Knowing You

by Samantha Tonge

  Later, Alice walked with her arm around my shoulder and looked important. I pull a face at Flint as I tell him about it. We’re sitting in the treehouse. It’s late Saturday morning. October is colder but such a pretty month with red, orange and yellow leaves. Mum is still in bed. I run home every hour to say hello to her and pretend me and Flint have been in the garden with my toys. She’d be cross if she knew I’d gone over the fence.

  ‘Alice sounds like a real dragon fart,’ he says and lets a beetle crawl over his hand. Half of his hair hangs loose from his ponytail and his anorak is covered in grass stains. His mum lets him play outside most of the time.

  ‘She even helped me tidy up the pencil pots, one of my favourite jobs. But she just kept yawning and didn’t bother sharpening the ones that had gone blunt. I couldn’t take it anymore, after lunch, and shook her off; told her to keep away.’

  Flint hugs his knees. ‘What did she do?’

  ‘Pinched me really hard on my leg and then ran off to her friends saying that I smelled bad and must have pooped my pants like a baby.’

  Flint shakes his head. ‘Who does she think she is? You need to let me help you think of a revenge plan.’ He sits up straight. ‘If my brothers and sisters get me into trouble – blame me for something they did – I always get them back. It’s not like I’m being mean. It’s only fair.’

  I put down my book. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Once Skye ate all the bottoms of the carrot muffins Mum made. She thought no one would find out as you couldn’t really tell when they sat the right way up. Skye said she saw me do it. Put a bit of muffin in my coat pocket as evidence. I got my own back. Our rabbits like carrots and that gave me the idea of mixing their poo pellets in with her muesli. They look just like raisins.’

  My eyes widen. ‘She didn’t eat them?’

  He laughs. ‘Yes. One. She was sick. She hasn’t got me into trouble since.’ He shrugs. ‘Sometimes you have to stand up for yourself. I can help you think of a way to get back at that idiot Alice.’

  I hug my knees too. It feels good to have someone on my side. We meet up outside most days, either in the woods or out front. Flint’s allowed to walk to my house and I was really happy on Monday because Mum let him come inside to play. She poured us drinks and cut two slices of cake, although she gave Flint a funny look. I’m not that surprised. He was wearing one of the jumpers his mum knitted. It had gone wrong and the neck almost came off his shoulders. But Mum’s polite and she didn’t say anything. Then we went up to my room. Flint said it was cool because it wasn’t all pink and he thought the cuckoo clock from Uncle Kevin was amazing.

  Flint gives me a cheeky grin and points in the corner of the treehouse. There is a big hairy spider. After reading Charlotte’s Web, I don’t mind picking it up.

  ‘They are probably more frightened of us than the other way around,’ says Flint.

  ‘That’s what Uncle Kevin used to say. Alice hates them. She screamed louder than a fire engine the other day when she saw one run out of the school games cupboard.’

  ‘Really?’ Flint leaned forwards as I release the spider and it scurries away. ‘Then you know what to do. It’s Halloween soon.’

  ‘You mean catch one from the woods and—’

  His head nods up and down really quickly. ‘You could put it in her school bag or,’ His eyes gleam, ‘down her back.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You can. It’s only fair after all the things she’s said about your Uncle Kevin.’

  I think about Flint’s idea when I’m tucked up in bed that night. He’s the best ever friend. He’s looking out for me. And he’s right. It’s time I stood up to Alice.

  Chapter 13

  I sit inside The Olive Bar. It’s eight o’clock and the place is already half-full. Despite my new clothes, on the inside I feel like a can of cheap supermarket lager set amongst glossy liquor bottles. I perch on a stool by the bar and pull down the hem of my dress. Coloured lights swirl across the room’s walls. If Flossie was here, she’d go for the kill, convinced they were some kind of rainbow mice climbing the walls. A disco beat thumps loudly in the background and a circle of friends by the window sing along whilst taking selfies. I tap my foot in time to the music and study the drinks menu. Do people even use the word disco anymore? Uncle Kevin taught me my first dance steps. I’d stand on his feet and we’d hold hands and move at the same time until I found the confidence to jump off and try some of my own moves.

  The barman ignores a group of women waiting at the other end of the bar, beams at me and asks what I’d like – or rather shouts. The latest tune must be playing above the legal number of allowed decibels. Yet I don’t mind. Somehow it makes me feel less conspicuous and as if I belong here.

  ‘What do you recommend?’ I ask in a raised voice.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Violet, I mean… Vi.’

  He thinks for a moment. ‘I’ve got it. I’ll make you a Vi-tai. How about that?’

  I’ve had a Mai Tai before and like rum. He blends ingredients in a silver shaker and ice clatters as he moves it up and down, as if he’s the lead performer in a percussion band. He seems oblivious to the frowns of the other women waiting.

  I sway side to side along to the song until my drink arrives in a tumbler with a small spring of mint. Kath’s so excited to blog about conservation and wouldn’t approve of the plastic straw.

  ‘Thank you. What a lovely colour.’

  The barman winks.

  ‘I’ll have one of those too,’ says a voice next to me.

  The barman gives the thumbs up and calls a colleague over to deal with the other customers. I turn around to face the most penetrating eyes and a chest full of leopard print.

  ‘That shirt is actually for real?’ I ask before I can stop myself. ‘I mean…’

  Casey bursts out laughing. It’s a delicious sound. Full, warm, with notes of mischief like a spiced gingerbread latte. Not like Lenny’s, which is always a bit too loud, as if he’s trying to convince other people that he’s having the best time. Casey’s head jerks towards a table near the window, with two seats and his jet black fringe flops down. His long fingers smooth it back. I take my drink over. The music is a little quieter here. He waits for his, having insisted on paying. I try to concentrate on the Saturday crowds outside surrounding a street juggler, but my eyes are drawn back to Casey. He’s just as striking as in the photo I saw. Nora would say he belonged on one of her Mills & Boon covers. A loud voice from behind catches my attention. A man is on his phone and telling someone to hurry up and get here.

  Casey strides over, sits down and his legs fall apart as if that’s his default position. Our glasses clink together. The man talking into his mobile walks past, squeezing in between tables, and accidentally knocks Casey’s shoulder. As an apology, he offers a tattooed high-five. Casey presses palms with him and the man moves on.

  ‘Lovely to meet you, Vi. I’m thrilled that you liked Alien Hearts.’

  ‘I couldn’t put it down,’ I say. We talk about the plot. Casey tells me how long it took to write. And how it’s really the fifth book he’s written. The others are firmly under his bed.

  His legs move further apart. ‘So, I’m assuming you want to meet because Thoth is interested in acquiring me.’

  My eyes widen and his rich laugh attracts the attention of a group of women behind.

  ‘I don’t see any point in playing games – although I’m not sure my agent would approve of this clandestine meeting.’

  ‘I’m just a fan. That’s all,’ I say and suck up refreshing fruit juice and rum.

  Casey pulls out his straw and tosses it on the table before taking a mouthful. ‘So you’re not here in an official capacity? Who cares anyway? I’m sure my agent won’t mind me meeting editors on my own. And if he does…’ He shrugs. ‘I don’t see how he really can object. I wrote the thing, after all.’

  My eyebrows rise of their own accord.

  ‘What?’ he s
ays.

  ‘How long have you been signed to your agent?’

  ‘A couple of months.’

  The alcohol is already loosening my tongue. It probably doesn’t help that I was too nervous to eat before coming out. ‘You’ve not earned your agent a penny yet. The work he’s putting in before publication is based on his belief in you and your work. So…’

  Casey leans forward. Thinks for a moment. ‘You’re right. I need to show him some respect. I’ll call him straight away.’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Gotcha there, didn’t I?’ His generous mouth upturns. ‘You’ve got a point, though,’ he says more softly. ‘I didn’t mean to sound like a twat. It’s just… all of this is new. I don’t want to upset anybody.’

  What a difference from Gary Smith. Casey stares. ‘Sorry if I sounded conceited. Is it always like this – books causing so much interest before they’ve even gone on submission?’

  ‘Only exceptional ones. Frankly, I think it’s a work of genius, so don’t consider me the person to keep rein on your ego. And I don’t think it’s conceit – you should be rightly proud of yourself. And it takes any author a while to understand how the publishing process and its players work.’

  Casey smiles so I decide to go for it and give him my best pitch, tell him why I think Thoth Publishing would be a perfect match. How Felicity lives and breathes science fiction, starting with a childhood defined by Battlestar Galactica, Star Trek, E.T. and Star Wars. How it inspired her to set up her own publishing house – how she worked night and day for twenty years to make it the solid business it is. How making Alien Hearts a success would mean everything to Thoth and not just because of the clinical aspects like sales and Amazon rankings.

  Casey hears me out. Puts down his drink.

  I keep my voice light. ‘Has anyone else approached you yet?’

  ‘Just one editor. She has an excellent reputation.’

  ‘Beatrix Bingham,’ I say, guessing he’ll equally appreciate my openness.

  Casey tilts his head. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘I’ve done my research. She wants to sign you to her new imprint Out There Stories, an imprint with no solid record. It’s an unknown entity.’

  ‘But she isn’t. I’ve done my homework too. Thoth isn’t doing as well as it could…’ His inky eyes dance. ‘But you’re bold.’

  Am I?

  ‘And I admire that. But I have my career to think about. Beatrix is already talking foreign rights and screen adaptations.’

  ‘That’s all pie in the sky before you’ve even signed and investigated all your options.’

  Casey calls the waiter over. ‘Same again for me. Vi?’

  I like that. He’s not assuming. If Lenny was drinking beer, he’d get us one each before I could object.

  ‘Yes please.’ I give the waiter my credit card. I need to take charge. ‘Could you open a tab with that?’

  ‘You’re not at all what I expected,’ he says as the waiter heads to the bar.

  ‘You’re a penniless debut author, Mr Wilde. I couldn’t possibly expect you to buy more than one cocktail.’

  ‘Penniless? Hardly. I own a hairdresser’s.’

  The waiter arrives with our drinks and hands me my credit card.

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ I say when we’re alone. ‘It makes sense, now, why you understand women so well. I’m presuming they’re the bulk of your customers – that we’re not talking a barber shop? What made you go into hairdressing? How do you fit your writing in alongside work?’

  He’s so easy to talk to – is that because of him or the drink?

  ‘Yes, I style women’s hair. I was also brought up by a single mother and two older sisters. As for your other questions…’ He grinned. ‘You know, Beatrix only wanted to know one thing when I told her.’

  ‘Enlighten me.’ Even I’m impressed by how together I sound.

  ‘She asked what I thought of her hair and angled for a reduced price cut at the salon.’

  ‘Do you want to give up the hairdressing and eventually become a full-time writer?’

  ‘No. For a start, I could never do that to my staff. Over the years, they’ve become friends and depend on their employment with me.’

  ‘I bet your mum wouldn’t want you to, either. Imagine getting free haircuts for life.’

  ‘Hardly. Despite my objections, she’s always insisted on paying. Mum’s no freeloader. My dad developed cancer soon after I was born. He died within a month of being diagnosed and had no life insurance. Mum had three children to provide for and held down two jobs for as long as I can remember.’

  I pause for a moment and give this news the time it deserves to sink in. I sip my drink, before I reply, feeling able to share with Casey what I rarely share with anyone.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear about your dad. Our backgrounds aren’t dissimilar. My mum worked several jobs too. My dad was never on the scene. Even when my Uncle Kevin died and left us a load of money, she didn’t touch it for years. She saw it as blood money. He was in finance and died doing his job.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Normally I avoid the subject. People either don’t know what to say or try to find out if he’d been a jumper.

  ‘He died in The World Trade Centre attacks.’

  Casey squeezes my hand. For someone who crafts words day in, day out, he knows when not to use them.

  We talk more about our childhoods. How we both developed a love of reading. He wants to know why, like most editors, I don’t write. I ask what turns him on about science fiction. The evening passes so quickly it’s as if it’s a book I can’t put down. We order bar snacks. I pick at olives and crisps. The style of music changes.

  Casey grabs my hand. ‘I love soul music.’

  ‘But—’

  Before I know it, we are facing each other on the square dance floor, if you can call it that. Really it’s just a space at the back, between the toilets and bar. It means that everyone moves very close together. Normally I’d feel self-conscious, but for some reason I don’t. The women around me twist their bodies, drop to the floor and spring up, they curve their arms in the air and sing along as the chorus plays. Moving my feet side to side has always been a winning formula. Casey grabs my hand and swirls me. I grin and nearly lose my balance. He slips one arm around my back. It’s almost as if he can sense I’ve not had much practise.

  Then suddenly the alcohol hits me. I feel more unsteady and my mouth feels as if I’ve eaten a handful of crackers. I make my excuses, telling him about the Sunday book club and how, tomorrow, I’ll be setting up the website and Twitter account.

  ‘Good luck with it,’ he says as we step outside. It’s quieter now, more like my usual Saturday nights. ‘How about we do this again? I don’t feel you’ve worked hard enough to sell me Felicity as an editor,’ he says in that mischievous gingerbread latte voice.

  ‘Felicity sells herself.’

  ‘Have you shown her my manuscript?’

  I shake my head. ‘I wouldn’t want to get her hopes up if your agent decides not to formally let her read it.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll mention Thoth to him. See what he says.’

  ‘Don’t mention me though, will you? It’s best that he contacts Felicity,’ I say quickly.

  He looks down at me. ‘I can’t make you out, Vi. Something just doesn’t add up.’

  I feel different again. Purple. Frumpy. ‘What do you mean?’ Perhaps he’s discovered that the person he’s looking at isn’t really me. That underneath I’m the woman Lenny thought was boring in bed; the woman he felt he could cheat on and take for granted.

  ‘I don’t know, but I’ll get to the bottom of it. There’s nothing I like more than a puzzle – and a beautiful one at that.’

  I look away.

  ‘And that’s what I’m talking about,’ he says and with his hand gently guides my chin back to face him. ‘A woman like you can’t be unaware of her good looks – and yet you genuinely seem to
doubt yours.’ My pulse speeds up. ‘It’s a mystery I’d love to unravel. So, I propose we get together again – how about it? You and me? Let’s make it a date.’

  ‘Is that what it is?’

  He grins. ‘If you prefer, we don’t have to label it. Have you ever heard of Chapter Battle? It’s happening in Camden Town next Saturday afternoon. Writers stand up and read out their first chapter. The winner is the one who gets to the end without being booed down. It starts just after lunch. I think you’ll find it fun.’

  ‘It sounds brutal.’ But what an unusual idea. ‘I know a cafe there that does a great brunch.’ It used to be one of Lenny and my favourites. I’d have maple syrup pancakes whereas Lenny would pretend to love trendy mashed avocado and poached eggs on toast. He wasn’t so keen on the Camden vibe. It was too bohemian for him and not enough designer labels. But he’d heard that celebrities ate there, so it was often our weekend trip of choice. The chances of Lenny being in the area were small. On the grapevine, I’d heard that Alpaca Books would be holding an all day meet and greet event, on that date, starring its top erotic romance authors with champagne and luxury goody bags and male pole dancers. There would be too many Instagram opportunities for him and Beatrix to miss.

  ‘Perfect. We’ll meet for lunch first. Let’s email this week.’ He kisses me on the cheek and checks I’m okay getting home. I watch him stride into the distance and, feeling like royalty, treat myself to a black cab. Smiling, I have to move my phone away from my ear as Bella squeals when I tell her the evening was a great success.

  Chapter 14

  I love my job, but Monday mornings are a challenge even for me. Many authors work at the weekend. They have no concept of time if inspiration strikes and for those that hold down other full-time jobs, they set aside Saturday and Sunday for writing. This means they also carry out their administrative tasks on those days and my inbox is usually full when I get in. Today is no different and I scroll down, glad it isn’t yesterday morning. I woke up feeling jaded after the alcoholic cocktails I’m not used to drinking. I re-read Alien Hearts after a long bath before heading to the Sunflower retirement home.