Devil You Know

by Bagshawe, Louise

  “You need to remind yourself what it is you like. Honestly. Trust me on this one.”

  Obediently, and still feeling scared, Daisy went into town and found a Books Etc. Now, the gleaming gold-spined rows of blockbusters didn’t seem so exciting, they seemed intimidating, mocking.

  Resolutely, Daisy marched up to “Popular Fiction” and pulled out her favorites. If she was going to learn, it might as well be from the masters. Kane and Abel. Best trashy novel ever written. Riders. Close second. Lace. Close third. She piled up her arms with fantastically plotted classics. Judith Krantz’s Scruples. Sally Beauman’s Destiny. Penny Vincenzi’s Old Sins. Hmm, she was actually starting to enjoy herself. Ken Follett! Pile it on … and finally, of course, her personal hero: Richard Weston. Daisy bought Savage Outcome with delicious anticipation.

  She tumbled her purchases onto the counter in front of a jaded shop assistant, who paused from cracking her gum long enough to blink.

  “Bored, are ya?” she demanded. “Or are ya flying to Australia or something?”

  “Or something,” Daisy said sweetly.

  There were plenty of places that offered creative writing courses; even universities. But Fenella was right, she could do no better than immerse herself in the kind of stuff she wanted to write. If you read the complete works of one writer, you usually started pastiching them. Especially with people like Jilly Cooper—one had to be careful of that. But Daisy thought this way was safe, just to read the best of the best and let it all sink in. She loved to be whisked away into the hearts of dark rivalries, strong men and gorgeous, cunning women, to read about the L.A. sun and the Siberian ice and World War Two and Argentinian polo matches …

  She spent the next two weeks on the living room couch, reading through one pop fiction legend after another. Her mother kept her supplied with hot tea and packets of Hob-Nobs. When Daisy was finished, she’d put on eight pounds. Ugh. But she was also prepared.

  She could hardly wait to start writing again. Whenever she booted up the computer, Daisy got a buzz. And now her fingers were flying across the keyboard.

  She faxed the new pages to Fenella and held her breath.

  “This is great, Daisy. This is exactly right. Keep it coming.”

  Daisy did. She also pulled on a pair of old shorts and started jogging in the mornings. She had no intention of sliding back to the way she had been before. Maybe Edward wasn’t in her life, but that wasn’t the point.

  Daisy had no interest in men right now, not even Edward Powers. She didn’t have time to brood and mourn over him. Her career was all that counted. If she wanted romance, she worked it out in the pages of her novel. She didn’t care about looking good for men. She cared about looking good for herself.

  It was a fun summer.

  Everything was coming together. Daisy felt the sense of achievement every day, when she finished her run, when she finally ran the last word-count of the evening. Maybe it wouldn’t work, after all, but she knew that she was giving it everything that she had. It might not have been blood, sweat, and tears, but it was bloody hard work, and it was the best she could do.

  *

  “So this is the cover. Or covers,” Tony Morris told her. Tony was the Artemis Art Director, and he was known for being one of the best in London.

  “Ahm, very striking,” Daisy said uncertainly.

  The Lemon Grove had been packaged up like a boiled sweet in two flavors. The book was laid out before her in two covers: neon lime-green and neon hot-pink, both with the title in block silver letters. Daisy loved the silver letters; that was proper blockbuster stuff. But neon green?

  “It’s meant to be striking.” Tony smirked. “I know what you’re thinking, love, but watch this.” He picked up the two books and balanced them against the bookshelf on the far wall. “Now take a step back.” He pulled Daisy over to stand by the window. “See?”

  She did. Even with the other books’ brightly colored covers, there was no mistaking Lemon Grove. It screamed back at her as though it had been on fire. The two different acid colors were even more obvious when they were contrasted next to each other.

  “Ah,” Daisy said, thrilled. “I’d pick them up.”

  “And that’s half the sale,” Tony informed her.

  Thirty-Two

  It took Daisy six months of rewrites, and when finally, exhausted, she handed the book in, Fenella told her it wouldn’t be published until next year.

  “But why?” Daisy asked, disappointed.

  Fenella smiled gently at Daisy’s gutted face. “Look, it takes about nine months for copyediting, typesetting, promotion, proof copies, marketing … about the same time as a baby. We’ll start planning and writing book two. And publication will be here before you know it.”

  *

  The Lemon Grove was published in July, just in time for the August holiday season. Fenella told Daisy she had written an instant classic; “the ultimate beach read.”

  “Wow, I just hope you’re right.”

  “I’m always right,” Fenella said with supreme confidence.

  And she was. Artemis was excited about the book, and the marketing push got it out there. Tony’s neon covers screamed at browsers in chains across the country; there were dump-bins, point-of-sale material, posters, and even ads on buses.

  “That won’t work by itself,” Fenella warned Daisy when she rang up, thrilled, because she’d seen a bus with her book cover plastered across it. “It only means the book has a chance. People will see it. After that, the work has to stand by itself. Which it will.”

  It didn’t take long for the company to know they had a success on their hands. Daisy got her first phone call from Fenella within a month.

  “Daisy? It’s Fenella.”

  “Hi,” said Daisy, desperately trying to appear casual. Her fingers were white-knuckled, gripping the receiver. She was a first novelist. If it didn’t go well for her now, her new career, her new life would be stillborn.

  “I have good news.”

  “OK,” Daisy said, but there were tears in her eyes. She exhaled raggedly.

  “You’re a hit. Our first printing has completely sold out. We’re reprinting right now.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Daisy said, gleefully.

  When she hung up, she danced around the room.

  *

  A week later, it was Publicity who were calling.

  “People are surprised. This kind of novel is supposed to be dead. It’s all murder mysteries and financial thrillers out there right now,” Helen Moxie told her. Moxie was the head of the Artemis publicity department, and she was on the phone telling Daisy her publicity schedule. “They find it strange you’re having such success with a romance. So, you have the itinerary?”

  “Yes,” Daisy said, feeling a bit fraudulent.

  “There’ll be a first-class ticket to London waiting for you, and I’ll be there half an hour before your first interview, just to make sure things go smoothly, OK? Don’t worry, you’ll be great.”

  “I suppose I don’t see what the point is,” Daisy said tremulously. “I mean, it’s a fictional story, what’s interesting about talking to the writer?”

  “Just think of it as free advertising. See you Thursday.”

  On Wednesday afternoon her father drove her to the station. “We’re so proud of you, darling. Doing all the interviews, it’s marvelous. You’re a big star.”

  “I’m not, Dad, shut up,” Daisy said, but the truth was she was excited.

  “Have fun. See you soon.” Her father kissed her and handed her her little suitcase.

  Daisy walked into the station and picked up her first-class train ticket. She didn’t think she’d ever traveled first class in her life. The carriage was mostly empty and had slightly wider seats, which were a different color, and had little tissue things on the top.

  Big fat hairy wow, Daisy thought, but she still reveled in it. Why not? Artemis was footing the bill.

  When the drinks trolley trundled past Dai
sy ordered a gin and tonic. To hell with it. This was a celebration.

  *

  Her hotel was the Halkin, very upscale, with a Japanese décor mingling with funky Jackson Pollock-esque abstract paintings. Not Daisy’s cup of tea but, just like the train, that really wasn’t the point. The point was her publishers thought she was worth spending the money on.

  Fenella had taught her a lot more than good storytelling. She had educated Daisy on the realities of publishing and Daisy knew now that every penny they spent on promotion and publicity showed their commitment to her.

  She was being groomed to be the next big thing, and she loved it.

  Helen Moxie arrived bang on time the next morning, but Daisy was already waiting for her in the lobby. If her publishers were going to be this helpful, she at least wanted to show willing. It couldn’t hurt to be professional.

  “Mm, very nice.” Helen took in her outfit: boot-cut black Joseph trousers and a cute little silky top, teamed with Daisy’s long, loose hair and a pair of dangling Moroccan silver earrings. “I wish it was TV and not radio. You look cute. Are you ready?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” Daisy said.

  She spent the morning having desultory interviews with bored reporters from the tabloids and the Evening Standard who kept asking her about her sex life.

  “Your men really like that, Daisy?”

  “Into bed-hopping, are ya?”

  “Jason’s a bit of a strong man, ain’t he? You into bondage, then?”

  Daisy tried not to get flustered, but she couldn’t help it. “I’m sorry, I don’t discuss my private life” didn’t seem to cut it.

  “Try to be quotable,” hissed Helen. “Say, ‘I read it in Cosmo, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.’”

  “Right,” Daisy said, trying not to get upset.

  After lunch a taxi took her to That Radio Place. They signed in in the lobby, got little laminated badges that said “Visitor,” and then Helen led Daisy up in the elevator to an anonymous warren of corridors that looked and smelled like school. She had the surreal experience of being “interviewed” down-the-line; Daisy sat in a booth with headphones over her ears and a mike in front of her and nobody else there, while they piped a show from Radio Scotland or Radio Tyneside into her ears and she had to interact with some phantom DJ. She didn’t think it was too bad, apart from the watery coffee in the plastic cups, and she had just about recovered from the morning’s nastiness when she was taken to Max Radio 96.3 in Camden.

  “This is the biggest thing we’ve been able to get you,” Helen said. “It’s Mutt and Jeff. It’s really important. They go out almost nationally, you can get this station in Oxford.”

  “I know, I used to listen,” Daisy said, feeling slightly worried.

  Mutt and Jeff were “shock jocks.” The UK’s answer to Howard Stern, they had a huge audience, they were always getting bleeped, and they were funny but mercilessly cruel to a lot of their guests.

  “I think you can take them on. Just flirt with Jeff. Mutt’s gay, so that won’t help you any.” Helen took in Daisy’s anxious look. “It’s the audience, Daisy. They’re such huge publicity. You couldn’t pay for it. Just plug the book every chance you get.”

  “No problem,” Daisy said, though she thought it might be.

  *

  “Well fuck me,” Jeff said.

  Daisy, with the headphones on, was stuck in the Mutt and Jeff booth. It was decorated with posters of girls with their tits out, presumably not Mutt’s choice.

  The two radio superstars were small men who had spots and looked mean as hungry ferrets.

  “No thanks, mate, not my type,” Mutt giggled in that famous high-pitched squeak.

  “She’s gorgeous, isn’t she? A right bit of totty. Want to pose for the Jeff cam, sugar? I wouldn’t mind looking at those jugs all day.”

  Daisy wondered if she should get up and walk out, just cut her losses.

  “No thanks, Jeff…”

  “But sex is your thing, ain’t it?” Daisy saw with horror that he had Lemon Grove open in front of him. He flipped to a pre-marked page and started to read out loud one of her hottest sex scenes. “Bugger me! Went to Oxford, didn’t you?”

  “Not the University.”

  “Is that what they teach you there? Sex Ed?” He was ignoring her.

  “No, for that I tuned into the Mutt and Jeff show,” Daisy said.

  He hadn’t expected that. “Faithful listener, were you?”

  “Sure. Nobody does puerile sarcasm like you two. Students love that kind of thing.”

  “And nobody does sex like Daisy Markham?” needled Jeff.

  “Well,” said Daisy, “if everybody buys The Lemon Grove they can find that out for themselves.”

  “But your book is full of sex. You gotta be a sex maniac. I bet you’re great in bed. Why do you think you got on this show?”

  “Most trashy novels have sex in them,” Daisy said firmly, “because people do have sex. Not people that look like you two, obviously. But other people.” She leaned closer to her mike. “I wish you guys out there could see what a couple of skinny pizza-faced bastards these two are. Reading from my book is probably the best sex Jeff’s had all year.”

  Behind the glass partition she could see Helen Moxie gaping at her in utter horror. Daisy looked defiantly at the DJs, but they didn’t seem to mind.

  “Ooh,” said Mutt, delighted. “It’s got teeth.”

  “Make a lot of money, do ya?” Jeff said. His tone was fractionally less mean now.

  “Why don’t you find another hot passage and read it out on the air? Then I’ll make even more,” Daisy said, grinning.

  When the bit went off air for commercials, skinny Jeff reached out and shook her hand.

  “Well done,” he said, “great radio.”

  *

  The papers were full of it the next morning. Daisy had been just about the only girl ever to take Mutt and Jeff on. The following week, sales of The Lemon Grove, which they plugged for three days, doubled.

  “Daisy, my love,” said Fenella when she called her with the latest figures, “I think a star has been born.”

  Thirty-Three

  So here she was again.

  It was eight-twenty on Monday morning. There was a crisp chill in the air, and New York was bustling with the fall’s back-to-work energy. Businessmen and -women scurried past her in their dark suits, clutching paper cups, with the Greek key design on them, full of steaming coffee; a little warmth and caffeine to kick the day off right. Lots of Brooks Brothers navy and black out today, Rose thought. Ambition in the air.

  And plenty of it here, at Rothstein Realty.

  She had been sixteen when she came here last, scamming her way in to see William Rothstein. Six years later she had turned twenty-two. But she remembered everything about that day. Was William still in PR, still at extension 1156?

  The office buildings had not changed one bit. The sleek granite casing of the midtown skyscraper still glittered in the thin sunlight. Rose took a deep breath and walked into the lobby.

  Yes, it was as she remembered. Marble streaked with the palest pink. Receptionists in pearls, oriental rugs. They’d changed the art, but it was the same sort of stuff. Stuff that screamed dollars.

  A group of kids her own age were clustered around reception. There were about twelve of them; only one was a girl, a keen-looking chick in a nondescript fawn dress and cardigan. Rose was wearing a Donna Karan navy suit, cut beautifully, with a skirt that sat just above the knee. She had teamed it with a pair of CK pumps, plain gold studs in her ears, neutral makeup, and a leather-strapped watch.

  It had been a rookie error to let Jake see her in Chanel. No need to draw attention to the money she had. Rose didn’t want anybody at this place noticing her until she’d got what she wanted.

  She walked over to join the others.

  “Hi.” Rose smiled at them briskly. “I’m Rose Fiorello.”

  “Bob Flet,” said a short, blond
kid. He looked at her disapprovingly. “You’re the last one here.”

  “I make it eight-twenty-five,” Rose said.

  His disapproval didn’t waver. “Cutting it fine, huh? You better register.”

  Rose moved through them and gave her name to the receptionist.

  “Just in time, Rose.” No “Ms. Fiorello,” Rose noticed. “You’ll be joining the other interns for orientation before proceeding to report to Mrs. Thompson in Mr. White’s office.”

  “Thank you,” Rose said dryly.

  “I can’t believe they hired another broad,” one of the young men said. The crowd laughed, except for the mousy girl, who pretended not to hear them. “I guess it’s quota time, huh?”

  “Or maybe I’m better qualified than you?” Rose suggested.

  He rolled his eyes. “I’m summa at Harvard, sweetheart. I don’t think so. You’re just window-dressing. Real estate, it’s like Wall Street. Not a game for chicks.”

  “Did you hear Rothstein bought that parcel in Hell’s Kitchen?” Bob Flet said to him.

  “Yeah. Nice spot, put up a tower with amenities and parking. I’m psyched to be here…”

  The men all started talking animatedly, ignoring the two young women. Rose turned to the mousy girl.

  “So what got you into real estate?” Rose asked.

  The girl smiled nervously. “Oh, I’m not here for the real estate. I’m interning in the human resources department.”

  Of course you are, Rose thought. Human Resources was where companies like Rothstein stuck all their women. They let them organize the vacation roster and allocate the parking slots. At the head of Human Resources and sometimes PR they put some girl vice-president. It looked good in the company report.

  Sheer window-dressing.

  The male students continued to talk loudly, ostentatiously ignoring Rose. She bit back a smile. They were tossing out technical terms, showing off to each other about how much they knew—“cap rate,” “multiple listings,” “gross income multipliers” …

  “Are you going to be in public relations?” the mousy girl asked Rose.

  “No. Richard White’s office.”

  The boys stopped talking.