Chapter 6
6
I stride back into the publisher’s office with all the confidence of a catwalk model in sky-high stilettos – although, if I’m being honest, I’m probably more likely giving Bambi on the ice. But I’m doing it. My brother’s pep talk is still ringing in my ears, like I’m listening to a motivational podcast, and it’s driving me right now. Today is my day. Nothing can stop me now.
Except, apparently, the security guard.
He’s the kind of bloke who looks like he moonlights as a bouncer – but probably for fun, rather than for the money – a towering figure with a buzz cut, a jawline you could (and I’m sure he does) sharpen knives on, and arms that strain the fabric of his black shirt. He’s wearing an earpiece because I’m sure an office building (okay, fair enough, it’s a big one, but still) needs a doorman. Great, just what I need right now.
‘Erm, excuse me, stop right there, please. Who are you? Who are you here to see?’ he asks, giving me a look that suggests I might be here to loot the place, rather than for a meeting with my editor.
‘I’m an author, I’m here to see my editor, Jen Brooks,’ I say, trying to maintain my composure – why do I always feel like I seem suspicious when anyone questions me? You should see me going through passport control. ‘I was here earlier – only a couple of hours ago, actually. There was a different guy working. Jen told me to come back after lunch.’
‘We don’t have a guy called Jen,’ he replies.
‘No, there was a different guy working earlier, but it’s my editor, Jen, who I’m here to see, again,’ I try to explain, the more I say, the more suspicious of me he seems. Wow, Tom was right, less is more.
He narrows his eyes before practically patting me down with them. Bloody hell, he’d better not actually pat me down. I know it’s been a minute since I had a man’s hands on me but, as welcomings back to the physical world go, this wouldn’t be it.
Hazel Tree Books, my publisher, is based in London, in the infamous Cactus building, and I get it, it is home to newspapers, magazines and even a TV studio, so it needs security, but do I really seem like a legitimate threat?
‘We’ve got a high-profile client in today, so we’re doing extra checks. There have been reports of females trying to sneak into the building,’ he explains.
‘Oh my gosh, not females,’ I say with a sarcastic gasp, barely resisting the urge to roll my eyes.
‘What’s your name?’ he asks, his suspicion deepening.
‘Amber Page,’ I reply, standing a little taller.
The security guard looks me up and down again, scepticism all over his face, like he’s having some sort of visible reaction to my words.
‘Is that a joke?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I say, exasperated because I get that all the time. ‘That’s my real name.’
People always ask me if I decided that I wanted to be a writer because of my last name. I always reply that, no, it was because I wanted a job with no financial security. My jokes don’t always land – and yet I crack them regardless.
He seems even more suspicious but picks up the phone and dials. As he waits for an answer, I can feel his eyes on me, like he’s expecting me to do something , anything , any minute. My guy is ready, which I guess is what you want from a security guard, but while he’s wasting his time with me, more threatening females could be scaling the building.
‘Jen Brooks, please,’ he says into the phone, glancing at me. ‘I’ve got an Amber Page here. Says she’s got a meeting with her, so I just need to check. Yes, I can wait.’
I wander over to the waiting area, trying not to let my encounter with Mr Jobsworth rattle me. I glance at the decorative shelves that flaunt books by some of their biggest authors. I scan the titles, feeling a pang of envy and a twinge of motivation with it. Obviously, there are none of my books here. In fact, there aren’t really any romance novels here – unless you count that horny golf one.
As I find myself once again questioning how much of a market there is for golf-themed erotica, the security guard’s voice snaps me from my thoughts.
‘Okay, you can go up,’ he says, waving me toward the lifts.
‘Thanks,’ I mutter – for nothing – as I head over.
I walk quickly and confidently, trying not to lose my new edge (because, let’s be real, I suspect it might be temporary).
When I reach the lift, I’m the only one there, and thankfully it’s already waiting on the ground floor so I step inside and press the button for Jen’s floor.
As I wait for the doors to close, I turn around to check my make-up in the mirrored wall. My reflection looks back at me with slightly smudged eyeliner and lipstick that, thankfully, hasn’t ventured into Joker territory – despite my best efforts over lunch, when I practically inhaled my bagel. I pop my glasses onto my head and use my index fingers to clean up my eyeliner a little. Well, if I go in there looking like I’ve been crying, it’s not going to give off the confidence I’m trying to pretend I found at the bottom of my lunchtime coffee cup, is it?
Deciding that’s the best I can do to sort it out, I move my glasses back to their usual home, only to feel a pair of hands snaking around my waist and a body pressing up against my back.
‘Hey, beautiful,’ a man’s voice practically growls into my ear as he nuzzles into my neck. ‘You came.’
I scream and quickly push the man away, but we’re in a lift and the doors are closed now, so it’s not like there’s anywhere for me to run. My heart is pounding. I start frantically digging through my bag for something to use as a weapon, though I suspect it’s probably just filled with rogue pairs of knickers, empty Kit Kat wrappers, and lip balms that have seen better days. I wonder which would serve me best in a fight. Probably the knickers; they certainly freaked Ray out.
As I glance up, I notice the man staring back at me, and the look on his face is as horrified as mine.
‘I’m so sorry!’ he exclaims, backing away with his hands raised, showing me that he isn’t a threat. ‘I thought you were someone else!’
Slightly relieved, but very annoyed, I narrow my eyes at him.
‘Do you make a habit of accosting women in lifts? Because if you do, you’ll fit right in with the men here.’
That’s probably a joke that only I will get but, still, like I said, I don’t let a little thing like that stop me from cracking them.
‘Only if they’re my girlfriend and they know I’m supposed to be here,’ he says, still looking mortified. ‘You just look exactly like her – from behind, at least. Same figure, same hair, same walk. It’s quite freaky, actually.’
‘Not as freaky as being humped in a lift when you’re not expecting it,’ I reply, giving him my best death stare.
He laughs and apologises again.
‘I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just… you really do look just like her,’ he continues. ‘But you’re right, I should’ve been more careful. Sorry – again.’
Ahh, apologising inside an apology – a man after my own heart.
‘I was checking my make-up, so I didn’t have my glasses on – I didn’t even know there was anyone else in the lift with me,’ I tell him.
‘I was on my way out when I saw you from behind, mistook you for someone else, and thought you were here to see me, so I ran in after you,’ he explains. ‘It all happened in an instant.’
I huff, still irritated but starting to calm down.
‘Well, next time, maybe wait until you see a girl’s face before you start kissing her neck, yeah?’ I suggest.
He nods vigorously. I kind of feel like he’s stifling a smile. I guess it is funny, now that it’s not scary.
‘Absolutely. Lesson learned,’ he assures me.
As we step out of the lift, I take a moment to look him up and down. He’s tall – 6'2", maybe, so quite a bit taller than me (I’m 5'7") – and muscular, with broad shoulders that suggest he spends a lot of time at the gym, or attacking women in lifts. His blonde hair is artfully tousled, giving him that perfect balance of rugged but sophisticated. His chiselled jawline is the kind that makes you think of movie stars and superheroes, and his blue eyes are piercing, framed by lashes that are far too long and luscious for any human being, let alone a manly man. Why do men always get the best natural eyelashes?
All at once, it hits me where I recognise him from. I don’t know him personally, but he’s definitely a familiar face. He’s Caleb Carney, the guy from that reality dating show, Welcome to Singledom . Now he’s a full-time influencer, his face plastered all over social media, with millions of adoring followers. Jeez, no wonder women were trying to break into the building; he’s pretty much everyone’s dream man. He’s definitely having a moment in the public eye.
I try to act nonchalant as the realisation washes over me, but I can’t help the faint blush creeping up my cheeks. Caleb Carney, in the flesh, and he just mistook me for his girlfriend, and he practically humped me in a lift. Well, that’s one way to give a girl a confidence boost – so long as we ignore the part where he saw my face and freaked out, but that was probably more likely from the misunderstanding, rather than him just really hating girls who wear glasses. Then again, Ray did.
‘So, what are you doing here?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice casual.
‘I’m writing a book,’ he replies with a proud grin.
‘Of course you are,’ I mutter, because why wouldn’t he be? He’s gorgeous, famous, and now apparently an aspiring author. I suppose they let anyone have a stab at it these days, if they have enough followers.
‘I just had a meeting with my editor, and my marketing team,’ he adds.
Oh my God, he has his own marketing team? Sometimes I’m not even sure I get marketing.
‘I have a meeting, so I’ve got to go,’ I tell him as we hover outside the lift, because I can feel my confidence fading again. How am I supposed to compete with influencers?
‘I was just leaving anyway,’ he says, but there’s a strange look in his eyes. It’s not that he fancies me, because why would he, but it’s definitely something. He gives me a cheeky smile and a wink as he steps back into the lift, letting the doors close, leaving me more flustered than I’d like to admit.
‘Amber, there you are,’ Jen calls out.
Oh, now she seems pleased to see me.
‘Hello,’ I say brightly.
‘Did you take the stairs? You are bright red,’ she blurts as she looks me in the eye.
‘Oh, no, I’m fine, I just had a weird encounter with Caleb Carney in the lift,’ I reply.
‘Ah, say no more, he’s got us all a bit like that today,’ she replies. ‘Isn’t he a babe? He’s doing a book for us, you know.’
‘He mentioned that, briefly,’ I reply. ‘Like an autobiography, or…?’
‘No, no, a novel,’ she tells me. ‘A series, actually. Think Knives Out meets The Hangover – it sounds like it’s going to be a lot of fun.’
Is she serious right now?
‘Right, come on, let’s get sat down for that chat. Can I get you a coffee?’ she asks.
Oh, now she’s breaking out the hospitality.
‘I’m fine, thanks, I had one with my lunch,’ I tell her.
‘Oh, how lovely,’ she replies. ‘Come on then, sit down.’
She leads me into one of the glass-walled meeting rooms – a different one to before – and smiles at me.
‘So, have you had any thoughts since we spoke last?’ she asks me. ‘Did you read any of the books? Are you going to give it a go?’
‘Some,’ I tell her. ‘They’re great, they really are, it’s just not really me. This new idea that I have, I really believe in it, I think I’d do a really good job with it, and there is definitely a hungry market for it right now. I promise you that, if you let me finish this, instead of the regular romcom I’ve been working on, you won’t be disappointed with it. I can turn it around to our original deadline – before Christmas – and then we can still publish next year.’
I mean, it needs a lot more work than the romcom but trust me, when you’re writing an idea you love, it just flows from your fingers. It’s a pleasure to write and you find yourself doing it for fun, from morning until night, because you’re loving the world you’re creating and you don’t want to leave.
‘Hmm, okay, right,’ she says as she takes in my words.
And now I just need to bring it home, to give her that ultimatum, to show her that I do have a say in this, and she can take it or leave it.
‘Otherwise, I don’t know, if you’re not happy, and I’m not happy, then maybe something is just off here,’ I say. ‘I think what I need is some time – a break – to really stop and think about what we’re doing here, and what we do next. I know that you have a bunch of authors, and you only want what’s best for us, but this is my book and after all of the hard work I put into it, I want the finished product to be something I can be proud of. I want to write you a book that you love – but I want to love it too.’
‘Amber, it’s like you’re reading my mind,’ she says, all smiles.
Oh, thank God she’s reacting this way, what a huge relief.
‘Yeah?’ I check, with a pathetic level of hopefulness.
‘Absolutely,’ she replies. ‘I’m hearing what you’re saying and there’s a lot we agree on. We both see how important it is that you stick to the publishing schedule we agreed on, we both think that this book needs to be something we’re both happy with, and we both think a break would do you the world of good.’
I almost smile until I overthink her words. It sounds like a threat, an impossibility, and a contradiction.
‘Well, you’re in luck, I have a surprise for you,’ she begins, shifting to the edge of her seat. ‘There is a ski resort, not too far from Chamonix in the French Alps, called La Coquelicot Blanche.’
‘Say that again,’ I ask quickly, because that was too fast and too French for me to take in.
‘La Coquelicot Blanche,’ she says again. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of La Coquelicot Blanche?’
I mean, technically I’ve heard of it three times today.
‘I’m not much of a skier,’ I say with a shrug.
‘Everyone has heard of La Coquelicot Blanche,’ she insists. ‘It’s where all the celebs go. Anyway, it’s like its own little village, almost, and they have a hotel, a spa, lodges and so on, and then they have this one old chateau in the grounds. It has been there forever, and a few of our authors hire it once a year, as a sort of pre-Christmas writers’ retreat.’
‘Sounds lovely,’ I say politely.
‘I’m glad you think so, because you’re going,’ she tells me.
‘Huh?’
‘You’re going. There is a free space, it’s all paid for – Dickie Woodrup was supposed to be going, but he’s had to pull out, for personal reasons.’ Jen pulls a don’t-ask face. ‘So the others kindly suggested I offered his place to someone else, seeing as though it’s non-refundable. They’re all romance writers, and you know them – Mandy Hess, Bette Hinton and Gina Knox – so not only will you fit right in but it will be the perfect environment for you to get this draft done. Just think, having the three of them on hand to mentor you, the advice they could give you. Gina especially writes a really steamy story.’
‘It’s Christmas in a couple of weeks,’ I remind her.
‘Exactly, your deadline is looming,’ she points out.
‘But it’s so last-minute,’ I add.
‘Amber, you’re always asking me to see if I can get you quotes, from the other authors,’ she reminds me. ‘And to get you into the networking events – and you once told me you would kill to get into one of these writers’ retreat breaks.’
I’m always asking her to ask the other authors for quotes and they always say no – usually because they’re too busy, but sometimes I suspect they’re just too busy for me. This is also why I ask her to get me into networking events too, and to get me into the writers’ retreats – not because I think writing would be any easier on what is essentially a holiday (surely it would be harder?) but because I know that what I really need in this industry is friends. What is it they say? Find your tribe? Well, I don’t have one. Publishing is one hell of a cliquey industry, and I’m yet to find a group I fit into. Inside the groups you have a world of support, and authors give quotes for each other, and share each other’s books on their social media. Then there’s me, like a lost little lamb, struggling to make friends. It feels like school all over again, when we moved to a new town, and I suddenly found myself eating lunch alone. It’s a lot less lonely than eating canapés, staring at an abstract artwork, trying to style out standing alone at your publisher’s massive annual party. It’s a seriously strange sensation, feeling alone, when you’re in a room with so many people.
‘Look, all of the plans are in place – I’ll send you all the info – it’s all booked, so you don’t have a thing to worry about. So, go, take the time, and finish writing your romcom – your original idea, that is – in a way that we’ll both love, and then you can have Christmas without work on your mind,’ she says, adding extra emphasis to the words that are there to remind me to abandon my new idea.
‘I’m not sure I fancy it,’ I tell her honestly.
‘I’m not sure you have much choice,’ she replies. ‘What’s the alternative? Breach your contract? Pay back your advance? It all sounds so messy and unnecessary. Best to just take the free holiday, chat with the other authors, make peace with being a romance writer, and come back nice and refreshed, okay?’
I don’t know what to say. Not least because I didn’t actually receive an advance on my contract – but fun to know that other authors who are deemed more worthy still do.
‘Okay?’ she prompts me again, a little firmer this time, but it still comes with that dead-behind-the-eyes trademark smile of hers.
‘Erm, yeah, okay,’ I finally say.
God, I could really do without this, but I guess it’s a free holiday, and I do need to write this book so, ahh, maybe it will inspire me, maybe the others will help me? This industry really is so cliquey and the big-name authors like Mandy, Bette and Gina are great examples of those who only seem to support each other. So, I suppose I would be crazy to turn an opportunity like this down, if it helps me network. Perhaps if I spend some time with them they will see that I’m one of them, and who knows, maybe we’ll make friends?
‘Okay, fab, well, you’ve got a couple of days to get ready, and you’ll be back in time for Christmas,’ she tells me. ‘I’ll buzz all the details to your inbox. But Amber, listen, I do need you to stick with your original draft, okay? And no sneaking any murders into this one.’
I sigh heavily. I’m not feeling it, at all, but it doesn’t seem like I have much choice.
‘Great,’ I reply.
I must be the only person in history to feel down in the dumps about being given a holiday at a fancy resort. But I don’t ski, I’m not close with the other writers – not like they are with each other – and, worst of all, I do not want to write this book.
But it seems like I don’t have a choice so I guess France it is.
Super!