Steffi
Out of all the weekends in the history of my life, of course Nicki’s baby shower lands on this one. This weekend should be about me and in celebration of my amazing life-changing news. So, of course, it’s Nicki’s baby shower, of all people’s, meaning I definitely can’t miss it. No matter how much both of us want me to. I’d argue it’s much harder and braver launching your own business than having a baby with your perfectly OK husband, but Nicki’s the one getting all the presents and support so I’ve had to celebrate myself, by myself.
In fact, I’ve been up since 5am, buzzing my tits off, after I was woken by a message from Liv, the editor at ShutterDoor. We only said goodbye in the hotel bar a few hours previously, so it’s a cosmic sign of utter brilliance she’s messaging already, especially on the weekend.
Liv:
I haven’t slept, . I can’t stop reading. This book, . THIS BOOK. Expect a significant pre-empt on Monday first thing. Don’t you DARE let another publisher buy this book.
I squeal and run around my flat in my silk pyjamas before the heat catches up with me. I wipe my palms off on my tiny shorts and type back.
:
I KNOW, RIGHT?
It’s out with ten other editors. Sorry, but not sorry. I really think you and Rosa Williams are perfect for each other though. Let’s talk Monday.
Liv:
Still got a third left. How is this so good? Where did you find this woman? This book is everything. EVERYTHING. If anyone else gets it, I will DIE, and then I’ll haunt you forever.
Obviously I will be much more professional on email on Monday. But holy shitballs, . This book is The One. You must be so thrilled. What a perfect way to launch your agency. I’m so happy for you. Everything is about to explode!!!!!
Publishing is an industry that expresses itself solely through the use of multiple exclamation marks and five translates to ‘super lead title, NYT bestseller, multiple foreign auctions, and a giant marketing budget’. Sleep was never going to happen after five exclamation marks. Especially when it ’ s ten bazillion degrees outside, at dawn, and living in London adds an extra two degrees to Dante ’ s inferno. Also, I live in a loft conversion so I ’ m essentially a baked bean right now. It ’ s not even six, but I may as well shower and get ready for this baby-shower vibe ruiner. Google maps predicts it will take me eight hours and twenty-four minutes to get to the venue. Well . . . technically only two hours , but when that includes a bus journey, two tube changes, a train AND then Lauren picking me up from the nearest station, I may as well be Mary on her way to Bethlehem on some donkey. You know who didn ’ t have a baby shower? Mary. That ’ s my girl. Nobody ever celebrates that about her when they do all the deifying.
My power shower roars into action and the water’s actually warm out of my cold tap, even with it turned to the lowest. I throw myself under the jets anyway, lather up my hair, and sing a little tune to myself.
This is it, this is it, this is fucking IT.
I was right to trust this. Trust setting up my own agency, trust the Blood Moon manuscript, trust that this huge risk will pay off. It’s been beyond terrifying, especially as I have literally no safety net, other than Charlotte’s promise I can squat in her granny annexe if everything goes tits up. But I know I’m making Mum so proud and it’s not a risk really. Not when Blood Moon is so ridiculously good. Another, delicious, message arrives on my phone while I’m wrapped in a towel and lathering myself in moisturiser. This one’s from Jane at Eagle Press. She’s slightly more professional as we’ve never worked closely together, but I know she’s been desperate to get something like Blood Moon on her list.
Jane:
Hi . It was lovely to see you last night. Thank you for putting together such a great evening. I’m not usually one to message on the weekends, but I started reading Blood Moon on the tube home, and I’ve not stopped reading. It’s exquisite. It’s everything I’ve been searching for. Congratulations. Expect to hear from me first thing Monday. Have a wonderful weekend. Sincerely, Jane.
I let out another whoop and re-sweat myself doing a victory dance around my sauna of a flat. However, exceedingly quickly, the magnitude stops me, cold, in my bedroom. I realise my entire life now depends on how I play this over the next three days. I’ve been given a great starting position, but this vital race is far from won and I really don’t want to live in Charlotte’s granny annexe. She’ll make me dust the inside of the microwave like when we were students. I pull out my desk chair and sit down, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand.
Right. Strategise. I must let these two editors know about the super early excitement. Make them spend the weekend worrying they’re not going to get it. Plus, I need to let the other eight know there’s this much interest already so they read it in time for Monday. This must be delicately done. I can’t wind them up too much, or make them think, initially, the final offer will be too high, or they’ll get spooked about budget and maybe not bother offering at all. I need to send exactly the right messages, in exactly the right tone, at exactly the right time, and play everyone off with precision. It’s going to be a carefully choreographed dance and I must execute every step perfectly. Oh, seriously, why do I need to be schlepping to Nicki’s baby shower today? Nicki’s . She’ll spend today watching me like a hawk doing an eye test so I have to be super present and super enthusiastic to show her how super happy I am for her. Which is why I’ve spent over fifty quid on a box of hand-embroidered babygrows, alongside forty quid on a vat of Neal’s Yard Bump Juice. Oh, I know how to play the game, even if I can’t afford the gifts because I’ve put everything into my agency. A ridiculous risk for a single woman with no living relatives, but Blood Moon is going to change the world, and Rosa’s world, and my world. The firework is lit and it’s spectacular and everything is about to take off and yet I’ve got to hoick some hand-embroidered babygrows to the middle of nowhere, in 32 degrees, so I can pretend to be happy for someone who has decided they hate me. I put my face on the cool of my wooden desk and sigh into my shoulders. I could fake a dodgy tummy then go to the loo regularly to send emails?
I wish I could just not go and it not mean anything. Or, I wish I could go and at least say, ‘Hey, Nicki. I’m really happy for you, honestly. But, this weekend, my business is about to take off, which is very useful since otherwise I’ll go bankrupt and homeless. Today is actually super important for me too. No, I’ve not timed this deliberately to spite you. Do you mind if I just send some work emails while I’m at your baby shower? As this is literally my life, my career, my everything? Can we just let me do that and it not mean anything to do with your weird twelve-year grudge? Please? Because we’re not twenty anymore? PLEASE?’
But I can’t say that. I pride myself on being an honest person. A no-nonsense, cut-the-shit, dare I say authentic person. Apart from in this particular friendship group – The Little Women. Lauren and Charlotte are essentially family, and, sadly, Nicki’s dysfunction comes with this package – making it a more realistic family I guess. I have to swallow some inauthenticity to keep my siblings.
So, yeah, the most important day of my life and I’m going to have to fake diarrhoea... Great.
My phone bleeps again.