by Anne Weale
Cally read to the end of the first sheet and turned to the next. The letter was signed by Robert Quarles, whom she knew was a descendant of the founder, and who had ‘Editor: General Books Division’ typed under his unusually legible signature. What it boiled down to was that Rhys had told them about the situation at Edmund & Burke and that he wanted to change his publisher but not his editor.
This was a bold proviso for a one-book author to make and might not have cut any ice but for the fact that the chairman’s wife, Lady Quarles, had received River of Life, Death and Love as a birthday present and recommended the book to her husband. Also the company was unexpectedly losing one of its editors. In short, they would like to interview Cally with a view to offering her a post and Rhys a contract.
For some minutes Cally was in heaven. Working for Quarles would be a dream come true. She had often passed their premises in Dover Street and longed to see the famous drawing room where, for more than two centuries, some of the greatest names in English literature had been entertained.
Then, abruptly, she came down to earth. If she got the job, it would mean going back to London, never seeing Nicolás again, or only at infrequent intervals when her visits to her parents coincided with his visits to La Soledad. Which wouldn’t be often and might be never.
Common sense dictated that she rang up Robert Quarles’s secretary and arranged an appointment for the following week. Then she emailed Rhys to congratulate him on exciting their interest in his new book and to thank him for insisting she should edit it. The fact that Edmund & Burke had not offered him a two-or three-book contract had been a disappointment at the time but, as matters had turned out, was proving to be an advantage. Finally, she booked a flight to London.
The night before she left, Nicolás rang up.
‘There’s something I’d like to discuss with you. Will you come here or shall I come there? Or shall we meet in the bar?’
‘We’ll have to sit outside. At this time of night with the TV blaring and the bar full, we shouldn’t be able to hear ourselves speak,’ she said.
‘I can wrap up warmly if you can. How about half an hour’s time?’
Cally agreed and rang off, wondering what he could possibly want to talk about.
He was there before her, a bottle of wine and two glasses already on the table.
As they sat down he wasted no time in coming to the point. ‘If you’re still in need of a job, I have one to offer you. We shall be needing an editor to knock the text for our website and courses into shape. Not many people with technical expertise are good at communicating their ideas. You’re ideally qualified to handle the job we want done.’
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him about the Quarles job interview, but she decided not to. ‘When would you want me to start, and how long would the job last?’
‘In about a month’s time and we’d offer you a contract for a year which, all being well, would be renewed for a further year.’
‘Can I have a little time to think about it?’
‘I’ll give you a week,’ said Nicolás, pouring out wine. ‘You would have to come to Madrid and meet some of my colleagues before we signed you up.’
‘What I’m not clear about is when what you’ve called your “centre of excellence” is going to be open for business. Even with a topnotch architect supervising the works, I should have thought it could take a long time to put La Soledad in order.’
‘It probably will,’ he said easily. ‘Until it’s ready, you may have to work in several places. Here…in Madrid…and possibly even in the US. That won’t bother you, will it? You won’t have to worry about accommodation. We’ll organise that for you.’
‘No, moving about wouldn’t worry me. I’ve been doing it all my life. Their six years in Valdecarrasca is the longest time my parents have stayed put anywhere,’ she said dryly.
‘Do you think they are fixed here? Have they had enough moving?’
‘I hope so…but who knows?’
‘Perhaps you worry about them too much? They’re only in their fifties, not on the verge of decrepitude.’
‘Do you never worry about your parents?’
‘Never,’ he said emphatically. ‘In fact I don’t worry about anything very much. There’s no point in it. If there’s a problem and I can deal with it, I do. I don’t believe in losing sleep, the way a lot of people do, over things that may never happen.’
‘They probably don’t have your confidence that they can handle everything life may throw at them. You’re in control of your life. Most people aren’t.’
‘Nobody’s totally in control of their lives, Cally. Accidents happen. Illnesses happen. Meanwhile one trusts to luck.’ He leaned towards her, smiling. ‘You haven’t asked what most people would consider the key question about a new job.’
‘I haven’t?’ she said, in a puzzled tone.
‘The salary. Don’t you want to know what the pay is?’
Feeling foolish, she said, ‘I suppose, when you’re out of work, you don’t worry about the pay as much as people who are in work and can pick and choose about moving. What is the salary you’re offering?’
When he told her, she was surprised. It was more than she had been earning at Edmund & Burke by a substantial amount.
‘If we find that you suit us, and the job suits you, there will also be some stock options,’ said Nicolás. ‘That’s normal in Internet technology industries. People with a stake in a business are more willing to put in long hours and give their best.’
Cally was beginning to feel that she ought to tell him about the Quarles interview. But as he had given her a week to think about his offer, she decided not to mention it.
‘And there’s one other thing I should tell you,’ said Nicolás, refilling their glasses. ‘If you decide to join Llorca Enterprises, you can take it as read that the boss won’t be making any passes at you. Our relationship will be strictly businesslike. I mention it because there may be times when we have to travel together and perhaps spend nights in hotels. I have absolutely no ulterior motive in offering this post to you, Cally. I hope you believe that.’
‘Of course…I never thought otherwise. You aren’t the sort of person who would trade on anyone’s vulnerabilities.’ But, even as she said it, she felt a sinking of the heart because, if she took the job, it would mean that he would regard her as for ever off-limits.
‘You didn’t always have such a high opinion of me,’ he said, looking amused.
She was saved from answering by the arrival of one of Valdecarrasca’s least prosperous inhabitants, a man who earned his living as a labourer on roadworks. He greeted Cally politely, but was more familiar with Nicolás, joshing him about his running. Nicolás took his remarks in good part and, after a bit more banter, the man gave him a friendly thump on the shoulder and disappeared into the bar for his nightly quinto of beer.
It struck Cally that only someone whose success and wealth had had no effect on his sense of self-importance would have responded as Nicolás had. The more she knew of him, the more she admired his character. In the world of publishers, authors and literary agents there were many inflated egos. She had always warmed to people who, despite outstanding achievements, had remained unspoiled and unpretentious.
‘By the way, I have ordered several copies of the book you edited, River of Life, Death and Love, for people I think would enjoy it, one of them being Cassia,’ said Nicolás. ‘She has always wanted to go to India.’
‘So have I,’ said Cally. ‘Have you been?’
‘Only to Delhi and a couple of places in Rajasthan.’
They talked about travelling and finished the bottle of wine. Then Nicolás said, ‘I’ll walk you home.’ He forestalled any argument on her part by adding, ‘I know I don’t need to but I’d like to.’
As they walked the short distance to the casa rural, Cally was sharply aware that, if she turned down his job offer, they might never spend time together again.
Outside her d
oor, he said, ‘Email me when you’ve decided.’
‘Yes, I will. Goodnight, Nicolás.’ She offered her hand.
Her fingers were cold from sitting outside but his hand was warm. Warm and strong and exciting. The contact sent deep tremors through her.
‘I’m not your boss yet,’ he said. ‘I think—in the spirit of the season—a goodnight kiss is allowable.’
At first it seemed he meant a kiss in the Spanish fashion: a brief brushing of lips against cheek, once, twice and a third time. He did kiss her cheeks, but only twice. The third kiss was on her mouth and there was nothing social about it. It was profoundly sensual, stirring her to the very depths of her being in a way that no one else’s kisses ever had or ever would.
The possessive pressure of his lips filled her with an almost overwhelming longing to beg him to take her home with him and make mad, wild, delirious love to her.
He straightened and let go her hand. ‘I think we’ve both had one glass too many,’ he said.
But he looked and sounded as sober as if he’d been drinking green tea. Nor was it three glasses of wine that, for her, made the stars seem so brilliant and the night alive with promise.
‘Goodnight.’ He turned and strode away.
She stayed where she was till he turned the corner and vanished. Then, pulling herself together, she went inside.
Cally spent the flight to London trying to decide what to do if, at the end of her interview with Robert Quarles, he offered her a job. To turn it down would, until recently, have seemed madness. But many people would consider the job offer made by Nicolás equally, if not more, desirable.
It was not beyond possibility that even an old-established firm like Quarles would eventually succumb to the conglomeratisation of the publishing industry so that, even if she didn’t lose her job a second time, her future would be governed by people whose only concern was ‘the bottom line’.
Quite apart from her personal interest in him, working for Nicolás would take her into a field where exciting new developments were being made all the time and where the skills she would acquire would have many applications.
Or, she asked herself, was this line of reasoning yet more self-delusion because she could not bear to cut herself off from him?
Suddenly, as the plane was starting to land, she had a brainwave: an idea that, if she could pull it off, would give her the best of both worlds. But did she have the nerve to suggest it?
Robert Quarles received her in a beautiful, high-ceilinged room whose tall windows were curtained with pale yellow satin with tasselled tie-backs of yellow and blue cord to match the yellow and blue fringe ornamenting the pelmets. The walls were hung with oil paintings of people she took to be some of the firm’s most illustrious nineteenth-century authors. It was all a far cry from the open plan modernity of most publishers’ offices.
As soon as she was shown in, Mr Quarles rose from his large mahogany partners’ desk and came forward to greet her. He was a tall, spare man wearing corduroy trousers and a Tattersall shirt under a tweed coat.
His manner was warm and welcoming. They had scarcely exchanged the preliminary pleasantries before a smiling girl brought in a coffee tray with blue and gold porcelain cups and a plate of interesting biscuits.
At the end of twenty minutes’ discussion, Mr Quarles said, ‘I think you would suit us admirably, Miss Haig. What is your feeling?’
Cally said, ‘A fortnight ago I should have jumped at the chance to work for you, Mr Quarles. I’ve been buying and treasuring your books since I was at school. But a few days ago I was offered a job editing texts for an exciting project to do with the Internet. So I have to make a choice between two irresistible opportunities. Is there, I wonder, any possibility that I could combine the two? Could I edit for you as an out-worker, or is it essential that the successful applicant is here all the time?’
Mr Quarles looked thoughtful for some moments. Finally he said, ‘We are not as dyed-in-the-wool as you might suppose. Many of our authors spend time in distant parts of the world and we keep in touch with them by email. My son is an Internet enthusiast. He has designed a website for us, which will be launched in the New Year. Yes, I think we could accommodate you, Miss Haig. But obviously not at the same salary as if you were an in-house editor.’
That evening Cally had a dinner date with Olivia and Deborah. She arrived at the house they shared some time before either of them came home. Plugging her laptop into the telephone socket in her room, she sent an email to Nicolás accepting the job with Llorca Enterprises and explaining that she was in London, tying up the loose ends of her life there. She wondered how long it would be before he replied.
Olivia came home before Deborah. She had had a wearing day. While she fixed herself a large gin and tonic, Cally explained the situation.
‘But I shan’t leave you in the lurch. I can pay my rent until you find a replacement for me.’
‘That won’t be a problem, darling,’ said Olivia. ‘I know of at least ten people who would give their eye teeth to live here. But are you sure you’re making the right decision? Aren’t you going to miss London and all the things you can do here?’
‘I’ll be spending time in Madrid. It has a lot to offer…wonderful art galleries and museums…palaces and parks…fabulous shops and the famous El Rastro flea market…’
‘Yes, but there’s that famous saying about the weather in Madrid. Nueve meses de invierno, tres meses de inferno. Nine months of winter and three months of hellish heat.’
‘At least it will make a change from twelve months of mainly grey skies and rain,’ said Cally, who couldn’t help being mildly irritated when people spoke as if London was the centre of the world and nowhere else compared with it.
Later, with Deborah, they went for a meal at one of the many excellent restaurants in the neighbourhood. But although she always enjoyed the others’ company, and loved Italian food, Cally couldn’t quite suppress her impatience to check her Inbox for a reply from Nicolás.
It did not come until the following morning when she read, Delighted by your decision. I plan to be in Valdecarrasca, but only briefly, on or about January 10th. Will drive you back to Madrid. Be prepared for very low outdoor temperatures. Nicolás.
Predictably, Mr and Mrs Haig accepted Cally’s news about her two new jobs without asking many questions. Because she wasn’t sure if Nicolás wanted it kept under wraps for the time being, she did not mention his plans for La Soledad but told them as much as she knew about Llorca Enterprises.
As matters turned out it was only the eighth of January, two days after the Spanish had celebrated Three Kings, when Nicolás rang up from La Higuera to say he was back in the village but was staying only two nights and hoped she could be ready to leave at eleven o’clock the day after tomorrow. Her heart beating faster at the sound of his voice, Cally agreed that she could.
Having already said goodbye to her parents, she was ready and waiting when he came for her. Nicolás got out of the car and shook hands before picking up her suitcase and stowing it in the boot.
As they drove out of the village, he did not ask if she had enjoyed the recent festivities and she did not ask if he had.
‘There’s a book I’d like you to read. It’s an excellent overview of the IT industry. I’ve put it in the pocket on your door,’ he said. ‘You might like to make a start on it as we’re going along. You won’t mind if I play a CD, I hope?’
‘Not at all,’ said Cally, masking her disappointment. She had been looking forward to talking to him. But merely to be in his company for however long it took to reach the capital was a secret joy.
The book, which looked rather heavy going, was actually well-written and unexpectedly absorbing. The music was a cellist, accompanied by an orchestra, playing classical pieces some of which she recognised.
Once they were on the autopista, the car surged forward, eating up the kilometres. They had been on the road for two hours when Nicolás stopped for petrol and suggested t
hey had a coffee. A little before three o’clock he parked in the forecourt of a restaurant.
It was a more elegant establishment than the typical motorway cafeteria. It had tablecloths and upholstered chairs and the waiters wore uniform jackets.
When they had made their choices from an extensive menu, Nicolás leaned back in his chair and said, ‘Do you find, when you’re reading in your private life, that you can switch off the critical faculty you use when you’re editing?’
‘Not entirely. But the book you’ve asked me to read either didn’t need much editing or has been so expertly edited that I’ve stayed in reader-mode. Also it’s a field I don’t know much about so I’m more intent on understanding it than being critical. Talking of editing, there’s something I have to tell you.’
‘I’m all ears.’
She explained about the letter from and interview with Robert Quarles. ‘I was terribly torn. They’re pretty well the last bastion of many aspects of publishing that can’t survive the pressures exerted by the chain bookstores. But I also wanted to take the job with…Llorca Enterprises.’ It had been on the tip of her tongue to say ‘with you’ but she managed a last-second switch. ‘Luckily, Mr Quarles is willing to take me on as an out-worker. You have no objection to that I hope? It won’t interfere with my work for your firm, I promise you.’
Nicolás saw the flicker of anxiety in her eyes. He knew enough about the British publishing world to realise that, for Cally, an offer from a house like Quarles, with a long tradition of excellence, would have been almost irresistible.
He was surprised that she hadn’t grabbed it with both hands and told Llorca Enterprises to get lost, though putting it rather more politely. That she hadn’t suggested that her career was not the only thing that mattered to her.
He was also reasonably sure that the job with his outfit, though it offered some interesting challenges, was not of compelling appeal to her—which encouraged him to conclude that she wasn’t as resistant to the attraction between them as she made out.
He said, ‘If you’re sure you can cope with a dual commitment, I have no objection. But it sounds like a heavy workload. Are you certain you can handle it?’
