Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. (7 page)

“Tomorrow’s Sunday, lass. The place will be a tomb. No one rises till noon. And the lads are used to me sleeping in here.”

“This is where you sleep? Where will you go…?”

“Dozens of spots in this place. I’ll probably have a nice sleep in the canteen. Two couches in there. No worries.”

I had plenty of worries, but an urgent need overrode them all “Um, could you show me the way to the bathroom first…?”

“You want a bath?” He shook his head. “Sorry to disappoint. We have a shower, but there’s no heat in there. You might want to wait until morning…” He must have seen the horror in my face as I pictured trekking to some outhouse. “You mean the bog? The loo?” He gave me an indulgent smile, as if a request for indoor plumbing showed an amusing cultural quirk. “Come with me.”

He led me down another narrow corridor and pointed to a door stenciled with the faded word “Ladies.” He pushed it open to reveal a couple of ancient sinks and two stalls, with the nicotine stains of the ages on their walls. The place smelled of cheap aftershave and mildew.

“It used to have two toilets, but I converted one to a shower. I’ll have to remind the lads to knock before they go in. They’re rather used to this being an all male enclave on weekends.” He turned toward the door opposite, stenciled with the word “Gents.” He started to go in, then turned back to me. “Are we happy bunnies then?”

I nodded out of politeness. After a quick—and chilly—wash, I walked out to find him gone and the lights turned out. I had to feel my way back to the office where I was to camp—camping was certainly what this felt like. I might be living like some rabbity forest creature, but I couldn’t describe my mood as happy.

When I reached what I hoped was the office, I felt around for the light switch in panic, fearing I might have wandered into some other wing of the factory altogether. Or some other dimension. Or world. I half expected to see some of Harry Potter’s cohorts, a mad hatter, or Robin Hood himself.

But the fluorescent light hummed to life and I saw I was indeed back in Peter’s cozy office, where the bouquet of daffodils now sat on a file cabinet, looking cheery in a beer stein full of water. I made up the futon and opened my suitcase, pulling out my Versace nightgown. Its familiarity was soothing, but I wished with all my heart that it would transmogrify into a cozy pair of flannel pajamas.

Before I got in bed, I picked up my book again. That near-orgasmic thrill didn’t return, but I did like the cover—a clever design of a silver tray displaying the title on a calling card. The silver filigree design went around the spine and curled to encompass a stylized tree. “Major Oak Books,” it said.

I clutched the book and felt its weight. This place might seem surreal, but here was a solid, actual book. Mine. It was going to save my career.

I opened it slowly, savoring the moment.

But all the pages were blank: not a bit of printing on any page.

I would have cried, but I was too exhausted for tears.

I woke to see Peter standing above me, backlit by sunshine streaming through the window behind him. He was still wearing his tuxedo trousers, but he’d exchanged the jacket for his San Francisco green hoodie. He held two steaming mugs.

“You’d not forgive me if I let you sleep past noon, lass. You’re missing a fine day. Even the lads are stirring in their burrows.” He gave me a boyish smile, set down the mugs, and opened the curtains, revealing what looked like the establishing shot of a Masterpiece Theatre episode.

Fluffy white sheep grazed on an idyllic greensward across the majestic river. Ancient buildings loomed in the distance: England’s green and pleasant land.

Why had I been so terrified last night? I’d landed in a charming place, to work with people who might be unorthodox, but were kind and polite in their way.

I sat up. “Is that tea?” It smelled as lovely as the scene outside.

Peter smiled. “I put in one lump. I hope that’s how you take it.” He handed me one of the mugs, which, on closer study, rather spoiled the mood. It was decorated with a cartoon of a naked male posterior and the caption, “Don’t use this mug. Davey farted in it.” The tea was milky and sweet—not my usual unsweetened with lemon—but delicious.

I would have liked to dress and make a run to the loo, but Peter seemed engrossed by the painting of the tree that hung on the wall above me.

“Tom Mowbray painted that: the Major Oak in Sherwood Forest. Over six hundred years old. “If you choose to believe the folklore, Robin Hood himself hid from the Sheriff of Nottingham in that very tree. It’s hollow inside.”

I nodded, trying to remember the men I’d met last night. I thought Tom Mowbray must have been the paint-spattered one with the pierced nose and eyebrow.

Peter gave me an inquiring look.

“Do you think it will work as a logo? You can make out it’s a tree, can’t you?”

Okay, we were going to have an art discussion. I trotted out my galleryspeak.

“The palette is calming—those greens and browns. It’s stylized, but I’d say it has a firm anchor in realism.” I sat up, pulling the duvet around me. The floor felt icy on my naked feet.

Peter kept studying the painting as if it held some hidden message.

“My partner Henry Weems thinks it’s bollocks. He wants to use a photograph.”

I tried to sort through the names I’d heard last night as I rummaged through my suitcase for shoes.

“Have I met Mr. Weems?”

“No. He’s in Nottingham. Has a family there. Wife and three ankle biters—two boys and a girl. You’ll meet him on Monday. He comes in three or four days a week, when he’s not working on a book. He has a literary opus he’s been slogging on for years—about Mr. Darcy’s childhood. He churns out Dominion books as well, under a pseudonym of course. His latest effort is due in the shops next month.” Peter lifted various heaps on his desk until he unearthed a small paperback decorated with a black and white drawing of a woman wearing stockings, stilettos and not much else. The Chiller font lettering identified it as
Damsels in the Dungeon
by Rodd Whippington.

I shuddered and pulled the duvet tighter.

Peter laughed. “Pervy rubbish, but Dominion titles are what pay the bills.”

I couldn’t laugh with him, even to be polite. Here, the smutty books didn’t seem as harmless as they had in Felix’s store. And it would be awful if Peter liked that sort of thing himself.

The desk phone rang. As Peter picked it up, I stuck my feet into my Nikes and made a dash for the loo. The outer office was empty, and I found the corridor that led to the bathrooms. On my way out, I nearly bumped into Tom Mowbray, still in his paint-spattered hoodie, exiting the Gents.

He blinked as if trying to dispel a hallucination. I realized how absurd I must look in my duvet-and-unlaced shoes ensemble.

“I love the cover you designed for my book, Mr. Mowbray,” I said, trying to make the situation less awkward. “It’s perfect. I like your oak tree painting too.”

He grunted, but said nothing as he scurried down the hallway to what I presumed was the “burrow” wing of the factory.

When I returned, Peter sat at his desk, still on the phone, looking like any executive in his office—except for the bits of my clothing draped over his furniture. Embarrassed, I quickly gathered them. He was talking about Trask’s defection again. Apparently quantities of the books had been ordered; a launch party planned; and an article on Mr. Trask planned for the local paper.

I wondered what could drive a writer to walk out on his own book. I’d fallen in love with mine, even with blank pages. Leaving it would feel like abandoning a child.

Peter motioned at his watch to suggest he’d be on the phone a few more minutes, so I decided to haul my suitcase back to the ladies’ room.

I felt a little better after the dribbly shower, although I hadn’t brought a towel, so I had to dry myself with a couple of tee-shirts. I hadn’t brought a hair dryer, either, because of the differences in electrical current. I dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans as my teeth chattered and my hair dripped icy rivulets down my back.

I tried to cheer myself by remembering the pastoral scene out the office window. I could take advantage of the dry weather and explore—look for a more suitable place to stay, maybe. Or buy ear plugs. The pub might not be so awful if I could block the noise.

When I got back, Peter was still muttering things like “bloody” and “Yank” into his phone, but he grinned at me.

“I must go. There’s a freshly showered girl in my office.” He returned the receiver to its cradle. “Sorry. I didn’t think I’d need the office this weekend, but with this bloody Trask mess…” He walked to where I stood, my hair dripping on the parquet floor “Camilla Randall, you may be the most beautiful damp girl I’ve ever seen. In front of that painting, you might be Maid Marian, after a swim, waiting for Robin Hood to bring home a nice joint of venison.”

He moved closer. Maybe it was the mention of Robin Hood—or maybe it was his lopsided, childish grin, but this time, I rather hoped he would kiss me. In fact, if he came any closer, I might start the kissing myself.

But at the last moment, he turned away and picked up my book.

“Do you like it?”

I took a quick breath. “I’d prefer it with words inside.”

He laughed as if I’d told a joke and flipped the pages.

“Indeed. Just a mock-up Davey printed for the art department. You like it?”

I nodded, feeling stupid again.

“Good. We’ll go with it. I’ve just been on the horn with the Professor. He’s suggested some edits, but I don’t think many will be required. Your market isn’t Oxbridge; it’s working class housewives who want to feel a bit posh. I want Davey to get it in print as soon as possible. We’ve pushed up your publication to May first.”

“May first?” Did he really mean that? Only two weeks away.

“No point in wasting time. We have a launch scheduled at the Lincoln Book Fair, and interviews with Radio Lincolnshire, BBC Yorkshire, and perhaps something on Radio Four. Plus the
Swynsby Sentinel
is sending somebody over.”

A book tour. Publicity. It was really happening. He’d clicked the restart button on my life.

“Oh, one more thing.” He unearthed some documents from the pile on his desk. “You’ll need to sign your contract. Can’t do much without that, can we?”

I flipped through the pages of small print. My agent had always taken care of this sort of thing. I had no idea what to look for.

“I…I’d better sit down and read this.” I thought about Gordon Trask. I wish I knew why he’d taken off in such a hurry. Was there something awful in the contract?

Peter stood by the small wardrobe at the back of the office. He pulled out an elegant charcoal suit with a Hugo Boss label still attached.

“Whatever you like, lass, but it’s a standard British book contract. It protects you as much as it protects us.” He cut off the tags and pulled a red tie from a drawer. “I’m going to shower and get a bit more camera-ready.
The Sentinel
people will be here soon.”

Tiny print and words like “electronic rights” and “returns” swam before my eyes as I registered what he’d said.

“The newspaper people are coming over now?”

He looked at his watch. “In half an hour. You might want to change in to that smashing Burberry thing you wore yesterday.” He gave me one of his twinkly smiles. “Why don’t you sign that, so we’ll be all legal? I’ll write you a check for your advance in the morning, right after I transfer the funds into the account.”

He handed me a pen. I could feel his impatience as I stared at the blurring words. The disaster with my mortgage had left me leery of signing papers. But I had to keep a number of things in mind—

1) I’d already trusted Peter with my well-being—far more important than a book

2) It wasn’t as if anybody else wanted it.

3) I desperately needed the two thousand dollar advance.

So I scribbled my name on both copies, and handed him back his pen.

He looked relieved. “You’ll be happy you signed with us. I promise.”

I gave him a smile and stuffed my copy in my laptop case, trying to believe him.

Peter grabbed a shirt and left me alone to scramble into my suit.

As I dressed, I studied Tom’s painting again, looking for meaning in the abstracted whorls that drew the eye to the darkness at its center. Hollow inside. That’s what Peter said. The Major Oak was hollow inside.

I hoped Peter’s promises weren’t the same.

The interview with the
Swynsby Sentinel
seemed to go all right, although the woman sent to write the article hadn’t heard about the demise of “The Manners Doctor” column—in fact, I suspected she’d never heard of me at all. She mostly asked how I was enjoying Lincolnshire. Although I didn’t have much to offer but praise for the meat pies and beer, this seemed to suffice. The photographer with her took my picture at the front entrance to the Maidenette Building. In the daylight, the old brick edifice looked ponderous with Victorian respectability.