by Dawn Goodwin
Still no sign of Sam among the masculine faces.
Another tray passed with some sort of cracker and pâté on offer, so I took two, shoved one in straight away and washed it down with a glug of fizz.
I pushed further into the room, feeling the bubbles fill my blood with false confidence. I started to add a discreet ‘hello’ to my nods of acknowledgement at the faces turning towards me. I shoved the second canapé into my salivating mouth just as a hand touched my elbow. I turned to see Sam standing next to me.
‘Katherine, you made it.’
Relief flooded through me, but I couldn’t speak because I had a mouthful of cracker. I tried to swallow quickly and felt the crumbs tickle down the wrong tube as a coughing fit started to build. Panic widened my eyes at the thought of coughing crumbs and spit straight into his face, but fate was on my side as a tall, thin man in black spectacles with an alarmingly sculpted quiff intercepted us to stand in front of Sam, affording me a few seconds to glug down more champagne in order to dislodge the blockage.
The tall man was saying, ‘Sam, you’ve been avoiding me.’
‘Andrew, you know me better than that.’
I tried to cough as discreetly as possible into my palm, but it sounded strangled. I drained my glass and coughed again as a small burp popped in my throat. My eyes began to water and I had to concentrate on breathing through my nose.
‘Sam, we have to talk about your manuscript sometime. You can’t ignore this. The deadline has passed – again.’
‘Andrew, I’m here all evening. We can talk later. Now, let me introduce you to a student of mine. A rising star and someone you should keep your eye on.’ Sam pushed the man aside to introduce me. ‘This is Katherine Baxter. Katherine, this is Andrew Boone, my publisher.’
I still couldn’t trust myself to speak, but they were both looking at me expectantly, so I felt compelled to do something. I nodded politely as Andrew smiled thinly at me.
‘A pleasure to meet you. You must be working on your first novel then if you are a student of Sam’s?’
A waiter sidled between us and I could’ve kissed him with relief for providing me with another moment to take some more deep breaths. I took another full glass from his tray and indulged in one more slug to lubricate the cracker crumbs further.
‘Yes,’ I croaked finally. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘Excellent. Well, I’m sure Sam will be sending it my way for my opinion when it is done, but hopefully not before he sends his own.’ He turned back to Sam pointedly, his raised eyebrows disappearing into his quiff.
‘Andrew, relax. Have some more champagne. This is a party. We’ll talk later.’
Andrew shook his head in exasperation. ‘We will indeed,’ he replied and took his leave, the sharp creases in his trousers leading the way.
Sam watched him go with an unreadable expression on his face, then turned back to face me and placed his hand under my elbow. ‘Come, there are people I would like you to meet. You look fabulous, by the way.’ I glowed at his compliment. He steered me this way and that, pausing to introduce me to a blur of faces and names that I would never remember.
Towards the back of the room was a group of about ten men and women dressed very differently to the rest – more casual, less uniform and with plenty of eccentricity, from spotty cravats to quirky shoes and even a fedora hat, complete with a feather.
‘And this is our resident Writing Circle. Hi everyone, this is Katherine, a student of mine,’ Sam said.
Glasses were raised in acknowledgement. He went on to introduce the group and I was transfixed. These were names I did recognise, authors I had read and idolised over the years, mixed in with new names who were currently taking the industry by storm. I was standing among some of the best writers of my generation and I was lost for words. I could feel myself grinning gormlessly, all semblance of casual chic abolished.
I stood, rooted to the ground, and listened as they chatted, dropping literary names and referencing various book fairs and festivals where apparently the after-event revelry was far more important than the networking itself. I wanted to join in, itched to, but felt completely out of my depth and my mind was blank, with no witty remarks or intelligent comments presenting themselves. Sam chatted away comfortably with the group, clearly well acquainted with all of them. Time passed and all I did was smile vacantly and sip champagne. I knew I would regret this later, but before I had a chance to redeem herself, Sam was steering me away again.
‘A lovely bunch, those writers – known them for years, but they are still my competition, so I try not to get too involved in writing speak. Don’t want to be giving away ideas,’ he said with a wink. ‘Well done for your response too.’
‘Really?’ I bit my lip, wondering if he was being sarcastic. I’d hardly said anything.
‘Previous students I’ve introduced to them start fawning all over them and telling them what they want to hear, before pushing their own work on them or asking for advice, when all the writers really want to do at an event like this is get pissed on the free bar. You were calm, collected, aloof almost – you’re the one they will remember. Smart.’ He was looking at me with such admiration and respect that I wanted to guffaw. Instead, I smiled politely and carried on sipping, noting the fluttering in my chest at his praise and the buzz in my head from the champagne. I would need more canapés soon just to stay upright, unaccustomed as I was to this level of alcohol drunk so quickly.
Sam leaned towards me. ‘I must say, you really do look fantastic,’ he repeated, his mouth close to my ear, and my body surprised me by humming in response like a tuning fork. It had been years since I’d been paid a genuine compliment and they were coming thick and fast from Sam tonight.
‘Thank you.’
Before I could say anything else, my eye was caught by a woman weaving her way through the throng, aiming straight for us with a no-nonsense gait. I felt Sam stiffen as she approached and he moved his hand away from my elbow.
‘Sam, there you are.’
‘Viola.’
Ah, the wife.
She was not as tall as I had expected but was immaculately dressed. I was struck by how beautiful her eyes were – almost feline and a turquoise that the photographs I had seen had not done justice to. She turned those eyes on me now and held out a hand.
‘Hello, I’m Viola Matthews, Sam’s agent – and wife,’ she added with a sideways glance at him. ‘We haven’t met.’
I accepted her outstretched hand, which was warm and incredibly soft and smooth. ‘Katherine Baxter, lovely to meet you.’
‘This is the woman from the course I was telling you about, who I’ve offered to mentor.’ His voice was suddenly crisp.
‘Of course, yes. How exciting for you.’ She held onto my hand for a moment with what I thought was a firmer grip than was necessary and narrowed her eyes, studying my face much like Sam had over lunch. Maybe it was a writer thing, committing it to memory or something. Then she looked away, saying, ‘We should chat later – I’d love to hear about your novel.’ She released my hand and turned her attention back to Sam. ‘You must speak to Andrew tonight – please.’ She was imploring him with her marine eyes, but his return gaze was dismissive.
‘I will. I’ll make good, don’t worry.’
I could hear someone across the room tapping on a glass and the chatter died down. A man, standing at the centre of the guests, addressed everyone with authority.
‘Good evening, everyone. It’s lovely to see so many familiar faces. Grayson Greene is going from strength to strength and that is purely down to the hard work of our team – and of course the phenomenally talented writers upon whom we rely.’ He indicated the cluster in the corner, most of whom were ignoring him and puffing on artificially fragranced e-cigarettes.
As he talked I could feel Viola’s eyes on me, but when I turned to look at her, her gaze flicked back to the man at the front of the room.
‘It will be an exciting year ahead,’ he continued. ‘Nei
l has something new coming out, as has Joanna and Michael. There is some exciting Women’s Prize for Fiction news coming soon and, after quite a hiatus and hot on the heels of his recent National Book Award for Lifetime Achievement – well deserved, can I add? – I believe Sam is working on something new for us too.’
All eyes swivelled to Sam and he raised a hand in faux coy acknowledgement while Viola smiled tightly.
‘Our very own Mason Crowther was awarded Young Publisher of the Year recently and, as a result, submissions have rocketed – like we needed more!’
A twitter of chuckles rang out amid a smattering of applause.
‘Our little publishing house hasn’t experienced this level of energy and promise since we lost our beloved Lydia and she would be proud to see where we are now. But tonight is a way for us to say thank you and for you to mingle, catch up, share a drink with friends and colleagues, and have some fun before we head back into the trenches and share our passion and talent for the written word with the world. So, drink, eat, chat and laugh to your heart’s content.’
Another smattering of applause, then the chatter ratcheted up again as the guests resumed their conversations.
‘Who was that?’ I asked Sam.
‘David Greene – one of the partners and founder. Lydia Grayson was the other partner and the first to sign me up all those years ago. We worked together closely for so many years, a brilliant woman, full of fresh ideas and a force to be reckoned with at the negotiating table. Unfortunately, she died last year in a tragic bike accident – couldn’t negotiate her way out of that. She has been sorely missed, that’s for sure. The place hasn’t quite been the same since.’ His voice was cloudy with emotion.
‘You sound like you miss her.’
‘I do, a lot.’ He smiled sadly and I could tell it was difficult for him to talk about her. The sparkle had left his eyes and I wanted to see it return.
‘I don’t know how all these things work yet, who does what, how they all link together,’ I said, changing the subject.
‘And you shouldn’t need to. Your job is to get the words on the page; the rest of it is up to me and whoever has the joy of signing as your agent when the time comes.’ Viola was still standing next to us and I felt her eyes on me again. ‘Who knows? Perhaps we can convince Viola to take you on,’ Sam continued, his expression flippant again.
‘You know, I have a feeling we may have met before, Katherine. What did you say your surname was?’ Viola said curiously.
‘Baxter, but I don’t think we have.’ I could feel myself reddening.
‘Hmmm… I’m sure it will come to me eventually. I’m starving – where’s a waiter with a canapé when you need one?’ she said, scanning the room. She raised her hand and caught the attention of a young man bearing a tray of mini quiches.
My stomach felt like it was full purely of bubbles and if I carried on guzzling the champagne in nervous fits and starts like I had been, then I would need more than a bite-sized quiche to save me from intoxication. I reached out and took one just as he turned to walk away.
‘Good for you – I find it best not to avoid the nibbles at these things. Champagne has a way of smacking you on the back of the head when you least expect it,’ Viola said to me with a knowing smile and I felt myself smiling back at her as I grabbed another two before the waiter disappeared again into the throng. ‘How did you find the course with Samuel? Was it worthwhile? We’re never sure if the students get enough out of it since he has to split his time between so many of you. That’s why I’m pleased he has singled you out for some extra mentoring.’
I tried to read her expression, but it was a closed book. However, Sam didn’t seem fazed by her line of questions. ‘I thought it was very useful in getting me to focus and into the habit of writing every day, but you’re right about the restricted time. I wish it could’ve gone on longer.’
‘So, tell me about your novel.’
Probably the worst thing to ask me because once I started on that topic, I found it hard to stop the enthusiasm accelerating my tongue. It didn’t take long for Sam to lose interest in our conversation, especially since he knew all about what I was working on. He sighed audibly, shifted his feet and eventually moved away to talk to other guests. Neither myself nor Viola paid much heed to his departure though.
Indeed, Viola seemed very interested in what I had to say. She asked lots of questions, was engaging and genuinely seemed to want to know more. She quizzed me on the characters and plot, and in return I admitted where I thought the holes were and what stage I was at. I got a sense that Viola almost pitied me in the way she was looking at me, but I was happy to use the platform I had been given. She was an agent after all and this was a golden pitch opportunity, no matter how fleeting. The spotlight was temporarily on me and I would perform the requisite dance while it was.
In the end, we spoke for quite some time, all the while grabbing canapés and glasses from passing trays, and when the conversation had dried up about my writing, Viola gossiped about the various peacocks in the room, telling humorous anecdotes about their shenanigans at book fairs and ridiculous requests from inflated egos. I found her surprisingly witty and engaging, not at all as I had imagined, and I felt completely at ease for the first time that evening.
At one stage, Viola complained that her feet were killing her – ‘very sensible of you to wear those loafers, by the way’ – so she suggested we move towards the side of the room where there were leather couches set back against the windows, overlooking the London skyline. We settled onto the stiff cushions and Viola flagged down another passing waiter, barking at him with authority to ‘keep us topped up in bubbles and biscuits please’. He disappeared nervously and returned with a tray of canapés that he placed on a glass table next to us, along with a full bottle of champagne to ourselves. I was thrilled to see more spring rolls on the tray. That was dinner sorted.
Various people wandered over to say hello to Viola while we chatted and she introduced each and every one, made small talk, then returned to her conversation with me, almost dismissing the others every time. I felt warmed by this show of acceptance, although some of this was indeed the heat of the champagne lighting up my cheeks.
As the evening wore on, the guests thinned to the point where there was just the writers’ huddle still in the same corner, a few suited and booted publishing types, and Sam, who was now in a heated conversation with Andrew. Until now Viola had appeared to studiously ignore him, although I had kept my eye on him throughout. I was there at his invitation after all. In return, he had kept his eye on us too, his expression guarded, throwing me the occasional smile, but I wasn’t sure if he was happy about me conversing with his wife or not.
However, now I could actually hear him, as could most of the people in the room as his enflamed voice rose fiery red above the party chatter. I followed Viola’s impatient eyes to where he was jabbing a finger into Andrew’s chest.
‘Bloody hell, here we go,’ she mumbled.
‘Is there something wrong?’ I asked, struggling to get to my feet.
But Viola held out a hand to stop me and I sat back down heavily. She got to her feet relatively more steadily than I had and approached the pair, positioning herself between them and mediating in quiet tones. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, but she eventually gesticulated towards me and Sam made his way in my direction like a chastised child, his eyes booming and crashing, and his brow fissured. He threw himself into the space next to me that Viola had vacated, causing the cushions to bounce and the whisky in his tightly clutched glass to slop over the rim. He quickly drained the remains of the glass, then shimmied it in front of a nearby waiter, signalling a refill.
‘Bastard. Thinks he understands the creative process. Thinks you can just sit down in front of a screen and conjure up magic from nowhere,’ he thundered.
Overhearing him upon her return, Viola said, ‘Please, Sam, not here, not tonight.’
The waiter appeared and hastil
y placed a refilled tumbler into Sam’s hand.
Sam turned his angry eyes on me. ‘You’ll come across people like that in your career, Katherine. Only interested in money, what they can get from you, milk from you, drain from you. But don’t let them. Let the words remain the hero, not the bank balance.’ I could feel his spittle on my face. He drained his glass again.
Viola rolled her eyes. ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, Sam, get off your artistic high horse. The fault lies with you. Write the book and they’ll leave you alone. It’s as simple as that.’
He glared back at her, then just as quickly all the bluster left him and he folded in on himself, his eyes vulnerable. ‘What if I can’t, Vi? What if there isn’t another one in me?’
She leaned over me to pat his hand lightly. ‘That’s the whisky talking. It will all look different in the morning.’ She turned to me. ‘Excuse me, I need to do some damage limitation. Waiter, get this man a strong coffee please.’ Then she got to her feet and walked over to where Andrew was still frowning in Sam’s direction. They spoke briefly and I saw Viola give him a polite hug.
Sam was watching them closely too, his jaw tense and thin lips curled in dejection. I was thrown by this other side of him. It was completely at odds with the warm, generous man I had been privy to until now. He looked vulnerable and doleful, hardly the dynamic, bestselling author I had built him up to be. But rather than be distressed by his alter ego, I felt vindicated in realising that even the best authors felt like they were frauds sometimes.
Andrew and Viola smiled at each other, the momentary tension diffusing as he shook his head, gave her arm a squeeze and walked away. Viola looked over at Sam and I before returning to sit at my shoulder. The silence between Sam and Viola stretched in a thousand directions, neither of them rushing to fill it. Viola, straight-backed and stiff, filled her glass with the remnants of the champagne bottle and turned her head away to take in the room around her. I felt trapped between them, like an interloper in a private moment. Perhaps this was my cue to leave. A subtle glance at my watch told me it was getting late anyway and I had to make sure I could get a train home.