Tell Him About It (2 page)

When Simon realised that he wasn’t going to get his way and convince Sara to stay the night he grew a little sullen – and pouted. They kissed each other good night however and Sara flagged down a taxi to take her home.

She pulled out her phone and tried to make inroads into her inbox during the journey back to Clapham. An author had thanked her for a successful event she had arranged for him at a literary festival. A creative writing magazine had got back to her to say that they would like to profile a crime writer she looked after. Sara rolled her eyes though upon reading an email from her boss, Cruella Duvall.

Sara, be a darling and pick up my dry cleaning tomorrow. I’ve got a busy morning at the hairdresser’s and I won’t have time. Thanks, M.

Sara also received a message from a new author she was about to work with, confirming their meeting for tomorrow. Adam Cooper was a bestselling military thriller writer. He had been called “the thinking man’s Andy McNab,” which was more than a little unfair on Andy McNab and whoever had ghost written his books. Sara had inherited the publicity campaign from a colleague who had recently left the company to go travelling. Although a
Sunday Times
Top Ten author Adam Cooper had become more famous recently for having married the socialite celebrity, Victoria Glass. Or rather his name had been in the papers of late for having divorced her. Sara had checked out the latest gossip on the pair that morning. She was forever being photographed by the paparazzi coming out of parties and restaurants, with a different date each time (a rugby player, actor, TV presenter, property tycoon). She had also given a number of interviews on daytime television, hinting that she had tried her best with the marriage but it had failed due to her husband’s drinking and affairs. Newspapers always reported that Adam Cooper was unable to comment in reply to his wife’s allegations.

Sara spent the rest of the evening reading Adam Cooper’s new book,
Hidden Agenda
.

3.

“You need to use it, without letting Cooper know you’re doing so,” Margaret Duvall remarked, perching herself on the desk. She anxiously tapped her foot, her body craving another cigarette. She wore a close-fitting blood red dress which showed off her long, tanned (orange) legs to Julian Smythe, Adam Cooper’s editor. Margaret Duvall loved flirting with younger men – nearly as much as she liked bullying younger women. She was a faded beauty, whose traits of bitterness and incompetence were still in bloom, Sara mused.

“But I don’t want to lie, either to the author or my contacts,” Sara replied, sitting before them like a pupil who had been called into the headmaster’s office. The pair had asked her to spread the word to feature journalists and TV and radio that Cooper would talk about his marriage in exchange for talking about the new book – although the author had already given express instructions that he didn’t want to be interviewed about his ex-wife.

“Darling, if you’re uncomfortable with lying, then why did you ever choose to become a publicist?” the publicity director posited, only half joking, in her shrill voice.

Julian Smythe gave off a conspiratorial chuckle, flicking his long fringe out of his eyes as he did so. Many of the women in the office found the editor attractive and charming, although Sara begged to differ. He was average height, average build – indeed he was average in a remarkable number of ways, she thought. He was well groomed, well spoken and had attended Eton. Unfortunately he came away from the school with a sense of entitlement, rather than a good education. Julian had made a clumsy pass at her at the Christmas party six months ago.

“Let’s just have this one night Sara. We’ve both wanted this for a while. I’ll help you get a job in editorial... I want to un-wrap you like a Christmas present... Just one night. It’ll mean nothing,” he had argued, or rather drunkenly pleaded.

“It may not mean ‘nothing’ to your wife though,” Sara had wryly replied – extricating herself from the awkward scene. Julian had seldom been amiable or professionally supportive since the embarrassing encounter, but Sara was compensated by the fact that the arrogant creep mainly kept his distance now. There also seemed to be plenty of other young women in the office who he, sometimes quite literally, licked his lips over.

The plants in his office were as artificial as his smile. Although the screen saver on the monitor was the original cover of
The Great Gatsby
Sara had, on more than one occasion, seen porn on his computer. Julian Smythe had originally secured his job in publishing, after graduating from Exeter University, through being the best friend of the son of the company’s old managing director. The publishing industry is more incestuous than Wales (or Texas) in regards to the nepotism and cronyism which serves as its recruitment policy (indeed Bradley House’s idea of ethnic diversity was to employ the occasional white South African as a temporary receptionist). The gene pool of labour was as shallow as Julian Smythe. Sara didn’t rate his judgement or productivity as an editor either. He had recently published a string of flops, overpaying in terms of advances and not shaping books correctly.

“Fucking supermarkets. They’ve buried the book before it’s even published. Bloody plebs. They took on his last two books, why haven’t they picked this one up?” Julian had bemoaned the other week, after hearing about the low pre-orders for one of his crime writers. The following day however, when the author and his agent had come in for a meeting, he had argued that “Waterstones can still break a book... and there’s always WH Smith’s Travel... and a buyer at an independent chain says he really likes the cover and may order in a few extra copies... but we cannot now justify a tube advert campaign... although it looks like we may be able to include you on a panel event at a Crime Festival...”

The smarmy editor thought that he had glossed over things well in the meeting. The rest of the people in the room thought differently however.

Thankfully, for Julian, he still looked after two bestselling authors – who the company directors knew were loyal to Smythe and would walk if Bradley House sacked the editor. One of the bestselling authors played in Julian’s cricket team and the other was his second cousin. Julian’s other bankable writer though was Adam Cooper and the publishers had just tabled an offer to sign up his next three books. Cooper and his agent had said that they would wait and see how the latest release performed before committing to further titles. Hence Sara had been called into the office and told to perform – and weight her time towards promoting
Hidden Agenda
, to the point of ignoring the other writers in her care for the month. An intern could just stuff review copies of their books into jiffy bags to an out-dated mailing list – and that would serve as their publicity campaign.

“So do you understand what you’ve got to do?” Margaret Duvall said, tapping her feet with even greater urgency. “Devote all of your time to Cooper. Promise the press they can have an exclusive interview with him about Victoria Glass if they plug the book. But make sure Cooper doesn’t find out. He’ll thank us in the end when we generate extra sales. He just doesn’t know what’s best for him at the moment. And show some leg while you’re with him. If reports from his wife are true, he fancies himself as a ladies’ man. We’ve already arranged some events around the country so you’ll have a week to impress him and convince him that we’re still the right home for his books.”

Julian Smythe nodded in agreement and smiled as the senior publicist spoke, glancing both at her legs and then Sara’s breasts as he did so. Sara felt uncomfortable, in regards to both her instructions and the leer on the editor’s face, but she nodded her head to convey she understood. She knew she was being double-teamed and bullied. She knew that she was being set up for blame should Cooper not sign another contract. She knew that, sooner or later, the author would find out about the deception – or her press contacts would think less of her when they broached the subject of Cooper’s ex-wife to him and he remained silent. But what could she say, or do?

Sara sighed as she sat back down at her desk. The colour – and life – had drained out of her face. Her friend and fellow publicist, Polly (Julian creepily nicknamed her “Pretty Polly”), asked if she was feeling okay. Sara forced a smile and nodded, unconvincingly, whilst saying she was fine. Sara sighed again, however, after seeing how her inbox had filled up once more during the time that she had been in the meeting. Most of the emails were from a variety of authors (some needy, some grateful, some businesslike, some conceited). Before attempting the Sisyphean task of trying to clear her messages – she did not have the heart to completely ignore them – Sara decided to take her tea break. She needed a caffeine fix and wanted a shoulder to cry on in regards to the recent meeting. As she walked through the open plan office Sara witnessed others on their breaks, or “working”. A number were on their personal Facebook accounts or watching YouTube – or sending out messages about the latest moral outrage trending on twitter, or reacting to the latest episode of a faddish reality TV show. Others did their nails or gossiped (the productive people were able to do both at the same time). To be fair though, one or two people were genuinely hard at work, Sara noticed. Everyone blamed eBooks and Amazon for revenues being down, but there was an elephant in the room when they made that case – and the elephant was complacency.

Sara found a quiet spot outside of her building. She knew that Rosie would be busy this time of day so she called Simon. The call went to voicemail (he seldom answered his phone) but he quickly sent an email via his Blackberry as compensation.

All well babe? xx

Yes – and no. Just could use someone to talk to. Not having the greatest day at work.

Sorry, can’t talk right now. Just about to have a lunch meeting with some clients. Don’t fret about work tho’. Think happy thoughts. Treat yourself to a pastry and keep your spirits – and serotonin levels – up. Think about your recent pay rise and how much more gorgeous and sexy you are, compared to your gnarled and scatty bitch of a boss. Xx

Can we talk, just for two minutes? Just want to hear your voice. xx

But he failed to reply.

4.

Sara sat in the coffee shop across the road from her building and looked at her watch again. Adam Cooper was fifteen minutes late. She was already anxious about the meeting, given his reputation for drinking and womanising. She also still felt uncomfortable about her task of approaching the press and pitching that Cooper would talk about his failed marriage against his wishes. Sara had dealt with authors who had big egos, or flirted with her and thought they were God’s gift to women before – she could (just about) handle that. But she had never actively betrayed someone like she had been asked to do in regards to Adam Cooper. The waiting only made it worse.

She recognised her author from his book jacket photo as he walked through the door. Adam scanned the room, not knowing what his publicist looked like. Sara smiled and waved at him. He was dressed casually in a navy blue polo shirt, jeans and well worn boots. He was unshaven and his short-ish brown crop of hair was unkempt. His eyes were red-rimmed with drink, or a lack of sleep. His face seemed weathered, but filled with good humour too. In some ways he appeared older than he was, but his boyish smile could then make him seem younger than his thirty-three years. As Adam thrust out his hand to shake Sara’s she noticed a pale white mark on his tanned wedding band finger from where he had recently removed his ring.

“Sorry for being late. Do you mind if we go somewhere else for our meeting? There’s a pub next door. I’m not really one for coffee shops, not because of their policy towards avoiding paying tax but I can’t stand the inane conversation and self-satisfied people in them. At least when people talk bollocks in a pub they’ve the excuse that they’ve had a drink.”

Sara noticed that his South London accent came through when Cooper swore. When she read up on him she discovered that the author was originally brought up in Eltham, the son of a bricklayer and dinner lady. His formal education was minimal (a few critics even insinuated that his books must have been ghost written, as they believed that no one without a university education, like theirs, could have written them). Cooper had joined the army at an early age but left after his first tour of Afghanistan. His first book, a military thriller set in Helmand, was an instant bestseller and he had written half a dozen books since. Sara offered her author a look of disapproval on his suggestion that they go to the pub, as she thought it inappropriate, but he pretended not to notice and turned to head back out of the overly trendy, over priced coffee shop.

Sara arched her eyebrow a little on entering the slightly less than trendy public house,
The Duke of Marlborough
. She arched it even more when she had to brush crumbs of food off her seat before she sat down – as she also noticed a trio of regulars at the bar raise their eyebrows in appreciation at the former fashion model.

“Would you like a drink?” Adam asked. A twinkle lit up his expression as soon as he entered the pub, Sara couldn’t help but observe.

“Just a mineral water will be fine,” she replied.

Adam offered his prim publicist a slight look of disapproval – he thought it inappropriate not to order a proper drink – but Sara pretended not to notice and turned to fish around in her handbag for her notes on the publicity schedule. She watched, however, as Adam went to the bar and made the (bottle) blonde barmaid laugh, as he bought her a drink also.

When Adam sat back down Sara ran through the publicity itinerary – and pitch list – that she was working on. He was due to take part in a number of signings and book talks, in and outside London, over the coming week. He was also set to give a few interviews via phone and email – and write a couple of short articles for crime and military magazines. When they returned from their short tour there would be a publication dinner.