Hoffman Books
HOFFMAN BOOKS
In Shirin’s peripheral vision she can see Florence Ainsworth. She is looking at Shirin through the gaps between their computer monitors. Shirin pretends she cannot see Florence looking, but her presence across from her is inescapable, like she’s a snake peeping through woodland foliage, watching, waiting.
The editorial team’s desks are joined together in five rows of three. They often joke that they are battery editors in the open-plan office, squished together like hens, expected to produce perfect manuscripts one after the other in quick succession. If she holds her arms out to the side, Shirin will be touching Poppy, a quiet editor from Australia, on her left, and Joanie, a dry-humored and often hot-and-cold commissioning editor, on her right. Her manager, Lilian, is seated behind them, at her own separate desk, as though she is an island, with a short bookcase between her and her employees.
The office is situated inside the Shard; the walls are all glass, with a view of London that is expensive and surreal. Lustrous light shines in most days, providing them with much-coveted and needed doses of vitamin D. Since working as an assistant editor at Hoffman, Shirin’s seasonal affective disorder has drastically improved; she no longer yearns for daylight, compared to her previous dingy office jobs, where she saw the sky for merely half an hour on her lunch break.
Shirin is not fond of Florence, who is still looking at her. Florence is from Hertfordshire and went to Cambridge, like most of her colleagues at Hoffman. Her father, Tom Ainsworth, is the associate publisher of one of the biggest publishers in the UK. Her mother, Robin Joyce, is a successful novelist and writes the kinds of literary novels not many people truly understand but everyone pretends to. She recently wrote a long feature in Vogue, which Florence brought into the office. There were multiple spreads of Robin in Gucci, Prada, and Givenchy as she attempted to convince the public that she is just like us. Her latest book is about an interracial relationship and has been heralded as “the only book you’ll care about” and “ the book about race and relationships.” Robin is a white woman married to a white man. Privilege aside, it is not for these reasons that Shirin does not like Florence. It is for the fact that they once had a heated argument, across tables, in which Florence declared that Paki is not a derogatory term, but a shortening of a place. Exchanges such as this happen regularly with Florence, though Shirin can tell that, despite this, Florence likes her and wants them to have a connection, even though Shirin makes it clear she is not interested (by never returning her stare).
was founded by David Hoffman eight years ago. David is a man who is a multimillionaire by birth but never mentions this in press interviews about the quick rise of the publisher, which is reported to give the Big Five a run for their money. Shirin’s closest friend at Hoffman is Mariam, a marketing executive, who sits across the office from Shirin but is still close enough that they can see each other from their seats. This proves useful when they need to exchange quick glances, though they usually spend the day messaging each other on Microsoft Teams. Mariam has been at Hoffman only four months longer than Shirin, and very quickly they banded together. She messages her now:
Shirin: Book bin???
Mariam: 1 min
Shirin gives it a few seconds, then picks up her half-drunk mug of coffee and walks in the direction of the kitchen. Instead of going inside, though, she continues walking around the corner toward the post room. Toby is sitting on the stepladder by an industrial-size blue bin. He is on his phone and when he sees Shirin, and then Mariam close behind her, he gets up, asks if they’re all right, and leaves his seat. Toby does not have a desk in the office; he is just expected to float around, continually dropping off and collecting parcels. Shirin feels for him, but then every time she gets a new ASOS order he will make a comment like “You again” or “I knew this would be for you,” and then her sympathy dissipates.
Shirin peeks inside the bin and thinks how sad it is that these works, which take years to write and edit, are now in a literal bin, some of the covers bent or damaged from people lobbing them in. When she first started at Hoffman, Mariam gave her an unofficial tour of the land. The first place she showed her was the book bin. Tucked away by the post room, it is not officially advertised as the place where staff can get free books, but that is essentially what it is—otherwise they get pulped. They tend to pick a couple of books to take back to their desks, even though they know the likelihood of reading them is slim, because they enjoy the aesthetic of books sometimes more than actually reading them. Shirin thinks most people in the publishing and bookish world do, they just don’t like to admit it.
It is a spot—along with one of the storage cupboards—where Mariam and Shirin go to speak privately. Mariam tells her she has an important pitch meeting for a book she loves and asks Shirin to distract her from the nerves. Mariam fidgets, adjusting her hijab and then shaking her body as if to forcibly shake the anxiety off herself. Shirin cannot help but admire her makeup, despite her constant moving. Her eyeliner is always sharp, drawn with precision, her cut crease impeccable, and looks so effortless it makes one think it is easy to achieve. Shirin wears the same shimmer eye shadow, a touch lighter than her own eyelid tone, and heavy mascara combo daily, very firmly staying in her lane when it comes to makeup.
“Florence is staring again,” Shirin says. She leans against the bin and the hard plastic digs against her shoulder, but she doesn’t move or adjust her stance, just lets it continue digging.
“I think she wants to be your friend,” Mariam says. “It’s actually quite sad, if you think about it.”
“Doubtful, when we’re both competing for the same job now,” Shirin says.
“How do you mean?”
“Poppy’s leaving in four months to go back to Australia, and Lilian told me they’ll be hiring a new editor soon. Last week she handed three authors over to me, which I’m assuming shows she thinks I’m ready for the next level…”
“You’ve been an assistant editor for two years now—if anyone should get it, it’s you,” Mariam says. “This is excellent news, my friend.”
Shirin waves her hand, not liking the attention being on her any longer. Sometimes she is so desperate to be seen, but then when she is, she feels her skin crawl and wants to divert the attention elsewhere. She asks Mariam how her housemate situation is going, which sets Mariam off. She tells Shirin all about her nightmare housemate, Kesha, who appeared kind and timid in their SpareRoom interview, but who since moving in leaves passive-aggressive Post-it Notes all round their flat. She ruined Mariam’s dinner party on Saturday by telling them to keep it down at 9 P.M. It is a rite of passage, Shirin has recently come to realize, to have at least one terrible housemate in a flat-share. She has certainly experienced it enough times, and now lives in a house with three other women who don’t speak to each other. She knows what they sound like climaxing—or pretending to—through the thin walls, but not exactly what their jobs are.
Shirin and Mariam disperse when Toby comes round again, realizing they have been talking for a touch too long. On her way back to her desk, Shirin sees an article up on Poppy’s computer. A familiar, haunting face, looking back at her. One she constantly tries to forget about, but, due to his steady climb to fame over the years, it has become harder and harder to do so. In the picture he is blond haired with ginger stubble, his features generic, though less pretty than they were at school, his nose much bigger, his eyes the same bright blue. He has his arms held wide, and it looks like he is onstage at the Apollo. She imagines the applause he must have received after spewing his racist and sexist jokes, all in the name of free speech. He always told similar “jokes” at school, but she never thought he would become so big or inescapable.
At her desk she types his name into Google. The first news article that appears is:
WODEHOUSE PUBLICATIONS TRIUMPHS IN 10-WAY 7-FIGURE AUCTION FOR MEMOIR BY COMEDIAN ROB GRAYSON
“Jesus,” Shirin mutters, her hand shaky on her mouse as she closes the web page. He is encroaching on her life, in her industry. Not only that, but he is being allowed to spout dangerous verbiage—and is being paid millions for it. Around her she can hear her colleagues chatting, but her mind is in tunnel vision. An encroaching anxiety in the pit of her stomach is threatening to overcome her—because while she escaped school ten years ago, it is coming back to haunt her more and more lately. She doubts that he’ll mention in his memoir what he did to her—and to Kian. He will be lauded, as so many terrible men are.
She picks up her phone and has this urge to message Kian, like it’s something she has done in her adult life—though of course it isn’t. She remembers Jasper’s gig is tonight and the possibility of Kian being there. What does he think of Rob’s rise to celebdom? She actively avoids discussing it with her hometown friends; they forget the wrong he has done and instead are awestruck at how a working-class boy from an ordinary northern city has become an international comedian. They forget how racist he was at school, and how racist he is in adulthood. The reason for this is simple: they do not care because it doesn’t affect them. But Rob’s actions completely altered Shirin’s and Kian’s life path. And worse still, the effects of it will continue to reverberate into their future.