Knowing You

by Samantha Tonge

  I’ve given my friends an old laptop I’d held onto after shelving it for a more compact model. Everything’s getting smaller these days. Like girlfriends. Or so it seems. It didn’t take me too long to set up the Vintage Views website, since I’ve often helped authors and interns. Then we set up a Twitter account. Pauline will be able to show the others how to use that. Plus she and ex-receptionist Nora can touch-type and have offered to write up the blog posts. Due to her arthritis, Kath is grateful, along with other residents who are keen to write guest posts.

  ‘So what’s the subject of the first post?’ asks Irfan and yawns as he sits down opposite and passes me a mug of tea. He turns on his screen.

  ‘Nora’s is on how Mills & Boon has modernised and moved with the times. Kath’s will be next. She’s reviewing a non-fiction self-help book about coping with anxiety. Pauline has taken control of the Twitter account and I told her what I could about hashtags. There’s so much to explain like how to use gifs and add tags to blog posts, but for complete beginners, they’re doing brilliantly.’

  Irfan stares at his computer.

  ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘What? Sorry, Violet… have you looked at your inbox yet? Something’s just dropped in.’

  I click onto the relevant page. There’s a new, unopened email at the top. From Felicity.

  Dear Irfan and Violet,

  I’d like a brief meeting with you both this morning, if possible, to further discuss the loss of Gary Smith. 11 o’clock if that suits. Please RSVP to let me know.

  Best,

  Felicity

  I look up at Irfan. ‘We haven’t had time to prepare our notes about the other authors and everything else Felicity wanted to know, like how we support them on social media and what we do to strengthen the editor/author bond.’

  ‘It’s too late now. I’ve got a meeting with marketing first thing and then must brainstorm with design about the cover for the latest Little Starfish story.’

  For me, though, the next two hours pass slowly – surely Felicity didn’t truly doubt the children department’s efficacy? We had seven books shortlisted for prizes last year and have continually innovated, including putting together a starter pack to help debut authors get the most out of signings and school events. With the help of the publicity department, we’re proving increasingly successful at getting interviews into the national media. Many of those have brilliantly raised authors’ profiles.

  It makes me realise just how much I want, no, need my job and how important this makeover of mine would be if I ever found myself back on the job market fighting against other editors to get a position.

  By the time eleven o’clock arrives, I have a mental list, at least, of why what happened with Gary was just a blip.

  ‘After you,’ says Irfan and gives a brief look to the ceiling as we head towards Felicity’s office. Like the side room, the walls are made of glass so that she can see through to the open plan area. The pinched look on her face doesn’t alter as we go in.

  ‘Sit down, both of you,’ she says and nods towards the two chairs on the other side of her desk.

  I’ve always liked Felicity. She is honest and down-to-earth. When she hired me, she said I still had a lot to learn about publishing, but my passion for children’s books won her over. During the interview, we’d had an animated discussion about whether it had been the right decision for Enid Blyton stories to be edited for a modern audience. She is also a huge fan of Paddington Bear and we chatted about whether the recent films had done the character justice.

  If she were an item of stationery, she’d be a stapler. Uncomplicated and unassuming but holding everything together.

  Felicity pushes away her keyboard and rummages underneath her desk. My stomach rumbles. I haven’t had time for breakfast and now wish I’d accepted one of Irfan’s low-sugar biscuits. Felicity sits back up, gets to her feet and hands us a bag each.

  ‘This isn’t the redundancy equivalent of a retirement clock, is it?’ mutters Irfan and cautiously peers in.

  His face adopts a quizzical look. I inspect the contents of my bag. There’s a box of chocolates in the shape of a bookshelf, a beautiful gilt peacock notebook and mug that says Best Editor in the World on the side with an arrow pointing upwards.

  ‘I do hope you’ll both accept my apologies for what I said about Gary,’ she says and rubs her forehead. ‘I was completely out of order. Truth be told, I was having a bad week with one of the kids. And discovering that Beatrix Bingham was instrumental in poaching him… well, let’s just say the whole Earth Gazer debacle still feels raw. I shouldn’t have taken it out on two of my best editors. I apologise. I let my professionalism slip.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say. I thought I was in here to collect my P45,’ says Irfan.

  ‘I’m so sorry I gave you that expectation. Business is steady, although we can’t afford to get complacent. We’re only as good as our authors. As for Gary, well – perhaps this would have happened sooner rather than later, anyway.’

  ‘Remember Callum Phinn?’ says Irfan.

  Felicity and I nod. The three of us had been knocked sideways by his sensitive story of the gay son of a macho weapon systems operator in the RAF. He almost signed with us but, in the end, went for another publishing house, despite our clear marketing passion and long-term vision. Callum was a debut author and signed for a one book deal offering more money instead of our two book deal that showed more commitment. His novel didn’t do as well as expected and the publisher lost confidence and didn’t re-sign him.

  ‘One of a successful debut author’s most important skills is to realise they are only as good as their next book,’ says Irfan. ‘The five-star reviews and the raving publicists mean nothing if you don’t keep on top of the writing. Like Grace Webster.’

  We all smiled. A former television newscaster, she wrote laugh out loud young children’s books and despite her global success, was the most conscientious of all our authors.

  ‘I like Gary,’ continues Irfan. ‘I wish him all the best. I would have liked to publish his next books, but for lots of reasons authors move on – we all understand that. I just hope he stays on track.’

  Irfan and I stand up and thank Felicity once again for the gifts. She asks me to stay behind. I sit down again. She waits for the door to close.

  ‘This is awkward for me to say, Violet, and I do hope you won’t take it the wrong way.’ She picks up a biro and fiddles with it. ‘I can’t help but notice… lately… you…’ Her fingers grip the biro more tightly. ‘Okay. I’m just going to say it. Please don’t take offence for me making such a personal remark. Your appearance, it’s very different. And good for you,’ she adds quickly. ‘I mean, you looked great before and do now, just in a different way. I’m just concerned that, well, it’s a very glamorous look and—’

  I squirm. This is worse than Farah’s clumsy remarks. ‘I just wanted to get healthy and—’

  Felicity holds up her hand. ‘Violet. I’m pleased for you, but I need to know… is this all part of a plan to leave Thoth and push your career forwards with one of the Big Five? Because I truly value you as an employee and if you are thinking of leaving, I’d like us to discuss what I can do to make you stay. Perhaps—’

  I digest her words. The changes I’ve made seem to have already pushed my career prospects forwards. ‘Please don’t worry on that score. I love my job here and hope to build on what I’ve already achieved. Honestly. My new look… I just, I don’t know – thought that it was time for a change.’

  Felicity’s shoulders relax. ‘Really? What a relief. Thoth wouldn’t be Thoth without Violet Vaughan.’

  For some reason, hearing those words makes me want to tear up.

  ‘And you are quite right. Change can be a good thing. I’ve had all sorts of different hairstyles over the years. Perms. Highlights. I even had dreadlocks as a student.’

  I smile.

  ‘I’m so glad you aren’t leaving us. You’d be sorely missed.’<
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  Suddenly Mondays don’t seem so bad after all. I head back to my desk. Irfan looks like a guilty puppy as he sits behind a half-eaten box of chocolates. I shall leave mine in the office overnight. I don’t want the temptation. Although I might just have one with a coffee, seeing as I didn’t have breakfast. I settle back in front of my screen and take a double-take at my screen. A message from Lenny has dropped into my inbox. This morning is full of surprises.

  Hi Violet,

  How are you? I hope everything is okay.

  I’m sure I don’t need to mention this, but me letting you read Alien Hearts was done as a favour and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk to anyone about this manuscript. Casey Wilde has found out that it’s been read before submission. I’d only let a few people take a look, like Hilary in accounts who’s a huge fan of dystopian novels and Dan in marketing. However, annoyingly, I lost a printed-out version I was taking home last month. I took it out of my briefcase at a book signing when I was looking for my phone charger and must have left it there. Casey says he had drinks with some woman at the weekend who’s seen it. He messaged me on Facebook but seemed reluctant to give more details, although it’s obvious he really liked her. Anyway, I know you wouldn’t do this to me, but I do need you to delete the file.

  Cheers.

  All the best,

  Lenny

  My appetite disappears and is replaced by a dull ache at the way he emails me in a friendly tone as if nothing has happened. And what about the comment making it clear that I didn’t figure as a contender for being the sort of woman Casey would like?

  I haven’t looked at Lenny’s Facebook page again, but now can’t resist. I wonder how Casey and Lenny have talked about me.

  Is it possible he could fancy me?

  I log in to Facebook with his password and click into the message Casey sent.

  Hey Lenny

  I’m messaging you privately on here so that – for your sake – our conversation doesn’t get picked up in your office. I met someone at the weekend who’s read Alien Hearts. It’s not even on submission at the moment. She said you were the source. I don’t want to say anymore. She’s a lovely person.

  Casey

  A lovely person. Liquid heat fills my chest and for a moment expunges the cold Lenny left.

  Hey Casey,

  I’m sorry. You’re right – I was just so excited about the manuscript and appreciate you keeping this to yourself. I promise it won’t happen again. I can’t think who you’re talking about. But get used to it, Casey. You’ll have to get used to female fans fawning over you once this book is released.

  Cheers.

  Lenny

  I grin when I see that Casey doesn’t feel Lenny’s comment dignifies a response.

  ‘I’d almost forgotten what that beaming smile looked like,’ says Irfan opposite me.

  ‘Just something stupid on Facebook.’

  Perfect. I can relax. Casey’s a good sort. This makes me all the more intent on acquiring him. And that’ll teach Lenny for assuming it couldn’t possibly be me that he met. I deliberate over whether to now share his manuscript with Felicity and decide not. I’ll ask Casey on Saturday. Clearly he likes things doing by the book. I lean over the desk and pluck a single chocolate out of Irfan’s box and then put it back, recalling the low wolf whistle Hugo gave me this morning before he moaned that it was weird suddenly seeing someone in the friend zone as hot.

  I click into Instagram. My last photo got more than sixty likes. That extinguishes the anger building over Lenny’s insensitive email. I lift up my phone and take a selfie in my work clothes. Irfan shoots me a strange look. I smile and go about the important task of choosing the right filter.

  Chapter 15

  ‘That cafe is wonderful. A place built to make memories. I can’t believe I’ve never been in there before,’ says Casey as we walk towards Camden market. I try to keep up. Bemusement crosses his strong features and he slows. His long legs are wrapped up in tight black jeans to match his hair and leather jacket. There’s a hint of Danny Zuko. Does that make me Sandy? I watched Grease as a child with the acceptance that I’d never be the kind of girl that boys raced cars for.

  I’m wearing a new pair of blue jeans. The style is skinny. At first I thought there was some mistake. The thrill I enjoyed when fitting them on in the changing room last night matched the high of acquiring a new author. Bella encouraged me to buy a matching denim jacket. She bought one too. Underneath is a white blouse that’s practically see-through and reveals my bra straps. A subtle floral pattern masks my cleavage.

  ‘You know this area well?’ I ask, fighting an unexpected urge to link my arm with his. It’s almost out of my control in the same way that I haven’t been able to stop remembering those penetrating eyes or the intelligent, confident tone of his voice.

  ‘I lived near here as a teenager. My family moved down from Manchester. It reminded me of the indoor market there, Afflecks Palace, and the Northern Quarter. Best of all, I could buy cannabis-flavoured lollipops without a Proof of Age ID card. It’s one of my favourite parts of London for a day out.’

  ‘You haven’t got a strong Mancunian accent.’

  ‘No. Mum grew up in London. I guess that rubbed off.’

  Camden is my favourite part too, with its diverse shops and market stalls. It’s probably one of the places I used to feel I most blended in. Over the years, I’ve bought a purse made from leaves and a hand-knitted dress. I’ve browsed through second-hand bookshops and watched customers have feathers sewn into their hair. I’ve eaten a wide selection of authentic street food and drunk from coconut shells, while accompanied by the smell of joss sticks in the air.

  Another reason I like it is that in an ever-changing world, its free spirit has never changed. Except that now as we walk along, and I stop to thumb through a rail or taste a free sample of fresh juice, the male stallholders treat me a different way. One compliments my pink cat-eye style sunglasses. Another glares at a male pedestrian who accidentally bumps into me and asks if I’m okay. Stallholders were always polite in the past, but some of the young, good-looking ones had even started to call me madam. Not anymore.

  ‘So where is the Chapter Battle being held?’ I ask and wish I hadn’t bought boots with such high heels. I smile to myself. Every now and again the old me makes a comment like that.

  We turn down a side street. ‘Just here. I’m glad you could come. It’s no fun on your own.’

  We stop outside a Tudor pub. Suitably, it’s called Canterbury Tales. I follow Casey in. The bar is crowded and all the scratched mahogany tables are full, apart from one in the corner with a sign marked reserved. At the back is a small laminate dance floor with a mike in the middle. Customers face it expectantly, drinks in their hands. To the side stand a group of people – the authors, presumably – holding sheets of paper and notebooks. They shuffle nervously on their feet. The walls could do with a lick of paint and the layout is ramshackle, but the atmosphere is warmer than an English beer.

  ‘Seeing as you insisted on paying for lunch, drinks are on me,’ says Casey.

  ‘Diet coke, please.’

  ‘I’ll need a whiskey to steady my nerves.’

  It turns out that the reserved table is for us. Casey is good friends with the landlord who takes us to our table and pulls out the chair for me. He wishes me luck sitting next to an ego as big as Casey’s. He says I’m more than welcome to sit with him at the bar instead. Playfully, Casey throws a slow-motion fist and his landlord friend ducks. I glow from tip to toe. I was lucky if Lenny even introduced me to his friends.

  ‘You’re taking part?’ I remove my sunglasses, feeling like a VIP after the barman’s attention. ‘No wonder you wanted moral support although you’re remarkably calm.’

  ‘I thought I’d read out the first chapter of Alien Hearts. Or the prologue, to be exact – that’s allowed as well.’ He sipped his drink. ‘It went out on submission this week. To a few indies and two of the Big Five. My agent
wants to test the water.’

  I pick up my glass, drain it and stare into the bottom. Casey’s agent hasn’t submitted to Thoth. Felicity would have mentioned it.

  I’m failing. Failing with the plan to sign Casey. That must mean I’m failing in the glamour stakes as well. For a moment, it’s as if I’m back in the playground of Applegrove Primary with no friend group. I glance down at myself and all of a sudden miss my odd socks. Who am I kidding? As if I could carry off a transparent top and tight jeans. I must look a right joke.

  ‘Vi?’

  ‘What? Sorry. It’s all very exciting for you. Great news,’ I say brightly, without giving him eye contact.

  He takes off his jacket and fully displays his Jackson Pollock style T-shirt to the room like a peacock fanning its tail. I’m embarrassed to think back to my flirting now over cocktails. Talk about out of my league.

  ‘Look, Vi, I’m working on my agent about Thoth,’ he says. ‘It’s clear from what you say that they’d have a real vision and passion and honestly, I—’

  ‘Don’t worry. Really. I don’t have any expectations.’

  Casey says something else but I hardly hear. As if I could compete with Beatrix Bingham. It’s not as if he’s asked me out on a date. It’s a Chapter Battle. I need to get a grip.

  I breathe a sigh of relief as the landlord announces the start of the proceedings and amongst the clapping it’s too noisy for anyone to talk. The first author takes to the dance floor. His hand shakes as he holds the mike as if it could predict the boos that were going to arrive after just two paragraphs.

  ‘Too many adverbs,’ whispers Casey.

  ‘And not a gripping enough start,’ I say without looking away from the mike, inwardly waging a battle against my negative thoughts.