Chapter 4
FOUR
‘Are you sure those deadlines aren’t too tight? Two books by the first week of January?’ my agent, Davinia asks, as she sips on her Christmas cocktail, the glass frosted with salt and sugar.
Davinia always brings me to places way out of my comfort zone.
I’d be happy sharing plans over a Nando’s, but she always tells me to come to these flash-fusion London eateries – the kind with lots of different glasses to drink from, seasonal specials and menu items with tiny printed numbers that could either be the calorie count or the price.
But then that is Davinia. She has the sort of publishing flair I thought would infuse into my bones once I became an author, that laissez-faire cool where she can sit there and nibble casually at her edamame, in her black designer co-ord and her dark sculpted bob, while telling me about trends in children’s literature.
I, meanwhile, am the anti-chic. I’m clashing leopard print with bright tights and Doc Martens and I’ve put a whole dumpling in my mouth that was far, far too hot.
I may need surgery on my tongue after this.
‘As long as it fits in with the illustrator’s schedule then I’m fine,’ I say. I mean, it won’t be. I’ll be very relaxed until just after Christmas and likely spend that last week of the year in a mild panic, in my pyjamas, my flat filled with paper, words, regret and leftover trifle.
‘Then…’ she says casually, downing the rest of her drink, ‘I love you. I say that a lot, I know, but you’re by far my easiest client.
You write your lovely bear books, you deliver, people buy them, you don’t go all pass-agg in your emails,’ she says, blowing me a kiss. ‘Plus you always send me cookies.’
‘Don’t the others send cookies?’
‘Lordy, no. There’s one… I won’t give names but he sent me a basket of kombucha.
What the hell am I going to do with that?
’ I want to say drink it but instead I smile as a waiter comes over with the bill and she doesn’t look at the total, which makes me think she’s definitely not solely living off her cut of my royalties.
Ever since I signed with Davinia five years ago, my series of bear books have been out in the world, and sales are steady if not setting the world alight.
There was a point when it all first happened where I imagined merch and a BBC kids’ series that would pay for my retirement.
Yes, I thought I might be in my chaise longue phase of authordom by now.
But no. I do still take pics of my books when I see them in shops.
I move them to the promo tables when no one’s looking.
I get fan mail but also I write at the kitchen table, and I have another job to keep the lights on.
‘I’ll keep working on the rights deals. I have strong hopes for France and Sweden but once we have a series of ten then that will help.’
‘Then I will work towards ten,’ I say.
‘You are a dream,’ she says, studying my face.
‘And what about you, my lovely girl? Tell me what else you have going on in your life?’ This is why I hold on to Davinia dearly.
Not that agents were rushing to sign me but there’s a maternal streak in her questions about me and my life which shows that she cares. It’s why I gravitated towards her.
‘Everything’s OK, Davinia.’
She pouts at my response, pushing at the bridge of her brightly rimmed glasses. ‘And you’re spending Christmas with your grandmother? How is she?’
‘She’s doing fine… good days, bad days, but it’s to be expected.’
I’ve always confided in Davinia about Nana’s circumstances, as when I first signed with her, Nana sent her a thank-you card and gift along with photos of me as a child.
They still exchange Christmas cards. Davinia cocks her head to one side to hear news of her, aware that what’s happening to her fading mind still hurts my heart.
‘Remember to reach out to me if you need help there. You know I have a soft spot for Doris.’
‘I will.’
‘And what else? Give me more.’
I’m not sure what she expects me to say.
I could lie and say my days are full and exciting and read like a young social media influencer.
I love London, I do occasionally go out, but I also enjoy sitting at home and scrolling through my phone.
Do I tell her I’ve just found out about Korean skincare?
I’ve joined a gym, they’ve got Lady Gaga spin classes.
I don’t think that’s what she wants to hear.
My pause intrigues her. ‘You see, I took another of my young twentysomething authors out to lunch the other day. She ordered five cocktails and sat there and told me about a ridiculous weekend she spent in Bratislava and then whipped out her new tattoo. But you’re just… OK.’
I shrug. ‘I really am OK. You see, I write, I work… at the library. I’m organising a charity book drive,’ I say excitedly.
‘That’s lovely,’ she intervenes. ‘Admirable stuff.’ That’s definitely not what she wants to hear. That’s the polar opposite to a mad weekend in Bratislava.
‘And I go on exceptionally bad dates. I do have a life,’ I argue.
‘How bad?’ she asks me. ‘I’ve been married for too long, I crave hearing your young-people stories.’
‘Nothing exceptional. No sparks, a little dull. A little tiring, truth be told. There are a lot of weirdos out there. I had a man tell me about an ingrown hair on his back. When they pulled it out, it had coiled and measured six centimetres. He showed me a picture that he’d kept on his phone.’
Davinia sits there laughing, adjusting the patterned scarf around her neck. ‘Please tell me you didn’t sleep with that man.’
I shake my head. The fact is I did because I hoped there’d be something; I craved spark, I thought it might ignite in the bedroom and, I’ll be frank, I’d spent a lot of money on waxing that I didn’t want to waste. Let’s just say the sex was like a box of damp matches.
‘And there’s no one else?’
Again, I shake my head. I do have the occasional play on Tinder, there have been one-month flings that haven’t really stood the test of time, but sometimes I wonder if it’s better to not chase it, to let it come to me. The chasing is tiring, confusing and, in a city like London, bloody expensive.
Davinia sits back in her chair and studies my expression, but mostly my hair.
People do this; it’s auburn and wild and sometimes I don’t have the strength or energy to control it.
‘Oh, my beautiful Kay. I want you to have some fun. You’re in your twenties in London.
You’re on the precipice of greatness and the rest of your life.
I don’t want to hear that you’re just OK. ’
‘Define fun then. I have no real urge to get a tattoo,’ I say.
‘Let go. I know it’s been stressful with your grandmother but you’re so very young. I see a girl in there who needs to let go, experience real joy, get into the bones of this city.’
‘Bones?’ I say.
‘In both senses of the word,’ she cackles.
‘God, if I was your age again, I would spend a lot more time embracing my freedom and sleeping with handsome strangers. Don’t get me wrong; I love being married, but I’m likely going to go home now, talk to my husband about turkeys, and then we’ll fall asleep together, me listening to a podcast and his orchestral flatulence. ’
I laugh, but there is a smidgeon of truth there. After university I did go travelling and loved the wild freedom of it. But maybe, in recent years, I have been preoccupied by my commitment to Nana, writing and trying to build a career. Maybe I’ve got the balance all wrong.
‘Well, when you find where all the handsome strangers hang out then please let me know.’
‘I will keep my eyes open. I will send you co-ordinates when I find them.’ She smiles. ‘When I see you next, I want to hear about a lusty encounter, filled to the brim with knowing looks and moments of intense longing.’
‘Alright, Mills and Boon. Remember, I write books about bears, for kids.’
Davinia chuckles and looks at her watch. ‘Right, as much as I love you, I need to go and scour the shops and find something for my mother-in-law.’
‘Does she like kombucha?’
She laughs as we both move out of our seats, putting on our coats and heading towards the door.
‘See… beautiful and funny.’ I blush at the compliment as we walk out into the biting cold, which forces me to hide my face in my scarf.
‘Maybe the season will provide. Santa will send you the perfect gift. I can feel it, Kay,’ she says, looking up to the blue sky above bustling Covent Garden.
I look up too, wondering if a handsome stranger will just fall out of the sky. ‘That would be far easier, you know, if the perfect man came down my chimney this Christmas.’
‘If you’re into that then let him, my dear,’ she replies.
‘Davinia!’ I shriek, linking arms with her, our laughter misting the air.
‘Have an exceptional Christmas, lovely girl. Remember: fun…’ She goes in for the customary double kiss.
‘And bones.’
‘Indeed,’ she says as she walks down the street away from me. ‘Have a walk around. It’s the best city to be in at this time of year. Saint Nick will deliver, trust me.’
I pause for a moment, thinking about when I last heard those words, and look up at the sky again, waiting, wondering.
‘Pardon me,’ a voice sounds, as someone barges past my shoulder.
I turn instantly. ‘Santa?’ It’s a man dressed in an admirably high-quality red velour suit with what appears to be his own white fuzzy beard, though the Nike rucksack and the Asics ruin the illusion somewhat. ‘I’m so sorry, I should have looked where I was going.’
‘No harm done. I won’t report you to my elves,’ he says, wagging a finger.
We both laugh. I think it’s because we know from the flush in our cheeks that we’ve both indulged in a bit of festive daytime drinking.
But there’s also a childish sense of glee in meeting Santa, whatever your age.
He salutes me with his gloved hand and tucks his thumbs under his rucksack straps. ‘Merry Christmas, young lady.’
‘You too, Santa.’ I watch him as he skips away, thinking about what Davinia said. Maybe I need to follow the magic and see where it takes me. I just hope Saint Nick doesn’t think I’m interested and stalking him. He’s cute, but he’s three times my age.