Читать книгу It’s a Wonderful Life: The Christmas bestseller is back with an unforgettable holiday romance - Julia Williams - Страница 19

I’m on a train to London to meet my new editor, Vanessa, in person for the first time. Normally I enjoy my trips to see my publishers. It’s always been a chance to catch up with Karen, talk shop and thrash out new ideas – it’s creative, energising and fun. Plus it gets me out of the house.

But today is different. If Karen were still around, I’d at least be able to discuss things, but I barely know Vanessa. I’ve been trying to give her the benefit of the doubt, but so far have found her to be annoyingly patronising, and often quite rude. I know I should be open-minded but I’m finding it increasingly difficult to take suggestions from a woman young enough to be my daughter, who always approaches every conversation as if I’m a problem that needs solving and keeps saying things like, ‘Well, it’s not that I don’t like it, exactly, it’s just there’s a spark missing.’

I know there’s a spark missing. She’s the editor, I was rather hoping she’d help me find it, but her latest solution to send my little angel on a journey round the whole world feels overcomplicated to me. ‘It’ll help give it that international feel that’s so vital to the picture-book market,’ she gushed down the phone last week.

‘Yeah, I know how it works,’ I said, biting my lip. I’ve been doing this for twenty years, and I understand the importance of foreign editions; they help increase the print run and bring down the production costs. Without them, it’s much harder to get a book off the ground. One or two of my early projects foundered as a result of too few foreign publishers coming on board. I don’t need Vanessa to lecture me on how important it is. I feel she’s treating me like an idiot, and it’s making me resent her even more.

Anyway, whatever I’m doing isn’t working, so I found myself agreeing to take my angel on a journey that involves London, Paris, New York, Berlin and Rome, even though apart from Rome none of these places even existed in Jesus’ time.

When I pointed this out, I was given an airy, ‘Oh, that doesn’t matter, it’s symbolic.’ Though of what, I’m not quite sure.

So I’ve done as she’s asked and drawn up some spreads of the Littlest Angel making friends with a pigeon on top of Nelson’s Column and asking the Mona Lisa for directions. In Berlin she’s getting a view of the city from the Reichstag, and in Rome she’s at the Vatican.

It doesn’t make any sense to me at all. Every time I draw the angel, I can’t seem to help myself giving her a puzzled and despairing look. It’s just how I feel. Though I know the book wasn’t working, I don’t think Vanessa’s solution is any better.

I get to the office in plenty of time for our meeting, feeling sick to the pit of my stomach. What am I doing? Why am I allowing my gut instincts to be overridden by someone like Vanessa? If only I had a clear view of my story I’d be able to fight back, but the trouble is, I don’t, and I know this book is going to end up being a disaster.

Vanessa doesn’t keep me waiting long. As I anticipated, she’s a pretty, bright young thing, all gushing enthusiasm. Suddenly it occurs to me that she might be as nervous as I am.

‘I just can’t believe I’m working with you, Beth,’ she says. ‘I loved your books when I was little.’

Great, now I feel really old, but then, my first picture book did come out seventeen years ago.

‘Thanks,’ I say, attempting a smile. It’s the first vaguely positive thing she’s said to me.

‘Come on in.’ She ushers me into a bright, airy room. ‘I’ve asked our new art director to join us, I hope that’s all right.’

‘I didn’t know you had a new art director,’ I say.

‘Oh yes, Andrea left just after Christmas, didn’t anyone tell you?’

‘No,’ I say, my heart sinking. Damn. The previous incumbent, Andrea, was with the company for five years. She, Karen and I had made such a good team. Now I’ll have another new face to contend with and win over. I’m not sure I’m really up to the challenge at the moment; I’m beginning to feel hemmed in and slightly panicky.

The door flings open and a good-looking man in his late thirties strides through it. I look into his eyes and I’m stunned – it can’t be. My legs nearly buckle from the shock.

‘Beth, can I introduce you to Jack—’

‘Stevens,’ I stammer in confusion, and my face flares red. ‘Yes, we – know – knew each other …’ My voice stutters and drops away.

The years melt away and I am eighteen again, standing in the college bar, seeing Jack Stevens for the very first time. He is beautiful. Every head in the room turns as he walks through the door. I long for him to look at me, but of course he doesn’t. Not that first time anyway …

How can Jack Stevens be here? I haven’t seen him in over twenty years. And now he’s standing right in front of me, every bit as gorgeous as the last time I saw him. Oh, God.

‘Lizzie Holroyd!’ Jack throws his arms around me with delight. ‘I’m such an idiot, I didn’t make the connection when I saw your name.’

I return his embrace in stunned silence. Jack Stevens is the new art director? Jack Stevens who I loved so unrewardingly through art school, Jack Stevens who I haven’t seen for years, Jack Stevens who is standing here in front of me with his still mesmerising blue eyes, which annoyingly are still working their old magic. I feel faint and dizzy, as if I’ve just walked out of the dark into the sunlight.

Jack Stevens, a blast from my past. The one who got away. And he’s working on my new book.