Not Quite Perfect (3 page)

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.

Rachel looks at the kitchen and tries to ignore the Weetabix-encrusted carnage. She presses the button on the washing machine, waiting with impatience for it to release the laundry. She can hear Alfie and Lily shouting their usual morning chorus of ‘I hate you’s’ and decides to let them resolve it for themselves, like the books tell you to. She unlocks the back door and picks her way across the dewy grass. She is just prising apart a mass of trousers and socks, when she hears the phone ring.

‘I’ll get it!’ calls Lily. Rachel curses. Moments later, her daughter pads into the garden.

‘My socks are wet and it’s Grandpa,’ she announces. Rachel accepts the phone and waves her daughter away with the international semaphore sign for ‘Go and find some dry socks.’

‘Hi, Dad,’ she says at last.

‘Morning, daughter number one. Your mother was fretting so she made me phone you,’ he says with a chuckle.

Rachel laughs. ‘I’m fine thanks, Dad. It was lovely to see you all yesterday, despite the apple tree incident.’

‘Yes and how is the little man this morning?’

Rachel can hear her mother talking in the background, directing operations. ‘He’s absolutely fine. No lasting damage. What’s Mum saying?’

Edward doesn’t speak for a moment, as he tries to listen to two separate conversations. ‘Sorry, Rachel. Your mother wants to know if you and Steve are all right?’ says Edward. Rachel hears her mother exclaim at his lack of subtlety.

She laughs again. ‘We’re fine. Why?’

‘She wants to know why,’ Edward reports back to his increasingly exasperated wife.

‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Edward. Give me the phone will you? Honestly, if you want something done in this family. Rachel?’ says Diana as she takes the phone.

‘Yes, Mum?’

‘Now don’t you “yes, Mum” me. I know what you and Daddy are like when you get together. I simply wanted to check that everything is all right between you and Steve.’

‘I’ve just told Dad we’re fine. Why do you ask?’

‘Steve has asked us to have the children on Saturday night.’

‘Oh right, yes, well we just want to have a little time on our own as a married couple.’

‘Yes all right, Rachel. There’s no need to be coarse. So I don’t need to worry then?’

Rachel contemplates this question and then immediately rejects the idea of telling her Mother about Edinburgh. ‘No, of course not.’

‘Well good, because I’ve got enough to worry about with this wedding of your sister’s. I’ll hand you back to your father.’

‘Rachel? Sorry about that. You know what your mother gets like when she’s been listening to the
Today
programme. Two hours of John Humphries and she just won’t let things go,’ says Edward.

‘It’s all right, Dad. I know.’

‘You know you can always talk to your old dad, if there is anything, don’t you?’

‘I know, Dad. Thanks. Look, I’ve got to go.’ Rachel replaces the phone and glances at her watch.

‘Kids! We’re –’

‘Yeah, yeah, we know. Late again!’ says Lily. ‘It’s OK, we’ve done our shoes and coats. We’re a bit more organised than grown-ups, you know.’

‘Well thank you, Lily,’ says Rachel through gritted teeth, grabbing her bag and ushering them out of the door.

It’s fortunate that Emma is not the sort of girl who blushes. She does her best to shake hands with Richard without betraying what can only be described as her almighty cock-up. Looking at him properly for the first time, she notices his dark brown eyes and the dimple that appears when the subject is amused. The subject is now extremely amused.

‘Hello, Emma. So good to see you. I feel as it we’ve met somewhere before? Or maybe not?’ He plonks himself down into the nearest chair, grabs a pastry and grins at her. Happily, no one else seems to notice this display.

‘Coffee anyone?’ asks Miranda.

‘Tea thanks. Lapsang souchong if you have it – with lemon,’ says Joanna.

‘Yeah. Coffee’s fine. Milk, no sugar thanks,’ says Richard folding his arms behind his head in a ‘so what can you offer me?’ type way.

‘Of course. I’ll get Andrea to do the honours,’ says Miranda disappearing.

Emma is panicking inwardly like a child whose mother has left the room, but she fights the urge to throw herself on the floor and beat the carpet with her fists, offering Joanna a seat instead. Joanna looks horrified and turns to inspect the chair, dusting it with a manicured hand and perching awkwardly, as if this is the first time she’s sat down in her life. All the while Richard is eyeing Emma with vast amusement.

‘So,’ booms Miranda on her return, ‘thank you for coming today. We’re tremendously excited about this book and hope you decide that Allen Chandler is the best home for it. Emma has prepared some data on the current market, our comparable titles and what we can offer Richard.’

‘Oh come on, Miranda, never mind that. This is a brilliant and original book. We all know that. Every other publisher is telling us that. Great. Fantastic. We’re thrilled. But what are you prepared to pay?’ Joanna’s voice is direct, fierce and as terrifying as her reputation. Emma gulps. No one speaks to Miranda like that. Her eyes betray thunder, but her smile remains fixed.

‘No Joanna, it’s OK, I think we should hear what Emma has to say.’ Richard’s voice is amused and almost mocking.

‘Do you?’ Joanna says in surprise. ‘Oh all right then. Let’s hear it.’

Emma’s heart is in her mouth. ‘Right, well I’ve prepared some data.’

‘Yes, yes. Miranda said that. Let’s see it.’

She passes round the pages.

‘Ooh, PowerPoint®. How modern!’ says Richard, and Joanna sniggers.

‘The first slide shows what we view as the benchmarks for this title and sales data to support,’ says Emma ignoring them.

‘
Life of Pi
?
The Book Thief
? Surely
The Red Orchid
is better than these?’ says Joanna looking unimpressed.

‘Well, I think so, yes. If you look at Allen Chandler’s own, comparable titles from the past five years we have exceeded sales of these industry benchmarks, and I see no reason why we can’t go even further with
The Red Orchid
.’

‘How?’

‘Well, it will obviously be picked up by the key retailers and reviewers.’

‘Ha! A Waterstone’s 3 for 2 and four inches in the
Guardian
does not a bestseller make.’

‘Well, then there’s the awards.’

‘Yes, but there’s no guarantee, is there?’

‘Of course not, but –’

‘What I want to know is, how are you going to make the UK’s most talented and original author since McEwan into an out and out bestseller?’

‘As I’ve said –’

‘But you haven’t said. It’s all hot air and promises you can’t keep, isn’t it?’

Richard is grinning, enjoying the spectacle, but for Emma it is turning into another fight with her mother. She is waiting for Joanna to tell her to go and tidy her room.

‘No, it’s not all hot air and promises,’ says Emma surprising everyone in the room including herself. Joanna looks at her sharply. ‘In the past ten years the fiction market has changed beyond recognition.’

‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ yawns Joanna.

‘Publishers are under incredible pressure to deliver profit, but are being squeezed by the demands of agents and authors for ever higher advances.’

‘And I suppose that’s my fault, is it?’ Joanna wants to spar. Emma won’t bite.

‘There are a whole host of publishers who will offer you more money than they can ever earn just to win your book.’

‘And?’

Emma address her directly now, refusing to be cowed. ‘And, those with the fattest cheque books don’t necessarily have what you need to turn a book from an emerging talent to a bestseller to a classic.’

‘Oh please impart your wisdom. What would that be?’

‘One word: Passion.’

Joanna snorts with derision. Miranda is watching Emma with what she detects is a glimmer of pride. Emma takes courage from this and addresses Richard directly. ‘Your characters, particularly Alexander and Newton, are the lifeblood of this book. They leap out and grab you by the throat, and Alexander’s unrequited love for Stella is one of the greatest love stories ever told. It’s a story that will stay with readers for ever.’

Richard’s eyes are fixed on Emma now, calm and steady. He has lost his earlier cockiness. He opens his mouth to speak but Joanna butts in. ‘Listen, I’m sure you’re a great editor and it’s lovely to hear that you’ve read and loved this book. Ya di ya big deal, but what are ya gonna pay?’ She spits out the last six words with venom.

Miranda clears her throat. ‘Joanna, I think it’s time we drew this meeting to a close.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Yes, so am I. I think we have been upfront, honest and seeringly enthusiastic for Richard’s book. If it’s all about the money, it’s not for us. Shall I see you to the lift?’ Miranda appears calm but the area of neck just below her ears has reddened.

‘But I thought –’ Joanna blurts.

‘Then you thought wrong. If other publishers are prepared to let you throw your weight around and patronise their editors, then more fool them. I, for one, am not.’

Joanna opens her mouth to speak but stops when she sees Miranda’s face. She raises herself up on her bony twig legs and pats her immobile hair. ‘Come on, Richard, let’s go to another, less short-sighted publisher.’ Joanna Uppington breezes out of the room on a waft of Chanel No. 5.

Richard is still staring at Emma.

‘Richard!’ shouts Joanna from the corridor.

Richard jumps up ready to follow, but stops at the door and turns to address Emma and Miranda. ‘I’m sorry, I have to erm, it was lovely to meet you –’

‘Richard!’ screeches Joanna again.

Richard holds up his hands and smiles like a defeated man. ‘Bye,’ he says and darts out of the door.

‘Tell me his written word is better than his spoken,’ says Miranda after a moment.

‘It is. Unfortunately,’ says Emma with a sigh. ‘Why does Joanna behave like that?’

‘Because, my dear, she is a bully and frankly we’re better off without them both.’ Her phone chirps and she glances at it, looking weary. Emma feels guilty. ‘It’s Digby. I better update him.’

Emma takes this as a signal to leave and tries to creep back to her desk unnoticed. She realises that the god of shit days has got it in for her as she turns the corner and Joel appears out of nowhere. Emma jumps. ‘Jesus, Joel!’

‘Ahh, thanks for the accolade, you can just call me Joel though. Sooo, how’d it go? Ooh. Not so good eh?’

‘I don’t know. We’ll just have to see.’

‘Ouch. That bad eh? You should have asked me to come along, Em. I would have been happy to help.’

Emma bristles at his familiar use of her name. Realising that homicide is probably not the best course of action, she tries to muster some dignity and shambles back to her desk. Almost immediately, Ella is by her side confirming that the Joel bush telegraph is fully operational.

‘Come on,’ she says, ‘we need Oreo cookie cheesecake and we need it now.’

The over-enthusiastic librarian has her hand up a surprised looking crocodile puppet as Rachel arrives hot and flustered at the library. As the highlight of pre-school entertainment in this town, the tiny space is packed with fifty or more mums and dads and their wriggly offspring. Rachel attempts to park her double buggy by the door.

‘Can’t park there, love,’ insists a red-faced man with a bunch of keys on his belt.

‘Can’t I?’ says Rachel irritated.

‘‘ealth ‘n’ safety innit?’ he insists.

‘Right. Fine.’ Rachel can’t be bothered to argue and steers the buggy round to ‘Large Print’. She turns round to see that Alfie has escaped, while is sister is still calmly disembarking. ‘Lily, where’s Alfie?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Lily with a complete lack of concern.

‘Oh shit!’

A large lady in her sixties who is dressed like a duchess tuts loudly in Rachel’s direction.

‘Sorry, it’s just that I’ve lost my –’

‘Boo!’ Alfie jumps out from behind a Catherine Cookson display.

The woman is unimpressed. ‘This isn’t a crèche, you know.’

Rachel wants to respond but Alfie is tugging at her leg,

‘Let’s go and see Joe, Mummy.’

‘All right, darling. Silly old bag,’ mutters Rachel.

Lily giggles. ‘Silly old bag!’

The woman looks around and Rachel smiles trying to look innocent. ‘Bye!’

After a row of ‘sorry’s’ and side-shuffles, she reaches Sue and Christa and their respective sons, Joe and Roger. ‘What did I miss?’ she whisper to Sue.

‘Just a couple of ‘Bobbins’ and an energetic ‘Sailor Went to Sea’.’

The librarian, a bony woman of indeterminate age, is now handing out musical instruments. Alfie shakes his sleigh bell enthusiastically resulting in a glancing blow to Roger’s bemused face.

‘Alfie! Say sorry.’

‘Sorreeee,’ sings Alfie with a grin.

Roger looks unsure, but then joins in as Joe takes this as a cue for an impromptu sword fight.

‘Boys! Stop it!’ commands Lily. ‘I can’t hear the lady.’

The boys comply and Sue smiles, impressed. ‘Got her mother’s way with men, has she?’

‘I wish. Wait until I tell you what Steve’s got lined up for us.’

‘I’m hoping it’s an all expenses paid trip to 5-star luxury beach resort with hot and cold running nannies but from your face, I’m guessing not.’

‘Ok, mums, dads, boys and girls, are we ready to be jingle-jangle scarecrows?’

‘Tell you over a latte,’ says Rachel with a rictus, ready-to-sing grin.

Emma lets Ella take her by the arm like some doddery old dear and they make the short walk to Auntie Mabel’s, the favourite haunt for any day when they’re in need of a consolation doughnut or celebratory bun. Emma has always thought it a shame that there is no Auntie Mabel: The proprietors are Simon and his partner David and they happily dispense cake and wisdom as a favourite auntie would.

‘Ohmygod. David? Look at that face. Bad news, is it sweetie?’ says Simon as the bell above the door signals their entrance.

Emma lets out an enormous sigh in response and nods, adopting the look of a dejected child.

‘Oh my darling, bring those puppy dog eyes here. Uncle Simon will make it better.’ He embraces her and guides them to a table covered with a red check cloth and tomato-shaped ketchup bottle. ‘Here, have Audrey’s table. I’m guessing it’s two caps and two cheesecake?’