by Marian Keyes
‘But he’s married.’
Yeah, but if he’s as serious about you as you say, he probably wants to meet us.’
‘You mean you want to meet him. No, Shayna –’
‘You’re going to have to normal this thing out. Come on Sunday for brunch. I’ll get Mum to cook and mind the little horrors. We’ll get pissed and bond. One-thirty suit?’
Oh Jesus. ‘No, Shayna. My time with him is too precious. I don’t want to share him with anyone else.’
‘One-thirty.’ Shayna set her jaw.
‘No.’Jojo fixed her stare on Shayna.
‘One-thirty.’
‘No.’
‘One-thirty.’
‘No.’
‘One-thirty.’
‘No.’
‘One-thirty.’
‘No.’
‘Oh my God!’
‘What?’
‘It’s one of the Wyatts.’
Jojo swivelled to look at the crowds flooding out of the theatre and into the bar and saw a tall, blonde woman.
‘It’s Magda!’ Her favourite. Shayna’s too.
Magda spotted them. ‘Jojo! You gorgeous girl!’ They embraced. ‘And Shayna! How lovely to see you.’
She wasn’t as nice to Shayna as she was to me, Jojo thought.
‘Is Becky here?’
‘No, just us,’ Shayna mumbled. She sounded apologetic.
‘We’re going for supper.’ Magda gestured at the nimbus of beauty that surrounded her. Seven or eight perfect men and women. ‘Join us,’ she placed a beseeching hand on Jojo’s arm.
She sounded like she really meant it but Jojo didn’t feel right about gatecrashing so she made a lame excuse about an early start the next day.
‘If you’re sure, but you must promise to ring me and we’ll go out. Promise me!’
Then Magda was gone and the room seemed a lot less glittering.
‘She was nicer to you.’ Shayna said quietly.
‘Yeah. Yeah, she was. She called me “gorgeous”.’
There was a moment’s silence, then they collapsed in on each other, shaking with laughter. ‘You know what we are?’ Shayna concluded. ‘We’re pitiful.’
32
Friday morning
Tania came back with a further fifty thousand, which was less than Jojo was expecting. Then Olive counter-bid twenty thousand.
‘Why so glum?’ Manoj asked Jojo. But he knew. ‘You think it won’t get over the £1.1 million Richie Gant got for Fast Cars?
‘It’s not over yet.’
But Tania’s next bid was for ten thousand, and Olive’s counter-bid was also for ten. Both editors were almost at their ceilings and the bidding stood at £1.09 million.
‘You need ten grand more,’ Manoj said.
‘Twenty. I want to beat him, not just match him.’
Another five from Tania followed, then five from Olive –then three from Tania! It had passed the marker set by Richie Gant. Only just, but so what.
In small increments Jojo managed to inch the money up until both editors were at £1.12 million.
‘Twenty grand more,’ Manoj observed. ‘You can stop now.’
But Jojo was going to have to stop anyway. There was no more money and because the bids were equal, a beauty contest would be held, where Nathan would be wheeled around to both publishers, who’d put on a bit of a show, then Nathan would decide who he liked best.
Manoj made the calls. ‘Next Thursday morning,’ he said. ‘You go to Dalkin Emery at ten and Southern Cross at eleven-thirty.’
Midnight, Friday, Jojo’s flat
Her buzzer rang. Mark. He’d dispatched the posse of rowdy Italians into the night, then arrived, uninvited, at Jojo’s.
‘I wanted to see you. I got rid of the Italians,’ he yelled, a little drunkenly, into the intercom. ‘I got a cab.’
‘What do you want, a medal?’
She was happy to see him, like, a lot, but no way was he to get into the habit of just dropping in for a quick bonk whenever he wanted, before heading home to his wife.
She stood at her door and watched him climb the last section of stairs.
‘I could’ve had my other guy here. How lucky is that?’
He arrived at the top and pulled her to him, with all the ardour of the pissed person. ‘There’d better not be anyone else.’
‘The married man tells me I’d better not have someone else!’
‘You’re right.’ He wrestled his mobile from his pocket. ‘This has gone on long enough, I’m going to tell Cassie I love you and –’
She grabbed the phone. ‘Give me that, you drunken moron. Seeing as you’re here, I’ve got plans for you.’
Twenty minutes later
Jojo rolled off him; they were both slick with sweat and fighting for breath.
‘That was… that was…’ he heaved.
‘Atrocious?’
‘Yes. You?’
‘The worst ever.’
‘All fired up after the auction?’
‘Yeah,’ she grinned, ‘all that testosterone.’
‘You played a high risk game.’
‘But it worked.’
‘So tell me, did you set out to beat Richie Gant?’
‘Course I did.’
She touched the tip of her tongue to his shoulder. Salt on smooth skin. Then she buried her face in his neck and inhaled his scent. Oh, he was delicious.
5.45 the following morning
They jerked awake simultaneously, looked at the clock and stared at each other, wild-eyed and sticky-up-haired with fear.
‘Shit!’ Jojo said. ‘Mark, quick, get up, go home!’
Fuck!’ Pale and clearly hungover, Mark hot-footed it out of the door, still dressing himself. ‘I’ll ring you later.’
‘OK. Good luck.’
Seconds later Jojo heard the main front door slam; he must have body-surfed the five flights. Her stomach was a hard ball of apprehension: this was crunch time. Cassie would know, Mark would tell her, they’d break it to the kids, it would be awful, he’d move out of Putney, he’d move in here, they’d be a couple and she wasn’t sure she was ready yet.
The day was endless as she waited to hear from him. She went to yoga, on the premise that it was so nasty it would take her mind off the waiting. Which it did admirably but only for an hour. When she returned home she half-expected to find Mark waiting outside with a suitcase. But nothing. And no messages. Not good. No news is bad news. Mark and Cassie were probably locked in a horrible cycle of tears and recrimination. Her insides shrank at the vision.
She made Becky go shopping with her. They spent the afternoon in Whiteleys, Jojo checking her mobile for messages every fifteen minutes. Nothing. And she hated the powerlessness of not being able to ring him.
He finally called on Saturday evening when Jojo was at Becky and Andy’s.
‘Is it him?’ Becky mouthed, her eyes wide with apprehension.
Jojo nodded brusquely.
‘It’s him,’ Becky whispered to Andy and they sat and held hands, like they were waiting for a diagnosis of cancer.
Jojo got up and went into the hallway. ‘So what happened? Are we busted?’
‘No.’
She exhaled, doing it properly for the first time that day. But lacing the relief was some disappointment. In her head, he was already living with her and she’d made peace with the idea. Had become quite happy about it, actually.
‘So tell me.’
It transpired that Cassie had actually slept right through the night and only noticed that Mark wasn’t there when he barged in at five to seven with his over-rehearsed excuse – long-week-late-night-rowdy-Italians-residents’-bar-comfy-sofa-fell-asleep-here’s-their-number-if-you-don’t-believe-me.
But Cassie did believe him – Jojo decided she was dumber than she’d already thought – and Jojo and Mark spent much of Sunday on a subdued post-mortem. ‘That was too close for comfort,’ they agreed. ‘We’ve got to make sure it never happens again.
’
It happened again, four nights later. Even though the previous time had caused such horrible anxiety, it hadn’t been the end of the world; they’d gotten away with it. And they got away with it again.
33
Thursday morning, Dalkin Emery
Jojo stepped out of the lift, then beckoned Nathan to follow.
‘Right,’ he swallowed, putting a tentative foot out of the lift and onto the hallowed floor of Dalkin Emery. He felt like kissing it.
‘Don’t be nervous,’ Jojo rubbed his back gently. ‘They’re only publishers – who want to give you shedloads of money and publish your novel. Most authors would kill to be in your shoes.’
She clicked down the corridor and smiled a breezy hello at the receptionist. ‘Morning, Shirley.’
‘Morning, Jojo.’
‘This is Nathan Frey.’
Shirley smiled politely at the pale, dazed-looking man – the reason she’d had to come to work at seven-thirty this morning and spread sand all over the boardroom floor. ‘They’re in the boardroom. I’ll just tell them you’re here –’
‘I know the way.’
‘Yes, so I’ll just –’
But she was gone, Nathan trotting meekly after her.
Kicking their heels in the boardroom were all the high-ups of Dalkin Emery: the heads of sales, marketing and publicity and their assistants, as well as the commissioning editor, Tania Teal, and her publisher. Love and the Veil was the most important pitch they’d done all year.
‘Bloody Jojo, she’s always late,’ Tania Teal observed, sticking her head out of the door, then whipping it back in again. ‘Christ, here she comes!’
A scramble as everyone prepared themselves, then Jojo was at the door, shepherding in Nathan who was trying to smile, dots of perspiration on his upper lip.
Dick Barton-King, Head of Sales, straightened himself and peered through the eye-hole of his burkha. He could see very little, which was a pity: he loved Jojo.
Under the yards of musty fabric, he swam about searching for his hem so he could shake hands. He loathed this burkha. It had been Marketing’s idea – of course. So why couldn’t one of them have worn it? How come they got away with just wearing National Trust tea-towels on their heads?
Nor had he been given one of the toy machine-guns that Tania Teal herself had personally gone out and purchased. It wasn’t fair.
Pitches for ‘big’ books had become more and more elaborate. But never mind a roomful of sand and other Afghani accoutrements, Jojo thought: let’s see the colour of their marketing budget.
They took their seats and the team sprang into action with dazzling talk of television advertising, a three-week publicity tour, a hundred thousand print run, guaranteed profiles in the quality newspapers…
‘The Observer would want to interview me?’ Nathan sounded delighted.
‘Yes,’ Juno, Chief Publicist, said. ‘I’m sure we could set it up.’ Well, maybe they could. Probably.
Suggested jacket covers had already been mocked up, as had advertising posters and projected sales figures. Even Jojo, who was used to publishers’ jazz, had to admit it was an impressive display.
As for Nathan, he was so overwhelmed that at one stage Jojo was worried that he’d faint.
When it was all over, the Dalkin Emery staff watched them go.
‘That seemed to go well,’ Tania Teal said quietly, unzipping her boot and tipping a little pyramid of sand out of it.
‘Yes,’ said Fran Smith, her assistant, looking around with a sigh at the sand she’d have to sweep up.
Jojo assisted Nathan into a taxi and took him to Southern Cross where Olive Liddy and her team did a very different presentation. No sand, no burkhas, no toy machine-guns. Just talk of Booker prizes.
Though they were offering the same advance as Dalkin Emery they had provided for a much smaller publicity budget. They made it sound like a good thing. ‘Overkill can ruin a book,’ Olive said earnestly. ‘Good books don’t need to be advertised in shopping malls and tube stations. They speak for themselves.’
When pressed by Olive, Nathan agreed that, no, he didn’t want to be lumped in with the likes of John Grisham and Tom Clancy, all over airports, bookshops and the best-seller lists. That building a quality reputation based on good reviews and word-of-mouth recommendations was far more him.
When the meeting ended Jojo took Nathan to a nearby pub and tried to provide a balanced view. ‘Even books as wonderful as yours can benefit from advertising.’
‘It’s my book,’ Nathan said, a little angrily, his head turned by the idea of winning literary prizes. ‘I want to go with Southern Cross.’
Oh here we go, Jojo thought. It’s started already.
34
Friday morning
‘It’s in,’ Manoj said, spinning a copy of Book News onto her desk. ‘Page five.’
Book News, 2 March
RECORD-BREAKING SALE
Love and the Veil, a debut novel set in Afghanistan, has been sold to Olive Liddy at Southern Cross for an alleged £1.12 million, the highest sum ever paid in the UK for a first novel. Described by Ms Liddy as ‘the book of the decade’, its author Nathan Frey is a former school teacher who lived as a woman in Afghanistan for six months while researching the book. The sale was agented by Jojo Harvey of Lipman Haigh who has enjoyed a recent run of success. She also represents Miranda England, who is number one in this week’s mass market chart with her fourth novel. The underbidder, Tania Teal at Dalkin Emery, was said to be ‘devastated’.
Devastated just about described it, Jojo thought. She’d sobbed when Jojo rang her the previous afternoon to break the news. It was one of the hardest things about her job, having to let people down, but there can only be one winner.
‘Manoj, could you go out and buy a cake?’
‘We’re celebrating?’
‘No, Louisa is coming to visit this afternoon, with baby Stella.’
Manoj was rattled. ‘Louisa?’ But he rallied gamely. ‘Then perhaps she can tell me where she filed the Miranda England contract. And you say she was efficient?’
9.45 Friday morning
Jocelyn Forsyth knocked on her door, ‘Heartiest congratulations, my dear.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Everything sewn up? All the small print, etcetera, etcetera?’
‘Nearly. We’re just hanging plastic.’
‘Hanging plastic?’
Oh no.
‘Another of your wonderful law enforcement adages?’
‘No. It’s a firefighter one.’
His face was eager and enquiring, so she said, ‘When the fire is finally out, they have to secure the building, so they hang plastic over the windows.’
‘Hanging plastic. Marvellous.’
Next to arrive was Jim Sweetman who shone his glorious smile around the office.
‘Congratulations. It should be fun selling the movie rights.’
‘Does that mean I get a trip to LA?’
‘Depends. How’s your golf?’
‘My golf?’
‘Oh yes, you need to be able to play golf to bond with these movie types.’
10.56 Friday morning
‘See you got lucky, Cagney.’
Jojo looked up. Richie Gant was standing at her office door and she put down her pen. ‘What? You mean my £1.12 million deal for Nathan Frey?’
‘How lucky was that?’
Yeah,’ Jojo smiled. ‘And you know what? The harder I work, the luckier I get.’
His mouth was working like he wanted to say something but couldn’t get it together. He was visibly in the grip of strong emotion.
‘Aww,’Jojo tipped her head to one side. ‘Who needs a hug?’
She looked at the clock on her phone. ‘It’s time for the weekly meeting anyway. Let me walk you up there.’ She tried to put her hand on his back but he scooted away.
At the meeting, a major fuss was made of Jojo’s deal – the ‘book of the decade’. The partners we
re especially thrilled as they would receive a direct cut of the commission, but even the ordinary agents were delighted; all except for Richie Gant.
‘How many books of the decade is that now?’ he asked. ‘Must be at least six.’
This caused unease. Everyone got jealous but most people were smart enough to keep it to themselves.
‘That’s not very sporting,’ Dan Swann protested.
‘Whatcha expect?’ Jocelyn Forsyth asked, in a strange, strangled voice. ‘The chap’s a rookie. I say we wank him off and get him out of here.’
‘Jerk,’ Jojo whispered as the room filled up with stricken silence. ‘Jerk, not wank.’
Friday afternoon
From two-thirty onwards, the female employees of Lipman Haigh clustered into Jojo’s office – even Lobelia French and Aurora Hall put their hatred of Jojo to one side – bearing bite-sized socks, pink sweatpants, denim pinafores and miniature T-shirts emblazoned with glittery princesses.
‘Wouldn’t you just love them for yourself,’ Pam sighed.
‘Always.’
Then Louisa appeared around the door and grinned, ‘Hiiiiiii.’
‘Your hair!’ Jojo yelped. Louisa’s sharp haircut had grown out so her face was framed and she looked younger and sweeter than Jojo remembered.
‘Oi!’ Louisa indicated the bundle strapped to her front. ‘Never mind my hair. What about this?’
‘Show us,’ Pam squealed.
‘Form an orderly queue,’ Jojo ordered. ‘Behind me. I bought the cake, I get first go. ‘Hello, sweets.’ She bent to kiss Louisa. ‘Congratulations. Now gimme.’
‘Say hello to your auntie Jojo.’ Louisa passed Stella over.
‘Wow.’ Jojo stared down into the tiny face, at her black eyelashes and unfocused blue eyes.
‘Isn’t she gorgeous?’ Louisa said.
‘Gorgeous. And she smells fantastic.’ Powdery and milky. In fact, Louisa also smelt of powder and milk; she used to operate in a cloud of Dior.
‘Can I have a go now?’ Pam pleaded.
‘Then me,’ Olga Fisher insisted.
As everyone cooed over Stella, Manoj distributed cake and gave Louisa slitty glares.
