The Concrete Ceiling

by Peter Rowlands

  Graham shook his head vigorously. “Why should I give away my work for nothing? All that intellectual effort, and you want me to throw it to the four winds?”

  Mildly I said, “From what I’ve read, offering your book free is a great way to raise your profile. You’ll pick up reviews, you’ll get follow-on sales when the book stops being free, and your book will creep up the rankings.”

  Graham said nothing for a moment, then, “You work in publishing yourself, don’t you? Surely that must have helped you?”

  I shook my head. “Magazine publishing has virtually nothing in common with book publishing – so no, it hasn’t helped at all. One of my editors once gave me a plug for my book, but if it resulted in any sales, it certainly wasn’t a deluge.”

  “Sam said you ghost-wrote an autobiography for somebody. Couldn’t the publisher of that book help?”

  “They didn’t have any involvement in fiction, so the answer is no again. And I wasn’t credited for my work on the book, so I didn’t get any reflected glory out of it either.”

  Graham looked at me for a moment, assessing. “So this is a case of the blind leading the blind, is it?”

  I attempted a laugh. “I’m sorry that I don’t have any instant solutions for you. I just thought it might help to throw round a few ideas.”

  “Yeah, of course – fair enough.” He stood up. “Let’s have some tea.”

  * * *

  Returning to the lounge with two mugs in his hand, Graham said, “I was thinking of promoting my book with an outfit called The Magic Bookseller. Have you come across them?”

  “The name sounds vaguely familiar.”

  He handed me my tea and sat down. “I ran a campaign with them a while back. Quite low-key, but I thought it might be worth a try.”

  “And was it?”

  “I think I got a few sales out of it, and a decent reader review, but I didn’t actually recoup the cost of the promotion.”

  “That seems to be the way it goes sometimes.”

  Graham nodded vigorously. “I emailed them to ask if they had any comment, and they said I probably hadn’t spent enough money with them to make the right impact.”

  “They would say that, I suppose.”

  “Anyway, I’m willing to give them another try. Maybe I’ll raise my budget this time.”

  “Just so long as you don’t spend more than you can afford.”

  We drank our tea in silence, then Graham said, “What gets me is the arbitrary nature of self-publishing. Some authors seem to catch the vibe and get thousands of sales, even if their books aren’t that good. Yet other authors – sometimes better authors – struggle along in the doldrums because nobody has ever heard of them. It feels as if there’s a kind of glass ceiling that you have to break through.”

  “I think a glass ceiling is the barrier that stops women making progress in a man’s world.”

  He grunted. “Maybe not a glass ceiling then. Maybe a plastic ceiling?” He chuckled humourlessly. “It feels more like a concrete ceiling, to be honest.”

  “I often have the same thought. You feel you ought to be able to break through, but nothing you try seems to work.”

  “Exactly.” He spread his arms in despair. “What do I have to do to get the world’s attention? Assassinate someone? Jump off a cliff?”

  I chuckled. “Preferably neither of the aforementioned. You probably need to work at social media, keep putting your name about in any way you can, and promote your book whenever you can afford it. And hope for the best.”

  Chapter 9

  One of the sales team at the Smart Headings web site asked me to tag along with him to lunch with a potential client. This kind of thing was happening more and more frequently; the sales guys liked to have me on hand to explain the kind of editorial coverage we could offer advertisers. It struck me as a rather blatant trade-off: editorial coverage in return for income. Unfortunately I hadn’t yet found a way to duck out of it.

  The venue on the day after my meeting with Graham Bulwell was a smart restaurant off the Strand in London’s West End, and when we’d wined and dined and were spilling out into the early afternoon sun it occurred to me that Covent Garden was just two minutes’ walk away. I could wander up and see if Sam and Ronnie’s stall was there today.

  I approached the piazza nervously. I didn’t really expect to find Sam herself at the stall, but it was a faint possibility. I circumnavigated the pillared single-storey central market building and lingered in the sun to watch a street magician entertaining thirty or forty people on the cobbles.

  Eventually I headed into the market building. I was in luck; Sam and Ronnie’s stall was there, and I quickly spotted Ronnie wrapping up a purchase for a customer. There was no sign of Sam. I timed my approach to fit in with the customer’s departure.

  “Mike! What a surprise!” Ronnie beamed at me with what seemed genuine good will. She’d reverted to the loose all-black look I was used to.

  “I was at a business lunch in Bull Inn Court.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “I just sold over a hundred pounds’ worth of pieces to that guy. Always nice to close a deal like that.”

  “Things are going well then?”

  “Huh! You could say that, but the break-in really set us back. To be truthful, I thought we were totally fucked at the time.”

  “Sorry, break-in?”

  “Sam didn’t tell you about it?” She looked more closely at me. “No, I suppose not.”

  I shrugged.

  “Some young lads broke into our workshop. They were seen hanging around the day before, but nobody realised what they were up to. They took nearly all our stock, plus work in progress and raw materials. We lost thousands of pounds’ worth of stuff overnight. And no one could identify them from the CCTV, so none of the stuff they stole was recovered.”

  “God, I’m sorry.” I paused to take this in. “But the insurance …”

  “Don’t go there.” She flashed me a warning look. “We weren’t properly insured because we don’t have permission to run a workshop in those premises. The building is only designated for residential use.” She looked down and fiddled with one of the exhibits on the stall, then lifted her head again. “Don’t bloody well start telling me off. I’ve had enough of that from everybody else.”

  To see Ronnie wrong-footed was a new experience for me. I resolved not to take advantage, and said, “I hear you.”

  “It was Sam’s new man who saved the day. Well, fiancé, I should call him now. Nick.”

  “How so?”

  “Basically he bailed us out. He injected thousands into the business in return for a stake. Saved the day. My bank wasn’t going to help, and Sam’s dad doesn’t have that kind of money floating around, so without Nick we’d have gone bust.”

  “Your knight in shining armour.”

  She gave me a curious look. “You could call him that. But he’s a sleeping partner. He doesn’t want to get involved in our day-to-day activities.”

  “So it’s back to normal now, is it?”

  “Well, yes, but it took us a lot of hard graft to get to this point. Sam had to go into overdrive to come up with new designs, and I sweated all day and all night for three weeks to convert them into the metal.”

  “Couldn’t you just have used your existing designs?”

  She gave me a look that said she had no time to go into the dynamics of her trade, then grudgingly explained, “It was an opportunity to refresh our look. We’d have been foolish not to take it.”

  I nodded and glanced around. “I’d better let you get on. I don’t want to deflect your customers.”

  “That’s all right. Having you standing here makes it look as if our stall is attracting interest.” She gave me an arch look. “In any case, I’m sure you’d like to say hello to Sam. She’s just getting us some of coffees.”

  “She’s here?”

  “Don’t get too excited.” She smiled fain
tly. “She’s cutting back her market days, but Josie is off sick, so she’s agreed to slum it with me this week.”

  “Mike!” I looked up to see Sam approaching with a large coffee carton in each hand. “If I’d known you were coming I would have got you one of these as well.” She gave me a tentative smile.

  “He’s all right,” Ronnie said with irony. “He’s just come from having some posh nosh down in Bull Inn Court.”

  “All right for some.” Sam handed one of the coffees to Ronnie and said to me, “It’s nice to see you.”

  “How’s life with you?”

  Sam smiled reflectively. “Different, that’s for sure. We’ve moved into our cottage in Banbury. It’s … ” She hesitated. “It’s quiet, shall I say?” She gestured around her. “I never thought I’d hear myself saying it, but I actually miss all this when I’m not here. I can’t see myself completely giving it up.”

  Ronnie said, “Hooray for that. You should tell Nick you want to carry on doing your stints here. He’s a partner, after all. He must want us to be successful.”

  Sam seemed to be avoiding Ronnie’s eye as she levered the lid off her coffee. “I need to strike a balance, that’s all.” She looked up at Ronnie. “You must see that, don’t you?”

  Ronnie said nothing, and for a moment no one spoke. Into that brittle moment I said, “Funny thing, but only this morning I was wondering if I could pick Nick’s brain about something.”

  I’d only intended to change the subject, but as I spoke my thoughts crystallised. That morning I’d been trying to pursue my research into Rick Ashton’s thwarted logistics contract, but the people at the rival company, Antler Logistics, had refused to speak to me. Now a different approach had occurred to me.

  Sam said, “Oh, yes?”

  “I was thinking he might be prepared to share his knowledge of the property business in Banbury.”

  She gave me a mystified smile. “Why on earth would you suddenly want to know about that?”

  I hesitated. Actually the reason was that the letting agency for the warehouse Rick had earmarked for the job – the one that had been taken off the market – was in Banbury. Samantha’s fiancé Nick was also based there, and being in the property business, he would surely know of the company.

  I said, “Long story, but it’s related to an article I’m working on.”

  “Well I’m sure he’d be delighted to help you if he can.” She paused for a moment. “Tell you what, why don’t you come to dinner? Then you can talk to Nick for as long as you like. In fact come on Wednesday of next week. We’re having my dad round. He’d love to see you again.”

  I looked dubiously at her. She might welcome a visit from me, but how would Nick take it? That probably depended on how much he knew about my near-miss relationship with her. And how would I take it? Being in their company would just be rubbing salt into a wound, wouldn’t it?

  Playing for time, I said, “Banbury is a long way to come for a meal.” I had the impression that it must be sixty or seventy miles north of London.

  I could see her enthusiasm growing. “It’s only about an hour on the train from Marylebone, and there’s a good service back to London just after ten o’clock. We can eat early so you’re not rushed, and we’ll give you a lift to and from the station.” An emphatic grin. “So it’s agreed, yes?”

  Chapter 10

  “So, Mike, let’s hear something about you.”

  Nick Hathaway paused as he uncorked a bottle of red wine. He was standing behind his place setting at the head of the table, clearly relishing the role of mine host. Samantha and her father, who were already seated, looked at me expectantly.

  The train journey had been as easy as Sam had predicted. The warm weather had held, and the train had scythed through a parched rural landscape in the late afternoon sun. As promised, Sam had picked me up from the station.

  I shrugged. “I’m a jobbing journalist. My subject area is transport and logistics. I’ve written for most publications in the field over the years, but lately I’ve been focusing on a news web site. Oh, and I also do some publicity writing for a company in Cornwall. That’s where my girlfriend lives.”

  “Sam was saying she’s in America at the moment?”

  “That’s right – on secondment to a firm in California. She’s been there six months, and they might keep her for the rest of the year.”

  Nick poured the wine with a flourish and sat down. “So remind me how you got to know Sam.”

  I had the sense that he already knew the answer to this, but felt I had to play along. I said, “I was hired to ghost-write the autobiography of the man who was her father’s landlord. He was a big shot in the logistics world before he retired.”

  Nick turned to Des. “Ah, this was all part of that unpleasant business last year?”

  Des cleared his throat. I could see he was in no mood to talk about it. He said, “Water under the bridge, Nick.”

  Nick relaxed and smiled. “Of course. Sorry, Des. Anyway, good to have you here, Mike.”

  Already I was wondering what to make of Nick Hathaway. The affability I’d detected at the party was very much in evidence, but behind it I felt I’d sensed the glimmering of something else: another side to him that he was trying to keep concealed. Or was I looking for something that wasn’t there?

  Sam, at any rate, seemed to have no reservations about him. I found it strange and unsettling to witness their interaction – the knowing smiles, the fleeting touches, the references to shared experiences known only to them. Neither of them made an overt show of the relationship, but it was there to see if you were looking – and I was. I’d never been involved with Sam in that way myself; our mutual attraction had barely been acknowledged, never mind acted on, except towards the end. What I was seeing was a demonstration of what might have been.

  Sam turned to me. “You didn’t mention when we met the other day that you’d been to see my cousin Graham. How did you get on with him?”

  I wondered how to answer tactfully. “He’s impatient. He wants to see his book sales taking off, but I know from experience that there’s no fast track to fame and fortune for self-published authors. You have to do a load of promotion. It’s hard work and it’s not cheap.”

  Nick paused in the middle of tearing his bread roll apart. “Quite a bit of money to be made there, I think?” he said.

  “What – in self-publishing? Only for the lucky few, I’m afraid.”

  “No, I mean in promotion. Whether the authors hit the big time or not, the promoters earn their crust.”

  “But they have to work for it. I doubt if it’s easy.”

  He nodded. “Remind me what your book is about, Mike.”

  I looked at him carefully. I tended to vary the answer to this question according to the apparent interest of the person asking it. This seemed an occasion for brevity. “It’s a mystery thriller. I based it on a real life robbery, but I invented most of the events surrounding it.”

  “Go on.”

  “Oh. OK. Well, it tracks the story of an obsessive guy who stumbles into the aftermath of the robbery while he’s searching for a girl he met in his childhood.”

  He seemed to be listening intently. He said, “So how well would you say you’ve done with the book?”

  I couldn’t help sighing. “Not brilliantly. I haven’t given it the attention I should have. Sales have trickled along, but I haven’t crossed the magic threshold to success. And that’s what Graham will find too, unless he really works at promotion. Even then, there are no guarantees.”

  “Dear old Graham,” Nick said. “I think he was under the impression that all he had to do was put his book on sale, and the world would come flocking to his door.”

  Sam said, “That’s a bit harsh! He knew it wouldn’t be easy. He just wants to make the right choices when it comes to putting himself about.”

  “But you’ve got to start with a decent product, haven’t you?” Nick stared reprovingly at her. “You haven’t read his b
ook, but I have. It’s dreadful!”

  She looked slightly stung, and turned to me. “Is that what you think, Mike?”

  I glanced awkwardly between them. “I wouldn’t call it first class literature,” I said carefully, “but it bowls along. I get the impression there’s quite a market for his kind of thing.”

  Nick laughed sceptically. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

  “I like it.” This was Des, who up to now hadn’t commented.

  All eyes turned to him. Sam said, “I didn’t know you’d read it.”

  “I’ll read anything, me.” He darted an inscrutable look at Nick. “It’s quite topical, actually. All about fake news and so on. He makes some good points in it – stuff about how easy it is to mislead people, and how quickly they can jump to wrong conclusions.”

  “But you have to make it convincing,” Nick said, “otherwise you’re wasting your time.”

  Reluctantly I found myself agreeing with him. I was relieved when Sam said, “Let’s change the subject.”

  However, if I thought we’d moved away from dangerous ground, I was wrong. Innocently I said to Sam, “Your jewellery seemed to be selling well when I saw you in Covent Garden. Ronnie said you were doing a good job pulling the punters in.”

  Before she could reply, Nick said, “Maybe so, but we’ve re-jigged responsibilities. Sam will be spending more of her time up here in future – reviewing the designs more regularly, and putting in more time on marketing and admin. Much better than trekking off to London at the drop of a hat. With a bit of organisation, we can achieve a lot more than we do now.”

  I’d forgotten that he was now a director of their little company. Evidently he was taking the role more seriously than Ronnie had implied.

  “But I still need to keep my hand in on the stall,” Sam said a little indignantly. “That’s the best way to judge market trends. I need to see at first hand what’s selling. You surely don’t begrudge me that?”