Seeing Hayley in the lobby of the publisher did something to me. The urge to tell someone, a friend, overwhelmed me. Launching myself off the sofa, I squeezed her tightly. Her body remained rigid.
“Can we talk after?” I whispered, desperate to share.
“Do come up,” she said, avoiding my eye, her voice stiff.
I hadn’t stopped thinking in the taxi, trying to work out what it all meant. If everything was the same at least I had time. Doubt still snuck in so I messaged Dan anyway, relief overwhelming me as I saw he was typing a response. Linda had been glancing in my direction, barely reacting to Arthur’s rant about young female crime writers.
“Are you ready?” Linda’s tight grip was on my arm, a rictus smile in place as we followed Hayley across the polished foyer to the lift. “You have prepared. You said you would.”
“I did. I’m more than ready.” I recalled the vital papers I’d worked on, freshly printed and left . . . at home. “Over-ready! It’ll be like I’ve done it all before.” The laugh that followed was high.
Oh God, the fart in the lift. It seemed worse today. I wrinkled my nose. “Fart,” I said suddenly. Three people twisted round to look at me.
Ding.
Hayley led the way and Linda held me back, “Emma,” she hissed. “What is going on?”
“Nothing,” I said. OK, I wasn’t sure I was OK. My insides felt like they were unraveling, my head too full of questions.
Hayley was waiting for me outside the conference room, an eyebrow raised when I lingered. I stepped forward, mouthing I NEED TO TALK TO YOU, but she just looked puzzled. When I walked past her into the room I managed to whisper an ominous “Help me” and that made her look up sharply.
“Talk after?” she whispered back.
I nodded so heartily I thought my head would fall off my neck.
“. . . he is tired of life; Samuel Johnson.”
“Bet old Johnson never had to catch the tube in rush hour though, am I right?” I said as I sat, and the two women at the table lifted their heads in unison.
I snapped my mouth shut. I just needed to survive the meeting so I could move through this weird day, get back to Dan. I glanced down at my phone, heart warming at his text in response to mine.
“Mr. Chumley. Thank you for coming in to see us this morning. Obviously, we would like to address the quite serious situation that arose this weekend.”
This was surreal. Everyone looked super solemn and I felt as if I was leaving my body and watching us all around that glossy table.
“‘I would much rather be stuck in bed with her, not her book. There’d be more action.’”
Was this real? What would happen if I jabbed my pen into my ar—
“Ow,” I shrieked, grabbing my arm.
Everyone swiveled toward me, Melissa’s speech tailing away.
“Sorry,” I whispered, holding up my arm. “Just . . . checking.”
“I was speaking privately to another writer.”
“Twitter is never private.”
“I realize that now,” Arthur said pompously.
I didn’t mean for the laugh to escape. Everyone craned to look at me again.
“Sorry,” I said, Linda’s look shriveling my insides, “I um, was thinking, of something funny I heard . . . the other day . . . about . . .” I looked around wildly and stared at the river, “A boat.”
“Right,” Melissa said, frowning and shuffling papers. “Well, there is nothing amusing about all this. And I’m sure the author on the receiving end is not laughing.”
Her hand curled into the familiar fist. Only this time I felt it was directed at Arthur and me.
“My tweets will stick to the prospects of Leeds United and vintage cars.”
It was his smug expression as he leaned back in his chair that did it.
“Or you could come off Twitter altogether, Arthur?” I suggested, my voice bright.
Arthur snapped to attention, Linda’s eyes narrowed, and Melissa shot a look at Hayley.
“What I mean to say is,” I cleared my throat, realizing things were going wrong, that I could affect things and needed to be careful here. I tried to remember what I’d pulled off yesterday. What had I said? “I know you take these things very seriously. So Arthur is going to pay a large amount to a scheme. A scheme for women. Writing women.” That was it!
Arthur spluttered; flecks of spit spattered on the glass tabletop.
“Yes, that was it, Arthur will apologize, come off Twitter, make a sizable donation and—”
“I’m going to do no such thing,” Arthur said, the pasty face going puce.
“Yes Emma, I am not quite sure what has come over you,” added Linda, “but the good folks here know that this isn’t a crime. We can get things sorted out. A few people seeing a tiny chirp is hardly cause for alarm.”
“The tweet was seen by a far-reaching audience; it is still being shared.” Melissa’s voice was brittle. “It’s utterly unacceptable and if Mr. Chumley, or you, cannot recognize that, we really will need to reconsider whether we wish to continue in this partnership. We haven’t yet finalized the new contract, and we can pause that process while we consider our next steps.”
She sat back again, her own team staring at her. This was not how it was meant to go. Shit. Linda looked really angry now. Oh bollocks. Could I salvage this? Did I even want to? I thought of our mortgage, of the stress caused if I lost my job. Dan and I were just getting sorted financially; last year we’d started saving, actual savings for a rainy day like sensible adults. But it didn’t have to be the end. I just needed to be brave.
Arthur clearly felt more confident. The self-satisfied looks had been replaced with steely eyes and squared shoulders. “I won’t be bullied into an apology for something I said in jest and which has now been deleted.”
Linda patted her cloud of hair. “Any other publisher will be biting my hand off to publish, Arthur. Have no worries on that score.”
“If you really want to take a stand in this way . . .” Melissa said, her eyes flashing behind purple frames.
Arthur’s peacock chest jutted out. “I cannot live in this new fascist world, where we’re too frightened of saying anything lest it cause offense in some way.”
“Asking our authors to respect each other on public platforms,” growled Melissa, “is hardly fascist.”
I found myself nodding feverishly at Melissa’s words.
“The woman couldn’t take a joke!”
“Mr. Chumley, if you cannot see your words were not a joke I am afraid we, at Charter, have a serious problem.”
Arthur tipped his chin up. “Then I can write my words with another publisher. And my fans will follow,” he added with a flare of his nostrils.
Linda darted a look at him. I realized she looked concerned for the first time. Would it be easy to find him a new publisher, and one who paid as much? His last few books hadn’t sold in the same numbers as his previous works, and the stink of this would follow.
“Wait, wait, wait . . . This isn’t what is meant to happen,” I said, rubbing my temples.
But no one was listening. Melissa was muttering and moving paper around, her partner was struck dumb, Hayley was completely bug-eyed, and Linda was gaping like a fish.
Arthur bounced to his feet and stormed out of the room, Linda sharply following. I scuttled after them, shooting an agonized look at Hayley.
As Linda got into the lift with Arthur she held her hand up. “I need to talk to my client alone,” she told me, and then added in a hiss, “I will talk to you later today.”
I bit my lip.
“Hayley, see Emma out of the building.” Melissa had followed us, glaring as if I’d been the one to tweet offensively.
“I’m sorry, I . . .” I stopped. I couldn’t fix this. And I shouldn’t be disloyal or say anything that might be mentioned again. I worked for Linda; Arthur was her client.
Hayley stood grimly next to me in the elevator.
“I really need to talk to you,” I said, turning to her urgently as she pressed the lift down.
“I can’t, Emma, I’m sorry.”
“No, no, not about Arthur, well sort of . . . the thing is . . .”
Hayley spun round. “Emma, I’ve got to go back upstairs and help fix all this. I don’t have time to be a friend.”
I nodded mutely. “Of course,” I mumbled, feeling horribly tearful suddenly. “Of course.”
Hayley bit her lip. “You’re not dying or anything like that, are you?”
I looked at her with watery eyes and then forced a smile on my face, “No,” I said carefully. “No, not dying. It can wait . . .”