Tell Him About It

by Holly Kinsella

  The smarmy editor thought that he had glossed over things well in the meeting. The rest of the people in the room thought differently however.

  Thankfully, for Julian, he still looked after two bestselling authors – who the company directors knew were loyal to Smythe and would walk if Bradley House sacked the editor. One of the bestselling authors played in Julian’s cricket team and the other was his second cousin. Julian’s other bankable writer though was Adam Cooper and the publishers had just tabled an offer to sign up his next three books. Cooper and his agent had said that they would wait and see how the latest release performed before committing to further titles. Hence Sara had been called into the office and told to perform – and weight her time towards promoting Hidden Agenda, to the point of ignoring the other writers in her care for the month. An intern could just stuff review copies of their books into jiffy bags to an out-dated mailing list – and that would serve as their publicity campaign.

  “So do you understand what you’ve got to do?” Margaret Duvall said, tapping her feet with even greater urgency. “Devote all of your time to Cooper. Promise the press they can have an exclusive interview with him about Victoria Glass if they plug the book. But make sure Cooper doesn’t find out. He’ll thank us in the end when we generate extra sales. He just doesn’t know what’s best for him at the moment. And show some leg while you’re with him. If reports from his wife are true, he fancies himself as a ladies’ man. We’ve already arranged some events around the country so you’ll have a week to impress him and convince him that we’re still the right home for his books.”

  Julian Smythe nodded in agreement and smiled as the senior publicist spoke, glancing both at her legs and then Sara’s breasts as he did so. Sara felt uncomfortable, in regards to both her instructions and the leer on the editor’s face, but she nodded her head to convey she understood. She knew she was being double-teamed and bullied. She knew that she was being set up for blame should Cooper not sign another contract. She knew that, sooner or later, the author would find out about the deception – or her press contacts would think less of her when they broached the subject of Cooper’s ex-wife to him and he remained silent. But what could she say, or do?

  Sara sighed as she sat back down at her desk. The colour – and life – had drained out of her face. Her friend and fellow publicist, Polly (Julian creepily nicknamed her “Pretty Polly”), asked if she was feeling okay. Sara forced a smile and nodded, unconvincingly, whilst saying she was fine. Sara sighed again, however, after seeing how her inbox had filled up once more during the time that she had been in the meeting. Most of the emails were from a variety of authors (some needy, some grateful, some businesslike, some conceited). Before attempting the Sisyphean task of trying to clear her messages – she did not have the heart to completely ignore them – Sara decided to take her tea break. She needed a caffeine fix and wanted a shoulder to cry on in regards to the recent meeting. As she walked through the open plan office Sara witnessed others on their breaks, or “working”. A number were on their personal Facebook accounts or watching YouTube – or sending out messages about the latest moral outrage trending on twitter, or reacting to the latest episode of a faddish reality TV show. Others did their nails or gossiped (the productive people were able to do both at the same time). To be fair though, one or two people were genuinely hard at work, Sara noticed. Everyone blamed eBooks and Amazon for revenues being down, but there was an elephant in the room when they made that case – and the elephant was complacency.

  Sara found a quiet spot outside of her building. She knew that Rosie would be busy this time of day so she called Simon. The call went to voicemail (he seldom answered his phone) but he quickly sent an email via his Blackberry as compensation.

  All well babe? xx

  Yes – and no. Just could use someone to talk to. Not having the greatest day at work.

  Sorry, can’t talk right now. Just about to have a lunch meeting with some clients. Don’t fret about work tho’. Think happy thoughts. Treat yourself to a pastry and keep your spirits – and serotonin levels – up. Think about your recent pay rise and how much more gorgeous and sexy you are, compared to your gnarled and scatty bitch of a boss. Xx

  Can we talk, just for two minutes? Just want to hear your voice. xx

  But he failed to reply.

  4.

  Sara sat in the coffee shop across the road from her building and looked at her watch again. Adam Cooper was fifteen minutes late. She was already anxious about the meeting, given his reputation for drinking and womanising. She also still felt uncomfortable about her task of approaching the press and pitching that Cooper would talk about his failed marriage against his wishes. Sara had dealt with authors who had big egos, or flirted with her and thought they were God’s gift to women before – she could (just about) handle that. But she had never actively betrayed someone like she had been asked to do in regards to Adam Cooper. The waiting only made it worse.

  She recognised her author from his book jacket photo as he walked through the door. Adam scanned the room, not knowing what his publicist looked like. Sara smiled and waved at him. He was dressed casually in a navy blue polo shirt, jeans and well worn boots. He was unshaven and his short-ish brown crop of hair was unkempt. His eyes were red-rimmed with drink, or a lack of sleep. His face seemed weathered, but filled with good humour too. In some ways he appeared older than he was, but his boyish smile could then make him seem younger than his thirty-three years. As Adam thrust out his hand to shake Sara’s she noticed a pale white mark on his tanned wedding band finger from where he had recently removed his ring.

  “Sorry for being late. Do you mind if we go somewhere else for our meeting? There’s a pub next door. I’m not really one for coffee shops, not because of their policy towards avoiding paying tax but I can’t stand the inane conversation and self-satisfied people in them. At least when people talk bollocks in a pub they’ve the excuse that they’ve had a drink.”

  Sara noticed that his South London accent came through when Cooper swore. When she read up on him she discovered that the author was originally brought up in Eltham, the son of a bricklayer and dinner lady. His formal education was minimal (a few critics even insinuated that his books must have been ghost written, as they believed that no one without a university education, like theirs, could have written them). Cooper had joined the army at an early age but left after his first tour of Afghanistan. His first book, a military thriller set in Helmand, was an instant bestseller and he had written half a dozen books since. Sara offered her author a look of disapproval on his suggestion that they go to the pub, as she thought it inappropriate, but he pretended not to notice and turned to head back out of the overly trendy, over priced coffee shop.

  Sara arched her eyebrow a little on entering the slightly less than trendy public house, The Duke of Marlborough. She arched it even more when she had to brush crumbs of food off her seat before she sat down – as she also noticed a trio of regulars at the bar raise their eyebrows in appreciation at the former fashion model.

  “Would you like a drink?” Adam asked. A twinkle lit up his expression as soon as he entered the pub, Sara couldn’t help but observe.

  “Just a mineral water will be fine,” she replied.

  Adam offered his prim publicist a slight look of disapproval – he thought it inappropriate not to order a proper drink – but Sara pretended not to notice and turned to fish around in her handbag for her notes on the publicity schedule. She watched, however, as Adam went to the bar and made the (bottle) blonde barmaid laugh, as he bought her a drink also.

  When Adam sat back down Sara ran through the publicity itinerary – and pitch list – that she was working on. He was due to take part in a number of signings and book talks, in and outside London, over the coming week. He was also set to give a few interviews via phone and email – and write a couple of short articles for crime and military magazines. When they returned from their short tour there would be a publication dinner. />
  Adam nodded, shrugged and replied that all was fine in regards to what Sara had said. He wore a distracted, dislocated, look on his face while she spoke however. He seemed to only wake from his trance when the barmaid came over to collect his empty glass and serve him another drink. When Sara finished running through her notes she asked if Adam had any questions.

  “Not really. Let’s just take things one day at a time. I should apologise beforehand Sara that I may be dragging you into a media circus, with my ex-wife as the ringmaster and me walking the tightrope, or rather being a clown. Journalists may well approach you with a token interest in the book and then ask about Victoria. I don’t really want to comment and put my private life, or hers, in the spotlight. The press are not good at taking no for an answer, but they’re going to have to learn to do so in this instance. Life has had its pound of flesh out of me. There’s nothing left for the tabloids.”

  Adam spoke in a calm, reasonable way but there was a wounded look on his face. For a moment or two she felt sorry for him – but then remembered his wife’s side of the story, his drinking and womanising – which she had witnessed evidence of within ten minutes of meeting him. After a short pause however, Adam Cooper snapped out of whatever mood he was in.

  “Yet thanks to the tabloids and various websites you may know everything you need to know about me. But tell me more about yourself Sara,” he remarked, draining the remainder of his pint and then turning to catch the eye of the smiling barmaid again. It struck Sara that he hadn’t known the woman for more than thirty minutes and they acted like they were old friends.

  “What would you like to know?” she replied, a little taken aback due to the fact that most authors were far fonder of talking about themselves.

  “Some say that we are what we read, so tell me about a couple of books you’ve read recently, although feel free to leave out the ones you’ve been obliged to read for your work, including mine.”

  She often spoke to Rosie about the books she read (in regards to people in work they usually only discussed the titles the publishing house released; it never ceased to surprise Sara too just how little some people read, whilst supposedly trying to carve out a career in publishing). And Simon didn’t even pretend to read, or be interested in what Sara was reading, nowadays.

  “Just for fun I’ve been re-reading Jilly Cooper’s early, short romance novels. Before she started writing bonkbusters. Her first books are more about love, than sex. The two are not one and the same.”

  “No. Though it’s much nicer when they share the same bed.”

  Sara didn’t quite know whether to laugh or blush, so she did both. They continued to chat about books, with the conversation spiralling off into different directions. Part of her wanted to act professionally or even coldly towards the author. Before she met him she had predicted that he would be self-obsessed, macho and come on to her – like a number of other soldiers or foreign correspondents turned novelists she had encountered. But he seemed to be healthily self-deprecating, polite and normal (which made him special in a sense, in terms of novelists).

  “And so have you read anything else? You must also tell me if I’m eating too much into your time.”

  “No, it’s fine,” Sara replied, thinking how she was doing what she had been asked to. Namely look after her author. Besides, she was starting to enjoy herself. “While I was at university I studied Romantic poetry, so I’ve just read the newly published biography of Byron. I’ve got quite eclectic tastes. Are you familiar with Byron?” Sara asked, expecting the negative reply that she always received. But Adam Cooper, she was learning, was different.

  “In secret we met

  In silence I grieve -

  That thy heart could forget,

  Thy spirit deceive.

  And if I should meet thee

  After these long years,

  How should I greet thee?-

  With silence and tears.”

  Sara’s eyes widened, in shock as much as pleasure. She sat, her mouth agape, as if an echo of Byron himself was sitting across the table. Such had been the sadness – and tenderness – in his voice when reciting the lines that Sara imagined that Adam had pictured her as a lost love, or his ex-wife? Melancholy infected his already dark eyes. He looked endearingly vulnerable after quoting the lines, she considered.

  “I read a fair bit of poetry in my youth too. The barmaids love it,” Adam wryly remarked, regaining his composure, politely leaving out the lesson for Sara that she shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.

  Sara was tempted to reply that former models and publicity assistants like it too, but she reined herself in just in time. Authors were not supposed to flirt with publicists – but publicists were definitely not supposed to flirt with authors, whether the said authors had become recently single or not.

  “And what have you been reading, if you don’t mind me asking?” Sara asked, genuinely curious.

  “Well aside from reading the final draft of my divorce papers – and hundreds of tweets and abusive emails from devotees of my ex-wife – I’ve just finished re-reading Pride & Prejudice. I needed to bolster my faith in love and happy endings,” Adam remarked wistfully. “But let’s just hope that we have a happy ending in regards to book sales. Don’t worry though, I’m not a prima donna. I don’t expect you to be a miracle worker,” Adam amiably said. “I’m not sure about me being a miracle worker either, but I am about to turn this water into a glass of wine. Would you like another drink too?”

  They both smiled and Adam and Sara looked at each other – differently.

  5.

  Sara returned to the office after two large glasses of wine. Adam thanked her for all the work she had done and said he looked forward to their book tour together. She suffered a twinge of disappointment in him – and perhaps jealousy in regards to herself – when she watched Adam perch himself on a stool and chat to the barmaid as she left the pub to go back to work. Thankfully her boss was nowhere to be seen at the office. Polly explained that she had left early. Cruella had to prepare for an evening out, meeting up with some old school friends from Sherborne. Unfortunately Julian was still at work – and he offered the publicist a look of either dislike or desire through the glass partition of his corner office. Eton had helped turn him into a repressive one minute and a randy toad the next. He should go into politics.

  “How was your meeting?” Polly asked eagerly, as Sara sat back down. Sara noticed the copy of a women’s magazine on her friend’s desk, with the page open at an article about Victoria Glass.

  “Interesting,” was the publicist’s sphinx-like reply. Sara couldn’t help but suppress a not so subtle grin as she still glowed from the recent drinks and company.

  “Well do tell, what’s he like?” Polly said, hoping to mine a nugget of celebrity gossip about the author’s former wife from her friend.

  “He can hold his drink, as well as a conversation,” Sara remarked, as much to herself as to her colleague. Towards the end of their meeting together Sara had noted how she seemed tipsier than him – and he had drunk three times as much as her. Adam had charmingly shrugged and replied, “I was in the army. Drinking is part of basic training... Life can be hard. Drinking softens the edges.” There had been both a wryness and a wistfulness to his tone. Adam Cooper was certainly more complex than the stock hero in his thrillers, Sara thought.

  *

  Sara’s phone pinged with a text message as she put the key in the door to her flat in Clapham.

  Sorry I couldn’t talk earlier babe. Am out tonight entertaining clients, but chat tomorrow. Enjoy your evening without me (but not too much). Xxx

  Although they had made a vague commitment to meet up and go for a drink or see a film Sara was fine to spend the night in. Rosie cooked her world famous (well, Clapham famous) chicken and mushroom risotto and Sara cleaned up afterwards as a thank you. The two friends then watched Jerry Maguire (again) whilst chatting idly about everything and nothing – and working their way through a b
ottle of white wine. When she heard the line in the film, “You complete me,” Sara ironically felt hollow. She thought of Simon and their relationship. Sara realised she was somehow less than herself when with him, or not the person she wanted to be. Mrs Sara Keegan didn’t sound or feel right. But she had now been with him for over six months. Something must have been working between them. Better to stick than bust was her mother’s advice – especially after she had learned how much Simon earned.

  “It’s not about marrying Darcy, it’s about making sure that you don’t marry a Mr Collins or Wickham,” Rosie had argued a month ago.

  Before she went to bed to catch up on some reading Sara checked her emails and also Googled Victoria Glass. She was the daughter of Lord Mells, an aristocrat who had first made his money in property and then had recently increased his fortune through buying up land and selling it on to wind farm companies. For the past five years or so Victoria had been a darling of the tabloids – and broadsheets. Victoria Glass was stunningly beautiful, almost faultlessly so. She was tall, elegant, with classically sculptured features and glossy black hair. Magazines regularly cited her as a style icon. A website once conducted a study on the break-up of news on a given day and discovered that more column inches had been devoted to a dress Victoria Glass wore one evening than to coverage of the civil war in Syria. She had, over the years, modelled for a couple of couture fashion houses and Sara read that she was due to bring out her own perfume and evening wear collection. The paparazzi loved her and she always posed for the camera and would happily give a journalist a quote. Of course she also gave an interview about press intrusion and the need for new privacy laws. Sara clicked on a cynical blog article about the “Tabloid Courtesan” which said that she tipped photographers off when she was due to come out of a club or restaurant, or when her latest celebrity suitor would leave her house the morning after. Victoria also earned money through charging to attend launch parties or fashion shows, where she would sit in the front row next to the catwalk, chatting and laughing with similar tabloid courtesans like they were best friends.