5. Edie
EDIE
The beautiful London district of Bloomsbury – home of writers, intellectuals, philosophers, artists, and…
me. Well, for this afternoon, anyway. The red double decker bus groans to a halt, and I swing out of the door and into a gaggle of tourists who are heading towards the black iron gates which stand at the entrance to the British Museum.
Charlotte’s office is on a pretty street lined with tall white houses, which would have originally been homes to the rich and well-favoured.
Now they’re offices and fancy shops, and whenever I’ve been here in the past, I’ve always had a suspicion someone’s going to tap me on the shoulder and tell me I don’t belong here.
The buzzer sounds and I start the long climb up four flights of stairs because it might be a fancy building, but it doesn’t have an elevator.
By the time I reach the agency door, I’m seriously regretting my life choices.
To be more specific, my decision to wear a cute, knitted sweater dress with tights.
February in London has a weird habit of skipping from Arctic chill to spring-like sunshine in a matter of minutes, and I never seem to dress for the weather.
“Edie!” Charlotte – tiny and chic in a white shirt and black trousers – opens the door to find me, a sweating tomato encased in knitwear, standing in the doorway.
Seemingly unconcerned, she kisses me on both cheeks and welcomes me in. I flap the neckline of my dress to try and cool myself down. A little rivulet of sweat trickles between my boobs and nestles in the seam of my bra. I do not look like a composed and chic literary goddess.
“Have a seat,” Charlotte says, waving to the little sitting area lined with bookshelves. “I’ll be with you in two secs.”
There’s a massive stack of papers on the table and two pens.
I lean forward and peer at the top page.
This looks like serious business compared to the contract I signed for Annabel’s book.
Last time the paperwork was pretty much sign here, agree to deliver by this date, promise not to tell the world you’ve written the book .
This stack of paper looks bigger than your average novel.
I sneak a peek to find that every single page is printed on the same luxurious thick paper, with the name of an expensive-sounding legal firm on the top.
I pick up a pen, eager to sign on the dotted line.
“Uh-uh.” Charlotte returns, plucking the pen out of my hand and waggling a warning finger.“Hold your horses,” she says as the intercom buzzer sounds again. “We’re waiting for the legal bod.”
’She disappears and I use the hem of my dress to blot my sweaty nose in a sophisticated manner. The smell of coffee wafts through the air and I hear Amy, Charlotte’s assistant, clattering in the tiny kitchen.
Amy appears and puts a tray on the table in front of me. There’s a cafetiere of coffee, four different kinds of fancy cookie, and to finish it off a cute little posy of flowers in an Emma Bridgewater jug.
“Just shout if you need anything,” she says and heads back to her office. I can see Charlotte hovering by the door.
I gaze around at the books that line the shelves, colourful and face out to show off Charlotte’s clients to their best advantage.
There are well-known faces from television and music world, as well as New York Times bestselling authors and distinguished literary prize-winners.
The kind of people who actually sign their own books in bookstores.
And then there’s me, sitting here waiting to sign another contract to write a book that I can’t help feeling – despite Charlotte’s assurances – is taking me yet another step away from my dream of seeing my own name in print.
I try and imagine my own book up there, my name on the spine in gold foil.
It’s a nice thought. Ridiculous, maybe, but a nice thought.
I hear a man’s voice and look out into the hallway. A moment later he appears, stern and suited, and I scramble out from the depths of the sofa to shake his hand.
“Miss Jones,” he says with a nod, as Amy flutters around sorting coffee for everyone.
Then we get down to business. There’s a lot of legal jargon about not sharing confidential information and the consequences of violating the agreement – legal action, financial penalties, and other remedies as deemed appropriate.
I do my best to look serious and attentive, but mostly I’m wondering how exactly you financially penalise someone with exactly zero pounds in their bank account.
He finally stops talking.
“So,” I say, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “If I so much as talk in my sleep, I should expect a strongly worded letter?”
The lawyer doesn’t even twitch. He blinks at me, slow and unimpressed, like a lizard in an expensively tailored suit. Charlotte’s shut-up glare is so intense that I half expect my coffee to evaporate.
“Just joking,” I say.
The lawyer looks at me as if I’m missing several vital brain cells and we get to signing. There’s a mountain of papers and I scribble my signature over and over, getting pen over my hand in true left-handed manner.
“Excellent,” I say, trying to keep my signature identical, and at the same time not covering the paper with ink smudges. “It looks a bit like a Rorschach test.”
The lawyer allows a thin-lipped approximation of a smile.
“That should be all,” he says, standing up and shaking both mine and Charlotte’s hands. “I’ll see myself out, don’t worry.”
Amy reappears with a packet of lemon-scented wipes and hands one to me with a cheerful smile. I feel like a messy toddler.
“This is your chance to shine,” Charlotte says, shuffling the last papers into a neat stack, then dropping them into a folder, closing it with satisfaction.
She looks delighted, as if I’ve just won a prize instead of signing over any sense of autonomy.
“It’s a bit different this time because you’re dealing with a family history as much as a memoir, and of course the duke isn’t with us anymore, so you’ll have to put your historian hat on. You’ll be in heaven.”
Charlotte tops up our coffee.
“So, the late duke was a dear friend of Annabel, it transpires. He was a bit of a character by all accounts, but not quite organised enough to fulfil his side of the family bargain. There was some… confusion, apparently, around parts of the estate and finances. ”
I frown at her, but she carries on.
“Nothing scandalous.” She sips her coffee and gives me a benign smile.
“Let’s just say the paperwork isn’t quite pristine.
And each Duke of Kinnaird for hundreds of years has left behind a sort of generational history.
Very dynastic. Bloodlines, duty, all that stuff.
It’s like something out of Game of Thrones . ”
Dragons again , I think, but don’t say it out loud for obvious reasons.
“He died before he could get it all done, and it seems that he left instructions in the will that he wanted a writer and historian to come in and do the job. Annabel put in a good word, rang me, and here we are.”
“And you think I’m up to the job?” I ask, as casually as I can manage.
Charlotte nods, already moving on. “I wouldn’t put you forward if I didn’t.”
I open my mouth to say something, but she’s taken a dainty bite of her cookie and speaking again.
“You’re more than capable. In fact, it’s the perfect contract for you. You can get the history bug out of your system, spend a couple of months lost in the archives digging through the diaries, then we can have a think about what we’re going to do next.”
I have a feeling that whatever moving forward means, it probably involves bloody dragons or another ghost-writing job. Or Charlotte gently removing me from her books because I’m never going to make her any money at this rate.
“Okay, I’ll be ready for that,” I say, hiding my lack of conviction behind my coffee cup.
Charlotte claps her hands. “Excellent! Then we’re all set.”
Amy offers me another wet wipe, and I shake my head. There’s not much we in all this. I glance at the signed contract, thick as a novel, sitting neatly in its folder. It’s official. There’s no backing out now.
“Just think,” says Charlotte, beaming. “You’ll be living in a Scottish castle, breathing in history, surrounded by centuries of secrets.”
“Can’t wait.”
I hear a buzzing and turn around to see a bumblebee trapped against the window, bashing its fuzzy head repeatedly against the glass in a fruitless attempt to escape. And I realize that’s what I feel like.
I love history, and I should be grateful for an all-expenses paid trip to some mystery destination in Scotland. But there’s a nagging voice at the back of my head.
It’s not my book. It’s someone else’s story, again.