Remy
REMY
FUTURE MILFS GROUP CHAT
Me
I miss you
12:37
Melissa
I miss you all too! I’m sure I’ll be visiting London soon!
14:44
Nova
Same!
15:10
Lin
Love you guys!
21:12
“I’m not going to lie to you, Remy.”
When your literary agent asks to take you out to lunch, those are often the last words you want to hear. Closely followed by, “I need your second book this year.” Which is exactly what Tara said next.
I busy myself with a glass of water, but Tara is impossible to ignore.
Everything about her demands attention: from her brown bob streaking dark gold when it hits the light and the scent of a perfume you can’t pronounce, to a posture so straight she must have been a ballet child, and the cashmere cardigans she drapes over silk dresses once displayed on Regent Street mannequins.
I shuffle in my seat and finally look at her. Whenever I get nervous or receive bad news, my instinct is to throw up. I never actually do… expel , but I will continuously feel nauseous until it settles. Today, the feeling hit me this morning and now it’s returned.
Tara Shah, literary agent at renowned Loftus I’ve got one author promoting her fifth book, waiting for edits on her sixth while writing her seventh.
That’s what she’s got to do to keep her name out there.
TFF has been out for almost two years now, and we don’t even have a draft for whatever’s next.
Let’s not forget that from the time you signed with me to the date the hardback was published, TFF took eighteen months.
I mean this as kindly as possible, but we can’t guarantee your name will be relevant for that much longer. ”
“Oh.” It’s hard to be reduced to so little.
Tara senses this and says, “You can’t take it personally; it won’t do you any good.
This is your dream job, but to everyone else in the industry, it’s business.
Consolidating the two in a way that benefits you is where I come in.
Let’s look at the facts. You have an almost guaranteed lead-title spot if we publish next year. ”
“And if we don’t?”
“It won’t be a lead title,” Tara says simply.
“The lead slots for the following year are already filled. Of course, there are a few secret slots, but those are strictly reserved for books by celebrities and influencers with large followings—guaranteed moneymakers. The next available lead slot is in three years’ time, and we don’t know that your name will still be ‘big’ enough to get it.
We’re looking at a possible Delphine Ashby. ”
On any other day, this lunch is my dream meal.
An assortment of small dishes clutters the table in vibrant colors and mixed textures: burnt-butter hummus, confit potato latkes, baba ghanoush dressed in curry-leaf oil, smacked cucumbers decorated with chili flakes, and flatbreads so fresh they billow steam when split open.
But my stomach turns at the mention of Delphine Ashby.
Delphine is a cautionary tale used to scare authors straight: Her debut novel had been a massive success, at home and internationally, but she got the dreaded second-book fear, and it took her five years to finish it.
By then, there had been so many changes at her publishers, she basically had a brand-new team when she finally had a draft to share.
The editor who had inherited Delphine didn’t love the work and could only edit it so much before conceding defeat.
The publicity team were focusing on bigger campaigns, new names causing more excitement, and Delphine’s second book was published in near silence.
I loved her debut but didn’t hear anything about the follow-up until I spotted it on a bookshelf when searching for mine.
I then listened to an interview she’d done where she stated how terrible her second team had been in comparison to her first, and how readers only allowed some bestselling authors to remain that way.
This did not go down well on either side.
Editors went quiet on her, and consumers, without even having read the book, flocked to the internet to leave one-star reviews.
Suffice to say, I’ve heard nothing about a third novel.
“So,” Tara says, picking up her drink. “Your second book. What is it going to be about?”
I open my mouth and close it. I play with my napkin and stare down at my food. I use filler words to waste time until I land on something. “Great food, the complexities of female friendship, and the romantic nature of platonic love.”
Tara pauses, raising an eyebrow before returning her glass of wine to the table. She leans forward. “Tell me more.”
As an introvert, making friends is an art form dependent on too many variables:
A) the number of fellow introverts you encounter at any given time;
B) the number who are willing to make conversation;
C) the number who are actively looking for a new friend;
D) whether they then want you as a new friend;
E) whether their tastes and preferences match yours;
F) whether their availability matches yours;
G) their willingness to spend this form of currency on you.
On a Venn diagram the overlap is minuscule.
I’m thinking of how I can turn this into a plotline ( the adventures of a self-employed friendless introvert in her thirties —title pending) when I reach bookshop Ink@84.
This evening, I’m standing outside admiring the window display when Lin calls and my heart leaps.
“Lin!”
Lin laughs as she always does at the start of a phone call. “Remy! You’re always so excited on the phone. Fake millennial, you’re supposed to prefer texting.”
“I did—until you moved to a different time zone and left me with no choice! How are you? How’s New York?”
“Rem, it’s incredible,” she breathes, and I can picture her smiling.
“Don’t get me wrong, it’s not without its problems, but this city?
Okay, the size of the rats strolling about is crazy and the rent prices should be illegal!
If you ever want to feel better about paying for a flat in London, let me know and I’ll take you on a tour of a Manhattan studio.
Not like I can complain, though, since… I’ve moved to Brooklyn!”
I can’t remember the last time Lin spoke with so many audible exclamation points. “Really?” I ask. “When was this?”
“Couple of weeks ago—everything happened so quickly. I got a spot in a Clinton Hill brownstone, and I love it!”