by Helen Smith
Emily didn’t think of herself as a fanciful person, but she sometimes had fanciful thoughts. As she stepped through the doors into the immaculately artificial, recently restored lobby of the hotel—the furniture, carpets, mirrors, even the air apparently heavier and richer than anything anyone would have at home—Emily had an impression of unreality, as if she had stepped through a portal into a previous age. She looked out again at the mackerel-gray streets—at the present-day people striding past, heads down against the wind, their slightly bitter expressions suggesting they had expected the day to turn out better than this—and saw that the world was just as she had left it.
Emily saw Morgana waiting for her in the lobby with the hotel manager and went over to meet her. A badge on the lapel of his suit announced that the manager’s name was Nik Kovacevic. He had been confiding to Morgana that he would like to write a book. People always did this when they got her alone for five minutes, so she was used to it. They made it perfectly clear that it was a lack of time, rather than a lack of talent, that was preventing them setting the publishing world alight, as if Morgana was some kind of layabout who sat around writing books because she had nothing better to do with her time.
“I’d like to write a book about this place,” Nik said.
“What a brilliant idea. You must do it.”
“The stories I could tell. I know where the bodies are buried! Is it difficult to get an agent?”
“I’ll put you in touch with mine, if you like. Just let me know when you’ve finished your manuscript.”
“They don’t pay advances these days, then?”
“They do. But they like to see what you’ve written first.”
“It’s finding the time, isn’t it?”
Morgana introduced Emily to Nik. He bowed deferentially in that English way that seems borderline mocking to other English people. “The staff at the Coram Hotel will take great pleasure in working with you to make this conference a success. My office is just behind Reception if you need anything.” He bowed again and then withdrew.
Morgana was wearing a smart powder-blue, velveteen trouser suit, a fluffy blue angora beret atop her head. Silver bangles jingled on her wrists as she turned to give Emily a kiss on the cheek. With the jingling, and the soft, appealing jumble of textures she was wearing in blue, Emily thought that Morgana would have made an excellent educational toy for a baby. But irreverence and employment are not a good mix, so Emily tried to compose herself and think businesslike thoughts.
“Let me introduce you to the others,” Morgana said, and turned and walked very fast through the hotel’s opulent interior, Emily beside her. Emily looked to left and right, taking in glimpses of silk patterned wallpaper, silk-upholstered furniture, uniformed staff, tall vases, short tables, stopped clocks, and a gilt barometer, as Morgana briefed her about the conference and its attendees. And then they reached the mahogany-lined bar. It featured a ceiling-high mirror, its reflection doubling the range of wines and spirits available behind the well-stocked bar, and giving the white-shirted, French-looking bar steward a twin. She briefly saw her twin there too—short, dark, bobbed hair, freckles, dimples, an eager expression and a nice strong little chin. Beyond her own reflection, Emily saw Morgana’s fellow committee members in the mirror before looking into the room and seeing them in real life. Three of them—two women and a man—sat at a low, round table in the hotel bar eating steak and horseradish sandwiches in crusty white bread, the bloody red juices from the meat running down their fingers as though they had just taken part in a ritual killing.
Morgana introduced each of them in turn. The first was Cerys, a big Welsh woman in her fifties with white-blonde hair cut into an expensive bob. Emily put out her hand in greeting. Cerys stood and picked up her napkin. The heavy rings on her fingers formed a solid mass, like a sparkly knuckle duster, as she curled her fingers around it. She put her shoulders back and pushed her chin forward just a few millimeters. She wiped her hands, very slowly. She didn’t shake Emily’s hand. “Are you one of the bloggers?” she said to Emily, distrustfully.
“Goodness, no!” said Morgana. “Emily is my assistant.”
“Your assistant?” Cerys said. This time she spoke more gently. “Very posh!”
Morgana said to Emily: “We have bloggers coming along for the first time this year. I’m afraid it has caused a bit of an upset. Do you know what a blogger is?”
“Is it someone who writes an online journal or review site?”
“Reviews!” said Cerys, angry again. She threw down her blood-and horseradish-streaked napkin as if throwing down a challenge to any blogger who might wish to take her on. “What gives them the right? I’ve a mind to start a site of my own, reviewing the reviewers. Then we’d see what’s what.”
“Cerys is hosting ‘Don’t Ask Me! I’m Only a Woman’ this year,” said Morgana quickly. She was obviously keen to change the subject. “You should try to sit in for that session, Emily. If you have ever wondered if women writers mind being patronized, marginalized, underestimated, separately shelved in bookshops and generally sneered at, then the heat and passion in that room should give you the information required to answer the question. Cerys is a formidable champion for romance authors.”
Cerys looked as though she could be a formidable champion for just about anything, if she put her mind to it. But now that she knew Emily was not a blogger she relaxed her fists. The rings on her fingers looked like jewelry again, rather than offensive weapons. At last, she smiled at Emily. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, love. But if there’s a murder on the premises today, don’t bother looking for the culprit, it’ll be me.”
“What on earth’s the matter, Cerys?” said the man sitting next to her. The angular lines and hollows in his face were so carelessly perfect, they could have been the work of a gifted sculptor. His gleaming red hair was catwalk-beautiful. He was poetic-looking, but there was a wariness about him, as if he would never relax and put aside his experiences, whatever they might be. Emily couldn’t resist speculating. Perhaps he was an ex-soldier? He spoke quietly, and he kept his energy to himself: he didn’t look the type to get involved in a bar room brawl. But if someone had aimed a blow in his direction, Emily thought he’d strike back speedily and effectively. Not that there was going to be a brawl here, in the protected five-star luxury of the Coram Hotel.
Cerys sat back down, wheezing slightly. She said, “I’ve been reading the reviews for my latest book, Archie.”
“Ah!” said Morgana. “If only we could all stop doing that.”
“Plenty of nice ones, of course,” said Cerys.
“Course! That’s good.”
“Couple of nasty ones, too. Anonymous, mind you.”
“Ach,” said Archie. “That’s one of the sorrows of writing historical fiction, eh, Cerys? We cannae get our revenge by killing bloggers on our pages. It’d be anachronistic.”
“And we can’t kill ’em in real life, more’s the pity,” said Cerys, grimly. “There should be exemption from prosecution for authors if the reviews cause mental torment. Remind me to write to the Welsh Assembly about it.”
“Archie writes historical fiction under the name of Annie Farrow,” Morgana said to Emily.
“Aye,” said Archie. “I do.”
“Are the books set in Scotland?” asked Emily, politely. She imagined Jacobite rebellions, horses, heather.
Archie grinned at her. “Good guess!”
“Yeah?” said Zena, the big black woman sitting next to Archie at the table. She wore her hair in long plaits piled up on her head and bound with a purple silk scarf. Her fingernails were purple, and her lips were slicked with a shimmer of purple lip gloss. “Archie couldn’t be any more Scottish unless he was sitting there playing the bagpipes.” She winked at Emily to show there was no offense intended.
Morgana said, “I do wonder if you’re putting it on sometimes, Archie.”
“You could set off the fire alarm at three in the morning if you want to check
,” said Emily. “No one’s ever more themselves than at three o’clock in the morning in a strange bed.”
Morgana stared at Emily, and then she began to chuckle. “Ach,” said Archie, which was his way of expressing mirth (and also—as Emily was later to learn—dread, displeasure and disappointment). The other members of the committee joined in laughing.
Emily had a slightly offbeat sense of humor that didn’t always sit well with employers, so she was relieved that her fire alarm quip was a hit with the romance authors. It was too bad that she wasn’t going to be able to work with them permanently—she might finally have found the perfect job for herself.
“Three o’clock in the morning in a strange bed! Yeah, babes!” said Zena. She shook her right hand very fast several times as if she was trying to dry the varnish on her nails, and exclaimed to no one in particular, “We’ve got an erotic romance writer in the making here!” Emily was intrigued to discover that Zena sometimes spoke as if to enlighten an unseen audience who were fascinated by what they saw of her life, but likely to be confused by it. It was like living in an audio-described episode of a reality TV program.
Zena leaned forward and briefly grasped three fingers of Emily’s left hand with the tips of the fingers of her right in a feminine handshake. She said, “She’s met the whole gang now!”
“Except Polly,” said Morgana. “Where’s Polly?”
“Is Polly one of the bloggers?” asked Emily.
“Polly’s one of our most successful authors,” Morgana explained. “Polly Penham.” Yes, even Emily had heard of Polly Penham. The Sunday supplements were full of stories about Polly’s financial and critical success, accompanied by photos of her in her book-lined study, looking calm, poised and clever. Morgana said, “She’s made enough money to buy a restaurant. Or was it a yacht?”
Zena said, “I heard she bought a swannery.”
Cerys said, “I thought it was a cannery. Though maybe you’re right about the swans—isn’t her husband a vet?”
“I thought he was a dentist,” said Morgana.
Cerys said, “I heard she’s going to stand as an MP at the next election.”
“Did you?” said Morgana. “She’s incorrigible. Dear Polly. I wouldn’t be surprised if she did. We’re lucky to have her.”
“I can’t wait to meet her,” said Emily. The other authors looked offended. Archie let out a very soft “achhh” that lasted longer than usual. Emily wondered, then, if it was really such a good idea to bring all these authors together in one place, considering how competitive they were. Probably it would be OK, just so long as they didn’t turn on her. She imagined a blurry photograph of herself, looking shocked but ordinary, below a screaming headline in one of the true-life-tales magazines that are sold at supermarket checkouts: “What Happens When Novelists Attack!!!”
“Polly will find you soon enough,” said Morgana to Emily. “She has something she wants to put in the gift bags that we’re giving out later.”
“Of course she does,” said Zena, not altogether approvingly.
“There are essentially two types of romance author,” Morgana said to Emily. “What do you think those two types might be?”
“Historical. And…uh…” Emily was a bit thrown by the question. She had thought that romance novels fell into lots of different subcategories. She looked at Morgana in her jaunty beret. Maybe it was something to do with hats? Authors who wore hats and authors who didn’t?
Morgana laughed her smoky laugh. “The two types, Emily, are the ones who are grateful for the free gifts that the organizers have spent three months begging from cosmetics companies, chocolatiers and lingerie shops, and the ones who are not grateful.”
Archie, Zena and Cerys cheered up a bit at the thought of the ingratitude of all the other authors who would shortly be joining them for the weekend, and they laughed too, and the mood lightened.
The phone rang at the bar. The barman came over. He was dressed as though he was in a Parisian bar, but he had a strong Australian accent. He said, “I have someone on the line who’s asking to speak to one of the organizers of the Romance Writers conference.” He stood at the table waiting for a response for a longish time, with no one moving or meeting his eye.
“Would you?” said Morgana to Emily, sweetly
Emily went to the bar and took the call. In the giant mirror facing her she could see that Morgana was skewed round in her chair, watching and listening.
“Hello?” said Emily into the phone. And then, as much for Morgana’s benefit as for the caller’s, because she wanted to appear very efficient: “You’ve reached the Romance Writers Conference at the Coram Hotel. How may I help you?”
“Am I speaking with Morgana?”
“No,” Emily said, “not Morgana. This is Emily.”
Hearing her name, Morgana made an unlikely to want to speak to anyone face in the mirror.
Emily said, “I’m not sure where she is at the moment.”
The voice on the other end of the line was almost exaggeratedly American. If a voice could wear a large, white rhinestoned pantsuit, this is what it would sound like. “Hey, Emily,” the voice said. “I’m one of the prizewinners. I go by the name of Winnie. You guys might know me as Tallulah, from Tallulah’s Treasures? I’m awful excited to meet y’all. Can ya tell Morgana I’ll be a little late this afternoon?”
“Yes, of course I can,” said Emily. “See you later, Winnie.”
“That’s mighty nice of you, sugar,” said the voice. “Buh-bye.” Emily went back to the table to tell Morgana that Winnie would be late.
“Oh, crikey. I hope she’ll make it in time for tea with Lex,” Morgana said. “She say what time she’d be here?”
She had not. Emily did a passably good imitation of Winnie’s accent as she attempted to relay the details of the conversation as accurately as possible. “I go by the name of Winnie,” Emily drawled.
“Yes! Winnie. Her name’s Winnie. Ha ha ha,” Morgana said, as if to cut Emily off. She was behaving rather strangely. “That’s it. I think we get the gist of it! Is she on her way here, now?”
“Winnie?” said Cerys, when Emily had relayed the message. “Winnie…” She was obviously searching her memory for something.
“Not sure if she’s ever reviewed one of yours,” said Morgana, a little nervously. “But she’s very generous, usually. Four or five stars. A great friend to romance authors.”
“She sounded American,” said Emily. “She said she’d be a bit late.”
“She is American. She coincided a visit to English relatives so she could attend the conference,” said Morgana. “I do hope we won’t disappoint; she was very keen to join us here.”
“Bloggers make my blood boil, that’s the beginning and end of it. Why can’t people keep their opinions to themselves?” Cerys said.
“We hardly want them to,” said Morgana. “They help us sell books.”
But Cerys tutted and tsked, flicking at crumbs on her lap as if she imagined herself to be flicking minuscule bloggers onto the carpet where they would be crushed beneath her feet.
“Now, the reason I set this up,” said Morgana, with an eye on Cerys, “was so that these bloggers would come here and say nice things about us and our books. The three women who’ve been invited here are winners of a short story competition I organized online—so many book bloggers are also aspiring authors, it turns out—and their prize is to meet us and have dinner, and have a meeting first with my agent, Lex Millington, over tea.”
“Lex?” said Zena, sharply. “He’s still working?”
“We get a little publicity, and they get a little encouragement,” persisted Morgana. “And Polly will drop in and give them some tips about how to get published and make as much money as she does. They’ll love that.”
“Course they will,” said Cerys. “No one ever imagines they’ll get published and be unsuccessful.”
“No, but it’s nice to dream, isn’t it? Lex will have tea with them and be charming
. He’ll talk to them about the industry, which means talking about himself, really. He enjoys that—and they’ll enjoy it, too.”
“You’re messing with things you don’t understand,” said Cerys, as if blogging was witchcraft. She leaned forward and waggled her forefinger accusingly. Her next words were prophetic: “It can’t end well.” Then she sat back in her seat and folded her arms.
“So Winnie wrote the best story in your competition?” said Emily to Morgana. She had begun to see that one of the ways she could be most helpful in her temporary new job would be to distract the members of the committee, and calm them when they behaved like tetchy infants. Perhaps Morgana’s jingly, soft-toy appearance had some kind of practical application after all.
Morgana blushed. “Well, I wouldn’t say that. But she has the most popular blog.”
“You can’t just write books that make readers feel good, these days,” said Zena, seeing—before Emily had time to hide it—that she slightly disapproved of the competition being rigged. “You can’t just sit at home and write. You got to do competitions and giveaways. You gotta reward people for reading your books. It’s not enough that they feel good when they read them, they got to feel good about reading them. In other words, you got to get ’em to like you.”
