Chapter 7
7
Since I saw him at the retirement home last Sunday, Hugo has talked to me about things we don’t usually discuss, like clothes and health trends. I’m like a ship that has sailed into unchartered waters. He complimented me again today; said he liked my outfit. I’d worn a skirt for a change – an old size fourteen I hadn’t fit into for years.
I sit at my desk and straighten the keyboard. This evening, Lenny will be at a book launch for our author Gary Smith, who is represented by his agency. My stomach clenches. I haven’t seen him for almost four weeks, except on social media. Not that I’ve looked at his profiles. Apart from a couple of times on Twitter. Yesterday he posted a selfie of him and Beatrix. Their relationship must be public now.
Tonight’s launch is for Gary’s Young Adult book called Bubbles . It’s about a rich teenager whose family comes from nothing but ends up producing champagne. It’s highly unusual – almost like a saga for young adults. The story spans several generations, from the penniless, hardworking ancestors to their modern indulged offspring. Early reviews expect it to be a huge hit. Translation rights sales are already dynamic. Therefore Thoth Publishing is more than happy to celebrate in style. We’ve ordered in canapés and the interns are decorating our biggest conference room with gold streamers and balloons. Each guest will receive a goody bag containing a signed copy, luxury truffles and a mini bottle of posh lemonade.
Normally I’d make my usual excuses and curl up with Flossie and a book on the settee. Old habits die hard. I did much the same during my university Freshers’ week, despite everyone else partying. And there is never a shortage of other editors happy to have a drink and talk publishing. However, the author, Gary Smith, is particularly nervous and he and I have worked closely these last few months. His agent can’t make it tonight, which makes it even more likely that Lenny will appear in his place. Plus Gary’s wife has to work and his kids are away studying, so he’s coming alone. I can’t let him down.
Bubbles is his debut. Gary works on the bins which might surprise readers who assume most authors are, say, journalists first, but it was no surprise to the staff at Thoth. Between them our authors have held a wide variety of positions, including accountant, childminder and dog food taster. He’s a modest, middle-aged dad who plays snooker in the pub, goes to the football at the weekend and badmouths cholesterol. He left school at sixteen and took the first job he was offered. A swanky book launch is so far out of his comfort zone that we joke he’ll need a geomap to get back. Gary wrote the story when his wife lost her job and had to take a position working nights. The local paper had run an article about a dyslexic teenager who’d just gotten published, which gave Gary the confidence to have a go as, on the sly, he’d always liked reading his wife’s romance books. Inadvertently, his novel provides a moving insight into his impoverished childhood. Without being preachy, the story sends a strong message that material gains and emotional well-being are not always linked.
When six o’clock arrives, I head into the ladies’ room to brush my hair. Perhaps I should make more effort, I think as my colleagues change into high shoes and swap jumpers for blouses. Lipstick is applied. Squirts of perfume hijack the stale air. But I have no time anyway, having agreed to meet Gary outside the building at six fifteen. The party starts at seven thirty, but he needs to arrive early to sign books. I go to the lift and within minutes am downstairs in reception. I pass through the revolving door and stand outside for a few moments, blowing on my hands to keep warm.
I could have waited inside, but I need to quell my irrational fear that Gary will change his mind at the last minute and go for a few pints at the Red Lion next door. The sunny spring day is disappearing. Commuters rush by, swerving around Gabby, the homeless woman who sits leaning up against our building. She mouths hello at me. Most lunchtimes I stop for a quick chat and sometimes give her a sandwich bag. Lenny said she’s probably one of those professional beggars and thought me na?ve to make a spare packed lunch for her, now and then.
I look up and down the street. I don’t want Lenny to come. Yet I do. Perhaps he’s missed me. Maybe I won’t feel anything and can let go of what he did. Will we talk to each other? How do I greet him?
It’s a rickety bridge I need to cross, which makes me think of the ones on the jungle reality show Lenny liked to watch. If I reach the other side, the confidence boost I’ll enjoy will make it worthwhile.
‘Violet?’
I look up. Gary smiles nervously. We shake hands.
‘You look great,’ I say, making an effort to observe his outfit. I’m not that interested in clothes, but Gary needs a shot of self-esteem.
How similar our situations are this evening. I bared my soul to Lenny. Gary has bared his soul to readers. It’s left us both vulnerable to rejection.
‘This tie isn’t too much?’ He loosens his collar.
‘Definitely not. You should see the fashion show being put together in the women’s toilets.’
We head up to the first floor and into the conference room. Interns buzz around, tying balloons. A pop-up bar has been set up at the back. Caterers hurry to and fro, laying out glasses to fill and stacking small plates and napkins. I lead Gary over to a table where earlier I set up a pile of his books.
Gary sits down and runs a hand over his receding hairline.
‘Glass of champagne?’ I say.
‘Yes. No. I don’t know. Perhaps I should keep a clear head.’
I sit down next to him. ‘Try not to worry. I know this is your first event, but you’ll be absolutely fine.’
I chat while he scribbles, but Gary is very quiet. I know him well enough to realise that means he’s nervous.
I head over to Irfan. ‘Our author could do with some moral support,’ I say.
Irfan fills a glass with champagne for Gary and then carries that, and his own orange juice, over to the table. I help with the last-minute decorations and dim the lights just as the first guests arrive. I chat with some bloggers while I sip my Coke. I mustn’t forget to give them goody bags when they leave. Their support for books is unpaid, and I tell my authors never to forget that. Music plays in the background and I gaze out of the windows at illuminated buildings, tired of pretending to myself that I’m not looking out for Lenny. I’m glad to escape the gloss of the party. My job gives me a sense of belonging that only falters at such glittering get-togethers.
‘Do you think he’s jumped?’ says a familiar voice in my ear.
I turn around. Irfan pulls a face. ‘Gary’s disappeared. People are waiting to talk to him – especially some of the youngsters.’
‘Toilets?’
‘Irfan’s looked there,’ says Farah, with a sparkle on her face that complements the book’s fizzy drink theme. She’s like a teenager at her first disco every time she attends one of these events. Gold tassel earrings shake as she speaks and she’s wearing a blue embroidered silk top with sequins around the neck.
A blogger collars me for an early copy of a picture book she’s eager to see and it’s the perfect excuse for me to leave and look for Gary. I head up to my office. A light is on in the side room. I head over and open the door. Gary shoots me a sheepish look. We’ve held many a meeting in there while discussing changes to his manuscript. I go in and sit down opposite him.
‘Lovely. Peace and quiet,’ I say.
‘Not your thing either?’
‘No. I’m more of a hot chocolate on the sofa, book in my hand, cat on my lap person.’ He smiles. Good. ‘I often bypass these events, but seeing as it’s you…’
‘Thanks, Violet. I appreciate that.’
‘I also accept that it’s part of my job.’
‘Now I feel like a school kid who’s in trouble and has been sent to the headmistress.’
‘Not at all. I didn’t mean it like that. Quite the opposite, in fact. Your main job is the writing – albeit alongside a bit of promotion. But book launches, well, some authors don’t have them at all – and the effect they have on sales is negligible. It’s just that we want you to enjoy tonight. You deserve it, Gary, and I’ve already spoken to two enthusiastic young readers who are really keen to meet you.’
He stares at his drink. ‘But what if they find out I’m a fraud?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘People aren’t interested in what I’ve got to say, Violet. I’m not well-read. You know what I do for a living – nothing that involves working with words. I’m not a proper author. I just liked my kids’ books and wanted to write one.’
‘And it’s one of the best Young Adult books I’ve ever read.’
‘You really mean that, don’t you? You’re not the sort of person to bullshit.’
‘Take a few deep breaths and just be yourself. No one can beat you at that. It’s going to go great. A night to remember. I promise. You wouldn’t be a real writer if you weren’t wracked with self-doubt.’
‘Really?’
‘Even our biggest authors get the collywobbles every time a new book goes out for review. And trust me, I’ve never known a writer not to feel on top of the world after doing a reading. Come on. Apparently the mini mushroom tartlets are top notch.’
We head downstairs. I take him back into the conference room and guide him towards the youngsters who wanted to chat. Fifteen minutes later, I see a group of them hanging on his every word. Gary has undone his top button. I give him the thumbs up.
My evening’s been worthwhile just to see him lap up the attention and relax. I’m tempted to leave early, but I stay in case Gary has another wobble. I am just about to check on the goody bags when someone taps on my shoulder and I smile. The last time I saw Irfan he’d gone into telling jokes mode. Parties always do that to him.
He taps again and I turn around.