The moment I left the house I thought of thirty things I needed to tell Dan and texted him as I walked.
“I think her blazer might be on the hook in the downstairs loo.”
“Tell Miles to remember his homework!”
“He might need gloves too.”
“Can you defrost some sausages?”
Normally he’d reply with a teasing emoji or a “Yes your majesty” but today I got a terse “OK.” Frowning, I looked at the two letters. What was up with him?
Christ, had I remembered the papers I’d printed off for the meeting? Had the taxi sent a confirmation? Oh, did I make toad-in-the-hole on Saturday too?
The tube was just over the road and I stepped off the pavement. The sound of a bell, a shout and I lurched backward as a cyclist swerved round me. My heel caught in the drain and I panicked as I reached to free it.
“For fuck . . .” The cyclist glared over his shoulder.
Heart pounding, I put my phone away, pausing to calm my breathing and take extra care to look right then left before crossing.
As I pushed through the turnstile the back of my left heel was rubbing against the stiff leather. Why hadn’t I worn the boots?
Standing on the escalator, the smell of onions and damp around me, I stared at the other commuters in a range of different coats, clutching bags, zipping up rucksacks. Another Monday, another ordinary day. How many of these faces had I unwittingly stared at on other Mondays? I pulled out my phone once more, a window of time to draft some replies to things.
Forty-two Committee notifications now, two more WhatsApp messages from Lou, whose first novel had been out for two weeks. Why didn’t I have a specific work phone? She loved a panicked WhatsApp message. And an email. And a phone call. I started to type.
The tube spat me out as I tapped and I moved in the flow of commuters up and out, blinking at the shock of the milky blue sky. Walking quickly toward the agency, I stopped at the small café on the corner, realizing I hadn’t even had a coffee or anything to eat yet. That cinnamon swirl must still be in its bag on the kitchen counter. Oh, maybe that was why Dan was cross with me?
“Hazelnut latte, please,” I said distractedly to the barista with the tattoo on his neck, a twisted symbol in black. I’d never asked what it was despite visiting the café almost every weekday.
He smiled at me, a gap between his two front teeth which always reminded me of Poppy, “And a blueberry muffin?”
“All right,” I mumbled, realizing how often I ordered the two things, a creature of habit. God, when had I become that? “Thanks . . .” I trailed off, realizing I should really ask his name. Would it be too embarrassing though? To ask now after he must be handing me about my thousandth muffin? I pulled out my mobile again.
“Oh, skimmed milk,” I added quickly, looking back up, remembering Amelia star-jumping on the beach that morning. Like skimmed milk would combat the hazelnut syrup hit. I really needed to lose the half stone, fine, stone, I’d put on in the last couple of years since turning forty. But who has the time to sign up for a gym? Or go running? Or just fit in exercise in the endless list of things to do in the day.
I saw a message from Hattie about lunch and bit my lip. I’d love to see Hattie for lunch but could I really take an hour for it? This meeting from hell was lined up and Linda had insisted we meet at the office first, which just added more time. And I was always making Hattie head to Hammersmith so that I could nip out of the office when she worked from home in Wimbledon. She said she didn’t mind, the tech company she worked for in Silicon Valley were chill and she tended to work later in the day so her mornings were less full, but it wasn’t fair on her. I left the message unopened so Hattie wouldn’t see I’d read it. When had I even last seen her? It’d been ages for us, way too long and I missed her: I’d definitely reply when I knew what my day looked like.
Christ, I had twenty-seven emails already and I’d only checked them last night before bed. My chest squeezed a little. Grabbing my bag and coffee, I headed out of the café with a shouted thanks.
Sneaking quietly into our office, a peeling white building sandwiched between two larger, glass-fronted offices, I glanced at the coat rack, relieved to see it empty. Dread pitted in my stomach at the thought of the morning ahead. Would the stuff I’d put together be enough?
I squeezed down the hallway still in my coat, my bag brushing the books stacked in precarious towers that lined the walls. I’d only answered three emails—two of them rejections for Scarlet’s latest book, currently out on submission—before getting interrupted by the buzzer.
Scarlet had been my first signing. In among being a mum to two teens and supporting her ill husband with teaching work, she still produced wonderful novels; she could plumb the depths of emotion like no one else. I knew I needed to phone her, to update her. A new book deal would restore her faltering confidence. I would check in later; reassure her we still had options.
The buzzer went again and the car purring in the narrow one-way street was the taxi I’d booked. Grabbing my bag and slamming the front door behind me, I wondered how I could delay him. As I was lifting my mobile to my ear to phone Linda I saw them, walking along the pavement, arms linked as if they were a retired couple out for a stroll, not a worry in the world.
Arthur Chumley, startling in red corduroy trousers and an unironed rust jersey, long graying gray hair curling at the collar, Linda in her favorite fur coat (mink, “vicious little things, Emma”), her hair a cloud of stiff bottle-blonde curls, lips stained red, she drew from her cigarette.
“Gemma,” Arthur said, lifting my right hand to his dry lips.
“The taxi’s here,” I said, pointing at the waiting vehicle with my left, another car stopping just behind it.
“We had to go out for coffee—Jasmina offered Arthur instant,” Linda said with an eye roll, lipstick on her front tooth. “Imagine! He can’t abide granules.”
“We really do need to get on . . .” I said, quickly extracting my hand from our most successful client’s clutches. The hand that pretty much paid all our wages. Ten million copies worldwide, a successful nineties TV series, creator of the world’s most famous one-armed alcoholic detective. He’d been one of Linda’s first acquisitions when she started the agency forty years ago, and even though I was no longer her assistant, I was still called on for all matters relating to his publishing. It felt like both Linda and Arthur wanted a subordinate, solidifying their own opinion that he was the most important author out there. It was a role I’d tried, and failed, to get out of playing.
“Do we have to go?” Arthur pouted. “I’d much rather take you beautiful ladies out to lunch.”
“Oh Arthur,” Linda pealed, stubbing her cigarette out on the pavement. “So naughty,” she said. “It is an absolute bore. But Emma here has assured me she’s got it all under control.”
I couldn’t help the panicked glance in her direction. Under control? I’d spent every second since her phone call that had blown up my weekend worrying what might happen in the next couple of hours. This meeting could change everything: for the agency, for Arthur, for her, for me.
“All you need to focus on is writing us more of your wonderful books,” Linda continued, oblivious to the three cars now paused in the street, the taxi driver lifting both hands in exasperation as honking filled the air.
“We really need to get on,” I said, over the noise, moving toward the taxi.
“To our chariot,” Arthur announced as if he was escorting us to the Oscars and not to our professional deaths.
I thought of Scarlet’s rejections as I settled into the taxi, watching Arthur, who smelled of sour milk, bang his meaty thigh as he lamented the takeover of young female crime writers in the industry—“They’re everywhere now”—Linda soothing him from her seat. What was I doing?