by Marian Keyes
OK, Jojo thought, taking it on the chin. Who’s next? B&B Calder. Thing was, though, she was starting to run out of publishers; they’d all taken over each other so that now there were only six big ones left in London. Several imprints existed within the umbrella of each house but if one editor rejects the manuscript, you can’t just readdress it to another editor in a different part of the house; with each publisher you only got one chance so you had to choose your editor very carefully. Who at B&B Calder should she approach? Not Franz ‘Editor of the Year’ Wilder, that was for damn sure! She could already hear his bitchy laughter when he read a few pages of Runaway Dad.
Someone fresh and on the way up would suit this book. Then she got her girl: Harriet J. Evans, young and hot, starting to make her mark with a couple of statement purchases. Why hadn’t she thought of her before now? She picked up the phone.
‘Email it to me,’ Harriet said.
Then she went to show Manoj the fabulous pocketbook she’d bought the previous night. She was demonstrating the secret section where cigarettes could be hidden when Richie Gant passed by Manoj’s desk. She felt him before she saw him – a vague feeling of revulsion crawled up the skin of her back. And there he was, with his hair too gelled, his suit too cheap, his neck too spotty.
He paused, cast a scornful eye over her and then, to her surprise, laughed right into her face.
‘Laughing at jokes only you can hear?’ Then she added kindly, ‘You poor fuck.’
But he laughed again and the breath caught in her chest. She watched him amble down the corridor, still chuckling to himself. ‘Something’s going on,’ she said to an alarmed-looking Manoj. ‘Find out.’
After loitering for fifteen minutes by the photocopier, Manoj reported back. ‘Last night they all went out.’
‘Who?’
‘Brent, Tyler, Jim and Richie.’
‘So why didn’t they ask me?’
‘They went to a lap-dancing club.’
‘So why didn’t they ask me?’
‘Could’ve been embarrassing.’
‘I wouldn’t have been embarrassed.’
‘But they might have been. Duh.’
A lap-dancing club! Richie Gant, the little fuck. He’d done it again: lunch in the Caprice was nothing compared to a night boozing and bonding over naked women. She was burning up, feeling horribly patronized that Brent and Tyler had taken her for lunch when they had a proper good time – the real one – planned for later. All the time they’d been simply humouring her.
She wasn’t naive, she knew this stuff happened, but she’d thought publishing had a little more class. She remembered how happy she’d been in the taxi and cringed. Jim Sweetman should have told her that they were going out with Richie Gant later, but Jim was the chicken-shit kind of guy who believed that the messenger got shot. He only passed on good news.
Men, she thought, in contempt. Useless fucks with a brain and a penis but not enough blood to run both simultaneously.
Then her anger came to rest on the women who took their clothes off to enable men to bond and take business away from other women. How can men respect working women when they can pay other women to take their clothes off? How can they help but think of all women as toys?
She’d never before felt that as a professional woman she had anything other than Access All Areas. Well, she’d been wrong. She was a great agent, but she could never forge relationships by buying dances for dickbrains. Men could, though, giving them the advantage. The unfairness hit her like a slap in the face. Men and their dicks ran the world – and for a moment she felt the full weight of the imbalance. She was raging and, unusually for her, depressed.
She’d been blue anyway: it was Mark’s birthday and she wanted to spend it with him. Instead, some time in the afternoon, Cassie was coming by to whisk him away for a night in a mellow-walled hotel with four-poster beds, seven-course dinners and a Romanesque pool (she’d looked it up on the net).
20
Friday afternoon
The day didn’t get any better. Right after lunch, Harriet J. Evans rang.
Well?’
‘Sorry. No.’
‘But you didn’t have time to read it!’
‘I read enough. Actually I enjoyed it, it made me laugh, but there’s just too many others like it. Sorry, Jojo.’
Next!
Paul Whitington at Thor. He was a man, but he was good with commercial fiction – unlike a lot of male editors, he didn’t think a sense of humour was something to be ashamed of.
Jojo rang him, bigged up Runaway Dad like it was the book of the year and Paul promised to read it over the weekend.
‘Manoj! Send a bike!’
Eamonn Farrell, author and piss-head, was her three-thirty. He showed up at five to four, smelling of tobacco, fast food and Paco Rabanne, laced with a suggestion of urine. This was because he was a genius. As one of Jojo’s star authors, second only to Nathan Frey, she had to kiss him. It doesn’t happen often but sometimes I hate my job, she thought dolefully.
He sat in front of her in clothes that looked like they’d been tied to the back of a car and dragged around town for a couple of hours – another sign of his genius – and complained for a solid forty-five minutes about every other male author on the planet. Then abruptly he stood up and said, ‘Right, I’m off to get pissed.’
‘I’ll walk you to the lift.’
On the way they passed Jim. ‘Jojo, will you be long?’
D’ya have a good time last night paying women to take their clothes off? She pushed down her anger.
‘No, coming right back.’
‘Come and see me.’
‘Who’s he?’ Eamonn asked. ‘Jim Sweetman, the film rights bloke? The one who sold Nathan Frey’s pile of shite to Hollywood? What’s he doing about mine?’
‘Your pile of shite? We’re working on it.’
‘Wha –?’
‘Lift’s here.’ She hustled him and his smelliness in. ‘Take care, Eamonn. Missing you already.’
The doors slid shut, taking an astonished Eamonn Farrell away from her. The relief! Her usual author’s bedside manner had deserted her today. With a lighter heart she turned to go back – and at the far end of the corridor she saw Mark with a blonde woman. An author? An editor? Every nerve-ending prickled when she realized that it was Cassie.
Who wasn’t exactly as she’d remembered her. Taller and slimmer, wearing jeans, a white shirt and a – WHAT? Oh my GOD! It couldn’t be. But she looked again – it was! – and her brain squeezed with the unlikeliness of it. She’s wearing my jacket. She’s in her forties, what in the hell is she doing with a leather jacket from Whistles? A style item that’ll be toast in three months’ time. Something that I’ve balked about buying and I’m only thirty-three.
Mark saw her, his face lit up with alarm and they exchanged a stare that flashed the length of the hallway. Jojo would have spun on her heel and sprinted to the lift except it might have looked a little obvious; she had to walk towards them. The corridor was like a runway and there was no escape, no side-doors to pop into and the twenty feet took a long time to cover. Cassie was walking faster than Mark, her voice was loud and she sounded like she was telling him off for something. ‘You silly man,’ she was saying, then she laughed.
When she reached them, Jojo ducked her head, mumbled, ‘Hi,’ and slid past but then she heard Cassie say, ‘Hello.’
Fuuckkk. ’ Hi.’
Both Mark and Jojo attempted to keep moving but Cassie was going nowhere so Mark had to introduce them, which he did with all the enthusiasm of a man en route to the electric chair. ‘This is Jojo Harvey. One of our agents.’
‘Jojo Harvey.’ Cassie took Jojo’s hand in both of hers, looked her in the face and said, ‘My God, you gorgeous creature.’ Her eyes were blue, proper Scandinavian blue and although they were lined, she was very attractive. ‘And I’m Cassie, Mark’s long-suffering wife.’
Fuuckkk. But Cassie twinkled and Jojo understood that sh
e was joking.
‘I’ve been meaning to write to you, Jojo.’
Fuuckkk. ‘You have?’
‘You have so many good authors. Aren’t you clever?’
How does she know about my authors’?
‘I loved Mimi’s Remedies,’ Cassie exclaimed. ‘It was brilliant, a wee gem.’ Exactly what Jojo thought. Fuuckkk. ‘And I hope you don’t mind, but I asked Mark to steal a copy of Miranda England’s latest from your office. She’s great, isn’t she? Pure escapism.’ Exactly what Jojo thought. Fuuckkk.
‘You read a lot.’ She sounded robotic but hey, she was in shock. She’d expected broad-in-the-butt chambray skirts with elasticated waists, flat feet in wide loafers and a deathly dull woman with a fondness for tea and gardening.
‘I love books,’ Cassie sparkled with glee, ‘and the only thing better than a book is a free book.’ Exactly what Jojo thought. Fuuckkk.
‘Hand. Y. For. You,’ she said, in her Dalek monotone, ‘Know. Ing. Some. One. In. Pub. Lish. Ing.’
Cassie smiled affectionately at Mark, ‘He has his uses.’ Then she giggled. Giggled! Like she’d thought of other uses for Mark. She tugged him by the tie, ‘Come along, birthday boy.’
As Mark was led away he gave Jojo a beseeching look; he was the colour of freshly poured cement.
‘Nice to meet you, Jojo,’ Cassie called. She waved her free Miranda England. ‘And thanks for this.’
Jojo watched them get into the lift and was suddenly desperate to yell, ‘Mark, please don’t sleep with her.’
In fact, when was the last time Mark had slept with Cassie? Something she’d never cared about. Jealousy of Mark’s wife had never before figured. She’d resented the time that his family drained him of, but this was the first occasion she’d thought of Cassie as a rival. Until now, she had actually felt sorry for her. Sorry and guilty.
He talks to her, he tells her about work. She reads, she’s smart. She has great taste in jackets. And men. Fuuckkk. I’m going outside, I need a cigarette.
She got her cigarettes and lighter and on the way to the lift, as she passed Jim Sweetman’s office, he shouted, ‘Jojo Harvey, in here!’
She pushed his door with her foot, letting it bang against a cabinet and leant heavily against the jamb.
‘That Eamonn Farrell smells like a bin lorry!’ Then Jim noticed her strange mood. ‘Oh-oh. You met Cassie?’
‘She was wearing my jacket. I’m going downstairs for a cigarette. I’ll come see you in a few.’
The lift smelt of Eamonn. Out in the street she inhaled her first welcome lungful of nicotine and sank against the wall when, with a jolt, she saw Mark and Cassie in a car on the other side of the road. They hadn’t left yet. Instinctively she stepped back into the doorway in case they saw her. Mark was in the passenger seat and Cassie was driving. She had a cigarette clamped between her lips and was reversing out of a tight space, her eyes narrowed against the smoke. She smokes! My kinda woman!
At a sharp angle she shot out onto the road and almost collided with another car. The driver, an elderly man, beeped her angrily but Cassie took the cigarette out of her mouth and blew him a kiss; Jojo could see her laughing. Then they drove away.
Holy fuck.
She ground her cigarette under her foot, smoked another one, then another, then went upstairs to Jim.
‘Whatever you want to talk to me about, can we do it over a drink?’
When? Now?’
‘It’s past five. Come on.’
‘Where? The Coach and Horses?’
‘Anywhere they sell strong liquor.’
21
It wasn’t such a complicated proposal that Jim outlined but by the third vodkatini, Jojo was having trouble keeping up to speed.
‘… crying out to be packaged, instead of the usual studio rounds, Brent thinks if we get a “name” director or actress on board first, the deal is as good as done –’
Which? Mimi’s Remedies?’
‘No. Miranda’s first book.’
‘Yeah,’ course.’ She giggled softly.
‘Jojo, darling, I don’t think I have your full attention.’
‘No, sorry,’ she sighed and swilled her nearly empty drink.
‘Time for another.’
‘I’ll go.’
When he came back, she said jovially, ‘Hey, Jim, you know Cassie? Tell me about her. And don’t LIE to me.’
‘Would I do that?’
‘Probably. You want everyone to love you, so you only tell people what they want to hear.’
Abruptly the smile left Jim’s eyes and his mouth became a hard line.
‘Whoops,’ Jojo laughed fuzzily. ‘He didn’t like that.’
He wouldn’t look at her. He crouched away and drummed his fingers on the table. Wish you still smoked?’ She scrambled for her cigarettes and thrust them at him. ‘Can I tempt you?’
He turned with sudden speed and looked her full in the face, ‘No, Jojo, you can’t tempt me.’
She stared hard at him. What the fuck did that mean? ‘Oi.’ Bumped back to unpleasant sobriety. What’s up?’
He didn’t answer and dropped his eyes. She waited until she was calm before she spoke.
‘Jim, I’m sorry. I’m a little loaded and a little sore.’
Now his turn to apologize. But he didn’t.
‘I’ve left you a space,’ she said.
‘For what?’
‘To apologize.’
‘For what?’
‘How about you tell me? For implying I’m trying to sleep my way into a partnership?’
‘Oh, is that what you’re doing? Funny, I thought you were good enough at your job not to have to do that.’
Great! She’d just made things worse.
‘And for making me look like a total idiot in front of Brent and Tyler.’
‘You what?’
‘A lap-dancing club with Richie Gant while I get to have a boring lunch? Hey, like, thanks.’
‘Lunch wasn’t boring, lunch was great. They loved you, they love your books.’
‘A fucking lap-dancing club.’
‘Horses for courses. I’m going to do my best for each individual agent because,’ he said with heavy emphasis, ‘that’s my job.’
Jim wasn’t usually so dark, he was Mr Sunshine, Smiler Sweetman, all things to all men. In silence, they drank too fast. Jim was drumming the table again and Jojo drawing in mouthfuls of air with each lungful of nicotine.
Minutes passed. People arrived in the pub, more people left, Jojo lit another cigarette, smoked it and crushed it into the ashtray. Further time elapsed, then she touched Jim’s sleeve, ‘Look, let’s start over.’
He moved his arm away but said, ‘OK and let’s get a couple of things straight. I don’t think you’re trying to sleep your way to a partnership, you’re a brilliant agent. And you’re as important to Brent and Tyler as Richie Gant is, if not more.’
Jim was smiling again but Jojo wasn’t convinced. He was doing that thing that she did – pretend that things are a certain way and most people are dumb enough to go along with it.
‘So you want to know about Cassie? OK, I’ll give it to you straight.’ Another smile. ‘She’s a doll, a real sweetie.’
‘But she seemed very smart when I met her today.’
‘Very. Mark likes strong, smart women.’
She didn’t like the way he said that, making it sound as though Mark ran a whole string of girlfriends, all of them strong and smart.
‘And you said she was wearing your jacket? How on earth did she get it? You didn’t leave it in Mark’s car or anything mental like that?’
‘It wasn’t really my jacket. I saw a jacket I liked and Cassie was wearing it. Yes, I know, we’ve a lot in common.’ Without planning to, she asked, ‘Does Cassie know about me?’
Jim looked at her, his eyes blank and unreadable. ‘I have no idea.’
They’d finished their drinks and they both knew they weren’t having any more.
‘Can I get you a cab?’ Jim asked, way too politely.
‘Let me make a quick call.’ She got out her mobile. ‘Becky, you’re home? Can I come over?’
She said to Jim, ‘I’m getting a cab to West Hampstead. You live there? I’ll drop you off.’
But he wouldn’t come with her. He was smiley and polite but unmovable. Feeling worse than she had in the longest time, she arrived at Becky and Andy’s, where they poured her wine and let her vent.
‘I had the shittiest day. I’ve just had a bust-up with Jim Sweetman and I think I’ve ruined our bond which is a major bummer because I might need him to vote for me if Jocelyn Forsyth ever retires and I’m up for partner. But Richie Gant probably bought him a long time ago so it’s all moot anyway. But worse than that, far worse, is that I met Cassie Avery and she’s a bit of a babe.’
Becky snorted.
‘No really. She was warm and fun and her hair was beautiful. She made me feel like Magda Wyatt does. Under different circumstances, I might have got a crush on her.’ She turned and yelled at Andy, ‘NOT IN A SEXUAL WAY.’
Quietly she returned to Becky. ‘She called me a gorgeous creature, kinda like Magda does. And this is the fur-eek-iest thing, she was wearing the blue leather jacket that I nearly bought.’
Becky couldn’t mask her shock at that.
‘I reckon she knows all about you,’ Andy said. ‘She’s had you followed and was sending you a message with the jacket. Good job you don’t have a rabbit.’
‘You watch too many low-rent thrillers,’ Becky said. ‘And you always say the wrong thing. But Jojo, I think she must suspect about you. Sounds like she was putting on a show. I mean come on, the jacket. And you say her hair was nice. Like she’d just had it done?’
‘Yes.’
‘See?’
‘It wasn’t like that. I honest-to-God think the jacket was just a coincidence. I mean, it was pure chance that I met her at all. I really don’t think she knows about me.’
‘I thought she was just a silly woman who ate cheese sandwiches even though she knew they gave her migraines,’ Andy said.
‘And me. What a difference a week makes. Last Friday I felt so guilty, I didn’t want Mark to ever leave her, this week I want him to, so bad, but I’m afraid he never will.’