Blowing It (16 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I was called into Cardwell’s offices to see Max on
Wednesday. We made small-talk about the progress of the edits—he was pleased
I’d turned them around so fast for Squire—and he showed me a couple of mock-ups
the advertising department were working on for the release posters, but I
couldn’t help thinking all of that could have been done over email.

“Why did you ask me to come in?” I asked, bored of
beating around the bush. “Was there something specific we needed to talk
about?”

Max rested his elbows on the desk, fingers steepled
under his chin. “I need a favour,” he said, giving me a sheepish smile.

“What kind of favour?” I asked, immediately
suspicious.

“We want to sign a new author. She’s about your age
and writes YA. The partners are very excited about her, but she’s new to
publishing. I was hoping you could encourage her.”

I pulled a face. “I don’t know how I can help—”

“Don’t put yourself down, Owen. I’m not saying you
need to hold her hand while she’s signing the contract, but I thought if she
has someone she can talk to, someone who’s already successful, she’ll have a
better idea what to expect from us. I know she’s got questions about what
happens next, but she’s wary of talking to me. She seems to think it’ll make
her seem too inexperienced.”

I nodded. That, I could understand. I remembered
when I started submitting to agents, all the jargon and processes involved, how
naïve I’d felt. “What’s her name?”

“Becky. Becky Knight.”

“Good name.”

Max grinned.

“What exactly do you want me to do?”

“Nothing too arduous. Maybe meet up with her a
couple of times, answer her questions, reassure her.”

“Tell her this is the best agency in London and to
do everything you say?”

He laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Not in such plain language.”

A look of understanding passed between us.

“How much time will this take up?” I asked. “I was
hoping to get started on the next book.”

“That really depends on you. I’m hoping you’ll hit
it off with her. She’s a nice girl, and given you’re writing in the same genre,
I imagine your paths will cross regularly enough once we get her signed. If you
two were friendly, it would help me enormously.”

“What if we don’t get on?” I asked warily. “If I
tell you I’m done after one meeting, what happens then?”

Max shifted in his seat. “I won’t lie and say we’ll
never ask you to speak to her again,” he said. “But this isn’t a requirement of
your contract or anything. I’m asking you to do me a favour, that’s all.”

I frowned dubiously as I considered the request.
Yes, I wanted to get working on the third book as soon as possible, but that
didn’t mean I couldn’t spare an evening or two to help out a novice who was in
the same position I’d been in not so long ago. Really, what harm could it do?

“Fine.” I acquiesced with a defiant roll of my
eyes.

“Excellent!” Max brightened, sitting straighter in
his seat. “Look, I’ll even sweeten the deal. The partners have a reservation at
The Ivy for tonight, but with one thing and another, it’s going to go to waste.
Why don’t I give Becky a call, and you two can have the table? On us.”

“The Ivy?” I boggled. “You didn’t even take me
there when I got the contract with Squire.”

“And I wouldn’t be giving you the table now if it
wouldn’t reflect poorly on the agency to cancel at short notice,” Max said
firmly. “This is a one-time offer, Owen. Of course, if it makes you
uncomfortable, you can always arrange to meet Becky another time, and I’ll take
my wife for dinner instead. I’m sure she wouldn’t say no.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want it,” I protested. Ever
since I’d arrived in London, I’d dreamed of dining at The Ivy, but tables were
notoriously hard to get. I’d lived in the city for ten years and never been.

“That’s settled then.” Max looked pleased. “The
reservation is for seven thirty. Tell the maître d’ the booking is under
Cardwell.”

“Becky will meet me there?”

“I’ll call her now.”

҉҉҉

 “The Ivy?” Magnus sounded impressed when I called
him. “What are you going to wear?”

I loved that his first thought mirrored mine so
closely. Not that Magnus gave a damn about what he wore: rather, he was
anticipating my concerns.

“I have no idea. The Ivy’s posh, right? I mean,
I’ll have to wear a suit.”

“It would probably be for the best. Although I’m
sure you’ll make it as unique as all your other outfits.”

“Flatterer,” I purred into the phone, ignoring the
look I got from the guy sitting on the train seat opposite. I was riding the
tube back to Bethnal Green, sharing a carriage with a handful of tourists and
two or three jaded Londoners. The man made a show of raising his copy of the
Metro
,
blocking me from sight behind a headline about test-tube babies. I tucked my
phone closer to my ear and stared defiantly at the photograph of Leona Lewis
gracing the cover.

Magnus’s throaty chuckle distracted me from the
judgment of snotty commuters. “Call me afterwards,” he said. “Tell me how it
went.”

“Promise.”

After speaking with Ryan in more depth, I decided
on a navy blue, single-breasted pinstripe suit, cut to accentuate my skinny
frame, over a pale grey shirt with white collar and cuffs, open-necked, no tie.
I showered and shaved, and carefully styled my hair: not quite bed head, but
definitely more messy than neat, a few strands artfully straying across my
forehead, the back scrunched up to give it extra volume. I knew I could be vain
as a peacock when the mood took me, and I wanted to create the right impression
on my new charge. The suit represented the agency, the business of bookmaking;
my hair was all me. Casting a wistful glance at my eyeliner pencil, I decided
makeup was out of the question, however subtle.

I arrived promptly at seven fifteen, threading my
way through the crowded pavement as taxis and chauffeur-driven cars deposited
well-dressed patrons on the street outside the famous restaurant. Built on a
corner, the building narrowed towards the junction, the exterior lit with
old-fashioned lamps, the stained-glass window on the shortest wall illuminated
from the inside, casting the road in brilliant blue, a crescent moon glowing
white in the centre, surrounded by stars.

A distinguished-looking older man in a long black
coat and top hat held the door for me, and I paused in the entrance, waiting my
turn to approach a smartly-dressed employee, who seemed to be in charge. The
atmosphere was busy, the babble of voices filling the room from rows of tables
arranged before leather upholstered booths with stained-glass panels separating
the different parties of diners. The windows were obscured with more stained
glass, little diamonds both cloudy and coloured, and the walls were covered
with brilliant works of art of abstract or cubist design. It looked, I thought,
as I took another step closer to the maître d’, rather like the Houses of
Parliament, with leather furnishings and marble columns and the brilliant white
vaulted ceiling.

I gave the name Cardwell and was relieved when the
man said my dinner companion was already waiting for me at our table. It was
probably bad form for me to be late, but all I could feel was gratitude I
didn’t have to sit alone in such an intimidating space.

A waiter led me towards a corner booth near the
rear of the dining room, where a woman of about twenty-five was sitting,
sipping delicately from a glass of white wine and surreptitiously checking her
phone under cover of the tablecloth. She rose to greet me and, after exchanging
awkward cheek kisses, we sat, and I ordered a glass of red, taking the menu
from the waiter before he left to get my drink.

“You must be Becky.” I gave her my best winning
smile.

“And you’re Owen Black.” She returned the
expression. “I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you.”

“It’s Barnes, actually. Black’s a pen name.”

She hastily apologised, and I just as hastily told
her not to worry about it. I was supposed to be reassuring her about signing
with Cardwell & Grosse, and in the first minute, I’d intimated the agency
might make her change her name.
Dick move, Owen
.

“I love your book,” she said, taking a healthy swallow
of wine. “I can’t wait to read the next one.”

“Soon.” I smiled. “But what about you? What do you
write?”

She took the hint and dove into a description of a
great-sounding series: ancient Egyptian archaeology, with a healthy dose of the
mythological and paranormal, kids excavating tombs and triggering centuries-old
mummies’ curses. I was almost jealous.

The waiter returned with my wine, and I realised I
hadn’t even glanced at the menu. Apologising, I asked for another five minutes
and gave it my full attention.

“Do you know what you’re having?” I asked Becky.

She chewed her lip. “I hadn’t decided. I thought
I’d wait for you.”

Something about her answer gave me pause, and I
thought I could guess what. “I’m pushing the boat out,” I declared, perusing
the options. “What’s the most expensive dish on here?”

Becky laughed. “You don’t think Max will mind?”

“He didn’t give me a limit,” I countered. “It’s all
going on expenses, so what does it matter? You
know
they’ll find a way
of getting it back from us.”

Grinning, Becky picked up her menu. “Lobster it is,
then.”

In the end, I decided on crispy duck and watercress
salad to start, followed by baked sea bass, finished in Thai style with
lemongrass, chillies, and soy sauce. Becky ordered Caesar salad and dressed
crab, rather than lobster. In addition, I ordered another glass of wine each.

“You’ll get me drunk,” Becky warned, contemplating
her near-empty glass.

“Do you care?”

“Not if you don’t.” With a grin, she downed the
last mouthful.

I immediately decided I liked her.

She was wearing a pretty dress, white with green
floral accents, cut tight to hug her curvy figure, showing off her ample chest
to perfection while still retaining the impression of decorum. Her hair, a
striking—and I thought natural—shade of light golden-brown, was swept up and
pinned to the back of her head, artful tendrils falling in loose curls around
her ears, framing a pleasant, heart-shaped face. Her eyes were blue, subtly
made up, and I itched to know what she’d done with her mascara and eyeliner to
make them appear as wide as they were. A sheen of some glittery gloss added a
touch of colour to her lips and cemented a china doll impression. As she spoke,
it was clear she was as brainy as she was beautiful. No wonder Max was
desperate to sign her.

She was new to London, born and bred in Manchester.
Her accent indicated some elocution training, although as the evening wore on
and the wine went down, I detected a couple of broad vowels creeping in. Her
background was, perhaps unsurprisingly, in anthropology, which she had studied
at Manchester University, although she confessed fiction had always been her
first love.

“God, I was so nervous about this meeting,” she
confessed, setting her knife and fork neatly side-by-side on her cleared plate.
“I didn’t have a clue what we were going to say to each other. I thought it
would be excruciating.”

I laughed. “Me, too. Max sprung this on me this
afternoon and I’ve never mentored anyone before. Now I’ve met you, I don’t even
know what you need a mentor for. You’re smarter than I ever was.”

She blushed at my flattery. “I don’t know much,”
she protested. “Certainly not about publishing.”

“So what do you want to know?” Laying my cutlery
down, I rested my elbows on the table and gave her my full attention. “Ask me
anything.”

An impish expression crossed her face. “Anything?”

Laughing, I backed up. “Within reason.”

Immediately she was all business. “I suppose what I
really want to know is, am I doing the right thing? Are Cardwell & Grosse
really the right agency for me?”

“I suppose that depends what you’re looking for,” I
said. “I’ve been signed with Max for years, way before I ever started writing
YA. When I finished my book, I sent it to him because I already knew him, not
necessarily because he was the best in the business. Cardwell didn’t represent
children’s authors at that point.”

“Exactly.” Setting her glass on the table, Becky
leant forward. “That’s exactly what I’m worried about. Yes, they’ve got you,
and I know they’ve been expanding their YA stable ever since, but do they have
the right
experience
? Did you get your deal because of them, or did they
just get lucky? Was it one of those books which was going to be signed whoever
represented it?”

I shuffled uncomfortably in my seat. “There’s no
right way of answering that,” I said at length. “If I say the book was
brilliant, I look like an egotistical prick.”

“But you’re saying that’s what happened? Cardwell
got lucky?”

“I don’t know.” I placed my napkin on the table to
stop myself twisting it on my lap. “To an extent, yes. My book was the right
product at the right time. YA has gone nuclear in the last few years, and I got
lucky picking something which hadn’t been done before. At least, not for that
audience. Once a couple of publishers showed interest, the story wrote itself. Another
time, with different acquisitions editors, maybe nobody would have taken it. By
the time they’d entered into a bidding war, they’d basically guaranteed they’d
have to make it a bestseller if they were ever going to see a profit from it.”

Becky pulled a face, her snub nose wrinkling
delicately. “You’re saying it doesn’t matter if a book has merit or not, it’s
all about how much the publisher invests? That’s what determines a bestseller?”

“Yes and no.” I realised I wasn’t explaining myself
very well and vowed to do better. The third glass of wine had dulled my wits.
“Publishers can’t make people buy books. If the public doesn’t like something,
there’s nothing they can do, no matter how much money they’ve invested. But the
biggest factor in deciding if a book will sell or not is visibility. You can
write the greatest book in the world, but if nobody knows about it, how will
they read it?”