“Oh,” said Daisy, yanked back down to earth. She hated her crappy job in Oxford.
“Never give up a job until you know your future is secure; and that can take years.”
“Oh,” said Daisy gloomily.
“Just go home. We’ll call you,” Ted Elliott said, and the meeting was over.
*
Daisy went back to Oxford and tried to concentrate on her studies. She was six weeks away from her final examinations. After the agency contracts arrived, she signed them, and that was about all that happened. The strange thing was that the lack of news about her manuscript concentrated her mind.
She rented herself a new place—away from Edward Powers. To be around him hurt too much. It was a nasty little dump on the ring-road, modern, with a handkerchief-sized patch of neatly clipped lawn out front boasting a garden gnome showing his workman’s bum. She had to share it with a glue-sniffing teenager called Spike, which actually wasn’t too bad as he was never home.
But more importantly, the rent was as tiny as her room, and she was out of danger; he was never going to “drop in” with Edwina here, and she wasn’t surrounded, every day, by reminders of him. Daisy told Edward that she needed to buckle down, to get her degree. He understood that, and didn’t pressure her into going out for a drink.
“After finals. Quite right,” he said.
Sometimes she wondered if he knew how she felt about him. But she tried not to obsess about it, else she’d go mad.
Daisy went to the library for her course, pulled out books, buried her head in them. It was strange how she was actually starting to find it interesting. Even though there were no calls from London, the very fact that a big agent had signed her gave her a new zest for life, something that had been missing for so long she almost felt drunk.
A sense of achievement. How strange; she looked at herself differently now.
She started to lose more weight, without noticing it. She was too busy to think about eating, and quite often she’d grab a Boots Shapers sandwich for lunch, not because it was low-cal, but just because it was there. And fast. The last few pounds of puppy fat were melting from her thighs. Daisy had to walk a mile each day just to get to and from her nearest bus stop; the inaccessibility of the nasty suburban house was one reason even she could make the rent. And then she’d be on her feet at night. Waitressing.
As she dropped the weight and started to like herself a little, Daisy found she was making more money. She would make up her face with something cheap such as No. 7, just a dab of foundation and a black eyeliner. And her tips increased dramatically.
Pretty girls made more money. She resented it, but she needed the cash; it didn’t hurt to smile, Daisy told herself.
Some of the diners, emboldened by cheap house red, asked her out on dates, but that was a bridge too far.
“I’m taken,” she’d reply, grinning in a friendly way. That was usually good for a fiver.
Daisy met Edward for a last drink, still no Edwina, thank God, and promised to keep in touch.
“You don’t think I’d let a famous author slip out of my clutches, do you?” Edward joked.
Daisy laughed gently. “I suppose not.”
That was a rough night. All she could think about was how much she loved him, but there was absolutely no chance of telling the truth. Even though the girl was not in town, Edward talked about her constantly. He was smitten, and Daisy was history.
She sat her finals, and left Oxford without looking back.
*
Daisy was out in the garden, helping her mother pull some bindweed out of the fence. Her parents had managed to find a flat to rent; nice enough, but hardly their old house. It had two bedrooms, was part of an old Victorian schoolhouse, and had its own small patch of garden. Daisy was thankful for that; her mother loved to garden, and she had planted roses and clematis around the trellis fence.
She hoped it would keep them distracted.
Her arrival had been enough for two weeks’ worth of conversation. She had lied merrily to them about prospective boyfriends and chatted about her course, her friends; anything to make them feel that her time in Oxford had been nothing but bliss. Her degree had been a good one—she’d got a First. Daisy might have told her mother about Brad, or even Edward, under other circumstances. But her parents needed to hear nothing but good news, so that was what they got. Daisy didn’t comment on the silver-gray streaked through her father’s hair, or the fact that her mother had lost fifteen pounds and now looked gaunt.
She also didn’t tell them about her agent, and her possible book.
“Daisy!” Her father was calling from the kitchen, with a cup of tea in one hand. “Phone for you. Some chap named Elliott.”
“Daisy!” her mother huffed, because Daisy had trodden on one of her newly planted petunias as she raced for the kitchen. Mrs. Markham smiled, watching her daughter go. A reaction like that, it had to be young love. She hoped to heaven the boy was a man of means.
“Thanks, Dad.” Daisy grabbed the receiver, palms sweaty.
“Daisy?” It was Gemma. “Can you hold?”
“Sure,” she said, breathlessly. They piped the Four Seasons down the line till she thought she was going to scream.
“Hi, Daisy,” said Ted Elliott finally. “How are you?”
“OK,” she said. Who the hell cared how she was?
“I’ve sold your book,” he said casually. “In fact, I’ve also sold the next one.”
“But I haven’t written the next one,” Daisy said, feeling stupid.
“How much did you think these books were going to go for?”
She paused. The important thing was that she was going to be published. New writers got very little, Daisy knew that much. But it would still beat six months of waitressing.
“About two thousand pounds?” Daisy suggested tremulously.
“Ha! I think you’d better sit down,” he said, a touch smugly.
“Ted, just tell me, please!” shouted Daisy, losing it completely. Her father was giving her a concerned stare across the kitchen. He set his cup of tea down on the countertop.
“I’ve sold this book and a sequel for seventy thousand pounds,” Ted Elliott said.
Thirty
The tube pulled into Leicester Square and Daisy got out, electrified with excitement. She was due to meet her publishers for the first time.
Her editor had spoken to her on the phone and said nice things, but Daisy wasn’t listening; it all felt like a blur, just a huge blur. Today would make it real.
Not even six months out of college, she had traded a waitress’s apron for being a writer. A real writer, with a proper contract.
Daisy felt slightly scared they would think they had made a mistake. She was nobody, really, not Jackie Collins, nor Jeffrey Archer, nor Jilly Cooper. She was going to be a real author, published by the same firm that put out Richard Weston.
She glanced at her watch. It was still only ten. She had fifteen minutes before she was due at her meeting but she hadn’t wanted to be late.
“Nothing to be worried about,” Ted Elliott told Daisy. “They love your writing. Fenella said it had sparkle she hasn’t seen for years.”
Fenella Granger, a publishing titan, apparently. Her new editor.
“And they’ll all be very glad to meet someone as young and as glamorous as you.”
Daisy burst out laughing.
Her agent crooked an eyebrow. “What on earth is so funny?”
“Glamorous! Me? Have you taken a good look at me, Ted?”
He steepled his fingers and regarded her. “I think perhaps the question is have you taken a good look at yourself?” Ted pointed to the gold-framed mirror hanging behind her. “Check yourself out. Isn’t that what the young people say?”
Daisy looked. The girl standing in front of her was beautiful. She hadn’t been paying attention to her transformation. She was slim; her clothes were actually hanging off her. Was it possible? Could she have dropped to a size ten? She’d always
loved her eyes, but now you could actually see them, as they weren’t hidden behind folds of fat. She had real cheekbones—high, aristocratic cheekbones that seemed to go on forever—and her hair, because she hadn’t bothered with it, was tumbling down around her shoulders in a rich, dark and glossy mane. She had full lips that were … well, pretty sexy. Her jeans and T-shirt didn’t exactly fit, because they were both too big, but the natural curves of her body were still impressive. She had a high, tight butt, full breasts, and she wasn’t too skinny, and …
“You look amazed,” Ted Elliott said. “Most girls your age can’t keep away from the mirror. My nieces, for example. The only time they get out of the bathroom is to get on the phone.”
“I’ve never liked mirrors,” Daisy said truthfully. The mirror had been her enemy. Who wanted to be reminded of being a lump?
“Well,” Ted said, losing interest, “it never hurts to be young and pretty when you’re selling something. Perhaps you should go shopping and buy something, um, funky.”
Daisy had taken the advice to heart. She’d popped down to Harvey Nicks—how she’d always longed to say “popped down to Harvey Nicks”—and bought herself something flattering by Ghost, a cute dress in dusty pink with a matching lace cardigan, wedges from Dior, and a little Kate Spade pink-leather handbag. The price tag almost made her faint, but Daisy told herself it was business.
She wavered between not wanting to count her chickens and a steely determination to make this work. It was so hard not to think of herself as unworthy.
But I am, Daisy told herself, I am worthy. They didn’t sign me for fun. They think I can succeed.
She smiled. She was starting to value herself.
*
Artemis Publishing was located on Tottenham Court Road, right in the heart of book country. There were gleaming modern booksellers and mazy little specialist shops, antiquarian dealers and feminist presses up and down the length of the street, mingling with the odd record business building, like the Astoria, EMI publishing, and the instrument sellers on Denmark Street.
She wandered up toward the Royal George pub, ducking into Waterstone’s on the way. The rows of pristine books on the shelves, the posters, the tables of bestsellers and new releases … she felt as though she was floating. Daisy picked up Savage Outcome, the latest Richard Weston thriller. It had big gold letters on the cover, fantastic reviews on the back—quotes from Company and Elle and the Daily Mail. And right there on the spine was the little “bow” insignia of Artemis Books.
This was going to be her, Daisy thought, and suddenly she felt a wash of sheer joy rush through her. Everything was going to be all right.
*
Artemis Publishing was just what she had imagined. It was housed in a tinted-glass and polished-steel temple, with large potted palm trees under the skylights in the lobby, marble floors, and modern elevators with the cars made out of glass. In the front of the building there were couches, with more of the trade magazines she saw in Ted’s offices, phones, and rows of Artemis’s latest publications displayed behind glittering glass cabinets under miniature spotlights. The Richard Weston book was in prime position.
“Like it?”
Daisy spun round to find a chic woman at her shoulder. She was beautiful and elegant and wearing something in cream and gold that looked like Chanel.
“Fenella Granger. You must be Daisy Markham.”
“That’s right,” Daisy said, “hello.”
“It’s nice to meet you, finally. The entire team is looking forward to saying hi.” Fenella turned and led Daisy to the bank of lifts. “I hope you’re not scared of heights.”
Daisy had never liked heights.
“A bit,” she admitted.
“Don’t look so worried.” Fenella grinned disarmingly as the doors hissed shut. “And don’t panic if you forget everyone’s names. I’ve been working here for three years and I still don’t remember them all.”
Daisy smiled gratefully at her. She had to try to remember to be businesslike, when actually she wanted to start twirling around and singing like Julie Andrews on the mountaintop.
*
Fenella introduced her to a crowd of people. There was Jack Hall, the urbane and charming publisher; there was Sarah Lawrence, an efficient, hip-looking marketing chief; there were people from Art Direction and the Sales Force and Legal Affairs. Daisy smiled at everybody and determined that she would not feel intimidated.
After the glad-handing was over, Fenella took her into her corner office. It was all windows, with a glorious view of Soho, the black London cabs crawling below them glinting in the summer heat; there was even a haze over the city.
“How did that go?” Daisy asked.
“Great.” Fenella nodded approvingly. “You look gorgeous, which always helps. They see posters, they see press campaigns. You’ll soon learn there’s a lot more to being published than just delivering a great book.”
“There is?”
“Sure. After I’ve edited it, and we pick a cover, we have to start selling you. And the first place to do that is Artemis Publishing.”
Daisy was confused. “But you’ve already bought the book.”
“Yes, but without support a book will go nowhere. We publish over fifty titles a month. Not all of them get the attention they deserve. Every editor is fighting inside the company for their own pet projects to get marketing money, sales force attention, and so on.” Fenella’s beautiful eyes were serious. “If you publish a book and don’t support it, it’ll be in the remainder bins before you know where you are. And after one failure it’s twice as hard to get people excited about a second book.”
“I see,” Daisy said, and she did. “I suppose lots of people think that once you sign a deal the bestseller comes automatically.”
“Too many authors,” Fenella said. “Unfortunately.” She smiled. “Look, I’m not trying to scare you. We’re going to make this happen. You’ve got the talent, and that’s all that counts. Well, along with desire. It’s a lot of work. Are you up for it?”
Daisy looked at the neatly stacked bestsellers and framed book covers that hung on Fenella’s wall.
“I most certainly am,” she said.
Thirty-One
“So.” Fenella shuffled her notes and looked at Daisy brightly. “That shouldn’t be too hard, now should it?”
They were sitting in the kitchen of Fenella’s glorious Cotswolds manor house. There was a gleaming red Aga in the corner, bunches of dried hops and beaten copper pans hanging from the ceiling, and a collection of chipped mugs hanging from nails driven into a beam. It had lead-paned windows and warm stone floors that were cool in the summer heat. Outside, there was a large garden with lavender-lined paths and wild roses climbing riotously up a trellis. Daisy had no idea how Fenella ever got any work done.
“I suppose not,” Daisy responded gloomily. She had just finished hearing all Fenella’s editing suggestions for her book, The Lemon Grove. There were so many of them she wondered why Artemis had bought the manuscript in the first place.
“Don’t look so upset.” Fenella grinned. “I told you, you’ve got huge talent and your characters sing, but the plot just needs some tweaking.”
“Tweaking!” Daisy protested. “You want to get rid of Carl altogether and change the firm from clothes to makeup—”
“If one rival runs a store, clothes isn’t different enough. And Carl just isn’t likable enough. He’s not necessary. Think about it.”
With a bit of resentment, Daisy considered it. She supposed Fenella might have a point.
“It’s going to mean a page-one rewrite, you know.”
“I know. That’s where the work part comes in.” Fenella handed her a cup of coffee, stirring in the sugar. “This is your launch, and we only launch a writer once, so let’s get it right.”
Daisy sighed. “I hear you.”
*
At home, in the rented flat, her parents gave her her own room and let her lock herself away. Daisy wou
ld watch her mother in the garden from her small, neat, double-glazed frame as she planted and mowed and began to make something interesting out of the small space. Her parents were motivation enough, even if this hadn’t been a dream of hers.
Daisy wanted this book so badly. She wanted to see her name in print, pick her own book up at W. H. Smith’s, in the station’s Menzies, maybe even see somebody reading it on a bus. She also wanted to get her parents out of this rental situation, but they wouldn’t hear a word of it.
“Darling, you only have thirty thousand pounds for this book.”
“Thirty’s a lot, and there’s forty for the next one.”
“Yes, it’s a lot of money for a twenty-two-year-old, but you’ll have to make it last. Get yourself a house. Your father and I are going to be fine. He has that new job at the bank.”
“And he gives all his extra money to bloody Lloyd’s,” Daisy said resentfully. Her father was far too honest, too damn noble for his own good.
“It’s a debt, darling,” said her mother proudly.
Daisy was filled with a mixture of rage and pride whenever she thought about it. She would have expected her father to insist on doing the right thing. But she could not bear to see him do it.
She felt responsible, and the thought was strangely exhilarating. Daisy knew that opportunity was knocking for her right now.
She was not about to let the moment slip.
*
She worked furiously. At first there were problems. Daisy turned in some chapters and got worried phone calls from Fenella.
“This isn’t working, Daisy. It doesn’t have any of the zest I found when I first bought the book.”
Daisy felt fear close a clammy hand around her heart. She couldn’t lose this, she just couldn’t. What if they said the book was unacceptable and refused to pay her, to publish it? Would she have to go back to waitressing? She felt nausea rise in her throat.
“Let me give you a bit of advice,” Fenella said. “You’re overthinking it. Go out to the bookshop, buy tons of the sort of books you like to read, and curl up with them for a week.”
“A week,” Daisy said horrified. “I write three thousand words a day, that’s going to put me six chapters behind—”
Devil You Know Page 24