Chapter 7
7
THEN
Co-work Office of London Field Publishing
Alexander swaggers into the office with a wide smile on his face as he winks at my editorial assistant Molly-Mae. That wink goes against our safe workplace practices, which he should very well know, having signed off on the handbook I created. Next he brings out the finger guns, pew, pew, pew , in her direction. Is this some kind of farce? When did he become Mr Winky Finger-Gun-Shooter Guy?
It’s creepy, not to mention the fact that I, his long-term partner, am sitting at the long boardroom-like table we all share and don’t quite know how to react, except to blow out my cheeks in frustration.
Alexander’s flirtatious manner should be the least of my problems, but it bothers me, as if cracks are appearing that will soon splinter into a crater that we’ll all disappear down. It’s anxiety making me think this way and yet I can’t get a handle on it, not at this moment at any rate. It doesn’t help that the smiling buffoon is winking and pretending to be a gun slinger, of all things.
My sense of unease is only heightened by his faux grin, his jocular energy. It’s out of character. At work he’s usually broody, prickly, exudes an air of being wildly busy, probably so no one disturbs him, and they come to me for help instead. I’m learning too late that I might have been duped by this act, and it doesn’t feel good. My stomach twists like I’m suffering a bout of seasickness; the very ground beneath feels unstable, like I’m going to fall through a trapdoor I didn’t know was there.
I stand up and motion Alexander to the shared lounge area a few steps away. It’s thankfully empty of sprawling bodies so we should be able to speak in relative privacy.
Alexander grins as he spins on a chair and leaps off as if he’s a child. Does he not comprehend the serious amount of trouble we’re in because of him? Is this carefree persona some kind of act – nothing to see here, folks – purely for the benefit of our employees?
‘Good morning, darling.’ He dives onto the sofa.
I do my best to keep on an even keel; after all, we have an audience and this is all rather sensitive information. ‘It’s 11.51, not exactly morning any more, Alex. Where have you been?’
He lifts a shoulder, laissez-faire , as if it doesn’t matter that he’s hours late to work on one of the most important days in our history.
We’ve been in a committed relationship for the last five years. Soon after we fell in love, we decided to quit our jobs at a big London publisher and build this company together. It took a fair amount of cajoling on his part to convince me, what with me being risk averse and feeling like it was all very rushed, but eventually I conceded. My parents’ entrepreneurial spirit must be alive and well in me too, although I think it was more my love of words and being in control of choosing those stories that spoke to me most.
While we’re (were?) in love, we keep separate apartments. I’d always imagined once our relationship solidified he’d move in with us, but it hasn’t happened. And now I have an inkling as to why. You should never trust a man that doesn’t keep his promises, and I for one should have held fast to that rule. Stupid, stupid me.
‘Stop jiggling your leg like that,’ I say, my voice calm, despite my inner turmoil.
He tuts. ‘Did you get out of the wrong side of bed today, Coco?’
‘That’s obnoxious.’ Is he purposely pushing my buttons to distract me? It’s not working. I need answers so I can figure out a solution.
‘How so?’
‘Alexander, why are you acting like this is just any other day?’ I’m hyperaware our staff are too close and stealing quick glances our way. I’m sure they’re curious as to why the atmosphere has changed. I keep my voice low and my expression neutral when all I really want to do is yell at him to stop this performance for one bloody minute.
‘It is any other day.’ The jiggling of his foot belies his relaxed demeanour.
I lower my voice to a whisper. ‘This place is about to collapse like a house of cards.’ A sob in the back of my throat catches me unawares. I fight to keep my composure. ‘Janae’s independent auditor came back with the findings and I’d like an explanation. There are monies missing from every single edition she’s published with us.’ Small enough amounts, so the system didn’t alert me. Cleverly done.
Janae is one of our most prolific cosy crime authors who has been with us from day one. She’s published twenty-two books over that time and has gone from strength to strength in sales.
‘Oh…?’ He tugs at his tie as if it’s too tight.
‘You were cc’d in the email this morning, so don’t pretend you haven’t seen it.’
A muscle in his jaw works. ‘So? There was a slight… glitch with her royalties. Mistakes happen, I’m only human.’
My heart bongoes painfully against my ribs. Deception is written all over his face. I’m stuck, not sure how to get him to confess. Worse, I can’t use my voice loud enough to emphasise the urgency of getting these discrepancies explained. If there’s a reasonable explanation. It won’t be hard to find the truth – just follow the money – but I haven’t had time yet.
‘There’s already chatter on the London Field author Facebook group. A lot of them are now wondering if they’re missing money too. I’d like to reassure the group that’s not the case because now they’re all threatening to get audits done. If they go down that road, what will they find?’ I hold my breath, hoping for a reason, a genuine reason, that won’t close our doors.
His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. Not a good sign. It’s like he’s attempting to swallow his lies before they can slip from his mouth.
‘ Alex? ’
In a flash, he drops the convivial act and his eyes darken, turn hard. ‘Bloody Janae should have left well enough alone.’ He lets out an expletive under his breath. ‘It’s the cost of doing business, Coco. Which you know nothing about as you sit in your ivory tower pandering to them all, obsessing over syntax and similes. Yeah, so what if I skimmed a bit from each author? That’s what it takes to get them to the top. ’
From each author?
My chest tightens, compressing my lungs. Ivory tower! The man is maddening, but if he means he’s skimmed a bit for their benefit, does that mean it’s been used for the greater good?
‘Did you use those skimmed funds for promotion?’ Maybe he paid some book influencers under the table? ‘If so, then we can at least account for it. It’s not ideal but we can show it hasn’t been…’ The word sits heavy on my tongue. ‘ Stolen .’
I’m in charge of the small editorial department and Alexander handles the accounts and oversees marketing, and although we have dedicated staff exclusively for promotion, he still guides them. It’s always been this way. From our monthly profit and loss reports, I’ve never had any reason to doubt him or the trajectory of income, which has been steadily increasing. Now I don’t know which way is up and what exactly I’m dealing with here. Have my failsafes… failed?
‘No, it wasn’t used for promotion. I’ve moved heaven and earth for our authors. A handful of those have hit the number one chart position. Number one! Not bad for a five-year-old boutique publishing house. They won’t begrudge us for taking a sweetener, surely?’
He’s talking in riddles. My low-level headache ramps into a blinder and whatever control I had over myself vanishes. I bellow, ‘What do you mean “ us” ? There is no us in this equation. You took it. Where is the money, Alexander?’
We’re doomed. The business we built from the ground up is going to crumble, author by author, book by book. And for what?
There’s a coldness to him that sends a shiver up my spine. I don’t recognise this man before me. ‘Fine. I got some of them to dizzying heights and I took payment for that.’
I scrub my face as tears threaten. This is worse than I’d expected. Much worse. ‘But what for?’ We pay ourselves decent enough salaries. The first few years were so lean that I used the remaining funds of my inheritance from my aunt to get by. Once we’d built the business up enough, our profits allowed us an increase in our own salaries. Every start up is the same – owners reap the rewards last. We pay ourselves an amount generous enough that I can afford a humble two-bedroom apartment in North London and he’s on the same amount as me.
‘It’s gone.’
‘ Where? If you’ve taken “sweeteners” from every author, for every edition, we’re talking about a lot of money here.’ Deep down, I suspected as much. Small amounts are easier to miss in this context. It’s only that I gave Janae exact sales figures in real time for her last novel and she noticed the difference on her royalty statement.
Alexander has the grace to blush. Then the puzzle pieces slide into place. ‘You’ve been seeing someone else.’ When we first started dating, he was grandiose: flowers, chocolates, first edition books. Fancy dinners in Michelin-starred establishments. When we started the company, I told him that while I appreciated those gestures, our money was best spent investing in the future. Still, he spent lavishly on himself, and I just put it down to our different personality types. It should be no surprise I’m a saver who once had a healthy emergency fund, until I used it all to make this place work.
Has he stolen the money to squander on another woman? The wink he gave to Molly-Mae unsettled me. It seemed so natural, so well practised. The more I consider there’s another woman, perhaps multiple women, the more it all makes sense. It explains why he hasn’t wanted to move in with us, why he often cancels last minute. Why he has been uncontactable some weekends. I’m a big fan of solitude, so my suspicions weren’t aroused. I’d figured we had a healthy relationship built on trust and mutual understanding, and I enjoy schlepping around with Eloise on Saturdays as we explore London.
‘I never said we were exclusive, Coco.’ The betrayal feels like a gut punch. As though my entire London life has been a lie. He sounds like one of those god-awful men from Sex and the City.
My headache blooms into a migraine. ‘ You talked about marriage. Babies!’ I thank my lucky stars that I dodged that bullet. Apparently my workaholic sensibilities were a worry and he wasn’t sure my ambition wouldn’t get in the way of me having a second child. How did I let that comment go?
I have been such a fool for love. I want to crumble on to the rug.
‘So you’ve spent all of the stolen money?’ I fight the urge to pull my hair out because we’re still being watched by office staff, including our new intern who has her mobile phone angled towards us. Great. This is probably being live streamed on TikTok as we speak.
‘It’s gone. It’s all gone. I spent it on my happiness, and I expected our authors to be grateful since I got some of them, especially Janae, to the top of the bestseller charts, a feat, I might remind you, that she had not been able to achieve at any other publishing house.’
‘Well, Alexander, you might feel that your marketing prowess helped, and I’m sure it did. But this is a business. You can’t steal money from people because you think you deserve it. I mean, I can’t even believe I have to spell this out to you.’ The rage I feel is enough to make my hands quake and my legs buckle. He’s abused his position of power and – worse – is going to take me down with him. The stab of pain that we were never exclusive is sidelined as I panic about the future of the business, which has the domino effect of interfering with my daughter’s future. ‘Janae is talking about getting the authorities involved.’
His lips move but no sound comes out. This piece of intel finally gets his attention. When his brain catches up with his mouth, he blurts, ‘There’s no need for the authorities to be involved, is there? We can doctor up some promotional invoices, explain it away.’
I feel a sort of loss, an ache in my heart, staring at this complete stranger opposite me. Like I’m skittering, skating atop that trapdoor, as it sneakily creaks open to swallow me whole. How did I not notice this unscrupulous side of him? How did I not see he’s a lying, cheating snake? Has my ambition blinded me? No, I will not blame my ambition, or myself. All I’d yearned for was security for my daughter’s future, and I worked hard to make that happen.
‘We’re not doctoring anything. We’ll put this to rights. We’ll pay them all back, every single penny of it, and just hope to God they don’t press charges. Our names are going to be mud in the industry. Publishing is a small world and once this gets out to the masses, which it will, that’s it for us. How could you do this, Alexander…?’ All the pent-up energy I had leaves my body in a whoosh and I slump on the sofa. My mind turns to my daughter. Is this situation salvageable? What happens if I do lose everything?
‘Let’s not be hasty. I’ll convene a meeting and tell them there’s been a little hiccough with the accounting software. How about that?’
‘What aren’t you getting, Alexander? You can’t lie!’ How could I have loved this man? Dreamed of a future together. Hoped like some lovelorn idiot that we’d eventually move in together and live in blissful harmony. He was good with Eloise, not in the sense of participating in any parenting but goofing around to make her laugh and often included her in planning activities for weekends and the like.
He’s been in her life for five years now; will this sudden breakup hurt her too? Another worry to add to the list.
‘Well, on that note, I’ve got some calls to make.’ He leans forward to kiss me on the cheek. The hide of the guy. I slide out of range.
‘Like that, is it?’ His lip curls.
His dark change in demeanour produces an involuntary shiver, but I will not be cowed by him. ‘I’ll organise a Teams meeting with our authors this afternoon. You’ll own up to what you’ve done and promise to make amends as fast as possible. Then you’ll hand in your resignation, and we’ll figure out what comes next for London Field Publishing.’
‘I’ll take a leave of absence, let the furore die down, eh? People have short memories.’
I’m only half listening, sick of the sight of the guy while my mind spins with scenarios about how I can salvage the business and save my own skin.
Will there still be a business once we tell our authors what he’s done? From the chatter I’ve witnessed on the Facebook group, there’s much talk about abandoning ship, and I don’t blame them. The trust is gone.
It’s best if the thief himself owns up to his mistakes. Then I’ll sweep in and reassure them I’m going to investigate the matter and make restitution. ‘I’ll arrange the meeting for 2p.m. Please prepare what you’re going to say. Be contrite , at least.’
‘Two o’clock, yeah, sure, sure,’ he says breezily. He salutes me as if I’m some sort of dictator and instead of getting to work, he makes a beeline for Molly-Mae. He whispers something in her ear, and she darts a nervous glance my way. What is that all about then? Just as I’m about to jump up to protect her, he makes a drinking gesture with his hand, as if he’s off to get a coffee when there’s a perfectly acceptable pod machine here. There’s a shiftiness about him as he power-walks away. Call me crazy, but I have a premonition he won’t be back.
After hosting the author Teams meeting solo – no surprise there – exhaustion gets the better of me. With a fixed smile in place, I let the staff know they can leave early today. They’ve now overheard what’s going on, but I don’t have the energy to tackle a talk with them right now.
When I’m finally alone, I lean my head on my desk and battle the urge to cry. While our staff have left, there’s still a lot of people in the co-working space and the last thing I need is someone asking me if I’m OK; that will send me over the edge.
Our stable of authors are collectively seeking legal advice about cancelling their contracts. According to author Janae, who discovered the thefts, they’re well within their rights to do this as per a specific clause in their contracts, which I do vaguely recollect.
Even romcom writer Sally has abandoned ship. My very first acquisition as editorial director in my own biz and the author I’ve grown the closest with. Editors shouldn’t have favourites, but it’s impossible not to, especially after five years, over many video chats and many manuscripts.
Sally sends her messy first drafts in a mad panic after churning out the bones of the story while learning about her heroine on the go.
When I take delivery, her first draft is riddled with errors, random gobbledygook notes in the margin and highlighted sections she’s still to research. I roll my sleeves up and wade into the manuscript, enjoying the idea of being able to offer another set of fresh eyes, a different perspective. Round two is where the magic happens for Sally – taking her rough diamond and polishing it to a shine.
Conversely, there’s Gillian, who meticulously plots her books, including down to the type of shoe her protagonist wears. Gillian is always affronted when I send structural edits – as if I’m ripping her work to shreds with my gentle suggestions about how to make the manuscript stronger. I wait a few days, and then call her to massage her delicate writer’s ego hidden behind a rather brash exterior. A week later, having had time to consider the edit suggestions, she’ll come back to me with a clearer mind and the knowledge that I am on her side. I’m her co-captain, happy to get muddy with her in the trenches to make her book the best it can be. And so she uncoils her shoulders and gets to work. I understand Gillian. She’s much like me in terms of needing structure and a plan.
And I can’t forget cantankerous Phillip, a retired DS who pens intricately layered police procedurals. The gruff man will not, under any circumstances, chat about his manuscript until he’s first shared a litany of complaints about the state of the publishing industry. He particularly likes to grumble about crime author colleagues who write about policing matters incorrectly, which he sees as a slight against him personally and the entire UK police force.
Every author is different, nuanced, has their own quirks, strengths and weaknesses. Their own rhythms . I have developed a sort of innate author operating manual so that I’m able to play to those strengths and help coax the best story from authors for readers. Their behaviours are often driven by self-doubt, so it’s a matter of recognising what they’re afraid of and reassuring them that between us, we can make it work .
Inevitably, I grow close to my authors. It’s a relationship built on trust and one I’ve tried to always protect. There’s a real vulnerability when an author sends a manuscript to me, so I strive to make them feel they’re in safe hands, and I’m not only their editor but their cheerleader too.
Perhaps I should speak in past tense though because the way the video call went, I sense they’re not going to be my authors any more.
And already, I’m grieving the loss of these author–editor relationships. It’ll be yet another breakup in a way, and I’m sad to even think of such an eventuality.
However, I can’t pine now; time is of the essence, so I pull myself together and make a call to my lawyer to see what can be done to mitigate the damage and where I stand. My priority is our authors, and then I’ll work out what’s left to salvage. I only hope what Alexander stole doesn’t have too many zeroes attached.