Chapter 2
The next morning Emma awoke to one of those damp and gloomy days when you need to have the light on to get dressed.
And it was only September, with a whole winter looming ahead.
It wasn’t exactly raining but there was enough moisture in the air to make her hair frizz.
That settled it. She needed sunshine and beaches and barbie.
She glanced at herself in the mirror. At home she’d always had a tan.
Now she appeared horribly pale, and her blue eyes had a perpetually worried look.
At home her hair had been sun-streaked strawberry blonde.
Now it had subsided to a dull reddish mid brown, not red enough to be startling.
She wore it long, over her shoulders, unlike Jilly with her fashionable bob.
But then Jilly had Irish black hair and sparkling green eyes.
If I go home maybe I’ll get ideas for another book, she thought.
I can still send it to Mr Spencer for them to publish in England.
Then doubt crept in. What if they had only published the first one as a favour because she was working for them?
Or perhaps because they saw a hint of talent that they wanted to develop.
Would she really be mad to walk away now?
Robyn was already up and eating Vegemite on toast, which came from the regular care packages from her family.
“Are you really going to go back to Australia?” Robyn asked.
Emma shrugged. “I’m not really happy here. I keep asking myself what I’m doing. I don’t like big cities for one thing. I was brought up on a farm. And I do miss the sunshine. If I went home now I’d have summer ahead of me.”
“So where would you actually go?” Robyn asked cautiously. “Didn’t you say your mum remarried and you had to leave the farm you grew up on?”
“That’s right. I was thinking that last night.
Where would I go? How would I afford to live if I couldn’t find a job right away?
Sydney is expensive. I don’t have much money saved up.
I spent most of it on that trip to Paris in the summer.
I’d have enough for my fare, but then I really wanted to travel through Italy first and take the ship home from there. ”
“I’d say you’d answered yourself,” Robyn said. “You need to keep working at least until you’ve written another book.”
“Easier said than done.” Emma chewed on her lip. “I wish I knew what to write about. I don’t know enough about London to set a book here, and I’ve come to the conclusion I know nothing about life. What if I can never write another book, Robyn?”
“You will.” Robyn gave her an encouraging smile. “You’re only twenty-three. Most people don’t even get a book published until they’re middle-aged, so you’re ahead of the game.”
“Thanks, Rob.” Emma smiled back. “But I don’t really want to stay here any longer, although I guess I’ll need to keep working and try to save more. I have to pay for my passage, and I’ll need some money to keep me going at home until I’ve found another job.”
“Well, you know we don’t want you to go, but if you’re serious about this then I’ll bring you the Sydney Morning Herald from work and you can take a look at the want ads,” Robyn said.
“Thank you,” Emma said. “Good idea.” She glanced at the clock. “Oh cripes. I’d better get going. They do not tolerate lateness at Barlow and Barlow. In fact it’s as bad as school.”
Dead leaves from the sycamore trees along the street lay in sodden piles underfoot after last night’s downpour.
A van drove past, splashing up puddles and making Emma dodge aside.
Sydney, she thought—with the blue water of the harbour, the ferries crisscrossing, the beach at Manly—suddenly sounded so desirable that she felt a lump in her throat.
Barlow and Barlow was housed in a tall, elegant brick building in the Bloomsbury district, just off Russell Square.
Emma enjoyed working in this area. It was the way she had pictured London before she came—staid, historical, unchanged.
Being the site of University College London and the headquarters of the University of London, it was always full of students, as well as tourists visiting the British Museum.
It was lively but civilized in a way that the grotty streets around Earl’s Court were not.
Emma ran up the front steps just as a nearby clock was chiming nine.
“Ah Emma, you’re here. Good.”
She looked up to see Mr Spencer himself standing in the front hallway.
Her heart lurched. Mr Spencer was the most senior of the editors, chummy with the one surviving Mr Barlow.
Was he actually waiting for her? Waiting to catch her coming in late?
Had that nasty receptionist Doris told him that she was late twice last week?
She always set out on time but delays on the Tube happened all too often.
“Good morning, Mr Spencer,” she said. “Did you need me for something right away?”
“I do indeed.” He was looking quite cheerful and she relaxed a little. “I was wondering if you’d like a ride out to the country?”
“Me? Today?” She wondered if she’d heard right.
“Right now,” he said. “I have to visit a client and I wondered if you’d like to come along. Especially if I told you the client was Iris Blackburn?”
“Iris Blackburn?” She gaped at him and stammered out the words.
Iris Blackburn was the most famous writer in the country, probably in the world.
It was said that her books sold better than anything but the Bible.
Everyone knew of her Inspector Melrose. He had appeared in a couple of films and on the telly.
Emma knew that she was a client of Barlow and Barlow and that Mr Spencer had been her editor for many decades, but she was an ethereal figure who never came in to the Barlow and Barlow offices.
In fact Emma assumed that she had given up writing years ago.
It was rather like being asked to meet God.
“Crikey,” she said. “You’re inviting me along to meet Iris Blackburn?”
He nodded, smiling as if he had offered her a surprise gift. “Since you’re a fellow Australian and I’d welcome the company on the drive. My eyesight isn’t what it was and you can read the road signs for me once we leave the main road.”
“I’d love to, Mr Spencer,” she said. “I just wish I’d known in advance. I’d have put on a better skirt.”
He laughed. “I’m sure Iris won’t mind what you are wearing. Right then, I’ll let Doris know that we’re going. The motor car is parked outside.”
He opened the door for Emma to go ahead of him, then indicated an ancient Daimler, still looking sleek and expensive in spite of its age.
The seat was upholstered with cream-coloured leather to match the car’s exterior and Emma sank into the luxury of it.
Mr Spencer climbed in beside her and they pulled away from the kerb.
“Does Iris live far from London?” she asked, wondering whether they were in for a drive to a far-flung part of the British Isles and whether they’d be required to stay the night. A small alarm bell sounded, not least that she’d brought no change of clothes or sleeping things with her.
“Not too far. Just outside Tunbridge Wells. Not much more than an hour’s drive if the traffic is favourable.”
He drove skilfully, negotiating the busy traffic down Kingsway, around Aldwych and over the Waterloo Bridge. The crowded area of south London with its delivery vehicles took longer to get through, and Emma noticed Mr Spencer impatiently tapping on the wheel with each hold-up.
“Iris is expecting us for lunch,” he said. “I hope we don’t keep her waiting.”
At last city streets gave way to suburbia, semi-detached houses with neat front gardens, and then to countryside. As if on cue the clouds rolled back and the sun came out.
“So how is your own writing coming along?” Mr Spencer asked. “Do you have any time for it? Do they keep you too busy at Barlow and Barlow?”
“I haven’t written anything lately.” Emma chewed on her lip, looking away. “I don’t have that much time and I share a flat, so it’s always quite noisy.” She winced at the excuse.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” he said. “I hope you get back to it soon. You can’t leave it too long between books or your readers forget about you. We’re hoping for a bright future for you.”
Emma stared straight ahead. Mr Spencer thought she had a bright future.
It gave her a sliver of hope, but at the same time the worry resurfaced.
They left the A20 and headed up the Shoreham Valley past quaint villages.
Emma took them all in with interest. She had not had a chance to see much of the countryside since she came to England.
She had once visited Oxford, to see what she had been forced to give up, and she’d been to the coast at Brighton and Hastings.
The shingle beaches and cold breeze had not impressed her.
But this countryside was so green, so peaceful. Fields with cows and horses.
They passed a village and Emma saw her first thatched cottages.
“Oh.” She let out an excited gasp.
Mr Spencer looked at her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said. “It’s all perfect. Just as I always pictured it. I’m seeing England properly for the first time. I’d read about thatched cottages and here they are.”
Mr Spencer smiled. “You wait till you see Iris’s house. It’s quite impressive.”
This brought to the fore the anxious thoughts she had been holding at bay.
If Mr Spencer had come down to confer about a work in progress, might she not be annoyed at an outsider being present?
Emma did not want to spend the day banished to the kitchen or waiting in the car.
“Mr Spencer, I gather that Iris Blackburn is a very private person. Will she be annoyed that you’ve brought a stranger along? ”
“On the contrary,” he said. “I think she might be cheered by seeing a bright young person, especially a fellow Australian.”
“But she’s been out of Australia for years now, hasn’t she?”