6
Our hotel is tucked away in a townhouse, a few streets away from Angel tube station. My first summer home from Edinburgh, I interned at a small publishing house around here. I spent long summer evenings in old red-bricked pubs, or lazing on the green with colleagues. Every lunchtime, I’d head out with the other assistants to one of the local markets, trying all the different foods and making sure our salaries never went far. I still think fondly of that office, especially when I’m cooped up in a grey cubicle: from every window, you could see trees. From my window in New York, it’s just buildings.
The driver helps us with our bags, and we drag them up the steps into the foyer, which is beautiful: all period features and antique furniture, crown moulding lining the ceilings. A Jane Austen dream. I don’t know how we managed to book this and stay on budget – Jessica must have used some serious powers of negotiation.
I get up to the room, which has a claw-footed bathtub I’d give my left foot to be able to spend the evening soaking in. But we have to leave for the first event in under an hour – a private party in a rare bookshop in Bloomsbury Square hosted by Jack’s UK publisher for industry people and journalists. So instead, I splash some cold water on my face and pull on the beautiful red chiffon dress Sara lent me. I risk a glance in the mirror and what I see is not half bad: Sara was right that this dress would suit me. I text her: Miss you so much it hurts . Thank you for the dress! She texts back immediately: Miss you, too. Enjoy the dusty old books!
Before I forget, I text my mum, too – to let her know I’ve landed safely. Her reply also comes in swiftly, in a tone so effusive it chokes me up immediately: My Andy Pandy is in the UK!! Lunch booked at Gino’s at 2pm xxxx. Gino’s is our favourite restaurant, around the corner from the house I grew up in. We used to go there with Dad for my birthdays.
I swallow the lump that has suddenly appeared in my throat and text back Can’t wait! , carefully matching her four kisses, then shove my phone in my handbag and head downstairs a few minutes early to wait out front for the car which has been scheduled to take us to the event. It’s a beautiful evening – not cold enough for a jacket, but mild. The waning light hits the buildings across the street, turning them a soft orange. I breathe in, allowing myself a moment of reflection. Here, on this empty street, the soft buzz of London traffic in the background, I feel almost calm. And through the calm, a flutter of excitement appears: a car is arriving shortly, to take me to a high-profile event for a famous author. Objectively, a part of me can acknowledge in this moment that Sara was right: this is cool.
Unfortunately, Jack arrives a few moments later, ruining the illusion. He’s dressed sharply, in chinos and a navy jacket. When he sees me, I could swear he does a double take. My momentary excitement is immediately replaced by irritation. Ugh .
‘You look—’
I hold up my hand to tell him to shove whatever compliment he’s about to offer back down his throat. ‘Got it,’ he says, shaking his head as if he’s annoyed with himself. ‘I’ll shut up.’ He stops short of me, so there are a few metres between us as we wait for the car to arrive in a now-awkward silence. I’m not willing to break it, so instead close my eyes and take a few breaths, trying to shift into professional-Andie-mode for the evening. The car arrives, and I climb in the front to avoid sitting next to Jack, slightly startling the driver.
The drive is short and traffic-free, which is a relief: the longer I’m in the car with Jack, the more difficult I’m finding it to breathe easily. I’m too aware of his presence behind me, pulling my attention towards him even as I focus on reapplying my lipstick in the mirror and try to engage our driver in polite conversation. Eventually I give up and focus instead on the streets as we pass them: Georgian sash windows, white Victorian architecture. The familiarity of spotting local cafes, pubs and bookshops I used to frequent. But even this isn’t enough: in the back of my mind, I am aware of Jack’s every breath, every movement, and it’s driving me slowly insane. A good sign, given the number of car rides we’re going to have to take on this trip. Get it together, Andie. Ten agonising minutes later, we arrive at the square and I almost run into the path of a bus, I’m so focused on getting out of the limo as fast as possible.
I make it to the pavement of an old square, a neat patch of green bordered on each side by a row of townhouses, all equally grand. When I used to dream about working in publishing, this is what I imagined: Bloomsbury Square (I was crushed when I realised that Bloomsbury is actually located in Bedford Square) and champagne-laden author events. I’m getting both this evening, which would be magical if not for the fact that I’d like to kill the author I’m here to celebrate.
I steel myself, allowing Jack to go ahead of me, and climb the steps to the entryway, where a young assistant is taking peoples’ coats. She’s so eager and achingly reminiscent of my past self that I almost want to tip her – a reactive impulse, based on five years of tipping culture in the US. But – as much as I’m aware that she’s definitely not being paid enough – it would be a bit weird to hand her money in this context. So I hand her my coat instead, and take her directions up to the second floor.
The room is spectacular: oak panelling lines the walls, and the floors under my feet look to be at least a hundred years old. There are glass cases everywhere, filled with books of every description: illustrated tomes, gold-leaf-rimmed and beautifully bound religious texts, even a few first editions of Emily Bront?, in perfect condition. I spend a moment taking it in, then scan the room for Jack and find him in the corner, deep in conversation with two men wearing tweed jackets who look to be in their seventies. I make my way over, not exactly enthused about talking to him, but supporting Jack at these events is a large part of my job here. And, much as I’d like it to, sitting and scowling in a corner won’t accomplish that.
‘Hello,’ I say, breaking up an intense debate about who was the true mastermind behind the discovery of the remains of King Richard III. Oh God, I hope they don’t expect me to join in . Jack’s two companions look at me, visibly irritated at first, but as they slowly move their gaze down my dress in a way that feels invasive, the irritation disappears into a sort of faint bemusement. ‘I’m Andie, Jack’s publicist,’ I say, trying to make sure my voice doesn’t falter.
‘Hello, love,’ one of them says eventually, extending his hand. ‘Bernard Smith. I wrote—’ he pauses, assessing me again ‘—ah, never mind, you probably haven’t read it.’ I probably haven’t read your boring fucking book , I think, but I’m stung nonetheless by his comment.
The other aims a watery smile at me. ‘George Richards. I used to publish this star’s non-fiction here in the UK before he deserted us for fictional shores.’ He chuckles in Jack’s direction, and I’m just beginning the process of settling in for an evening of this man’s self-important drivel, when he turns back to me and gestures to the other side of the room. ‘It’s great that you’re here, actually. You couldn’t man the drinks table, could you?’ Thank God is my first thought – he’s given me an out. I’m about to say ‘Of course, I’d be delighted,’ in my politest and most formal tone before scurrying away as quickly as I can when the kicker arrives: ‘We’re in need of someone pretty to pour wine.’ He gives me a quick wink, then turns away, indicating with his posture that I am dismissed. I freeze in place, momentarily immobilised by his comment, and through my shock hear Jack’s voice.
‘I don’t think—’
I spring into action. I can’t have him rescuing me. ‘It’s fine.’ I say, giving George and Bernard my sweetest smile and mentally wishing them both incredibly painful deaths. I turn away before they can see how bothered I am and move resolutely to the oak table on the other side of the room. The assistant who took my coat earlier is standing behind it, looking a little nervous and out of her depth. I’ve had the luck of being pretty sheltered from attitudes like this in my career so far, and have usually been afforded immediate professional respect in most rooms I enter: mostly because they’re full of women. Clearly, none of that matters here – to those men I’m just a pair of hands in a nice dress, without anything resembling a brain behind my eyes. I take a deep breath and steel myself, determined not to let them ruin my evening; they’re not worth it.
I text Sara, to make myself feel better: Old boring twats making me man the drinks table . Her reply pings through immediately: !!!! Fuck them!!!! . Her rage warms me through, and I pick up a glass of champagne from the table, take a sip, and take my place next to the assistant. She looks at me like I might be about to give her orders, or tell her off for the crime of standing there and doing her job, so I soften my expression and hand her a glass.
‘Perks of the job. If they’re going to stick us back here the least we can do is enjoy it.’
She looks a little terrified still, so I wink at her, pick up my glass and take another sip. This gives her confidence, and pretty soon we’re three glasses deep and accidentally-on-purpose pouring Sauvignon when people ask for Chardonnay and vice-versa. Nobody notices.
About half way through the event, I hear the sound of a glass clinking. I look up from my wine pouring duties and accidentally catch Jack’s eye – for half a second a warmth moves up the back of my neck at the intensity of our eye-contact, then he turns to look at George and breaks it.
‘I’d like everyone here to raise a glass to this young man, if you would,’ George says, his deep voice carrying across the room and silencing everyone still talking. Jack smiles, seemingly at ease, but there’s an undercurrent of discomfort to his expression I can’t quite place.
‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, Jack, that I rather feel I discovered you – fresh out of university, you produced an account of the British monarchy that was absolutely astonishing. I still remember the day it landed in my inbox. I was stunned that one so young could write so vividly, so expertly. And not only that, but lend a fresh perspective to such a well-covered topic. And look what’s happened since – a stratospheric rise. Documentaries, three more non-fiction books, and now a novel. Of course, all of this is down not only to your talent but to my excellent publishing skills.’ At this, he smiles and pauses for a little too long. ‘Though I jest. Through the years, I’ve been proud to guide you as you have become historical publishing’s brightest star. May you continue to breathe new life into everything you touch, my boy,’ he says, clapping Jack on the back, whose expression is becoming more fixed by the second. To be honest, much as I’m enjoying this, I’m not surprised Jack seems to be struggling – this speech is cloying and slightly patronising, the kind of false flattery that settles over you like something sticky that you can’t quite wash off. ‘Though I’m loath to release you, our young superstar, to fiction with your new novel, I can’t help but feel – if you’ll permit me one last liberty – that if I were your father—’ he turns to address the crowd, and I suppress an involuntary shudder at the thought. Much as I hate him, I wouldn’t wish such a fate even on Jack. ‘—who I’m sure you all know is a well-known historian in his own right and a dear friend of mine, I’d be immensely proud of all you’ve achieved.’
Wow. I didn’t think I could like this guy any less, but he’s rapidly securing himself a place in line for least-favourite editor I’ve ever met. His words are ostensibly in praise of Jack, but their intention is clear: to increase his own standing with the crowd. The ending to his speech feels overly personal, patronising. Conceited. All qualities he seems to possess in spades. And it seems I’m not the only one who thinks George has crossed a line: at this last statement, Jack looks as if he might actually throw up for a few seconds.
‘Thanks very much for the kind words, George,’ he says, his facial expression carefully controlled. ‘And for this wonderful party.’ He clears his throat, looking around the room, then continues. ‘I am so grateful for your continued support. Now enough about me, let’s let everyone get back to enjoying themselves!’
At this, a brief cheer is raised and everyone disperses, returning gradually to the conversational clusters they were in before. Jack waits until George is comfortably back in conversation with Bernard, then slips out of the room. Perhaps it’s because the wine service is slow for the moment, or because I still can’t quite wrap my head around why George’s final remark, patronising as it was, seems to have had such an impact on Jack, but something has me watching the door for his return. When he appears a few moments later, though, his face is back to its normal colour: as if nothing happened. I must have been imagining things.
By the end of the evening, the intern Jenny and I are getting along swimmingly. I’ve seen pictures of her two cats: Mabel and Molly, both of the ragdoll variety. I know where she grew up, which university she went to, how many times she’s broken bones (twice: her wrist and her ankle), and her dreams of being a sci-fi/fantasy book editor. We’ve covered a lot of ground in the last four hours, and all of it has been infinitely more interesting, I am sure, than any conversation I might have had about Bernard’s stupid book.
I’ve used the time to keep on top of a few things work-wise, too: drunk party guests make excellent book customers, and I’ve confirmed our schedule for the next few days and sent out a few more pitches for last-minute radio interviews once we get back to New York. The thing they don’t tell you about the more glamorous parts of the job like being on tour is that everything else carries on while you’re there, and it’s still your job to handle it: I might be in London, and a different time zone, but my inbox will stop for no-one.
When nearly everyone has left and Jenny and I are beginning to stack glasses back into the boxes they arrived in, Jack floats over to us. Jenny freezes as he arrives, the look of terror from the beginning of the evening returning to her face. Oh right, I think, I’d forgotten the effect his appearance can have on people.
‘This is Jenny,’ I say, gesturing to her. He aims a smile in her direction, and she almost drops the glass she’s holding. Bless her. If she knew what I knew she’d go running.
‘Can I help you?’ I ask, after a few seconds of him staring at me, expectant.
‘What time did you say we were being picked up?’
Ah, right . I check my watch, and realise the driver is coming in ten minutes. But there’s no way we’ll be done with the glasses by then. ‘He’ll be here in ten, but you go ahead. I’ll get an Uber when we’re done clearing,’ I say, and go back to my previous task. Jack leans towards me, out of Jenny’s earshot, and speaks in a low voice.
‘It’s not your job to help clear up.’
‘It’s my job to make sure the events run smoothly.’ I say, my tone firm. This is the second time he’s tried to rescue me this evening, and it’s really starting to get on my nerves.
‘I’m really sorry about George—’
‘I don’t want an apology, Jack,’ I say, cutting him off before he can make this worse. ‘And I’m not leaving Jenny to clear up alone when she’s already worked really hard this evening and is probably paid about ten pounds a week.’
He sighs, exasperated. ‘Fine,’ he says, then walks off. Good riddance .
I look down at the table, focusing on the task at hand, and when I look up again Jack has returned, carrying about eight wine glasses.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask, as he starts putting the glasses into boxes.
‘Helping.’ If he hadn’t irritated me so much already, I might be touched. As it is, it reads like another attempt to rescue me from a situation that I am handling just fine on my own.
‘We don’t need your help,’ I say, turning away from him to collect some glasses from Jenny. ‘Why don’t you go outside and wait for the car?’
‘I’m not just going to go back to the hotel like an arsehole while you clear up,’ he replies, shocking me with how firm his tone is. ‘Plus, with an extra pair of hands we’ll probably make it to the car in time.’
‘Ugh. Fine,’ I concede. I’ve had enough of bickering with him, so I return to stacking glasses and resolutely ignore him.
I’m making my way back across the room with a final stray champagne flute which was hidden behind a giant antique globe, and I see Jack standing close to Jenny and talking to her, their heads bent over something on his phone. Without warning, my protective instincts kick in. Don’t do it, Jenny, I think, willing her to telepathically hear me somehow .
‘What’s going on over here?’ I ask, trying to keep my tone light.
‘Jack has booked me a taxi home.’ Oh.
‘I couldn’t let her get three buses across London,’ he says quickly, his tone defensive.
I feel the tension leave my body. ‘That’s, uh, very nice,’ I say, and Jack looks at me like I might have had a personality transplant.
All of a sudden, I feel bone-tired – this day has been long and exhausting, and all I want to do is crawl into bed and never get up again. On top of everything else, I’m seeing my mum tomorrow, and I feel suddenly and unbearably unprepared for the emotions that might bring up.
Jack observes me, concern flashing momentarily across his face. ‘Let’s get back to the hotel,’ he says, ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. And—’ he pauses to glance up at the clock ‘—the car should be outside by now.’ I search for the irritation from earlier, and find only a deep well of exhaustion. I give the smallest of nods, hug Jenny goodbye and follow Jack out of the room, down the stairs and back into the cold night air.
‘I love this square,’ he says to no one in particular, and I’m about to tell him that I love it, too, but remember just in time through my present exhaustion that I want him to burn in the fires of hell. As I’m descending the steps behind him, my brain fuzzy, I don’t pay enough attention to the ground below me and my heel gets caught in a gap between paving stones. I lose my footing, stumbling forwards. To my surprise, and horror, Jack reacts quickly and catches me, gripping my arms to slow my momentum. For a moment, as his hands brush my skin, the strangest sensation spreads through me, like an electrical current running through my veins. The next second I’m upright again and he lets go, leaving a ghost of warmth where he was touching me. I turn and give him a small and polite ‘thank you’ smile.
What the hell was that?