*
Adam again asked Sara out to supper with his friends but she regretfully declined. Clapham was at the other end of town and she still had a few things to get through in regards to work.
“Besides, you’ll have plenty of time to suffer my company over the coming days, during the tour,” she explained.
Sara finally received a message from Simon as she walked from the station to her home. Simon told her about the restaurant he was currently in – how they would have turned heads if they had walked in together. He also mentioned how he had bought some lingerie for her whilst killing time at the airport.
I’m looking forward to watching you try everything on – nearly as much as I’m looking forward to you taking it off. Wink. xx
A crescent moon, like a lop-sided grin, beamed in the night sky, as Sara lay in bed. She kept the curtains and window open to let the room breathe in a cooling evening breeze. But it wasn’t just the sticky heat keeping her awake. She tossed and turned, like a princess with a pea beneath her mattress, as she recalled the scene just at the end of the event when a woman, claiming to be a writer herself, gave Adam her card, batted her eyelids and asked him to call her. The novel she was working on was doubtless as trashy as the outfit she wore, Sara ungenerously thought. Adam had taken the card and said something back, which caused the woman to toss her head back and give out a throaty laugh. Was he being flirtatious, or just friendly? Where was he now – at a club, with his old friends from the army? Or was he in someone else’s bed, like the barmaid’s? Sara had met his type before, for most of her adult life. Yet something inside of her argued that he was nothing like the various types of men she had met before. How many male models or City boys had she dated who could quote Byron? How many of them could make her smile, laugh or engage her as much as him? The problem was that Adam seemed too good to be true – and the comments Sara had read by his ex-wife still nagged at her. Underneath all the melancholy, intelligence and decency was Adam just like so many other men – shallow?
Like Simon.
9.
Adam looked a little worse for wear the following morning when he met Sara at the train station. She was dressed for comfort, rather than high style, in some white pumps, navy blue pedal pushers and a cream blouse. Sara couldn’t help but notice that her author was, perhaps tellingly, wearing the same clothes from the previous evening.
“Morning,” Adam remarked, squinting from the shimmering blue sky. He carried a much travelled canvas bag over his shoulder.
“Hi. Dare I ask, how was last night?” Sara said breezily, raising her eyebrow as Adam yawned and winced from his throbbing head. Her question was less innocent and off the cuff than it seemed. She wanted to know.
“It was fun catching up with people, not that I remember too much of where we went and what happened after dinner,” Adam replied – Sara was not sure whether it was in jest or in earnest.
Adam didn’t venture any more information and Sara thought it wasn’t her place to ask, although she briefly checked for any lipstick on his collar or any hint of perfume on his clothes as they boarded the train.
As soon as he sat down Adam ordered a coffee, which gave him a jolt due to its foul taste rather than the caffeine in it. Sara then switched on her iPad and went through the updated schedule. They were now heading for Birmingham, where Adam was due to give a signing in a bookshop and in the evening he would be giving a talk to a large crime and thriller writing group. The following day they would travel to Manchester for another afternoon bookshop signing and then an evening event. After that they would head for the Lake District – and then it would be back to London for some stock signings in key shops and a publication dinner at the Army & Navy Club. She also updated him on the various reviews which were due to be coming out over the next fortnight.
As with before Sara sensed that Adam was barely taking notice of his itinerary. He appeared distracted, as well as tired. He nodded occasionally and made the odd vague comment as he gazed wistfully, or wanly, out of the window. His phone rang a couple of times but he cut off the call before answering. When Sara finished speaking however Adam appeared to come back to the land of the living. He turned to his publicist and remarked, “You seem wonderfully proficient Sara. Thank you for all the work you’re doing. It’s appreciated. What are your career plans, if you don’t mind me asking? Do you want to remain in publicity, or work in editorial?”
“I’d like try my hand in editorial someday, but I’m not sure if I’m quite ready to be a Julian yet.”
Adam let out a burst of laughter.
“God willing you’ll never be a Julian. What do you think of him?”
Sara took a breath. She was tempted to be indiscreet, or rather honest, about her colleague but merely replied, unconvincingly, “He’s a good editor.”
“I think we both know that he can barely be considered a good person, let alone a good editor. Julian’s a snob, but he should first look down on himself rather than others. He’s part of a class of people that lacks class, whose idea of doing good is to read The Guardian, condemn football hooliganism and buy free trade bananas... In regards to him being an editor I’m yet to be convinced he reads my books, or anyone else’s. He’s slow to reply to emails, if he replies at all... Every time I meet him I play a game. I mention either a classic novel or a recent release that’s been a bestseller, to see whether he’s read it or not. Although Julian doesn’t know it, he’s never won a round of the game... He’s also forever name dropping or mentioning bestselling books that he turned down – as if he’s proud of it! In the army we would have called him a ‘Rupert’ – or something worse... Unfortunately, the truth is that he’s probably working to the best of his abilities... You shouldn’t think that you’re somehow not ready to work in editorial yet Sara. You’re well read, both in terms of the classics and contemporary fiction. You’re also aware of what sells – and equally crucially how to sell things... Trust me, you’re worth a hundred Julian Smythes, Sara, for all sorts of reasons.”
Adam’s compliment made Sara glow as much as the midday sun. She had thought about applying for editorial assistant jobs before, but something (or more than one thing) had always stopped her doing so. She felt she lacked confidence, or the contacts, or hadn’t attended the right university, or that she would just be viewed as the blonde publicist.
Just as Sara was about to say something Adam’s phone rang again. He checked who was calling and switched it off. His expression sunk into a gloom again and he decided to switch himself off too.
“Sorry for that. You’ve doubtless got some work to catch up on before we get to Birmingham. I thought I might use this time to catch up on some sleep though, if that’s okay?”
Having served as a sentry in the army, learning from necessity to get bouts of sleep whenever he could, Adam soon drifted off. Sara often looked up from her iPad to take in her author. Despite his red-rimmed eyes and stubble, or perhaps because of them, he looked endearing when he was sleeping, Sara fancied. He needed taking care off. Rosie might have eyed him up, learned of his background, and have called Adam “a bit of rough”. But when he opened his mouth Rosie would have realised what a smooth talker he could be – and she would take the rough with the smooth. Sara couldn’t help but gaze upon Adam with a certain fondness – and attraction – in her expression. Whilst she was doing so a train steward passed by and said, “Would your husband like a pillow?”
10.
As the train was pulling into Birmingham Sara received an email from her boss.
Yet to hear news of an exclusive interview with Cooper talking about his marriage to Victoria Glass – and plugging the book. TV and The Mail are everything. Raise your game. M.
During the journey Sara had updated Margaret Duvall on certain things, including the articles that had gone live about Adam and the news that both the Evening Standard and Daily Telegraph would be reviewing the book due to conversations she’d had with their literary editors. But rather than acknowledg
ing her successes her boss had looked to put her down and pressure her into betraying her author. Adam.
Sara stood transfixed, out of sorts, on the platform as she read the message over again. Her sun-kissed complexion even seemed to pale a little. Sara wanted to scream – get out of herself, or be herself. She felt flustered, angry, unappreciated. There was a part of her that wanted to cry, not just because of the message – but because of everything. Because of months of being over-worked and under-appreciated. Because as a publicist she had to smile all the time and nod her head. Because everyone thought she had a thousand friends but really she was lonely. Because she could never find the time and will to write her own book. Because should she say yes to Simon her wedding day might also feel like her funeral. Yet some of those feelings melted away as Adam warmly clasped her on the shoulder and looked her in the eyes, smiling kindly.
“Are you okay Sara? Would you like a bottle of water?”
“It’s fine. Maybe it’s the heat. I just feel a bit nauseous. Do you mind if I sit for five minutes?”
Adam led her to a bench. Without a word said they sat down and Sara leaned into him as he wrapped an arm around her.
I’m supposed to be looking after him. Not him me. Pull yourself together Sara. Or raise your game, as the inept hag said. But let me just stay here, like this, for a bit longer.
The sunny weather sapped the strength of a few, but for the most part an air of vibrancy and purpose filled the streets of Birmingham (for once?) as people showed off their new summer wardrobes and enjoyed the fine weather and feel good factor. The signing was due to take place at lunchtime in a bookshop within the shopping centre. Rather than check into their hotel first they headed over to the signing straightaway. Things went well. There was a small queue made up of fans and a few of Adam’s friends from his army days. The laughter and conversation emanating from the corner of the shop where the signing was taking place drew in a few passing customers too, more women than men, and they sold another fifty copies of the new novel (as well as signing another fifty for stock – “a signed book is a sold book”).
Adam and Sara thanked the staff and bought them some wine and chocolates for their staff room before venturing off to check into their hotel, foregoing the sights and cultural attractions of Birmingham. During their walk through the city centre Sara noticed that Adam received another couple of calls on his phone, which he rang off rather than answered. Was it just a persistent journalist, angling for a quote about his ex-wife? Or were they calls from a woman, or women, who’d he met? Every time they called and he didn’t answer Adam certainly looked vexed, or sad. It wasn’t that he was ignoring all of his calls either, just some. Sara noted he still took a call from his literary agent and his sister.
The hotel was pleasant enough. Sara had booked two rooms in advance next to each other. They checked in and freshened up.
Just before having a late lunch together Adam gave an interview over the phone to a radio station dedicated to service personnel. The presenter was apparently respectful of Adam’s wishes that he didn’t want to talk about his private life, or he just rightly felt that it wasn’t news and there were more important things to cover. One of the issues the former soldier was asked about was the problem of Afghanistan being the principle grower of opium in the world – and supplying the illegal drug trade.
“A radical solution, which I’m not altogether endorsing and I’m sure that there are more qualified people in the world to look into it, would be for the West to buy the opium crop from the Afghans and thus prevent drug cartels from doing so... Or we should subsidise the Afghans to farm food rather than opium, which in the long and short term may ease the amount of foreign aid given to the country... The cost of paying the farmers an inflated price for changing what they grow would doubtless cost the West less than the money they currently burn in trying to tackle the problem of drugs from the other end. Governments and companies already buy ten percent of the world’s opium for scientific and medical purposes, principally for the production of morphine...”
During Adam’s interview Sara received a message from Simon.
Hi babe. Sorry if I’ve been off the radar. Am just heading to a breakfast meeting. I’ve got to seal the deal. Will be thinking of you though. Wink. xx
They decided to remain at the hotel for lunch. Neither of them knew of a nice restaurant in the city centre and both of them had work to catch up on before they had to leave for the event in the evening. Adam’s agent had asked him to finish off his book proposal for his next deal and Sara had various emails to reply to.
Sara had a small glass of white wine over lunch, while Adam worked his way through the rest of the bottle. They chatted about all sorts, over several games of Scrabble (which Sara had downloaded on her iPad). She was nigh on addicted to the game and in Adam she seemed to have met her match. They spoke about their favourite works of Tolstoy – and favourite Pixar movies. They also discovered that they had both attended Catholic schools and chatted about their similar and different experiences. Sara also mentioned how much she was looking forward to visiting the Lake District. She could work it into their schedule to visit Dove Cottage and the Wordsworth Museum. Adam said he’d be interested in seeing the cottage too.
Finally, I’m going, Sara thought to herself.
“The book tour will have a happy ending,” Sara said, tapping the details of their sightseeing trip into her iPad.
Unlike too many other authors to mention, Adam took an interest in his publicist – rather than just talked about himself. He asked her about her career in modelling and why she had left the fashion world to join the publishing industry.
“There wasn’t one reason... The catwalk began to stretch out before me and I felt like I was walking a mile each time I stepped out onto the runway... There are few women I’ve found, who are as unnaturally thin as you need to be as a model, who are also healthy and happy... I was tired of being called ‘angel’, ‘honey’ and ‘sweetheart’. I wanted to be Sara... I also wanted to attend university and challenge myself in a different way... I love reading and ultimately I’d like to write a novel one day... I’ve already written a few short stories and a novella, which I’ve posted on the website Authonomy... I’m not expecting anything to come of it, but I enjoyed writing the stories and it meant something to me...”
Why am I telling him all of this? Why should he care?
“I was wrong earlier Sara. You’re worth a thousand Julian Smythes.”
Please don’t let this be an act. Please let him be genuinely lovely. I want to believe that there is one smart, funny, decent guy out there – even if I can’t have him.
11.
Sara finally turned off the iPad, breathed out and lay upon her back on the bed; keeping still so as not to muss up her hair or crease her dress. She told herself to use the window of time to call Simon, out of a sense of habit rather than from a real desire to do so. But she also told herself that he would probably be busy and it would be better not to disturb him. Things would change between them when he got back. But Sara didn’t quite know how, or if the change would be for the better or for the worse. When she was younger she had realised that most relationships end badly, but in truth even when people were at their best things could still be a messy. “The job is never finished of painting the bridge to save it from rust,” her father had once said, when he gave his daughter some relationship advice.
For just fifteen minutes she didn’t want to think about work or her relationship with Simon. All she wanted to hear was the birdsong from out of her window. For just fifteen minutes she wanted some quietude to empty her cluttered head and think about nothing, or him. Sara still felt the strong and tender sensation from when he had held her briefly at the train station. She remembered some of the things he had said during the day. She pictured the scene again, when he had quoted Byron. He made her laugh – and her heart beat faster. Adam could tell a joke or give a compliment – or carry out a small act of kindness or ge
nerosity – and make someone’s day.
Is he in his room now thinking about me? Now you’re just being silly, acting like a teenager... Maybe he’s just interested in barmaids and literary groupies... The last thing he probably wants right now is a meaningful relationship, after coming out of his marriage. But the last thing I need right now is a meaningless fling... Life doesn’t mirror plots from Jane Austen novels... You’re not a character in some romantic comedy... Maybe he’s conscious of not making any advances because we need to have a professional relationship... Remember how he treated his ex-wife. He drinks, she was right about that. Why would she have not been honest about his womanising too? He’ll hurt you in the end, if anything happens. That’s what men do... But nothing can or will happen between us. I’m with Simon – and I don’t want to hurt him...
It was 5.30. Sara had arranged to meet Adam in the hotel bar at 5.45. From there they would get a taxi to the university, where the Birmingham Crime & Thriller Writers’ Association had booked out a lecture theatre to host a talk by Adam. She checked herself in the mirror one last time, straightened her already straight fringe and decided to go downstairs a little early.
Adam was already at the bar when she got there. Music was playing in the background, Lionel Richie’s ‘Stuck on You’. Adam was cradling a whisky and looking down into the tumbler, expecting to find the solution to something there perhaps. He’d shaved and was wearing a shirt, jacket and trousers. “Adam may be a squaddie at heart, but he was comfortable at being an officer too,” one of his army buddies had remarked to her at the event in Hampstead. He scrubbed up well.
Rosie would definitely take the rough with the smooth. And so would I.
Her perfume filled his nostrils as she came up behind him and Adam came back to life, stood up and put his drink down. He turned towards Sara. His eyes widened in astonishment and pleasure as he took in his publicist – and her dress. She was wearing her Jacques Vert black and white shift dress, inlaid with lace work. Rosie joked that she should only wear it sparingly – and inside – for fear of causing traffic accidents. It was pretty, elegant and she always felt in bloom when she wore it. Sara told herself that she packed the dress because it was suitable as summer and evening wear – but really she picked it out because she thought that Adam might like it. Which he did – and then some. Her eyes shone as brightly as the L.K. Bennett polished black heels she wore, when she took in his reaction. Her lips were fuller (“kissable” – Adam would later think to himself) from the soft red lipstick she wore. A pair of silver oval drop earrings sparkled beneath her blonde hair every time Sara turned her head. She also wore the small silver cross that her mother had bought for her for Christmas a couple of years ago (Simon never liked her wearing it).
Tell Him About It Page 5