"Let's have a look then." He pulled her laptop towards him and began typing. Moments later he had the property website on the screen.
"How many bedrooms?"
"Sorry?"
"Bedrooms. How many do you want?"
Julia tutted to show an irritation she didn’t actually feel. Really she was delighted.
"Well, two I suppose. One for me and one as an office."
"So no spare room? I thought you said I'd be visiting you all the time?"
"Well I hope so!"
"You'll need a minimum of three then. Unless you're hoping to share a room." He glanced up at her and raised his eyebrows.
"No. I'm not looking to share a room."
"Okay. Three then. Now, price. What's your budget?"
Julia thought. She had never withheld anything about her earnings from the sale of The Glass Tower – indeed, Geoffrey had been there while the fee offered rose from crazy to spectacular to record-breaking. But he wasn't aware of her other financial affairs, like how much she might owe on the cottage. And obviously he knew nothing of the new bursary she had set up.
"Let’s say a million. Maximum," Julia said. Geoffrey's eyebrows rose again, but he said nothing.
"And where are we looking? I think you should rule out anything south of the river, the transport links are terrible. Shoreditch and Hackney could work. Let’s see if there's anything there..."
It was fun, sitting there with Geoffrey, looking through homes. With her generous budget, there was a host of beautiful properties to choose from, even if the true luxury homes were well beyond her reach. And when Julia's search moved beyond looking online, to actually visiting the properties they had shortlisted, Geoffrey came with her as well. Twice, estate agents mistook them for a married couple as they showed them around. Geoffrey was far more practical than her at interrogating his way past the sales speak. He asked about surveys and restrictive covenants – whereas Julia was more interested in knowing where the local coffee shops were, and whether they were frequented by creative types.
Two months later, in the darkness of a late November afternoon, Julia's offer for a luxury penthouse in a converted flower market was accepted. She was going to London.
Twenty
There was no need to empty the Dorset cottage, as Julia had decided not to sell it, or rent it out right away. But even so Geoffrey hired a van to transport her writing desk. It was more old than antique, but it was where The Glass Tower had come to life and Julia couldn’t imagine working anywhere else. It was however very heavy, and Geoffrey had to enlist the help of Julia’s downstairs neighbour to manoeuvre it into the position Julia requested, by the window in the lounge with its views of the London rooftops. She stood back while they huffed and puffed it into position. Then Geoffrey took her in the van to IKEA to get her set up with everything else she'd need. He'd stayed that night, and much of the next two days, mostly spent screwing furniture together. But then he had to go back to make sure Edgar was settling in well at his new home. Leaving Julia to start her new life alone.
She’d never expected it to be easy. But even so, it was a shock how unfriendly people were in the city. She wasn't the most gregarious of characters, and it was quite an effort to speak to her new neighbours when she passed them in the building's lobby. And while they nodded back, they looked suspicious as they did so, and then hurried on their way. She tried drinking her morning coffee in various cafés on the commercial streets around her. But nowhere even came close to the book-lined intellectual hang-outs she had imagined. There were people frowning at their laptops, and some of them may even have been writing – it was impossible to say. She hadn't realised that everyone in London was in such a hurry all the time.
Nevertheless, Julia remained positive. Her agent had been very pleased at the move. He had suggested they now employ a PR agency in a bid to secure the media appearances that would now be possible, and this had been quite successful. Julia was booked for an appearance on a television show discussing the state of modern literature. The agency sent her for coaching – in a mocked-up studio – where she was taken through the process of what would happen in the real TV studio. She spent several hours practising what questions might be asked, and how she might answer them. They worked on her poise, her posture, the tone of her voice and gave her techniques for providing answers that would work as sound-bites. In the event, the show was cancelled, but the training had stood her in good stead and the agency was now optimistic that a similar invitation to a radio show would be forthcoming.
But now, two months after she’d moved into the penthouse, and two weeks since the PR agency's last, optimistic, but ultimately empty email, Julia unhappily admitted to herself that she could not remember when she had last actually spoken to another human being. She noticed how she wore a fixed smile as she passed the many mirrors in the apartment, and how her face dropped once she had walked past. When she spent three days without getting dressed properly she made a decision. It was time to make her own luck.
She pulled open her laptop and found the email she was looking for.
The key to her new life, Julia decided, was Marion Brown. Ever since she first began receiving emails from Marion – so enthusiastic about her writing, and the prospects for The Glass Tower – Julia had felt a kinship with her. They were a similar age (perhaps Marion was a little younger, but then Julia was young at heart) and clearly they shared a love of, and appreciation for, both contemporary and classic British literature. And when they had actually met in person, Julia had immediately warmed to her. She was clearly highly intelligent, and she spoke with a refreshing honesty about the literary scene, and the true nature of the characters who moved within it. It was through Marion, Julia felt, that she would be able to work her way into the scene.
Of course she had already, casually, let Marion know about her move to the capital. In fact, she had done so now on four separate occasions. Twice before she made the move, and now twice since. But so far these hints had not resulted in the invitation she had expected. But perhaps Marion felt she couldn't intrude upon Julia's work? Julia realised that she needed to make more of an effort to get the ball rolling.
So she spent an entire morning in her writing room, with its rooftop views and the roar of traffic which the double glazing didn't quite block out, composing an email to Marion. In it she suggested they meet up for coffee. The email, when she was finally happy with it, consisted of just forty-seven words. But forty-seven words that had taken over three hours to craft to perfection. When she finally hit send, she was so weary with the whole exercise that she was able to kid herself she didn't care if Marion responded or not.
But from the moment she sent it, her ears became alert to the ping sound that her mobile phone made when it received email. And whenever it did she would interrupt whatever it was she was doing and check to see if Marion had responded.
For the rest of the day, Marion did not respond. At 7 o'clock, Julia opened a bottle of white wine from the huge American fridge freezer that Geoffrey had helped her order, and grumpily pulled the cork.
By this time she had discovered that, while the pain relief she was still using was not completely effective on its own, it became considerably more effective when taken at a slightly higher dosage than it had been prescribed, and when combined with alcohol. The usage instructions were clear that it should not be used with alcohol, but Julia had come to overlook that. With her adjusted and alcohol-supplemented dosage she was able to manage the pain. It wasn’t completely gone, and should she miss a dose it came flooding back, like an un-kinked hose.
And so, like she did every night at about this time, she flushed down the four tablets of Dramadol with a large glass of wine.
By 9 o'clock the bottle of South African Chardonnay was empty, and there was nothing on any of the three hundred television channels offered by her new flat screen smart TV. It was a Friday night. In her old life Friday nights meant attending the Rural Dorset Creative Circle, which, since
she still got the emails, she knew was doing a Ukulele night. She began to imagine Geoffrey and all the others, playing songs and singing along, secretly seething at how Kevin was stealing all the biscuits.
Just as she was beginning to feel incredibly lonely, her phone finally pinged and a reply from Marion dropped in.
How lovely it was to hear from you, Marion had written. How Julia’s heart leapt at this sentiment. And yes, she was rather busy at the moment (Julia's carefully crafted forty-seven words had anticipated she might be) but it would be lovely to catch up for a coffee. Could she do tomorrow at ten? Julia felt her heart flutter further – she'd anticipated having a few days to prepare herself.
After reading the email through another two times, Julia replied without further delay. She feared to do so might look overly keen – given how long it had taken Marion to reply to her, but she feared even more that not doing so might mean she missed her chance.
Julia suggested they meet in Real Beans, an independent café that was as close to the idealised version in her mind as she had found, but Marion replied the next morning that, while that sounded lovely, could they do the Costa by Old Street station instead, as she knew where it was, and she could use her loyalty card? Julia had of course agreed, albeit not with gushing enthusiasm.
As the clock on the wall ticked the minutes past ten o’clock, she began to panic that her message might not have been received and that, while she sat in Costa (on a carefully chosen table that was both by the window and offered a degree of privacy), Marion was roaming the streets trying to locate Real Beans. But then she turned up. Julia stood at once. It was awkward for a moment, with neither woman seeming quite sure how to greet the other.
In the end they kissed each other, after which Julia insisted that Marion should sit down while she queued for the coffees. Annoyingly, a small queue had formed just as Marion arrived, and the man in front of Julia seemed to be ordering for an entire football team, meaning Julia had to wait rather a long time before she was served. When she finally returned, holding her cappuccino in one hand and Marion's decaf flat white (as requested) in the other, Marion smiled at her.
"I'm trying to cut down on caffeine!" she said.
"Really?" Julia asked. Something about this troubled her.
"Yes. You wouldn't believe how much coffee I get through in a week!" Marion went on. "So many meetings."
Julia sipped her drink awkwardly.
"So – it's lovely to see you here!" Marion said. "How's your new apartment? You are right in the heart of it here, aren’t you!"
"I certainly seem to be," Julia replied. "I think it's going to be very conducive to my writing."
"Well, I certainly hope so. Are you working on something new?"
Julia wasn't.
"I'm beginning to have some ideas," she said.
"How exciting!" Marion replied. "Well, do make sure you let me know as soon as you have something you are ready to show."
Julia smiled, beginning to relax.
"Actually," Marion went on, "I'm really glad you suggested we meet up. I've got some initial numbers from the launch, and I wanted to go through them with you." She leaned down to where she had placed her bag on the floor and from it she pulled out a small leather bound folder. She pushed her decaf coffee out of the way – still untouched – and opened the folder on a page marked by an elastic bookmark.
"Now, I don't want you to get worried," Marion said. "It's almost always the case when you have a book that receives as much promotion and – well, hype – as yours has, that the initial sales can appear a little disappointing. It's quite normal, and we’re not worried."Marion gave her a steadying look with her soft brown eyes.
Julia leaned in to try and see what was written, but Marion's arm was preventing her. She carried on talking.
"So you've charted. That's the good news. And for a couple of weeks you were inside the top 10. It’s slipped a little since then, but it may come back. It's not uncommon to see the bigger titles bounce around a little before they stabilise."
Julia felt unsettled. She had, of course, checked the ranking of her book on every bookstore that published a list, and she had experienced a degree of frustration that her novel, despite being so widely publicised, was still being beaten in the charts by so many books that she hadn't even heard of. But right now what was distressing her was how business-like Marion was being. She wanted to find a way to steer the conversation towards more personal matters.
"I haven't really been looking," Julia said. "I've been..." She thought for a moment. "Mostly I've been rummaging around the second-hand markets looking for furniture." Julia regretted the words the moment they had left her mouth. What if Marion was to come around, and notice how the flat was furnished almost entirely with Scandinavian flat pack furniture? She made a mental note that she would need to spend an afternoon or two finding some interesting older pieces to supplement it.
"Yes, well," Marion replied. "That's probably a good idea." She smiled and Julia was confused. Did Marion think it somehow useful to be buying second-hand furniture? Her hope had been that she might be interested in accompanying her.
"It can be incredibly distracting to keep an eye on the bloody charts all the time," Marion went on. "I think the less attention you pay them the better."
Julia tried again. "So what do you do when you're not keeping an eye on the charts?" she asked.
Now Marion looked confused. "How do you mean?"
Julia went on, a little unhappily. "I mean, when you're not at work?"
“Oh. Well, it hardly ever seems like I'm not at work if I'm honest," she said. "Like now!" Marion seemed relieved to have found a joke with which to answer Julia's question. "Here I am on a Saturday!"
The implication – that Marion considered the meeting work – wasn't lost on Julia, and she felt herself redden. She forced a smile onto her face.
"But as I was saying," Marion went on. "We are not worried, but we would like to ask if you might be willing to get a little more involved in some promotional activities we have planned. Now, James has kept me up to date on the TV and radio stuff – and that's all brilliant – but we were thinking about rolling out a bigger social media push."
She paused and took the first sip of her drink. A look of dislike flashed over her face.
"Are you on Facebook at all?"
Julia looked confused. "Facebook?"
"I get it. I do. The irony. Here I am asking the author of the novel that lays bare the horror of modern social media whether she's on Facebook. I get that. But the thing is, it’s just so incredibly powerful. I must admit, I didn't used to be a fan, but these days almost all my social life is through Facebook, and it’s the same for all my friends. I'm sure most of your friends are the same?"
Julia smiled to indicate this was probably the case.
"And that's just the point. We are increasingly seeing that Facebook is the way to reach readers. Now, we wouldn't expect you to run the whole page. But..." Marion looked hopefully at Julia. "Would you be able to give up a little of your writing time to interact with readers, maybe once or twice a week?"
Julia felt a little bit of despair. She did have a Facebook page; Geoffrey had encouraged her to set one up, a long time ago now, because he thought publishers would expect it. But she hadn't used it much. A few other teachers from the school she had worked at had tried to contact her, but Julia had little interest in keeping in touch.
"Well, I suppose..."
"It wouldn't be too onerous, I promise. We found with other authors, it can make a big difference."
"Well, okay," Julia said.
"Wonderful!" Marion said. "That's so good of you. I'll email you all the details, and if you get stuck, I can have Gavin talk you through it. He's a whizz at all that kind of stuff." Marion closed her folder.
"Well..." she began.
Julia felt a surge of panic. Marion was drawing the meeting to a close already. She launched a little desperately into one of her pre-prepared qu
estions.
"So where, exactly, are you based then?"
The question came from so far out of the blue that it stopped Marion. She glanced at her coffee, still almost full, and seemed to realise she couldn't leave until she had drunk it anyway. She took a gulp, winced and sat back in her chair.
"Well, actually, we've just moved as well. Nothing so fancy as you, but we've managed to find a wonderful little house out in Ealing. It's much better for the children, they have access to parks and open spaces. It's better for my husband's work as well." She leaned in closer, as if confessing. "It is rather difficult to get over this way though, that's why I was late this morning. But then I'm not really a hip young thing anymore!"
It hadn't occurred to Julia that Marion might be married. She realised at once how stupid this was.
"What does your husband do?" she said in a monotone.
"He's a pilot," she answered. "He flies 747s." Marion smiled. She held her hands at her sides as if they were wings, then wobbled them from side to side.
"You know, the big ones," she said.
"Oh," said Julia. "How interesting."
"Well, it was when we were younger. He flew the New York route, and in those days I could get a lift in the jump seat – that's like a spare seat in the cockpit – so I used to do all my shopping over there. But these days it's not so good. He's away half the week, and it's murder with schools," Marion went on. She seemed, finally, to have slipped into exactly the casual chatty mood that Julia had hoped for, but now she felt adrift and helpless in the conversation.
"Oh," she said again, and searched for something sensible to add. "How old are the children?"
"Harry's eight now, and Geraldine is six, and then there's our little bonus, Isabel. She's three." Marion rolled her eyes. "You don't... You don't have children do you, Julia?"
"No," Julia replied.
Marion smiled, then fell silent, gulping down another mouthful of her drink.
The Glass Tower Page 12
