Bye-eee …’ She flashed him a dazzling smile from the corridor.

‘I’ll come outside and wait with you till it comes.’

‘Bye-ee.’ She twiddled her fingers at him and closed the door.

Harker strode back to the bedroom. He cast about for his shirt, snatched it up off the floor, pulled it on as he hurried back to the front door. He dashed barefoot across the courtyard into the archway of the front block. He burst out on to East 22nd Street.

It was deserted. Josephine’s taxi was disappearing round the corner. Harker retraced his steps grimly. He locked the door behind him and walked back to the bedroom. And there, on his bedside table, were her earrings. He looked at them regretfully. Then he collapsed on to the bed and stared up at the ceiling.

Oh, what a crying pity. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, heart-sore.

Well, he had done the right thing, if that was any consolation. He had saved her from Dupont’s clutches, sent her packing on her way to the success she deserved. At least he didn’t have it on his conscience that he was deceiving her. But, God, what a crying-out-loud shame that Harvest House wasn’t going to zoom to the top of the bestseller list for the first time in its life and make a fortune.

And even more sad was the fact that he was not going to possess that glorious body again. Not going to fall in love with her after all, the most captivating woman he had ever met – oh, those long legs, those perfect breasts – and her ravishing smile as she tumbled joyfully into bed and took him in her arms, her pelvis thrusting to meet him. He would love to be meeting her for lunch again today, love to go walking through the park with her, hand in hand, finding out about her, going through that delightful insanity of falling in love, feeling on top of the world, laughing and being frightfully witty and wise. Oh yes, he was infatuated, and it was a tragedy that it wasn’t going to happen.

He swung up off the bed and looked at her earrings lying on the bedside table. A sad memento of a lovely day. He would take them to the office and post them to her. He walked to the kitchen and poured more whisky into his glass.

But it was for the best. She was a very sensitive person – you’d have to be on guard all the time lest you upset her. Volatile. Doubtless moody – most creative people are. A delicate bloom, yet with robust convictions. She would have been a difficult soul to be in love with, it would have been no bed of roses with her – perhaps indeed a bed of neuroses. Goddam writers are a load of trouble, all steamed up then flat as a pancake, locked in a love-hate relationship with their work.

Yes, it was all for the best. But, oh, what a crying-out pity.