The Glass Tower

by Gregg Dunnett

  She never expected this part would be easy, and it wasn’t hard at first to stay positive as the rejection letters arrived, but after nearly two more years passed, she was close to giving up. At that point she sent a letter to an agent named James McArthur, whose family just happened to own a holiday home in Dorset, not too far from Hunsey Island. He didn’t tend to visit much these days, but he had fond memories of the place, which led him to give the manuscript a chance, and he saw something in its complex sentences that everyone else had missed. The book – which he suggested should be renamed The Glass Tower – wasn't just a strange story about a woman in a skeletal former lighthouse where nothing much happened (although that wasn't a bad summary of the plot), it was a poignant and cutting critique of the modern, social-media obsessed world, written in a thrillingly sparse, literary style. He agreed to take her on, and began shopping the manuscript to his publisher contacts. Then something quite extraordinary happened. James' summary of the work sparked the attention of two of the big publishing houses, and once their interest had been noted, other publishers wanted to take a look too. And just as these things – once every ten years or so – can explode out of all proportion, a bidding war for The Glass Tower began. Soon, there wasn't a single major publisher who wasn't involved in the battle to acquire the rights, pushing the price higher and higher.

  For Julia, sitting in her one-bedroom cottage miles from where this was happening, it seemed both surreal and absurd. Tight finances meant that she didn’t even have broadband. To check her email, to see how things had progressed, she would drive to Geoffrey’s house in the next village. They would sip tea and stare wide-eyed as the bids for her worldwide publishing rights went up. Fifteen-thousand pounds. Thirty-five thousand pounds. Fifty-five thousand pounds. One-hundred thousand pounds. Julia had almost fallen from her stool at that price, and nervously read the rest of James' email, wondering whether to tell him to accept, but he merely told her to hold onto her hat. And then the numbers really started getting silly.

  Two-hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Three-hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Five-hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Seven-hundred and fifty thousand. It paused at that point, and it seemed the frenzy had cooled off. But it was just the bigger guns drawing breath before they took control. The next bid was for one point three million pounds. The same day that was beaten. One point five million pounds. Then two million pounds. And finally, two point four million pounds.

  It was the highest ever amount offered for a debut novelist, and the highest amount offered to any novelist in nearly ten years. When Julia had picked herself up off the floor, and agreed with James they should probably accept at this point, she knew her life would never be the same again.

  After that, there was no way on earth she could ever criticise her agent – he had discovered a hoard of solid gold where no one else had seen anything of any value. But despite this, their relationship wasn't as she had fantasised it might be. In Julia's dreams her agent looked after her professional interests but also connected on a deeper level as well. In her mind she – it was always a she – became a friend, perhaps her closest friend, always with time for a coffee and a chat. For Julia, her agent-writer relationship was sacred. The only two people who truly appreciated the work.

  Yet her relationship with James actually existed on a strictly professional level. During the very few times they had actually met in person (he preferred email, and often hadn’t even answered the telephone when she had rung) he had done nothing to encourage any kind of friendship, and the closest she had come to sitting down to coffee with him was when she had travelled to London to review the contract in the presence of a lawyer. James had suggested they take a break, and she had wound up behind him in the queue at Starbucks. His order, she overheard in amazement, was for a tall, half-caff, soy latte served at 120 degrees. Her astonishment deepened even more when the young man serving (Julia knew the correct term was a 'barista' but she couldn't bring herself to use it) had failed to even look surprised at the request. When it came to her turn to order, she had checked if they had Earl Grey Tea, as if this might be a stretch too far.

  It was moments like right now however, when she regretted how impersonal their relationship was. It would have been nice, for example, to find her agent outside the party, so that they could go in together. (There was a small covered porch area where someone could easily wait.) For about a half-second she did consider giving James a call – he had told her he would be arriving early. But she feared another one of those hesitations in his voice. Or more likely the familiar, abrupt click as he sent the call to his voicemail.

  No. James had played his part in this drama, but she would make her own entrance.

  Julia unwrapped the bottle of wine she had brought, considering it not for the first time. In fact she had agonised over whether it was right to bring a bottle. The very phrase stuck in her mind – bring a bottle. It was what people did at parties, wasn't it? Yet the invitation hadn't actually included the phrase. She had pondered the problem when buying her outfit, and finally decided it would be better to be seen as too generous, rather than too mean. It was with this in mind that she finally picked up the bottle of Marks and Spencer sparkling wine.

  She crunched through the gravel and pushed open the outer door of the museum, letting the sounds of the party spill from somewhere inside. The little lobby, where people bought their tickets to see the dinosaur bones, was empty, but it was clear where she had to go. A pair of pull-up display stands stood either side of another door, and each one made her heart leap. The stands were identical, and each showed a giant mock-up of her book. In both images the tower was recreated in perfect transparent glass. It was a jaw-dropping, gorgeous cover, and she loved looking at it. She stood for a moment now, half-admiring it, half-putting off the moment when she had to enter the room.

  "Excuse me." A voice interrupted her. "Are you looking for the launch party?"

  Julia turned, startled, and saw a young woman, dressed in the black and white outfit of a waitress. She was a pretty girl, with a kind, open smile.

  "It's just through here."

  There was a gentleness to the girl's voice, a compassion that helped to calm the knot of nerves in Julia's stomach. She smiled her thanks and let the girl lead her through the doors and towards the main hall.

  The second set of doors had small glass windows, giving Julia a view inside. She had visited the museum on a couple of previous occasions. Normally a fossilised skeleton of a Plesiosaurus was displayed in the centre of the room, with various other display cabinets arranged around it. But tonight these had all been moved out of the way, so that the entire space was given over to a moving sea of people.

  There must have been about fifty, maybe more, standing around in small, intimate groups. Julia hesitated again, losing her nerve now. The sound of the party was louder here. A wall of conversation and underneath it the bubble of music. Julia stiffened. She noticed that all the guests were holding delicate flutes of what she suddenly realised was champagne. Champagne supplied by the company that the publisher had hired to cater for the event. Julia saw a young man moving between the groups with a bottle wrapped in a white cloth, making sure their drinks were topped up. Julia had a sudden, horrible realisation that she had miscalculated in bringing her own bottle, and she looked around for somewhere she could dump it. But there was nowhere in the little corridor that looked suitable.

  At that very moment, the young waitress, who had held the first door open for her, and now hovered behind, seemed to realise the problem.

  "Would you like me to take that for you?" she asked. Her face softened enough to show that she sympathised with Julia's predicament, but didn't judge her for it. Gratefully, Julia thrust the offending bottle into her hands.

  "I'll pop it in the kitchen," the girl said. "It might be useful if we run out." She flashed a smile, then paused a moment, as if about to say something else, but then her eyes turned to the floor and she went back the way she
had come, presumably to deposit the bottle out of sight. Julia was left at the door, with no opportunity to delay any further. So she took a deep breath and then pushed open the second door into the party.

  For a moment nothing changed. No one noticed her, and the smile she had fixed on her face began to freeze in place. But then a woman from one of the nearby groups spotted her and began walking, almost running over, a beaming smile on her face.

  "Julia, darling!" It was Julia's editor – she still couldn't quite believe she had an editor – a woman about her own age named Marion Brown. She touched Julia on her arms and then kissed both her cheeks. "You look fabulous," Marion said, winking and leading her forward. "Come over here at once. Stephen just called you the most enigmatic and intriguing voice in literature in ten years. So he absolutely has to meet you first." She drew Julia towards the group she had been standing with.

  "That's what you called her, wasn't it, Stephen?” Marion turned to introduce them. “Julia Ottley, this is Stephen Bradley, from the TLS. He's been dying to meet you."

  It was only as Stephen leaned into her and air kissed her on both cheeks that Julia registered Marion was referring to the Times Literary Supplement, the most influential British newspaper covering cultural affairs and literature. Stephen Bradley was, of course, its long-standing editor. Julia had been promised, or perhaps warned, that such people might be here, but even she hadn't expected to be thrown in amongst them so quickly.

  "I believe I may have said something of the sort," he said. "But it's well deserved. It's an absolute honour to meet you Julia, and congratulations. I found your book both magnificent and important."

  Julia couldn't think of a single suitable reply to this, so instead she buried her nose in the champagne flute that had appeared in her hand.

  And from that moment onward, the party just got better and better.

  Whatever fears Julia had had, about being left on her own (and she'd had plenty) proved entirely wrong. Marion barely left her side the entire evening, instead guiding her around the room, as if rationing the amount of time each of the guests was allowed to spend with her. At different points she met with journalists, authors, television presenters and publishing executives. She met the presenter of BBC Radio Four's Open Book, who spoke in glowing terms about The Glass Tower, and told her how her producers were working hard to get Julia onto the show. Julia wondered what could be hard about it – they only needed to ask her surely, but she didn't give away her naivety by pointing this out. She had frankly surreal conversations with not one but two Booker Prize-winning authors, one of whom assured her that The Glass Tower was a shoo-in for this year's prize. The other was not sure. He told her that the book should win, but that in his experience (he was twice shortlisted before he won) the judges might want to court controversy by not choosing her. Julia was so star-struck she was reduced to little more than nodding in agreement, and yet they seemed to take this as the most erudite reply imaginable.

  There were other people at the party that Marion didn't deem worthy of meeting the great novelist that Julia had become. She vaguely wondered who they might be, but there was little time to find out, as she passed from one small group of influential, famous or important people to another. And though she’d begun the evening nervous and tongue-tied, expecting the guests to see through her, or to notice that she didn't have anything interesting to say, this didn’t last. In fact, she found out soon enough that she did have things to say. Indeed, it seemed that whatever words left her mouth caused a moment of delight for whomever she was speaking to. And since all the guests were asking her similar questions, Julia was able to refine her replies, so that by the end some had genuine wit. Most guests went to great pains to praise the book. Some chose to demonstrate how they had actually read it, and understood it. Others (towards the end of the evening – the champagne was flowing freely) joked about how £2.4 million was going to change her life. She was rather pleased with the line she came up with to bat this away – she fired back with the (true) comment that she hadn't actually received any of it so far.

  At one point in the evening she met, and exchanged cool air kisses with, her agent James McArthur. To Julia's surprise he had turned up with a male friend named Barney, who had clearly drunk too much and was rather good fun. For a short while Julia was hopeful that this might be the moment that James, too, would finally loosen up, but he seemed more intent than ever to maintain his professional distance, while failing to clarify exactly how Barney was connected to him. Julia supposed he must be James' partner, but the thought rather confused her. If James was actually gay – a possibility she hadn't considered before – shouldn't that make him more likely to get on well with her? That’s certainly how gay men were portrayed on the television. Or maybe he (mistakenly) thought she was homophobic? On another night this confusion might have soured things. But not tonight. There simply wasn't the time to dwell on such matters.

  About two hours into the proceedings – or perhaps it was three, Julia was having far too good a time to keep track – a large man in a grey suit climbed onto the stage at the far end of the room. From somewhere he was handed a microphone, and slowly the noise level in the room subsided as people turned to look.

  He began by asking for people's attention, and the room quietened further.

  "I just want to introduce myself, for anyone that doesn't know me." He paused to allow a ripple of laughter to roll around the room. Julia smiled but didn't laugh, since she had no idea who he was.

  The man went on to introduce himself as the Managing Director of the publishing house which had bought Julia’s book, and was hosting the party. Suitably impressed, Julia listened to what he had to say.

  “First of all I want to thank each and every one of you for coming tonight to celebrate the upcoming launch of The Glass Tower."

  There was a spontaneous round of applause and a small cheer. The man waited for it to subside.

  " I want to tell you the story about how we came to acquire the rights for this incredible book." He went on to do just that, explaining how it had landed on his desk, how excitement had spread around the company, and about the bidding war that ensued. He then moved on to praise the team of editors, cover designers, copywriters, marketers and everyone else who had worked on the book to bring it to this point. As he name-checked them, or their departments, a small cheer would go up in different parts of the room. At first Julia looked around at each group with surprised interest. But then she understood. All the people that she hadn't been introduced to were the more junior staff who worked for her publisher. They seemed to have decamped the entire organisation for the night. As the speaker went on, seemingly determined not to leave anyone out, Julia began to find it difficult to keep the smile fixed to her face. It was her book, it was her party, but she didn't know these people cheering and congratulating themselves. And there was something else. The man giving the speech seemed to be winding up, but he hadn't mentioned her once. She was only the person who had actually written the bloody thing in the first place. But then, just when he appeared to have exhausted his list of people to thank, he turned on his little stage and looked squarely at her.

  “And now, I want to thank the one person without whom none of this would have happened. A true literary sensation. A genius. A staggering talent. The author – the artist – Julia Ottley.”

  The entire room, packed with brilliant, creative people, turned to her as one and raised their glasses.

  "To Julia!" the whole room roared, and they all cheered.

  Julia felt her face flush red with the deepest sense of pride she had ever experienced.

  Three

  At about 10.30 the party began to wind down. Julia was still with Marion Brown when there was a dip in the conversation, and a young woman came up, looking embarrassed that she might be interrupting.

  "Marion, the minibuses are ready now."

  "Thank you, Carla," Marion smiled. "We'll start moving people out in a little while."

&
nbsp; "We do have to beat the tide, remember." The younger woman looked awkward at pushing the point.

  Marion flashed an irritated smile and turned to Julia.

  "You're so lucky, you know. Living here on this beautiful island," she said. "I meant to ask, is yours one of the lovely little thatched cottages?"

  Julia felt suddenly flustered. She wasn't sure if any of the cottages on Hunsey actually had thatched roofs.

  "No." She smiled a little awkwardly.

  "Oh." Marion blinked. "Well never mind, I'm sure it must be lovely anyway," she went on brightly, then changed the subject. "We're all off to the Harbour Hotel. Do you know it at all?"

  Julia was about to shake her head, when Marion continued.

  "It's on the waterfront, over in Poole. It's a bit of a trip but obviously there isn't enough accommodation here on the island to put everyone up. I expect I shall fall asleep on the bus!" She winked at Julia, as if she were again complementing her good judgement in being able to walk the few steps home. The younger woman, Carla, still hadn't gone away and finally Marion was forced to answer her.