by Sue Margolis
“Right,” he said, “Let’s get down to business … The Sand Collector’s Daughter.”
“It’s my debut novel,” Rosie ventured.
Jeremy nodded. “So, Rosie, where do you see yourself ten years from now?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she simpered. I’d never seen Rosie simper, either. “Possibly on the bestseller lists. Maybe with a couple of literary prizes under my belt.”
“Well, I’m not going to patronize you. This is how I see it. This book will never become a bestseller. In fact it will never even find a publisher. And that is because it is very, very bad. Your prose is pretentious, affected, ostentatious, overblown. Quite honestly, it’s some of the worst writing I’ve ever come across.”
Rosie looked like somebody had punched her. “I see,” she said, her voice breaking. “Well, thank you for your time.” She started to get up. I could see her trying to fight back the tears.
“Is this really necessary?” I said to Jeremy Baxter, wondering what on earth was going on. Where was the sweet-natured chap Cod had promised?
“I don’t think Rosie would want me to lie to her.”
“Yes, but do you have to be quite so brutal?” I stood up, too.
“Whoa. Hang on,” Jeremy Baxter said. “Will you both just sit down? I haven’t finished.”
“Actually, that’s where you’re wrong,” Rosie shot back, reverting to her usual spirited self. “I may not be the best writer in the world, but I think I’ve heard enough.”
“Rosie, will you please sit down and let me finish?”
“What—and let you insult me some more? Why should I?”
“I haven’t insulted you. I’ve insulted your writing, which is bloody awful. Now, I have something else to say, and I need you to listen.”
We both sat.
“OK,” he began. “Do you remember a film called The Piano?”
“Yes,” Rosie said. “Jane Campion. It’s one of my favorite films.”
Jeremy Baxter rolled his eyes. “Why am I not surprised?
“OK, here’s the thing. Keith Warren, who worked with her on that film, happens to be a mate of mine. Back then he was a young assistant to the assistant director’s assistant. He is now making his own movies. They’re all in that bleak, miserablist, Gothic vein, and he has just started to get noticed here and in the US. He came into the office the other day, mentioned that he was looking for a new project and saw your manuscript. Long story short, he took it home, read it. The bad news is that, like me, he is no fan of your writing. The good news is he thinks it’s a brilliant tale and he wants to turn it into a movie. What’s more, he pitched it to Universal and they’ve registered strong interest. Now, I need to apologize to you. Keith approached the studio behind my back, which is totally unethical. It meant that I couldn’t ask your permission …”
But I could tell that Rosie didn’t give a damn about the legal ins and outs. She was sitting, blinking. “What? You’re not serious. Universal is interested in making a film of my book? This has to be a windup.”
“No windup. But, as I said, Keith agrees with me that your writing is truly awful. What you have to do now is go away and rewrite this book. If there’s to be a movie—and judging by the vibe I’m getting from Universal, I think there will—we need a bestseller to go with it, and one way or another, you are going to have to create it.”
“And if I’m as untalented as you say I am, how do you propose I do that?”
“OK, I have found you a tutor who teaches the master’s course in creative writing at Gloucester University. Have you ever heard of it?”
“Have I ever. It’s one of the best creative writing courses in the world.”
“OK, for some reason this chap seems to think you’re not entirely a lost cause and that you have a raw talent that he might be able to develop. He has agreed to teach you for no fee. You write something publishable and he’s on five percent. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“Oh, and by the way, I’m on fifteen.”
“You’re on fifteen percent? That’s outrageous. You think my writing’s crap. Why should I give you fifteen percent of my earnings, just because some mate of yours came into your office and spotted my work? You don’t even believe in me.”
“Listen. You get that book up to scratch and nobody will believe in you more than me.”
She shrugged. “I guess I have no choice.”
“OK, I’ll get a contract out to you and we’ll take it from here. I’ll be in touch.”
As we left, Rosie seemed completely overwhelmed. “He hates my writing, but my book might be made into a movie by a guy who worked on The Piano. Can you believe that?”
“I’m not sure I can.”
“I have to say that I do think Jeremy Baxter’s rather sexy,” Rosie whispered, giggling like a schoolgirl. “I love commanding men.”
“Hang on, you’re always telling me how you go for brooding literary types. Jeremy is arrogant, egotistical, rude …”
“And absolutely gorgeous and totally in control. You know what? I’ve decided to change type. Maybe you should think about doing the same.”
“So what are you going to do? You can’t ask him out. You’ve only just met him.”
“What difference does that make?”
I’d forgotten just how forward Rosie could be with men.
While she went to the ladies’, I waited in reception. After a couple of minutes, Jeremy Baxter came out holding some papers, which he put on his secretary’s desk. “Excuse me, Jeremy,” I said, “but I thought we had a deal. Did you have to be quite so honest back there? When I phoned Tobias he said you were this sweet-natured guy who would let Rosie down gently, and instead you turn out to be Simon Cowell.”
“Hang on. I’ve just given Rosie some brilliant news that will most likely make her a fortune.”
“I know, but you were still mean.”
He shrugged. “I’m not mean; I’m honest … So Tobias said I was a softy?”
“Absolutely.”
Jeremy smiled. “I think he was playing a little joke on you.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
Suddenly it all made sense. This was Cod’s revenge for how we’d treated him at uni.
“Maybe you should call him,” Jeremy said.
“I’m just about to,” I said. I was already reaching for my phone. Then I stopped. “Hang on. Does Cod know about Keith Warren wanting to turn Rosie’s book into a film?”
“No, why?”
“Oh, no reason.”
I wouldn’t phone Cod now. Far better to wait until Universal released the film of The Sand Collector’s Daughter. Then we’d see who would get the last laugh.
“By the way,” Jeremy said, “is Rosie married?”
“Separated, but the divorce is pretty imminent.”
“Children?”
“A boy and a baby girl.”
“I have a three-year-old. Listen, do you think she’d mind if I asked her out for a drink?”
“What? After the way you just spoke to her?”
“I can be charming. Honest. My daughter and my old mum adore me.”
I found myself smiling. “No, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”
I had dinner at Mum’s that evening with Scarlett and Grace. When I told them about Rosie’s possible film deal, they were practically speechless. “But the writing was so bad,” Scarlett said.
“I know, but this Keith Warren guy loved the plot.”
They were still being speechless when the front door bell went.
“Who can that be at dinnertime?” Mum said, frowning. She got up and went to the door.
“Mrs. Shelley Roth?” It was a man’s voice. He sounded serious, like he meant business.
“Yes.”
“We have reason to believe that you have been impersonating a Samaritan.”
Chapter 15
“God,” Scarlett said. “Now Mum’s about to be
arrested. Tally, you’re the lawyer—do something. Again.”
“I’m pretty sure he isn’t a policeman,” I said. “Mum hasn’t actually committed any crime. The law allows anybody to practice as a counselor, and she was always very careful not to call herself a Samaritan. What’s happened is that the Samaritans have caught up with her and he’s one of their high-ups come to read her the riot act … Nevertheless, perhaps I ought to find out what’s happening.”
Just then we heard Mum take the man into the living room and close the door. A few moments later came the sound of her laughing. Scarlett rolled her eyes.
“You know what?” she said. “Best leave her. This bloke certainly isn’t giving her the third degree, and if anybody can talk her way out of this, Mum can.”
It was half an hour before we heard the front door open and close again.
“What’s going on?” Scarlett said as Mum came back into the kitchen.
“What a lovely man,” Mum said, sitting down. “His name’s Frank. He used to be a documentaries producer at the BBC. Now he works full time for the Samaritans.”
“We don’t need his résumé,” I said. “Are they planning to take any action against you?”
“What? Of course not. Frank totally understood my predicament. I felt he really heard me. Really validated me. That’s not to say he didn’t give me a slap on the wrist—which I guess I deserved.”
I asked how they’d caught up with her.
“Oh, he said they have counselors who make training calls pretending to be clients, and one of them happened to dial the wrong number, heard me and immediately realized I wasn’t a real Samaritan.”
“Wow,” said Scarlett. “Who needs to be a mystery shopper when you can be a mystery suicidal?’
“Anyway, we spent the last half hour discussing the possibility of me training as a Samaritan. It’s funny—I never realized how much I got out of helping people. Frank’s invited me along to an introductory talk, and then I can apply to take their counseling course.”
The following day I met Kenny for lunch. He’d had a meeting with a corporate client around the corner.
We’d just finished eating and were thinking about ordering coffee when my cell started ringing. The caller display said FARID.
“Sorry, Kenny, I have to get this. It’s Nasreen’s fiancé.”
I pressed CONNECT. “Hey, Farid. Any news?”
“Hey, Tally. It’s me, Nasreen. I’ve borrowed Farid’s phone. OK, you have to guess where I am.”
“I don’t know.” My heart was in my mouth. I was convinced she was going to say she was at the airport, waiting to be deported.
“I’m at your office. They let me go. I’ve been told I can stay in the UK.”
“Omigod! Nasreen, that’s amazing!” Tears were starting to stream down my face. “But nobody said a word to me. I haven’t heard anything from the Home Office.”
Then I realized why. Before leaving the office, I’d been on a conference call for more than an hour. The Home Office wouldn’t have been able to get through. Then I’d forgotten to check my messages and e-mails before I left. No doubt I would find one or the other when I got back.
“Actually,” Nasreen went on, “nobody contacted me directly. I was just told by one of the officers at the detention center to pack my things and get ready to leave. One of them called Farid. When I left, he was waiting for me outside and we drove straight here.”
“OK, stay where you are. I’ll be with you in one minute.”
“She’s out?” Kenny said.
I nodded. “I can’t believe it. After all this time. You have to come and meet her.”
We drained our beer glasses and left.
By the time we got to the office, an impromptu party was taking place in the conference room. A jubilant George Dacre was handing out champagne to the lawyers and the rest of the staff. Nasreen and Farid were on sparkling apple juice. Nasreen still looked frail and exhausted. Farid had a protective arm around her. Occasionally she would rest her head on his shoulder. It was clear that she would take months to recover from her ordeal.
I ran towards her, arms wide open. “Oh, Nasreen, this is such wonderful news. I can’t tell you how much I prayed for this moment—and I don’t even believe in God.”
“Well, maybe you should start,” she said, laughing.
We had our arms around each other. Tears were tumbling down our cheeks. “I’m just so happy for you,” I said. “I can’t believe it’s all over.”
“Nor can I. I keep thinking it’s all a dream and that I’m going to wake up in a moment. I just don’t know how to thank you. You saved my life. How will I ever repay you?”
“We got you these, as a small token,” Farid said. He handed me a huge bunch of white roses.
“Oh, these are fabulous, but you didn’t need to get me anything. Believe me, seeing you here is reward enough.”
Nasreen took my hand. “Whatever happens in my life from now on, I will never, ever forget you.”
“And I will never forget you,” I said. “So what will you do now?”
“Well, first I need to get my strength back and put on a few pounds. Then I’ll start looking for a job.” She said she needed to work in order to finance her Ph.D.
At this point Kenny stepped forward. “I think I might be able to help on that score—if you don’t mind waitressing.”
Before he could carry on, I introduced him to Nasreen and Farid. “Kenny runs a catering company,” I said.
“I’m always on the lookout for staff,” he went on, “particularly around Christmas. It often means late nights, but the money’s good. If you’re interested, give me a call.” He handed Nasreen his card.
“I’m absolutely interested,” she said. “Thank you so much for this.” She said she would give him a call in a few weeks.
By now word of Nasreen’s release had got out, and there were TV crews and reporters gathered outside on the pavement. Nasreen was determined to give an interview and thank everybody who had joined the campaign to free her. “You sure you’re OK facing the cameras on your own?” I said. “I can come down if you like.”
She shook her head and said that she would be OK, so long as Farid was with her.
“Thank you, Tally. For everything. And when Farid and I get married, you and Kenny will come to the wedding.” She lowered her voice. “You’re such a dark horse, Tally. You never said anything.”
It took me a moment to process what she was saying. “What? No … we’re not together. Kenny and I are just friends.”
“Really? Huh. I usually have such good instincts for these things. I’m sorry. But of course Kenny must come, too. It will be a privilege to have my boss at my wedding.”
“I’ll be there,” said Kenny, shaking Nasreen’s hand.
After they’d gone, I turned to Kenny. “I wonder why she assumed we were together?”
Kenny shrugged. “Perhaps we give off some kind of couple vibe.”
I don’t know why, but I suddenly felt defensive. “Don’t be daft. Of course we don’t.” I decided to change the subject. “Thank you so much for offering Nasreen a job. I think she really appreciated it. And so did I.”
“After what she’s been through, it was the least I could do. I was only sorry I couldn’t do more.” Then he reached out and gave me a hug. “By the way, I forgot to say congratulations. You worked so hard on this case. You should be really proud of yourself.”
“Thanks, but I can’t stop thinking about all the Nasreens in the world who don’t make it.”
“I know, but you’re one human being. You’re doing your best. There’s terrible suffering in the world, but you can’t take it all on your shoulders. For now, you have to look at what you’ve achieved, give yourself a pat on the back and enjoy the moment.”
“I will. I promise. You are a very wise man, Kenny Green. Has anybody ever told you that?”
Kenny had just left when Jill came running over. “Here, you’d better read this. Hen
ry Dixon has gone to the newspapers.” She handed me a copy of the Sun.
I started reading.
Yabba Dabba Don’t!
A radio announcer who can’t stop imitating favorite cartoon characters while reading the news has been El Kabong’d.
Central London Radio has called time on Henry Dixon’s comic on-air capers and sacked him after thirty years.
Henry, 55, suffers from a rare medical condition, which makes him occasionally blurt out strange things.
But station bosses finally said, “That’s all, folks,” when Henry ended a report on the government’s defense spending review by saying, “Eat my shorts.”
Now the radio star, from Sevenoaks, Kent, is planning to sue his employers under human rights laws.
He said last night: “They knew when I joined the station that I had Tourette’s syndrome.
“Most of the time it just meant I had a bit of a twitch, but lately I’ve been in this phase where I just can’t get cartoon catchphrases out of my mind. D’oh.
“I never say anything rude or obscene—cowabunga,” he added. “I yam what I yam. I believe I have a job to do educating the public about Tourette’s.”
A spokesman for Central London Radio says: “We feel very sorry for Henry, but things have got out of hand lately. We have offered him a job off air, but so far he hasn’t accepted.”
“What on earth is he playing at?” I said to Jill. “I’m in the middle of trying to negotiate a settlement with CLR and Henry’s telling the papers we’re planning to sue. This is so going to piss them off. After this, he could end up with nothing.”
I got straight on the phone to Henry.
“Henry, why didn’t you tell me that you were going to the newspapers? You’ve made things so difficult for yourself and me.”
“I’m Popeye the Sailor Man. You haven’t been getting anywhere with CLR. I decided it was my last resort. Hey, Officer Dibble.”
“But what do you hope to achieve? All you’ve done is make them angry. You could end up without a penny.”
“Or when the letters of support start flying in, the bosses at CLR might be shamed into changing their minds. Hey, Fred. Wait for me.”