by Laura Briggs
"That's amazing," I said, truly impressed that he had managed to get Michael's novel even that much after only a couple of months. Now Arnold was blushing.
"Well, perhaps not amazing, but I would say decent. Very decent, considering I'm simply an ex-junior agent of three weeks' trial," he joked. "Knocking on the doors of publishers as a new agent often brings silence and short answers. But I shan't give up without exhausting every opportunity, as any good agent promises his client."
"Michael must be so excited," I said. "Imagine. Having his manuscript at least being considered for review by one of the world's top five publishers. He could go from amateur status to a bestseller by next year if they want it." It was good enough to deserve a place in a top publisher's catalog, as I knew from reading the manuscript in its early stages. "He'll owe that experience to you, too."
"He won't owe it to me entirely," said Arnold blushing again. "You're the one who persuaded me to think of taking this mad leap in the first place."
"I didn't do anything to make Michael's book a potential success," I said. "And you were wanting the chance to promote your own clients. Now you have two or three chances for success." It was a small number, but for a former executive's assistant like Arnold, it was highly ambitious.
"If I ever put any of them on the map," said Arnold. "But we were talking of Michael's chance and where debt is owed — and I do believe it's to you."
I shook my head.
"You gave him your chance, Maisie. You persuaded me to take on his novel instead of yours. And how is your success progressing?" he said. "Have you received any interest in your book?"
"I'm sending it out, fingers crossed," I answered. "I still haven't received any real interest, but it's early days. It'll come, with time." I shrugged, like it was no big deal.
"Would you let me try?" Arnold asked.
"What?" I said, with a short laugh.
"Hear me out," he said. "I know I'm inexperienced and I've yet to secure a contract for any client, but I do think I can sell your book if you give me the chance."
"You have Michael and the others to worry about already," I said.
"And I am knocking on every door possible for each of them," he answered. "But that doesn't mean I have no time for anyone else, and I am keenly aware that if Michael's book sells to a major publisher that I owe you something."
"Arnold —"
"There are possibilities we can explore, Maisie. Hundreds of houses. It doesn't have to be Saxx and Brighton who publishes you, after all."
"They've already expressed their feelings on it," I answered.
"Ah. Mm. Well, that's hardly the end of the world," said Arnold, brushing off this disappointment quickly.
I laughed. "You really don't give up, do you?" I said. "I think you are one of life's great optimists, Arnold, and you put me to shame."
"I have to be, in my business," he answered, pragmatically, and spoiled all his seriousness by fiddling with his glasses again. "I'm as serious about your book now as I was months ago. I always did say I believed it could be promising in its genre, didn't I?"
"I know you did, but you've just heard that my best shot at publishing it failed," I pointed out. He knew undoubtedly that Helen would give it a fair chance on Alli's behalf. "I'm a hard sell even in a popular genre, apparently. You might starve if you take on someone like me, waiting for the manuscript to sell." I laughed at this part, though it wasn't terribly funny. This wasn't a good meeting to be having fresh off my first rejection.
"I do wish you'd let me see if there's a chance for you, Maisie," he said, pleadingly.
Arnold was earnest and well meaning, but his notions about my manuscript's realistic industry value had been foggy before. Then again maybe some fogginess would boost my writer's ego after Helen's clarity.
"If you really want to try, I guess I shouldn't say no," I answered. I didn't have anything to lose, did I?
"You won't regret it," said Arnold. "I won't even ask you to sign a contract. Not unless I find something that suits. Then we'll talk about media rights and so on."
"Arnold, that's not fair." If he did find a publisher for my book, it needed to be as his real client.
"Do let me try," he asked. He held out his hand. "That's my proposition, Maisie. I want to earn your trust as a client, fairly and truly. Do we have a deal?" He squared his chin and waited for my answer.
"Deal," I said. "But I still don't think you should take me on."
"You sound exactly like Michael when you say it," he answered. "But if I can find a publisher for his book, I know I can find one for yours."
He hadn't found one for Michael's just yet, I might point out. But I decided that would hardly be fair, given the excitement in Arnold's eyes for his possible fourth client. I held my tongue and dug into my paella instead, and let Arnold tell me all about the other three writers and their artistic woes.
On another train that evening, this one bound for Cornwall, I had time to think about that promise as I watched the scenery fade into darkness. Arnold was well meaning. I couldn't fault him for feeling bad that I had given Michael my chance. It was the disappointed feeling deep in my chest that had probably made me give the budding agent the opportunity he craved. I should have resisted rather than get both our hopes up — poor Arnold, struggling along with his dignity and market-driven dreams for three other hungry authors.
My agreement had soothed him the way Helen's last remark had soothed the worst of my shattered expectations. It was the fault of my own imagination, all of it building air castles from a few small compliments, and I wasn't the first budding novelist to fall victim to it.
I would be wiser the next time. I knew what to expect the next time, because this interview with Helen had been my best chance. Now I would do what every aspiring writer did, and cross my fingers for the surprise. That one golden acceptance that would let me prove myself.
Shadows outside the train windows reflected my own face. I smiled, to prove it was still there. Tomorrow I would get up, go on, and try again.
____________________
"I had my first rejection," I told Sidney.
He glanced at me. "Really?" he said. Kip, who was trotting at my heels, flattened his little ears as if he'd heard something unpleasant, and let out a low whine.
I nodded. "And my second, too. Now I'm a full-fledged amateur author. If it came with a badge, I could wear it proudly." A little time to think had reconciled me to it — my first big match in the quest for publication hadn't left me down for the count.
I shrugged like it wasn't a big deal, just as I had done with Dean and with Arnold — whose best efforts I decided to leave unmentioned rather than tell Sidney about the young agent who had been crushing on me in London. I didn't have to say what caliber my rejections had been, because that wasn't important, which I hoped he knew. It was the first arrows of being 'not good enough' that had struck me, and the cure was time and mature acceptance.
His hand tightened around mine as he paused by one of the boulders along the road to the Pemarrow. "When?" he asked. His brow furrowed slightly.
"Just this past week," I said. "The first one over the weekend, the second one yesterday." A disappointing email from a familiar contact had been waiting in my inbox when I finished serving dinner at the hotel.
"It stings, I expect," Sidney replied. Sympathy filled his gaze. "But you had sufficient grace to face it and go on, I hope."
My laugh came, but not quite as carefree as I hoped. "I'll survive. And I'll take it in stride after I have time to decide if they're right, or if their opinion is simply that: their opinion."
I watched the beach below, where the Penmarrow's guests were catching the late summer sun in deck chairs and on blankets, my mind perceiving a large patchwork of sand and glowing terrycloth. Far in the distance, a swimmer was trying to surf the waves, which didn't provide enough tricks to be worth it on a day like this.
"You haven't forgotten my advice about self-aggrandizing dreamcrush
ers?" said Sidney.
"Of course not," I said. "I'll be ready to face the next one when it comes, chin held high." I smiled, and it contained less disappointment than my laugh had. "I knew it was coming, and now that it's here, I know it stings exactly as much as I feared, makes me doubt my book as much as I dreaded — and doesn't make me any less certain that this is what I want."
"That's what I wanted to hear," said Sidney, cupping my face with his free hand. "You're clever enough to know which parts matter and which don't, so I've no need to worry about you, have I?"
"Do you worry about me?" I asked. I suspected he did, more than I ever realized, though he almost never let it show. I had only seen the proof of it, and heard mention of it cross Sidney's lips, a grand total of twice.
"Of course," he scoffed. "I would be a poor sort if I didn't. Would you like me half as well if you thought I wasn't concerned about you?"
I had been flattered by it the first time I detected it, and felt the same for his confession about Alli's invitation. "I knew you worried about your dogs," I answered, pretending to be lofty. "But I thought you believed I was clever enough to take care of myself, so I wouldn't be worth the trouble."
"You think I'm clever enough to take care of myself, but you still thought I would let myself be sent to prison falsely," he replied. "I would call that a case of the pot insulting the kettle."
"That's not the same thing. You were in trouble, and as far as anybody could see, you were planning to stay right there and let the law convict you unfairly."
"Only because you see it from your point of view." Sidney's fingers wrapped themselves around my other hand and pulled me along before him as he walked with his back to the road. Showing off, I thought, and pressed my smile inwards.
He drew me closer as he put the road to his back, his hands remaining interlocked with mine. "I am proud of you for facing it," he said. "Honestly. You haven't given up, and that's with disappointments strewing your path. I knew you'd be strong enough when you decided you were ready."
It was hard to keep feeling disappointed on a day this beautiful, even with my wishful thinking crushed to bits. The water was shining below, and the Penmarrow looked tranquil above the sunny beach. Kip scratched at the sand that a storm had blown along the road. Hearing Sidney's words brought me back to that honest conversation between us last spring, which had led in many ways to this very moment. It made me feel bolder and braver than I truly was.
"Maybe I'm indomitable," I suggested, with a little of Sidney's own mischief.
"Maybe you're simply as stubborn as me," he said, with the same gleam in his own eyes. "That will hardly do us good in our future, will it?"
"I think that depends on how we use our stubbornness," I answered. "Are you saying that either of us would be silly enough to deliberately sabotage this beautiful thing?"
I expected an equally-silly reply, but the mischief in Sidney's eyes faded.
"What?" My smile grew dim with perplexity, as if my joke offended him somehow.
"He's not coming up," he said.
He was looking over my shoulder, at the beach below. When I turned my head, I could see the surfboard floating far away on the water, but no surfer. A dark shape bobbed once above the white foam, an arm reached as if grasping, then both vanished.
Sidney scrambled past the boulders and rock ledge, sliding down the sea grass to the beach as I followed. By the time I reached the shore, he had already kicked off his boots, still laced, and was splashing into the oncoming waves.
"Back, Kip," I ordered the terrier, who was racing towards the water, barking madly. Sidney turned before I caught up with him, the sea washing against the toes of my sneakers as it soaked his trouser's knees.
"Stay here," he said.
"But Sidney —"
"I know these currents better than you do," he said. "I can take the risk." He wasn't ordering me, but his tone was strong, almost fierce, and it broke my argument before I could make it.
He dove in as soon as the water deepened and began swimming hard. The surfboard was caught in a ripple pulling it out towards the open water, and I didn't see the surfer until I saw part of his arm emerge.
Kip kept barking, body stiff and alert as we watched the swimmer struggling, and Sidney fighting his way towards them. Several people on the beach had begun to notice what was happening, for the bright red surfboard was riding a wave on its own, and getting pushed under by the white foam.
"Where's the surfer?" someone asked.
"Where's the man who was riding that board?"
"There's a man in distress out there — a man drowning in the bay!" The murmur rippled through the hotel's beach crowd, turning to panic. Someone called for help, and I saw Katy running up the steps to the hotel. Someone rushed past me — Riley the porter had tossed his tray of drinks and was plunging into the water also.
The murmur grew louder, as did Kip's barking. Two shapes moved in the direction of the now-vanished swimmer. When they disappeared, I held my breath, my fingers closed in two tight fists at my side. Watching was helpless inaction, and I didn't like the way it felt.
I could see Sidney emerge. The swimmer was locked in his arm, head and neck above water. His body looked limp, even from far away. Sidney's progress towards shore was slow until Riley caught up, then there were two people towing the drowning man to safety.
I heard cheers from the beach as they reached the shallows, and even the mysterious widow had risen from her sheltered beach chair to watch as the two rescuers reached the shore.
The man's limp arms were draped around their necks, his feet dragging in the wet sand as Sidney and Riley carried him. I could see blood streaming down the swimmer's forehead, made watery by the sea's deluge.
They dropped him on his back on the sand, both of them landing beside him. Riley coughed up sea water on the beach as Sidney leaned over the swimmer's body.
"Is he breathing, mate?" Riley managed to gasp.
"He is. Shallow, but steady. He must have struck his head on the board. Freak wave." Sidney's reply came between short breaths. He checked the swimmer's pupils, leaned aside for a moment to cough in the manner of Riley.
"First aid kit in the shed," Riley began, but didn't finish as Brigette appeared through the crowd, Katy behind her. She dropped to her knees in the sand by the victim and the two rescuers, her uniform and ginger bun looking unusually harried and mussed.
"The doctor is on his way," she said. "Is he all right?"
"He will be," said Sidney.
"Are you all right?" Her voice was anxious as she addressed the hotel's porter. She put her hand on his sleeve.
"Give me a moment," Riley answered, between coughs.
"Katy told me she saw you leap in without so much as a flotation ring," Brigette said. "It was completely brave, and completely foolish of you to take no precautions whatsoever. You could have been killed out there." It almost sounded like hysteria coming from her lips. And the furrows on her brow — were those from concern?
"I know," he croaked. He looked into Brigette's face now, their gazes meeting. Roses bloomed in Brigette's cheeks, and suddenly the interim head of housekeeping seemed aware of herself. She scrambled to her feet again, brushing the sand from her uniform as she straightened her chin.
"Since I assume you're fit for duty, you can go back to it as soon as the doctor arrives to see to this guest," she said, in her primmest business tone. "There's a spare uniform for you in the staff cupboard." With that, she made her way towards the steps again.
"Have a heart, Brigette. I just swallowed half the sea." Riley's protests were aimed at her back. With a groan, he flopped back on the sand beside the open first aid kit, a bandage from which was being pressed over the swimmer's wound by Katy, a little groan coming from the man's lips as consciousness returned.
A little knot of concerned guests pressed closer, held back by Norman, who was grumbling about accident scenes and people gawking at them. The mysterious widow and a few other mor
e dignified guests were still standing and watching from a distance, for no one had gone back to their beach towels or toys yet. Someone brought a beach umbrella to shade the half-conscious victim, and towels for all three.
I collected Sidney's boots, then crouched beside him as he sat with his elbows on his knees, dripping sea water onto the beach as his breathing slowed to normal. Kip was covering him with kisses, licking the salt from his hands and his chin.
"Will he be all right?" I asked.
He nodded. "Bit of rest. Maybe a couple of stitches. A little more awareness next time he's in the deep."
"Are you all right?"
He lifted his face and smiled at me. "Just short of breath," he answered. He wiped the salt water — and dog kisses — from his face. "And a bit more wet than I'd like."
I held out my hand and Sidney took hold of it, letting me help him to his feet. His arm was around me as we walked away from the beach scene, towards the rock ledge along the road above, where he sat down on one of the boulders long enough to slip on his shoes.
We didn't say much as we walked to Sidney's shed. I realized my own heart was still pounding. I thought Sidney was shaking a little bit, but not as badly as last time, when he fought a tricky current to save me from a leg cramp. The sound of his breath rattling slightly, and the lingering tension in his arm, told me the effects of fear and adrenaline hadn't completely disappeared.
As soon as we crossed the threshold, I found a bath towel draped over a kitchen chair, which Sidney used to dry his face and hair. The dripping hotel one now lay on the shed floor, beside Sidney's soaked button-down shirt. His clothes were clinging to his skin, and the shed's atmosphere was cool enough that goosebumps rose.
"I'll get another towel from the bathroom," I said. "You're dripping water everywhere you step."
"We'll need a blanket-size one in that case, and I only have ordinary ones," he answered, jokingly. "At least this will wash a little dirt from the floor and Mrs. Graves won't cluck so dismally over the state of things when she peeks in."
