It’s not that she looks beautiful. It’s that she is beautiful – kind, funny and smart. Indeed her attractiveness sometimes works against her, blinding people to the other good things about her... She’s turning more than just my head in the bar, but I’m seeing so much more than they are.
Adam liked her, more than he wanted to admit to himself – let alone to Sara. He was worried however that she was just a distraction, from the hurt he still felt from his divorce. And how much love did he have left in his heart for anyone after what he had recently been through? His glass wasn’t even half full; there was just half an ice cube left at the bottom of the tumbler, figuratively and metaphorically. He felt more like a widower than divorcee sometimes. Victoria had been everything to him, but was now nothing to him. Adam also didn’t want to ruin a friendship, or their professional relationship, by saying something to Sara he would regret.
I don’t want to hurt her. And don’t hurt yourself again Cooper. If you fall no one will catch you. Life doesn’t play itself out like a love song. But she’s got a way about her...
12.
They got to the venue early, as Sara had arranged for Adam to be interviewed by the local paper. After the interview they met Frank Porter, the social secretary for the writing group. He was a retired RAF officer and a published author, although, for the past ten years, he had yet to secure a deal with a major, or minor, publisher. He was seventy and looked more like David Niven than David Beckham. Margaret Duvall wouldn’t have called him “marketable”. Yet he was a kindly soul and good writer. Before the event Adam also found himself talking to Justin Courtney, a young black man. Justin wrote historical crime, set during the Great War. He had secured a meeting with a top agent a year ago through the strength of his manuscript. When they met however the agent advised Justin to write something more gritty or urban, or write a Zadie Smith-like novel about an immigrant living in the inner city. When Justin explained that he had lived in Britain all his life – and grew up in the suburbs – the agent seemed disappointed. Adam, impressed by the concept and strength of the central character in Justin’s idea, said that he would take a look at the book and put him in touch with his own agent.
The audience numbered close to a hundred. Adam first spoke about his books, their formula and how he went about writing and researching his thrillers. The main portion of the evening though was dedicated to the writing group asking the author questions. Understandably the would-be writers in the audience asked about the best way to obtain an agent and publishing deal. Similarly, the people who were already published or self-published asked about tips in regards to author promotion and publicity. At which point, to her surprise, Adam invited Sara to join him on the stage. He encouraged her to give her view, both on publishing in general and publicity. She didn’t from balk from a sense of realism and articulated how publishers were publishing fewer books and consequently agents were developing fewer new authors. But there was now another way, which her employers may have deemed heresy should they have heard her recommend it. Authors could contact independent publishers themselves (although she warned the group not to pay a vanity publisher to produce and market their work). But the major publishers and literary agents were no longer the gatekeepers. An author now also possessed the option of setting up their own publishers on Kindle and other digital platforms. In terms of the genres of crime and thrillers Kindle sales alone could provide an income for talented, prolific writers. Should an author want physical copies of their books available there was Createspace and lulu.com. Sara also provided some tips for the audience on promoting books through Twitter, Goodreads, contacting book bloggers and other hubs for spreading the word. She grew in confidence as she spoke and, like Adam, gave sound editorial advice. Sara even agreed to read a couple of manuscripts and give some feedback via email for a few people.
“I’d be happy to look at the opening chapters of your novel. It’ll be good practice. A friend of mine has recently encouraged me to consider a career in editorial... There’s a book in everyone, but it’s often the case that that’s where it should stay... Most debut books are over written, or not sufficiently re-written... Be wary of digital book promoters however, who promise the world but in the end just deliver a number of fake followers on twitter...”
Adam and Sara laughed and joked on the stage, as well as providing advice (which proved both encouraging and dispiriting – depending on the attitude of the recipient). They shared looks which they thought were private, but everyone in the audience could see that there was a spark between them. Old-fashioned chemistry. A shared sense of humour and a shared attraction.
Towards the end of the event, while Adam signed books for members of the audience, the social secretary approached Sara and asked if she would be willing to come back and give a talk by herself for the group next year. She was equally surprised as she was pleased by the invitation – and said yes.
“Thank you. Mr Cooper will be welcome to come back too of course. You make a great couple, or double-act, so to speak.”
*
After the event Sara and Adam chose to walk back to the hotel, rather than call a taxi. There was a refreshing, cooling breeze riding in the balmy air and a ripe moon showcased a sky studded with stars. They both walked slowly and followed as scenic a path as possible, as if neither of them wanted the night to end. When they reached the hotel they ordered a drink and sat outside on a bench in the garden. They chatted about each of their families. Sara mentioned her sister, who regrettably she rarely saw nowadays. During their teens her sister, Carly, resented Sara for the attention she received from boys and their parents for being a model. She had envied her success.
“Ironically I envied Carly for her anonymity. For growing up in a normal environment, with real friends, doing what she wanted... We don’t actively argue. Partly because we just don’t see each other, which is a shame as she’s due to have a baby later in the year and I’d like to be a better aunt than I was – am – a sister...”
In was only in telling Adam how she felt that she fully realised it. Sara made a promise to him, as well as to herself, that she would get in touch with her sister when she got back to London.
The author – who preferred to write about his issues rather than talk to people about them – also opened up. Although he had only known Sara for a week he felt a strange, but strong, sense of trust and admiration towards her.
“I wanted to live near my parents, partly to keep an eye on them as they’re becoming a bit frail. I must be the only person to have moved from Richmond to Eltham this year... My parents did a good job bringing me up, as much as I brought myself up when I hit my teens... I grew estranged from my parents, as well as my brother and sister, in my early twenties. I couldn’t really talk to them about my time in Afghanistan... The more I isolated myself the more they would try to reach out to me... Work, writing, saved me when I came back from Helmand though... Strangely, when they stopped trying to work me out, they accepted me more... I often visit my parents and regularly go for a drink or meal with my brother and sister... I’ll introduce you to them all at the dinner next week. My sister in particular would love to meet you. My parents would enjoy meeting you too. You’re a good Catholic girl – with a devilish sense of humour... You should come around for lunch or dinner one Sunday, if you want.”
I want.
Adam realised that he was speaking to Sara more as a friend, or even girlfriend, than publicist. But it feels right. Let her in.
*
Would I let him in if he knocked on the door?
Sara knew the answer to her question before she even asked it, as guilty as she felt when she saw the missed call from Simon. His voicemail said that he was now out for the evening.
Speak tomorrow, babe. Wink.
Sara was back in her hotel room, lying on the bed. Her dress was hanging up on the wardrobe door, opposite her. She smiled and almost laughed as she pictured the look on Adam’s face in the bar earlier, when he had turned with h
is eyes lit up on seeing her in the dress. Rosie might have called Adam ruggedly handsome, but Sara was attracted to his good nature and his sense of humour, which shone in his boyish/roguish expression. As Sara lay in bed, half reading a novel, she also listened to various songs on her iPad (by Elton John, Michael Bublé and – of course – Billy Joel among others). Maybe the wine fuelled her imagination, but it seemed that all the love songs made sense and resonated, as if composed for her and how she was feeling. She had seldom, if ever, thought of Simon like she thought of Adam when listening to certain lines from her favourite songs. Something sang in her heart. But maybe it was just all down to the wine, she mused.
Behind her hotel room door Adam raised his hand, to knock. Will she let me in? His heart was galloping, like a wagon train of horses out of control. I can’t stop thinking about her. And it’s not just the wine.
Yet Adam paused, and lowered his hand, reining in his heart. Life doesn’t play itself out like a love song. If it had been any other woman he would have knocked on her door.
Don’t hurt her.
13.
Grey clouds smudged the sky. Rain slapped upon the window in the morning and woke Sara up before her alarm. An annoying draught also whistled through a thin gap between the pane and frame. The birdsong from yesterday had disappeared too.
Sara reached over to the bedside table and checked her phone for any messages from Simon, but it only flashed with a number of emails from work. Although Simon had not made the greatest of efforts to get in touch since being in New York Sara still felt guilty in having ignored him over the past day or so. She also felt guilty in relation to the thoughts and feelings she’d experienced for Adam. Although a few boyfriends had cheated on her over the years, Sara had never been unfaithful. In some ways yesterday felt like a dream. Let it remain a dream, a fancy, Sara told herself.
When she met Adam downstairs at breakfast she reverted to a more formal stance towards him. She wasn’t rude or cold, but Sara did act in a far more pronounced business-like manner – similar to when they had first met. She talked about the weather and the forthcoming signings and events. Any other conversation seemed stilted. Sara was also conscious of mentioning, on more than one occasion (during breakfast and their train journey to Manchester) that she had a boyfriend. Adam duly took the hint and, although he still tried to crack the odd joke and have Sara open up to him, he too, for her sake, behaved like an author should with his publicist. He took consolation from the fact that at least he hadn’t succumbed to temptation and knocked on her hotel door the night before.
Life plays itself out through sad songs.
For the most part during the train journey they both sat in silence and worked. Adam finally finished his book proposal and emailed it off to his agent. To ease the tension and protracted silences Adam also pretended to be asleep on the train. It was while he pretended to do so that Sara locked herself in the toilet and cried, for reasons that she couldn’t quite understand. The heart has its own reasons.
*
The signing at the bookshop in Manchester was not quite a complete wash-out, but they only sold around a quarter of the books that they had sold in Birmingham. The events manager at the shop and Sara made certain excuses – blaming the rain or that people had started to go away for their summer holidays – but Adam had taken part in enough events to know that not everything works and he was neither angry nor upset. He filled up some of the time by speaking to a few creative writing students from the nearby university, who had come to meet him. As well as providing some advice and encouragement Adam also kindly bought the students a book each – signing and dedicating the copies.
Towards the end of the event a pudding-faced journalist turned up from the local paper to profile the author. He first asked Adam questions about the book and the current state of affairs in Afghanistan (the journalist having not read the former and being ill-informed about the latter). He then asked Adam if he would like to comment about the rumour that his ex-wife was dating James Cardinal, the wild-boy Shakespearean actor.
“No comment,” the ex-soldier replied, with more than just a little steel in his voice and expression.
The warning shot across his bow was sufficient enough to encourage the hack to stick to his brief of just talking about the book. After the journalist left Sara apologised to her author, saying that she had spoken to him beforehand about the parameters of the interview.
“There’s no need to apologise Sara. I know it wasn’t your fault. He’s a journalist. If a vulture spots a carcass he’s going to want to feast,” Adam remarked philosophically.
*
The rain continued to fall. After the signing Adam suggested that they have lunch. He recommended a nice, independent Italian restaurant which was a short walk away (remembering how Sara had mentioned the previous evening that Italian was her favourite food). But she said that she had to get to the hotel and catch up on some work. She felt guilty in snubbing him – and lying to him – but Sara felt guiltier still in regards to Simon. This had been the longest period, for some time, that they hadn’t spoken to each other. She needed to go back to the hotel and call him.
As Sara got back to her room she received another email from Margaret Duvall. The first part mentioned how she had locked herself out from her twitter account again and the second part asked for an update on whether any of the newspapers had bitten in regards to an interview with Adam Cooper. Sara was more than tempted to open up the mini bar after reading the message, but she merely sighed and poured herself a glass of water.
In contrast to the hotel in Birmingham, where her room had looked out upon a garden and some pear trees at the back of the hotel, Sara now gazed upon a half empty staff carpark and some over-filled bins. She felt compensated however as she noticed a card by the phone in her room, advertising that the hotel offered its guest thirty minutes of complimentary international calls. As phoning Simon on his mobile would be costly she decided to take advantages of the offer. It would now be morning in New York and she hoped to catch him before he left for work. She would doubtless spend more time listening to him, rather than talking, when they shared their week but that was fine. After all, her week had so far involved possibly falling for another man.
“Hello, Simon Keegan’s phone,” a woman answered, professional politeness mixed with slight confusion from the strange number coming up on the caller register.
“Come back to bed babe. You’ve played secretary enough on this trip. You need to role play something else,” Simon announced suggestively in the background.
“Hello, who is this?” the woman, which Sara now recognised as being Lisa, Simon’s secretary, asked.
“Simon’s ex-girlfriend.”
Lisa gasped, but before she could say anything else Sara hung up the call. Sara bent over, as if she were about to be sick, and then fell onto the bed. Blood rushed up to her face – she was embarrassed and ashamed. And then her face grew redder with anger... She felt dizzy and sobbed, almost to the point of choking – gasping for air. Sara replayed Lisa’s voice – and his – over in her head again and wanted the ground to swallow her up. Or she wished that the ground could swallow them up. Bury all trace of him.
She received a call back from him, but ignored it, throwing the phone down on the bed as if it were poisonous. His snake-like face popped-up on the screen and she winced. The hurt almost manifested itself into a physical pain. The room seemed to spin and Sara curled up in a ball and clutched a pillow, as if to anchor her down.
I hate him.
Again her phone flashed up with a call from Simon – and she ignored it. If he wanted to talk to someone he could talk to her, his fun and friendly secretary.
Sara finally reached over and took a sip of water. Her hand trembled as she did so.
He’s dead to me.
It was the one sin she couldn’t forgive. It was over, she determined. She felt like the past six months had been a waste, or a lie at the best. She wouldn’t fight for him. S
he could have him – and he would cheat on her accordingly.
Tears streamed down her cheeks as Sara gently rocked upon the bed, clutching the pillow again – feeling dead to herself.
All men are bastards.
14.
Tired, physically and emotionally, Sara eventually drifted off to sleep. When she woke her eyes were still puffy and she felt like someone had a cut a piece out of her. She mechanically replied to a few emails on her iPad but then picked up her phone, which seemed to now weigh as heavy as a brick in her hands. She listened to the voice messages from Simon.
The first thing Sara noticed was that he seemed to be whispering – and the acoustics were strange. She realised that he must have retreated into the hotel bathroom and was talking quietly, to avoid Lisa from hearing him. The first message desperately – and unconvincingly – urged Sara not to get the wrong idea. He knew that Sara was on the other end of the line when Lisa picked up the phone and he was just playing a joke on her. He begged her to call him back immediately. During the second call, which followed shortly afterwards, Simon apologised. They had both got drunk the night before, celebrating a deal. “She means nothing to me.” Again he asked her to call him. “We need to talk. You shouldn’t throw the past six months away over just one night. This could make us stronger.” He argued that if she should had have cheated on him then he would have forgiven her. “What we have is too good... We need to be grown-ups about this...”
Tell Him About It Page 6