Knowing You

by Samantha Tonge

  I shake my head and he laughs.

  ‘You know I only say things like that to wind you up.’

  It’s true. Hugo’s no misogynist. He’s popular with the opposite sex because he shows respect. It’s his commitment that’s lacking and he rarely dates the same woman for longer than a few weeks.

  His desk props me up. ‘I wanted to surprise Lenny. Take him to lunch.’

  ‘I hope he ended up paying as recompense for you braving the cold.’

  ‘Not exactly. He was in the waffle house with someone else.’

  ‘Business?’ Hugo yawns.

  What can I say? Casey Wilde’s book isn’t out on submission yet.

  ‘Networking.’ I gaze at Hugo. He knows everything about everyone, from professional achievements to random details. That includes me. A bookseller once emailed because Hugo told him I baked the best brownies this side of the Atlantic. He wanted the recipe for his Californian wife’s birthday.

  ‘Lenny was meeting Beatrix Bingham.’

  It’s not how Hugo reacts – it’s how he doesn’t, by concentrating on the signing-in book even harder, as if it were a newly discovered Dickens manuscript. He’s remarkably quiet.

  ‘Have you ever met her?’ I ask and raise my eyebrows. Hugo and I get on well. Sometimes we eat lunch together. He’ll give me the run-down on any agent I’m due to meet and of course, we’ll talk books. Hugo loves Young Adult fiction. We’re both huge fans of John Green. He’ll try to show me photos of his latest date but I always refuse, citing no need. She’ll have straightened hair, look athletic and well-groomed. We joke that his type is the antithesis of me.

  ‘I’ve seen her a few times, most recently at Waterstones Piccadilly for a book launch last month.’ He runs a finger down signatures and focuses on a name that didn’t sign out.

  ‘No doubt she’s on your hit list even though she’s way out of your league.’ I keep the tone light.

  ‘I’d probably be in with a chance. She likes younger men.’

  We don’t speak for a few moments and I realise I’ve folded my arms.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask eventually.

  No response.

  ‘Hugo?’

  The phone rings. He picks it up. Expresses sympathy. Hangs up. ‘That was Gary Smith. His bike skidded on ice. He’s okay but the chain’s broken. He’ll have to reschedule.’ Hugo shakes his head. ‘What sort of idiot cycles in this weather?’

  ‘An ambitious author who combines novel-writing with another job to pay the bills. Gary doesn’t like spending money on public transport. Anyway, what were you saying about Beatrix?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much. She’s recently bought a Mazda MX-5.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘Don’t pretend you have any idea what that looks like.’

  Our eyes smile.

  ‘What’s more, next week she’s moving into a penthouse flat overlooking the Thames. Her Instagram shots look amazing. It must have cost a packet.’

  ‘She deserves it – but that doesn’t explain what you meant about her and younger men.’

  Hugo runs a hand through his slicked back blonde hair. ‘Just another conspiracy theory. You know how publishing is full of them, like—’

  ‘So what’s the theory about Beatrix Bingham?’

  He shrugs. ‘It’s just… take John Bennett—’

  ‘Who wrote the Earth Gazer series?’

  ‘Yes. He’d just left university. They dated for six months.’ He stares at the signing-in book once more. ‘Funny how she ditched him once the deal was signed.’

  ‘Perhaps the relationship just came to its natural end. Or she felt their professional relationship was more important.’

  ‘But then there was that young editor she dated who started out at Bloomsbury,’ he continued, warming to his subject. ‘All the books he worked on hit the Sunday Times List. He moved to Alpaca Books. Their romance ended shortly afterwards.’

  ‘If you’re implying that she was able to just use… I mean, really… these are intelligent men.’

  ‘Who partly think with their pants.’

  ‘Hugo. You can’t say this about her. And would she really take such risks? It’s a dangerous strategy that could so easily backfire.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘And it’s slander apart from anything else. Beatrix’s form as an influential member of the industry should tell you that her editing skills are attractive enough.’

  ‘I’m not denying that. Nor implying she’s falling back on womanly wiles. Really, I see her more as a ruthless player who’s in charge and will use any extra tools in her arsenal to cut the deal when required. If anything, I admire her.’

  ‘I still think—’

  ‘Violet, this theory isn’t something I’ve created. Speculation has been rife for a while. And you’re right – it is dangerous, she should be more careful. Her reputation and professionalism could be at stake. There’s a difference between ambition and recklessness. It’s becoming increasingly obvious that if a younger man has got something she wants, Beatrix uses whatever assets she’s got to acquire it. Not that she’d stand a chance with Lenny, obviously – what with him dating one of the most genuine people I know.’ He gives me a good-humoured wink. ‘And Lenny is only an assistant. It’s not as if he’s got his hands on anything for her to chase, right?’

  He answers the phone and I head back to the lift, glad he can’t see my face.

  Chapter 3

  I shuffle to get comfortable on the sofa, appreciating the soft velvet throw after an afternoon sitting on office chairs. I chose the yellow, terracotta and cream colour for furnishings to make our home look as cosy as possible, like it’s a summer afternoon all year around. Flossie is lying next to me and lifts her head. We exchange looks before she curls into a cinnamon swirl.

  The flat’s layout is simple with two decent-sized bedrooms. The main one has a modest balcony, a favourite spot even though it overlooks a busy road. There is just enough room for my window boxes and a line of washing. I gaze at the wall above my fireplace. To the right of the rectangular mirror is my cuckoo clock. Uncle Kevin the financial whizz gave it to me years ago after a business trip to Munich. The wooden bird has just shot out to announce eight o’clock.

  I stroke Flossie’s back. She purrs and gives a shuddering stretch before her body pings back into a circle. I get up to check on Lenny’s favourite lasagne. The kitchen is small but I prefer it enclosed so that cooking smells don’t invade the living area. The tomato sauce is a bit dry now. It’s a shame Lenny couldn’t get home earlier, but he’s doing everything possible to be considered for promotion. His agency normally closes its doors at six, but over the last month he has signed several new authors and Lenny likes to show goodwill by putting in extra hours. I consider taking the dish out of the oven when a key turns in the lock. I open the oven door and put in the garlic bread before going back into the lounge.

  ‘That weather… I’m surprised the busses are still running.’ He takes off his black mackintosh and shakes it in the corridor before coming in. Lenny hangs it up on the coat stand to his left. The cold air has made his skin glow. His eyes sparkle. I head over and we embrace. If I ever have a bad day and get a sinking feeling, Lenny’s hugs are like buoys that keep me afloat. He wrinkles his nose. ‘Mmm. Beef. Pasta.’ He squeezes me tight for a second. ‘You really are too good to me. I… I appreciate it.’

  ‘Guess what’s for dessert.’ Nothing makes me feel better than making others happy. It started when I was old enough to look after Mum, in little ways, when she was working all hours. I did what I could to make her day easier, at first preparing straightforward meals like beans on toast. Eventually I progressed to omelettes. Mum was always so grateful and her worry lines became less deep if I also dusted or cleaned the bathroom.

  ‘Not chocolate tart?’

  ‘Opportunity knocked last night, seeing as you were out all evening at that book launch.’

  ‘And thanks for ironing me a shirt for today. I�
��ll just grab a really quick shower and then fetch your Valentine’s present.’ He disappears into our bedroom and comes back with a small gift bag. I don’t need to open it. He always gets me the same book voucher and milk chocolates for birthdays, Christmas and Valentine’s. It might not be the most imaginative gift, but it’s perfect for me.

  As promised, he’s ready ten minutes later and we sit down to eat. Lenny uncorks wine and I serve the food. I’ve decided to broach the subject of Beatrix but I’m not sure how. It’s still hardly sunk in that my idol could potentially be after my boyfriend. He needs to know about Hugo’s claims and that she’ll do anything to acquire Alien Hearts. He’s on the cusp of becoming a fully-fledged agent and looking for that one big deal that will finally impress his agency. Lenny has been desperate for promotion. That makes him vulnerable to being exploited. He’s already secretly shown Beatrix the manuscript. If she tells anyone, that could jeopardise his professional integrity. His agency won’t want a partner who isn’t transparent.

  We eat the lasagne and playfully fight over the last chunk of garlic bread. After dessert we retire to the sofa. He pushes Flossie off and we snuggle up.

  ‘Beatrix’s imprint sounds interesting,’ I say. ‘Under her leadership it’s bound to be a huge success.’

  Lenny removes his arm from around my shoulder and picks up his glass of wine. ‘She’s a very persuasive woman – and a hard worker.’ He clears his throat. ‘Sorry about lunch time. I think the build up to Out There Stories’ launch is taking its toll. I’m sure she didn’t mean to be rude.’

  I pour myself another glass of wine. Lenny touches my hand and his face splits into a grin.

  ‘Two glasses? Violet? What’s going on?’

  As our skin touches, I feel the familiar jolt of attraction. In physics, neutrality is a rather wonderful thing. It produces stability. It’s achieved through the attraction of opposites. Electrons and protons. Lenny and me.

  I run my finger around the rim. ‘Can I talk to you about something?’

  ‘Everything okay?’ He puts down his wine and gives me his full attention.

  I tell him what Hugo said without revealing my source.

  Lenny shakes his head. ‘What absolute rubbish. Nothing but jealously spawns these rumours. You should know that.’

  ‘I was surprised – but what other explanation is there?’ Since talking to Hugo, I’d thought of more examples. Like the debut science fiction author she was known to have dated and snatched from HarperCollins. Word got around that they’d offered him a generous advance and the industry was flummoxed when he signed with Alpaca Books.

  ‘Beatrix is at the top of her game,’ says Lenny. ‘She doesn’t need to trade on her good looks. She’d heard about Alien Hearts and became so excited when I told her more about the plot. She didn’t ask to see it, I offered. Beatrix is a complete professional. Showing her is no big deal. She’ll keep schtum.’

  ‘You know she’s an absolute hero of mine. I just thought I ought to mention it. You’ve slogged hard to get this far and are on the verge of getting your own author list. I wouldn’t want to see your reputation questioned in any way if the agency found out you’d shown the manuscript around.’

  He pushes up his sleeves. ‘If she’s got a track record of ensnaring younger men, why doesn’t she just go directly to Casey?’

  ‘Because I realised at lunch time you haven’t told her he’s really a man.’

  Like a starstruck fan, Lenny once showed me an author photo, saying he wrote so well about women that he must have been on hundreds of dates. Casey’s tall, striking, with jet black hair and inky eyes. Lenny says Casey’s ambitious and driven and is unsure whether to reveal his male identity, concerned that it might put off readers.

  ‘Look, I’m not worried about Beatrix. Can’t we leave it at that? Let’s not spend our special evening talking about her – or Casey. How about I make coffee?’

  He strokes my arm. Lenny’s touch feels so good. From the first time we had sex, it was as if a switch had been flipped. It illuminated a universe of sensual pleasure.

  I meet his boyish smile. Dean Martin’s Volare plays in the background on one of the old CDs that Uncle Kevin couldn’t take with him when he moved to America. I intertwine my fingers with Lenny’s. We stand up. My hands slip around his neck. His go around my back. We sway side to side in perfect rhythm and I close my eyes. Our mouths meet. His hands trail my spine as we move as close as we can.

  As the song comes to an end, I reluctantly pull away. We chat over coffee. I tell him about a new author we’ve signed who’s well-known for her bestselling erotica. She’s secretly always wanted to write children’s stories and has been given a two-book deal under a pseudonym.

  ‘And how was your day?’ I ask.

  ‘Busy. Sorry, again, that we couldn’t have lunch.’ He sighed. ‘After meeting Trixie, things got a bit boring, to be honest. An afternoon spent sending out rejection letters is far from inspiring. It’s hard, you know, still doing so much of the mundane stuff. If I don’t get my own list this year…’ His downturned mouth reflects the missing words.

  ‘You will, Lenny. If not where you are, then at another agency. You’ve gained so much experience and got yourself out there, networking, in a way I never could. It’ll happen, there’s no doubt about it. Keep on keeping on.’

  He takes my hand, lifts it and presses his lips against my palm.

  ‘We’ve both come such a long way,’ I say, gently. ‘Remember when we first met and were still finding our way around the city?’

  ‘It took me long enough to become familiar with the British Library. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’

  I rub his arm. ‘It won’t be long before authors are queuing up to sign with you.’ I kiss him on the cheek. Lenny clears his throat, gets up and disappears into the kitchen.

  ‘I’ll tidy up,’ he calls.

  I head into our bedroom to fetch his present, but first I pick his damp towel off the floor and drape it over the radiator. I drag the long, wrapped box out from under the bed. Lenny took up golf a while back so I splashed out and bought him a top-of-the-range putter. I’m just about to leave when Lenny’s phone gives a low buzz on the bed. I pick it up to give it to him and the text notification on the front flashes at me.

  It’s from Beatrix.

  Without thinking, I read the first line.

  2001

  ‘I’m going to miss you, Violet,’ Uncle Kevin says as we sit in the park near my new home. It’s a place with blackbirds and robins, with twitchy-tailed squirrels and a rainbow of flowers planted to spell the word Welcome. Our legs are stretched out. We’re both wearing odd socks. Uncle Kevin says life isn’t about making things match up.

  We’ve just eaten ice cream and I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Uncle Kevin rolls his eyes and points to my T-shirt. I look down and straightaway he catches my nose with one of his fingers. I giggle and pretend to look cross. There’s no stain on my top. He catches me out every time with this trick.

  One of the swings becomes free and Uncle Kevin jerks his head. I follow him over and sit down. He goes behind and reminds me to hold on tight. Then he pushes hard. I squeal as the swing rises high in the air. It’s as if I’m flying and I pretend I’m sitting in Enid Blyton’s Wishing-Chair.

  Eventually we end up back on the bench. We talk about the latest book I’m reading and share a water bottle. Most of my friends won’t because they worry about the spit. Uncle Kevin says I’m a practical person. He says that’s a gift, but I’m not sure what he means. Sharing water bottles doesn’t involve pretty paper or surprises.

  The two of us fall silent for a moment.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ he says.

  ‘That I’m going to miss you too,’ I say and kick at the ground, almost taking the head off a beetle with a back so shiny that it looks like metal.

  We’re sitting underneath an oak tree in Applegrove Park, six houses down from ours. It’s small with a slide and
two swings. The fencing at the back is broken and behind it is the much bigger Applegrove Wood, which runs along the back of all the houses. It looks dark and exciting. I’m glad for the shade from the oak, my favourite tree. The curvy outline of its leaves looks as if someone has been doodling. My underarms are sticky and strands of hair stick to my face.

  I’ve been dreading tomorrow for weeks. It’s two days after my birthday. I turned seven yesterday. Mum says seven is very grown up. So I guess that means I mustn’t make a fuss.

  Chapter 4

  I turn into a parking space outside the Sunflower retirement home. It looks more like a hotel, with the white pillars and regimented flower beds. It’s a Sunday afternoon and three weeks since Valentine’s Day. I drive forwards and then backwards a few times to get the angle of the car just right. My neighbour Kath is in the passenger seat and looks at her watch.

  ‘Ten to two. You know the others. They won’t be ready early. Let’s just stay here for a moment.’

  About nine months ago, I started to give Kath lifts here to see her friend, Nora. She introduced me and we got to talking about books. Another resident joined in. That’s when I hit upon the idea of setting up a book club.

  This is the first meeting I’ve felt up to attending since I found Beatrix’s text.

  ‘Perhaps we should wait in the reception area,’ I say brightly and shiver. ‘We’ll catch our death staying in the car.’ The door squeaks as I open it. A hand gently holds me back.

  ‘How are things going? You’ve been a treasure these last few weeks, helping me with that shoulder cream as well as dropping off shopping as usual, but you’ve not mentioned Lenny. I’ve not pushed, but—’

  ‘What is there to say?’

  Spindly fingers poking out of a practical anorak squeeze my arm. ‘I’m just worried, sweetheart. Are you eating properly? You just picked at the cake I offered you yesterday.’