Chapter 2
DAWN
My editor is doing a terrible job of dancing around what he really wants to tell me.
Which is that my latest manuscript is abysmal.
‘You see . . . uh . . . the thing that we’ve come to discover recently .
. . that is to say, we’ve started to notice, is this, um, shift amongst readers, not necessarily all readers, but those who we would consider as a target for, uh, this sort of thing .
. .’ Michael trails off, the creases between his eyebrows deepening, his eyes darting up to the ceiling, down to his tie, anywhere but landing on mine.
He exhales the air from his cheeks and then brazenly continues: ‘This is . . . to be expected. Things change and move and as a business we must reflect the wants and needs of . . . uh . . . the people that keep us . . . moving. Like a boat, for example. If you picture a boat and how it . . . drifts with the water. Although, I suppose with boats you can steer them, and to some extent we can steer things, but not . . . not as it stands . . .’
I watch him, utterly mesmerised.
What on earth is he going on about? Why is he talking about boats?
Brandon, my agent, is squirming next to me.
He may well break before I do and offer Michael some help, but for now he stays quiet, shifting his weight in his chair, twirling the stem of his wine glass round and round between his thumb and forefinger, creasing the tablecloth beneath it.
Brandon doesn’t think much of Michael, but that’s not surprising.
Brandon doesn’t think much of many people.
He likes them to prove themselves as worth thinking about in the first place and I don’t think Michael is doing very well at that, bless him.
I think he’s rather sweet. He’s in his late twenties, but he looks barely past his teenage years.
He’s very almost handsome with his mop of fair hair, brown earnest eyes and clean jaw, but he has no command of a room.
I’d write him as a lingering ex-boyfriend who continues to ‘check in’, or a gentle younger brother maybe, a non-threatening character desperate to make his mark and not quite getting there.
He might come into play in the second book, proving his worth and taking the readers by surprise when they realise that they didn’t notice him much before but they really quite like him.
Real-life Michael has done well to be so senior an editor at his age. I’d be impressed but his father is CEO. Still, you can’t get this far without knowing something.
He’s still going, rambling on about boats and time, stammering and tripping over his words, refusing to look me in the eye. He’s intimidated by me.
I like that. Nice to know I still have that sort of power.
Brandon is checking his watch now. I shoot him a look of disapproval.
Michael has every right to tell me to my face in his own way that my work is terrible. He wanted to say his bit in an email, but that wasn’t going to fly. He did his best to avoid this lunch – cancelling and rearranging it twice – but we held firm.
I was determined he’d tell me ‘no’ to this manuscript in person.
Despite the embarrassing circumstances, it gives us the chance to actually meet Michael.
Since the publisher underwent a ‘change of structure’ last year, the only contact I’d had with my new editor, who had inherited me when my previous editor left for pastures new, was over email.
A lunch also provides an opportunity for a bit of collaborative brainstorming for the replacement book I intend to write for him, and the wine, paid for by the publisher, will help get ideas flowing as soon as Michael has finished his bumbling monologue.
‘What I really think we’re looking for – and I say “we” meaning the public as well as our team and brand – is something that speaks to us.
’ Michael reaches up to run a hand through his thick fair hair that must be laden with some sort of product, because as his hand drops, his hair remains sticking up in tufts.
He runs his fingers over his mouth. His upper lip is sweating.
‘And things move with time. Time changes everything.’
I glance at Brandon. He looks like he’s in physical pain.
Oh dear. Michael really isn’t getting anywhere, and we need to move on. Our main courses will be here any minute and I’d rather get the hairy bits out of the way before we eat.
‘Michael, darling,’ I cut in, bringing him to an abrupt halt mid-sentence, ‘I think you’re absolutely charming, but do get to the point. What is it that you’re trying to say?’
He stares at me wide-eyed, his cheeks flushing pink. Brandon suppresses a smile.
‘Yes, sorry, I’m rambling, I’m always . . .’ Michael pauses, licking his lips. ‘What am I trying to say? Right. To the point.’
‘You’re not sure about the book,’ I assume, offering him an encouraging smile.
‘The book?’ He looks confused, his eyebrows knitted together before something clicks. ‘Oh, your book! Yes, well, it’s . . . uh . . . you see, with your books, there’s a . . . formula.’
‘A formula,’ I repeat slowly, now my turn to be confused.
‘You know, the same things, same old story.’ He hesitates, panicking.
‘That came out wrong. I didn’t mean that so flippantly.
Your work is not . . . you know, it’s great.
And there’s nothing necessarily wrong with the same formula over and over.
Some readers like that. What works works, am I right? ’
He looks between us hopefully. We blink back at him, both as perplexed as the other.
‘Michael, I think things are getting a little convoluted,’ Brandon notes, doing an admirable job of masking his amusement with seriousness.
‘Tell me plainly, Michael.’
‘Got it. Of course. Sorry.’ Michael clears his throat.
Twice. He takes a deep breath. ‘All right. As I mentioned, it’s the shift in market trends and .
. . we, as in, not me personally, but the company as a whole .
. . uh.’ He closes his eyes in despair before they flash open again and he blurts the rest out in a hurry: ‘Okay, there’s no easy way to say this, but we feel it no longer aligns with your . . . style.’
I tilt my head at him. ‘Sorry, what is it that no longer aligns with my style?’
‘The . . . market shift.’
‘I see. You mean, my book doesn’t align with this so-called . . . shift.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You mean this book, this particular book. Your choice of the word “style” made it sound broader, as though the issue goes further than this manuscript.’
He hesitates. ‘Yes.’
‘Yes, you mean “book”, or yes you mean “style”?’
‘I . . . uh . . . I mean . . .’
‘Dawn,’ Brandon says slowly, sitting up straight now.
‘I’ll be honest with you, Michael, darling, I wasn’t entirely .
. . inspired when I wrote this book,’ I say with a dismissive flick of my hand before I pick up my glass and swirl the wine around inside of it.
‘And to be frank, the pressure from the publisher wasn’t exactly helpful.
There’s nothing like a pressing deadline to dull creativity. ’
‘We did . . . give you a few years,’ Michael mutters.
‘I think there’s potential in the characters. Perhaps we move the location. What do you think?’ I ask him, before I take a gulp of my drink and place it down.
He stares at me bewildered before his eyes drop to his lap.
‘I’m sorry, Dawn, I haven’t done a very good job at making myself clear,’ he mumbles quietly, ‘but we as a publisher don’t feel like we’re the right fit for you anymore. We won’t be publishing your next book. Whether it’s this one or another one.’
Oh.
The table falls silent. Brandon’s jaw is clenched so tight a muscle in it twitches.
I don’t feel angry. Not straight away. I feel worse: I feel stupid. The shame of my stupidity engulfs me completely and wipes out any hope of a reasonable, brilliant or cutting response forming in my brain.
Instead, I sit still and wordless.
Like a fool.
Michael, however, isn’t wordless. He feels the need to speak once more.
‘I don’t know if this helps,’ he begins cautiously, his bright eyes gleaming at me, ‘but my mum wanted me to tell you that she loves you. She read all your books at my age.’
***
There’s something incredibly satisfying about exhaling a plume of smoke. I don’t like smoking – I can’t stand the smell – and I really shouldn’t be going near a cigarette but there are times in one’s life when it’s necessary to forget about health for a moment.
This is one of those times.
‘This isn’t the end, you know,’ Brandon says, putting his hands in his pockets as he waits with me on the pavement.
‘Oh, fuck off, Brandon,’ I say wearily, taking another drag.
My hand is shaking. I lower it quickly, hit by a wave of frustration and fear.
‘I’m only trying to help,’ he mumbles.
‘Then don’t be twat about it.’
He can’t fight a smile. ‘All right, then.’ He allows a dramatic pause. ‘It’s bullshit.’
‘To put it plainly.’
‘Are you upset about it?’
‘Do I look upset about it?’
‘You’re smoking again.’ He shrugs. ‘So, yes.’
‘I’m not smoking again,’ I protest, seeing fit to glare at him. ‘That makes it sound like I quit and then took it back up.’
‘Haven’t you?’
I tip my head back and marvel at the smoke drifting from my mouth.
‘No,’ I tell him curtly. ‘And I’m not upset.’ I point my cigarette in the direction of the restaurant in which we were just sitting before I stormed out. ‘I’ve made that publisher an awful lot of money over the years.’
‘I know.’
‘Maybe not in recent years. But the Heartlodge trilogy practically saved them when it was first published! All three bestsellers, then a film. I mean for Christ’s sake, I know it was a while ago, but—’ I quickly take a drag so I can blink back the tears.
‘Oh, fuck it. What did he mean by a shift in market trend?’
Brandon shrugs.
‘Romance is huge. Huge. I see it everywhere. And yes, it looks a little different now, but it’s still romance. My style was the problem, he said. What does that mean? I know you know. You spoke to him before you came to join me out here. Come on, what did he say?’
‘Nothing remotely of interest.’
I flick the ash onto the street. ‘Tell me, Brandon.’
‘You met him. He doesn’t know much and he conveys even less.’
‘What did he say?’
Brandon looks me dead in the eye and, heaving a sigh, reluctantly answers. ‘He said that it might be worth you considering a genre more suitable for your . . . target audience.’
My mouth has gone dry. ‘He was saying that I . . . shouldn’t write romance at all? What, because I’m in my fifties . . . and so are my readers? Is that what he was saying?’
‘Fuck knows what he was saying, Dawn,’ Brandon says tiredly, pinching the top of his nose. ‘He was wearing socks that said, “Go Bananas” on them.’
‘What has that got to do with anything?’
‘I’m just saying . . . He’s not . . .’ He sighs, putting his hands on his hips. ‘Your career hasn’t shattered, Dawn. We will publish you elsewhere.’
‘I don’t have anything to publish,’ I mutter childishly.
‘Not yet. The next one will be a hit, your big comeback.’
My best and oldest friend Jemma once asked me if I’d ever consider writing anything aside from romance.
I remember being surprised at the question.
I knew she’d devoured all of my books, and my instinctive reaction was to be insulted, as though she was saying I should consider doing so.
But she explained she was only curious and pointed out that writers often write different genres under different names, and she only wondered if I’d thought about it.
I told her that as much as I respected other types of fiction, I only ever wanted to write contemporary and whimsical romantic fiction. It’s part of who I am. So I thought.
I close my eyes. ‘Brandon, you know I can’t write other genres. And now I’ve been told that I can’t write romance either.’
‘By someone who cares about numbers, not books.’
‘He’s an editor.’
‘He’s inexperienced and na?ve,’ Brandon maintains. ‘He doesn’t have a clue.’
I shrug, lifting the cigarette to my lips and inhaling. ‘He was right about the latest manuscript though, wasn’t he. It was the “same old story”. Nothing new, nothing left to give. Just like its author.’
‘Dawn, don’t do this to yourself. You’ve taken a hit, but this doesn’t mean—’
‘What did you think of the book?’ I cut in boldly. ‘Tell me straight. I’ve had enough bullshit today and I’ll see right through it.’
‘Fine.’ He scuffs his shoe on the pavement. ‘I thought it had potential. If you were a debut, I wouldn’t have offered to represent you on that manuscript, but I would have worked on it with you. The writing is lyrical, moving, truthful. But the story was the problem.’
‘It was missing something,’ I mutter.
‘Yes, it was. I’m not sure what.’
‘Hm.’
‘You don’t seem surprised at my analysis.’
‘You weren’t the only one who read it. You know, Brandon, I’m not convinced my comeback is ever coming. Maybe I gracefully bow out now. Let the Heartlodge series be my ultimate legacy. So what if it was three decades or so ago? Let that be what I’m remembered for and not the stories that followed.’
‘Some of the stories that followed were very good!’ he argues.
‘None of them had the same commercial success.’
‘That doesn’t mean they’re to be forgotten.’
I smile warmly at him. ‘Spoken like a true reader. I’m glad you were there when Heartlodge came out. I’m glad you witnessed my career at its best.’
‘You’re upset. I don’t want you to worry about this. Go home, take some time for yourself, and we’ll talk about it tomorrow. We’ll come up with a plan.’
‘I can’t,’ I tell him, taking one last drag. ‘I’m going on holiday.’
‘When?’
‘Today. I’m going home now to get my things and then on to the airport.’
‘This is good,’ he says, looking satisfied, as though he’d had the idea himself.
‘Is it?’
‘Yes! When was the last time you went away?’ He gives me a pointed look. ‘You can go and clear your head. Relax and return feeling refreshed.’
‘I doubt that,’ I say, sticking my hand out to hail a black cab as it turns the corner. ‘My ex will be there.’
He grimaces. ‘Oh god. Which one?’
Stubbing the cigarette out on the nearest bin, I chuck it in and then swing open the door to the taxi. As I step inside, Brandon’s voice causes me to pause halfway into the car.
‘You will come back from this,’ he says in that warm, reassuring voice of his, still standing where I’ve left him. ‘Remember: you’re Dawn Dixon.’
With a polite parting smile, I slide into the car and shut the door behind me before we pull away. I don’t quite have the guts to insist to Brandon that it’s time we stop pretending. It’s like Michael said. Trends shift. Time moves on.
And things that were important are forgotten.