Chapter Sixteen
Rowena Plummer-Jones swept into the cramped office like a ship in full sail, an impression created by her formidable size
and by a dress sense that relied heavily on the more-is-more school of thought. She wore an Orla Kiely print skirt with a
purple—what looked like Monsoon—blouse worn loose and liberally adorned with a collection of heavy chains and pendants. The
whole towering confection was accessorized with a velvet devoré scarf. She boomed a welcome to Imogen, who was sitting nervously
at the desk, clutching her portfolio on her knee.
After placing orders for coffee and tea with an invisible and silent person in the other room, Rowena sat down with a gusty
sigh, crossing her ankles and drawing attention to feet that Imogen noticed were surprisingly small and delicate.
“So, why am I spending my precious time seeing you, then?” she inquired bluntly.
“Er...” For a moment Imogen actually had no idea why, and she almost decided that perhaps the best thing would be to just
quietly leave now.
“M-my friend Sally spoke to your colleague,” she eventually blurted.
“Ah yes, so she did,” Rowena recalled, warming slightly. “And very persuasive she was too, by all accounts. You’re lucky to have friends like that.”
“I am,” agreed Imogen humbly.
“Come on, then. I think I saw a couple of bits that looked vaguely promising on your Insta account, didn’t I? Let’s have a
look at what you’ve got.”
Taking the portfolio from Imogen, she laid it on the desk, undoing the tapes and opening it with confident care.
Imogen had planned the order of her work with great thought, deciding to warm up with a few conceptual sketches, including
a few of her greeting card designs, and then hitting her with the book illustrations. She had been working well since the
summer and had a whole Tango and Ruth story fully illustrated with the text as well, plus sketches and outlines for another
two.
Barely breathing at first, and then with deflated gloom, she saw Rowena flick peremptorily through the initial work, laying
it all to one side with barely a glance. Eyes alighting on the Tango and Ruth cover illustration, she slowed.
“Now, this is interesting,” she muttered to herself, carefully leafing through the pages, scanning the text Imogen had written on acetate and taped carefully over the artwork, the old-fashioned method to avoid writing on the drawings themselves, pausing and chuckling—Imogen was pleased to see—at the little visual jokes and whimsical detail. On one page there was a tiny mouse, spiriting away a chunk of meat from Tango’s bowl while he snoozed, oblivious. On a later page there was a hedgehog with leaves skewered on its spines trailing to bed with cocoa and nightcap while Tango and Ruth played in the autumn garden.
Reaching the end of the fully illustrated story, Rowena paid nearly equal attention to the pencil sketches Imogen had done
to map out the second story. Finishing her appraisal, she reassembled the papers and folded the portfolio, tying the tapes
and settling it squarely on the tabletop before resuming her seat.
“You don’t work digitally?” she inquired.
Crestfallen, Imogen admitted she did not. “I can’t,” she said. “I don’t know why...” So that was that, then. Everyone worked
in digital nowadays. And the software was amazing. Imogen had played with it in wonder when she had the chance. What she had
not done was ever successfully use it to produce any artwork that came from her heart. The disconnect was profound. It was
pencil or paintbrush to paper, and that was it. What a shame Rowena didn’t know that before they met. It would have saved
Imogen the trip to London and the exquisite anguish of hope.
Preceded by a timid knock, the door opened. A mousey secretary came gingerly into the office with a loaded tray.
Waiting for the girl to leave and then pouring, adding cream, and offering biscuits to Imogen, it was a tantalizing minute
or two until Rowena was comfortably settled once again.
“Well,” she said, her disdain over Imogen’s working methods apparently forgotten, “I have to say, my dear, your friend was
absolutely right about my needing to see you.”
Imogen raised her head and started to feel a stirring of optimism.
“Obviously, the only thing of interest to me is the book, which is excellent. The writing is not up to standard, of course.”
Imogen’s crest plummeted once more.
“But that doesn’t matter,” Rowena continued. “The publisher I have in mind for you has several good writers on their books,
and I even represent someone myself who would also do a superb job. The illustrations, on the other hand, are wonderful. Perfect
for seducing the parents.” She noted Imogen’s puzzled look. “It’s the parents who spend the money, my dear. What you have
is a marvelous life and vivacity about your drawings that will appeal to the children, but there is a rarely seen wit and
nostalgia that the parents will appreciate, and frankly, that is the vital ingredient as far as the publishers are concerned.
“You also have some strong and attractive main characters, offering good spin-off merchandising opportunities, but that’s
a bridge too far at the moment. Suffice to say that I am prepared to represent you as your agent if that is what you would
like.”
Rowena finished and met Imogen’s eyes, which were squinting slightly as, slack-jawed, she processed the information she had
just heard, unable to immediately make the move from the rejection mode she had been preparing for to really-happening-after-all-these-years
mode. It was an entirely new and exhilarating experience.
“Would you like me to be your agent?” Rowena inquired, articulating slowly and clearly.
Imogen nodded furiously, still unable to speak.
“Good.” Rowena paused, still looking askance at Imogen’s vacant expression. “Right. Well, far be it from me to hurry you, but I understand you don’t live in London, so might I suggest you have a look at our standard contract with a view to signing it now so I can get cracking?”
After that, Imogen enjoyed herself hugely. The timid secretary brought in a surprisingly brief contract detailing the rights
and responsibilities of both agent and client in, thankfully, straightforward English, and Rowena left her to peruse it over
tea and delicious chocolate biscuits. Eventually, Imogen signed with a flourish and shook hands with Rowena, who she had decided
was just as intimidating as ever, but—as the Rottweiler working on her behalf—the scary manner was much to be valued.
Not even waiting for Imogen to leave, she was on the telephone.
“Lionel? Rowena,” Imogen heard her boom. “Yes, yes, fine, thanks. Now, I have got an absolute treasure for you. I totally
guarantee you’re going to be thrilled...”
“Fantastic!” was Sally’s response when Imogen broke the good news over lunch around the corner from Sally’s office. “I knew
you’d do it. So, it’s only a matter of time before my entry ticket to smart parties is telling people I know you,” she crowed.
“Dunno about that. I’m not sure children’s book illustrators are of much interest to people who throw smart parties,” muttered
Imogen, absurdly pleased all the same.
“Don’t you believe it. Getting anything published is terrifically smart, even children’s books—especially children’s books, in fact. It’s even better if you hardly get any money to start with ’cause that way you can say you’re doing it for the artistic satisfaction and then later, when you get hugely rich, you can point to your earlier career and look really unmaterialistic. It’s the only way to be nouveau riche nowadays.”
“What—sort of accidentally?” said Imogen, fascinated.
“Exactly. It’s incredibly uncool to have just won the lottery or even to have been a ruthless businessperson, working twenty-four
hours a day and killing every competitor in your path—it’s just so passé to actually want to be rich.
“’Course, being privileged from birth is frowned upon too,” she added, making Imogen wonder how anyone could be acceptably
affluent. Certainly not Gabriel, with all his inherited privilege. But she frankly didn’t care how it looked. Thanks to her
devastating conversation with Gabriel, she had recently become extremely interested in money.
She decided not to share her worries about whether Storybook Cottage deeds could rob her of everything she owned. The concept
of low-income living was great as a theoretical lifestyle choice, but for Imogen it could soon be all too real, unless her
meeting with Richard the next day went well.
“Yeah, I remember ’im,” said the raspy, south London voice on the telephone. “Nice bloke. Bit simple, though, bless him—thought
I was gonna give ’im a story on a plate as if I didn’t ’ave anyfink to lose. Like my life.” She chuckled, and Imogen joined
in nervously.
Although Alistair had told her his private investigator contact was the link with a London gangland story, Imogen was still taken aback and nervous as she quickly outlined why she needed help.
“You’d better show me this letter, then, love. ’Ow about early next week?”
Imogen admitted apologetically that she was planning to leave London the next day, fully expecting to be told to get lost.
“You’d better come over now, then, ’adn’t you?” the voice responded, giving practiced directions and telling her to hurry.
“Only I’m meeting my Harry down the boozer at six, and he don’t take kindly to bein’ kept waiting.”
Getting off the Tube at Shadwell, Imogen made a mental note to be safely back on the train before night descended. Even in
daylight, the main street was bleak and gray, graffiti offering the only splash of color in the concrete landscape. A free
newspaper, whipped up by the wind, tried to wrap itself around her legs as she walked. Remembering a Substack she had once
read on how not to be mugged, she was consciously walking with confidence and purpose, head up and brisk, hoping the directions
in her head would prevent her from needing to resort to Google Maps. According to the Substack article, walking alone peering
at your phone was a real mug-me-now signal.
Soon, though, she arrived at a peeling, blue-painted door, squeezed between a betting shop and curry house. Its reputation
for good cuisine was hardly heightened by what looked suspiciously like a vomit stain on the pavement outside it.
After pressing on a grubby intercom button over a sign on the doorpost announcing G. Mitchell PI , Imogen was admitted with an answering buzzer by a silent inhabitant. She climbed steep stairs covered in a stained and odorous
gray carpet, the marks of hundreds of grubby fingers streaking the long-ago-painted-magnolia walls. She arrived at a frosted
glass door and rapped timidly.
“Come in,” said a distant voice—the voice she recognized from the telephone conversation.
The office was narrow and dark, carved from just part of the original Victorian room. The insensitive partitioning had left
a ceiling that was disproportionately high, with coving around just the original perimeter. Two gray filing cabinets flanked
an ugly wooden desk. On it the ashtray filled with lipstick-stained butts partly explained the dinginess of the net curtain
at the window. The fumes of the incessant traffic below explained the rest.
“Well, sit down, then, love,” said the voice, this time attached to a body that bustled through from a dark and gloomy kitchen
area. A cerise pink twinset, coupled with brassy blond hair, elaborately coiled and sprayed, completed the impression of faded
1970s glamour.
“I’m Gloria,” she said. “Gloria Martin.”
She held out a red-taloned hand, knuckles encrusted with rings. Imogen shook it nervously.
Gesturing to an upright chair opposite her desk, Gloria settled herself on the other side and whisked a packet of cigarettes
and lighter out of a drawer.
Extracting one, lighting it, and chucking down the pack in a practiced gesture, she took a deep drag and then exhaled, watching
Imogen appraisingly all the while.
“So,” she said at last, “man trouble, is it?” Her gaze drifted down, lingering on Imogen’s swollen belly.
“My husband,” said Imogen, handing over the letter from the mystery blonde. Gloria read it, holding the page at arm’s length
either through long-sightedness or distaste at its contents.
“I take it you want ’im caught on the job, then. Covert surveillance, photo evidence, record of movements, that sort o’ fing—give
you what you need to divorce him and bury him,” she said briskly, looking at Imogen for agreement.
“Um, well, actually, the burying bit’s already sorted.”
Gloria’s eyebrows rose.
“Which means it’s a little late for the surveillance bit—although it sounds very good,” she added encouragingly.
“This his?” said Gloria, gesturing with her cigarette at Imogen’s tummy.
Imogen nodded.
“Killed ’im, did ja?”
“No!”
“Get someone else to do it for you, did ja?”
“Absolutely not,” said Imogen firmly. One heard about this sort of thing, she thought, her mind racing, East End gangs and
hit men, contract killers propping up the bar in the local pub. This woman was so damned matter-of-fact about it all...
“Awright, love, listen,” said Gloria, leaning forward on her elbow. “You don’t wanna spend the rest of your life all chewed
up about this bloke, right? Forget ’im. He’s not worf it.” She chucked the letter down on the desk between them.
“Take it from me, if there’s one fing you can rely on, it’s that all men are bastards.” She paused reflectively. “And most of ’em are useless tits an’ all,” she added with some sorrow that spoke of much direct experience.
“So,” said Imogen slowly, “you won’t help?”
“Can’t help love, not won’t,” Gloria explained. “Catching people on the job is what I do. Can’t see meself coming up with
much watching a gravestone. It’s not as if he’s up to any of his old tricks now, is he?”
Imogen nodded reluctantly. The silence stretched between them.
“Look,” said Gloria at last, “d’ya want to see ’er? Is that it?”
“I suppose I do,” agreed Imogen. “I just want to know who she is. Does she look like me? Sound like me? It’s the only way...
I want to understand...”
Gloria sighed, folding the letter and tucking it into her capacious bra. “Awright, darlin’. I’ll be in touch.”
“Great!” said Imogen, brightening. “How about money? I could pay now,” she said, bending to rummage in her bag.
“Nah, ’ave this one on me, darlin’,” Gloria replied, taking another world-weary look at Imogen’s tummy.