“Jas,” I called as I arrived in the office. “Jas, are you back?”
“Yup, in here slaving,” came the reply.
I didn’t remove my coat but barreled down the narrow corridor and into our office. Jas was sat, the familiar mustard-yellow sweater, a pencil stuck in her hair.
“You,” I said, as I reached across and removed it, “are a publishing stereotype. Do you even use it to write?
“Ha. And also,” she glanced at the clock, “how are you back this quickly? How did it go?” She lowered her voice, “Are you alone?”
For a moment I wondered what she was referring to and then realized somewhere in London, Linda and Arthur were blowing up a meeting.
“Oh,” I waved a hand dismissively, “I didn’t go.”
“What the—!” The panic was real and sudden and I held up a hand to stop her.
“It’s OK, it’s OK, I’ll explain another time. I wanted to ask you about that book.”
Jas was still all rounded eyes and flapping hands. “Which book, Emma, there are a lot of books,” she said, indicating the eighteen thousand piles of books stacked on every surface in our office alone.
“Ha, ha, very funny. I mean the book you keep asking me to read, by Ernestina, that book.”
“Oh,” she said, her eyes lighting. “Yes, what about it?”
“Oh my God, I want to read it, obviously—can you send it over?”
“Of course.” Jas looked startled as she turned to tap on her keyboard.
“Actually could you print out the synopsis and first three chapters.”
“All right, Linda.”
“Ha ha.”
She clicked on the mouse, and another ancient printer that Linda had never learned how to work whirred as it spat out the pages.
“Amazing,” I said. “I’m going to take them to the café, I don’t want to be back here when Arthur and Linda return. I would advise you do the same.”
“Oh my God, Emma, how are you not more worried? If we lose Arthur we a) probably lose some serious money coming into the agency and b) have to deal with a neurotic Linda, like a turbo neurotic Linda, Linda on speed. And why are you not there anyway?” She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t look ill. Are you ill?” She threw her hands up to her face. “Oh God, you haven’t got something serious, have you? Invisible but deadly?”
“No,” I said, “I haven’t. Look, I can’t be bothered to explain today—just trust me, OK? Now, hand those over.” I held out my hand for them.
Jas paused for a second, the A4 sheets in her fist. “I’m suddenly nervous,” she admitted, “like, I really love this book but like what if you don’t? What will that mean? What if you don’t love it?”
“Jas, oh my God, you’re worse than Lou. I’m sure I’ll like it.”
“No,” she said, still not handing the pages over, “you need to love it, like, they need to blow you away and you should want to beg me for the rest.”
I waggled my fingers impatiently.
Jas bit her lip and relented, placing them in my hand. “If you don’t like them what will that say about my judgment, our friendship?” she said dramatically.
“I’m leaving,” I said, folding the pages and putting them in my bag as I left the office. Exiting down the darkened corridor I sent an enormous pile of Arthur Chumley thrillers flying. “Oops.” I didn’t bother to put them back.
The café was almost empty, two women leaning across the narrow table lost in conversation, a pram idling by the side. Jurek greeted me warmly as I approached the counter. I noticed the red tinsel he’d pinned along the countertop, the sprayed Father Christmas silhouettes on the mirrored menu board behind him. The sight vivid, cheering.
“Hazelnut latte. Blueberry muffin?” He was already reaching for the tongs.
“Thank you. I love the decorations,” I said at the same time as he spoke.
“Muffin on the house.”
I took my coffee and plate over to the window, admiring a small Christmas tree in the corner of the room, baubles golden, fairy lights flashing in the soft light. I settled myself down with the pages.
I was used to reading submissions; you could tell something might have potential from a synopsis, even a cover letter sometimes. But the book was always an unknown. You wanted to be hooked from the first page. Sometimes a first paragraph had given me a thrill. Those books where you felt nervous phoning the author, praying they couldn’t hear the tremble in your voice, worrying someone else had got in first because you needed to represent the book.
I recalled my first phone call with Lou. How overwhelmed and self-deprecating she’d been on the phone. Her quiet intake of breath as I’d told her I’d loved her writing. That exploring the darker side of motherhood was fascinating, and her setting in the Lake District—the descriptions never slowing the pace—was perfect. “It’s a stunning book. I’d love to work with you on it if you would like that?”
Her explosion of excitement. “I’d love that, oh my God, I was so nervous when I hadn’t heard anything but, oh my God, you’re like my dream agent.”
Poor Lou. I needed to set boundaries with her and try to remind her of the excitement rather than the anxiety of it all, manage her expectations better, give her a clearer insight into the world of publishing. It had been partly my fault—I’d assumed she knew what to expect, and I hadn’t spent the time I might have done preparing her properly. But how can you truly explain the mad ride of publishing to a writer?
As a heady first-time author you really don’t have a clue—imagining when you get an agent, a publishing deal is a cert. Then when you get a publishing deal you have visions of walking into a Waterstones, of immediately seeing your book on the table, possibly a poster of your face on a tube station wall, or a TV advert. A promotion in WHSmith’s. A review in The Times (glowing, obviously, something about “the defining book of the decade”). Marketing departments talk in jargon that all sounds so thrilling. So when publication day comes, for some it can be an enormous anticlimax. There’s no tube poster, no book on a table. In fact, when you ask the bored assistant why it is not on the shelf, he taps his computer and tells you they don’t stock it. There is no Times review, but three people on Goodreads with names like UnicornGirl67 have told you your writing is lousy, the plot predictable, and they skim-read most of it. Even your own friends and family haven’t noticed. One random aunt has bought six copies, two friends you barely remember from primary school leave notes on your Facebook wall. And other than that: radio silence. Lou was experiencing all of this and I needed to support her through it. She was just scared her efforts had been for nothing.
I picked up my mobile and tapped out a message to her. “Let’s meet later this week and come up with an action plan!”
Then I settled back to read.
It was obvious from the first page that I was in assured hands. If Jas hadn’t told me the author was a mere twenty-six years old I’d have assumed they were older. The premise was great, and the protagonist seemed really interesting—I could see why Jas was excited. It had that great mix of the dark alongside the humorous and, despite the subject matter being pretty devastating, it contained wonderfully poignant moments.
When I went to take a sip of my latte I almost spat it out. It had moved beyond tepid to cold. The women and the pram had left without me noticing and I had finished the twenty-four pages. Outside clouds had gathered, time had moved on while I’d been lost in Glasgow’s merchant city. Jurek was grinning at me as I placed the cup down, my face twisted in disgust.
“I’ll bring you fresh one,” he laughed, “you were off dreaming.”
I was disappointed the pages had ended so abruptly: a great sign. It was clear from the synopsis that the book would absolutely deliver. Excitement fizzed in my stomach for Jas and this excellent book.
Jurek replaced the latte and I smiled at him, enjoying the knowledge that I could now sit in this quiet café in London, a city I’d always adored, drinking the best coffee as I ran through potential editors in my head. Jas had been spot on; this was an exhilarating submission, current, fresh, dark, funny. The list of editors who might be interested was already forming in my mind. This would be an ideal first book for Jas—she could really make her mark as an agent in her own right.
“Today you are happy,” Jurek commented.
“Today,” I tilted my head, “I am happy.”
I watched him move away, thinking of the tiny exchanges we’ve always had, and realized that part of the reason I liked coming to the café was seeing him, something joyful in the small moments of his being. A ready smile, a lighthearted comment, something solid and contented in the way he moved. I thought of what I now knew about his life, as complicated as many others—the loss of a father, the worries he had about his mother—and then a simple idea struck me forcibly and I downed the last dregs of the coffee.
“Hold on,” I said, flinging on my coat and collecting up my things to return to the office, “I’ll be back in a second.”