by Marian Keyes
‘Wish it was that easy.’ And this whole thing was gathering momentum, Jojo realized. Looked like she and Mark could no longer contain it. Mark had fessed up to Jim Sweetman. And look at what had happened here – though she was crazy about Magda, she didn’t really know her and still she spilled her guts to her.
The following day, Becky and Andy’s place
Andy opened the door and stared at her for a moment too long. ‘Jojo, you’re up. You must have the constitution of an elephant. We’re dying.’
‘I left while I could still walk.’ She followed him in. ‘Where’s Becky?’
‘Throwing up, I think.’
‘Too much information! OK, you.’ She pointed at Andy. ‘You’re a man.’
‘Not today. Once maybe but today I’m ruined. Those bloody Wyatts.’
‘It’s Mark’s birthday next week. What should I give him? What do men like?’
‘Unusual sex with dangerous women?’
‘He always gets that. Something else, please.’
‘Cufflinks?’
‘Nyet.’
‘Handcuffs?’
‘Nyet.’
‘Wallet?’
‘Nyet.’
‘Clothes.’
‘Nyet. Cassie would see any of the above and she can’t be that dumb.’
‘I don’t know,’ Andy said. ‘Doesn’t she eat cheese sandwiches, even though she knows they give her migraines? A backgammon set?’
‘Nyet.’
‘A book?’
Andy was trying to be funny but Jojo pounced, ‘Now you’re talking! A first edition of something. He loves Steinbeck. How about a first edition of The Grapes of Wrath?’
Becky had crept into the room, grey-faced and subdued. Gingerly she crawled onto the couch and lay flat on her back. ‘I just puked.’
‘What do you want?’ Jojo asked. ‘A medal?’
‘I’m simply sharing. But if you get him a first edition of something, you won’t be able to write anything nice on it because his wife will see.’
‘You were listening!’ Andy said.
‘I can puke and listen at the same time.’
‘She wants my opinion. As a man. And she can write something on the book if he keeps it in the office.’
‘Kids, quit squabbling. I wouldn’t write on a first edition, period.’
Becky poked Andy with her foot. ‘Get me things to take away the pain.’
‘Please.’
‘Please. Look at me,’ she said to Jojo. ‘Pyjamas at three in the afternoon, pounding head, churning stomach, nameless fear. Those Wyatt girls really know how to throw a party!’
‘It was totally great. Wasn’t Marina cute as a button in her little suit?’
‘And Mazie in her white dress?’
‘And Magnolia in her Pussy Galore rig?’
‘But Magda…’ They both cooed in admiration of Magda and from the kitchen Andy made some prurient noise and Jojo called witheringly, ‘Not in a sexual way.’
Andy returned with a fistful of analgesics. ‘Apparently, there were five Gandalfs.’
‘I think at least one of them was a Dumbledore,’ Becky said. ‘There were tons of men at it. It was a great pulling party, fantastic if you’re single.’ She inquired of Jojo. ‘Well? I know you’re not single but the men last night didn’t know. So? Any luck?’
‘Not bad. I slow-danced with a Gandalf, did my Saturday Night Fever with a Mother Superior and got asked out for dinner by an air-freshener.’
‘Air-freshener? What kind?’
‘One of those pine trees that hang on rear-view mirrors.’
‘Him? I thought he was a Christmas tree. Good-looking?’
‘I couldn’t really see. He had a beaky bit over his face.’
‘And I saw you dancing with King Canute,’ Andy said.
Jojo shook her head.
‘You were. I saw you. Pissed as I was I remember thinking that the pair of you were really going for it.’
‘No, I was entangled in his nets. We weren’t dancing, that was just the two of us struggling to get free.’
18
Monday morning, opening her post
One was marked personal and Jojo thought she recognized the handwriting. She tore the envelope and tipped out the letter. ‘Oh no!’
Dear Jojo,
There’s no easy way of telling you this but I have decided not to return to work. I know I promised you that I would. I meant it when I said it, but I wasn’t prepared for how much I love Stella and I can’t bear the thought of leaving her every day with a minder. When it happens to you, you’ll know what I’m talking about.
I know you’re in good hands with Manoj and I hope we’ll stay friends.
With lots of love,
Louisa and Stella
She loved Louisa. She was her sidekick, a smarty who always delivered. At least she had been until Childbirth Stole Her Brain. This was not good news. Right away she went to see Mark.
‘Louisa isn’t coming back.’
‘Aaaahhhhh.’
‘You knew?’
‘I thought she might not. It happens.’
‘She swore black was white that she would.’
‘I’m sure she meant it at the time.’
‘I’m sure she did,’ Jojo acknowledged.
‘Should we advertise for someone new, or do you want to keep Manoj?’
‘Manoj is fine. OK, he’s very good,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘It’s just that Louisa was my friend. She knew about you. Now I’ve no one to talk to. Guess I could always try Jim Sweetman,’ she added.
Mark said nothing. He let the silence endure and Jojo was the one to crack.
‘Hey, it’s your birthday Friday.’ She went for levity. ‘Eight o’clock, my bed, for a very special gift.’
A second too long before he spoke. ‘I can’t.’ He sounded pained. ‘Cassie’s organized something.’
‘Oh. What?’
‘A night in a country house hotel. Weymouth Manor or something. I’m so sorry.’
Jojo got it together. ‘Come on, Mark, she is your wife.’
‘How about Sunday?’
‘Sure.’
Then she went back and broke the news to Manoj that he was going to be made permanent. He was so happy he almost cried. ‘You won’t regret this,’ he wobbled.
‘I already am. Pull yourself together. Any messages?’
‘Gemma Hogan rang. She was wondering if you’ve sold her book yet.’
Jojo rolled her eyes. Gemma Hogan was an Irish woman who had sent sheaves of emails to her friend detailing her elderly father leaving her mother. When the bunch of pages arrived on Jojo’s desk they weren’t in book format but were entertaining and funny enough for her to be semi-interested.
So they met – and it was one of the weirdest meetings Jojo had ever had: every author who came to see her was absolutely wild to be published. But this Gemma was different and the moment Jojo realized she was offering to represent a woman who hadn’t written a book and didn’t want to be published she drew the meeting to an abrupt conclusion. She’d thought she’d never hear from her again but a few weeks after the meeting Gemma rang to say she was in the process of writing the book – and less than a month later the finished product arrived.
It belonged in the category of books that Jojo called the So-What’s – not special enough to be sold via a headline-grabbing auction; instead Jojo would have to approach each house individually and if they passed, carry on to the next bunch.
The heroine, Izzy, starred in a cookie-cutter love story with a little twist. It had signalled from page one that she would end up with the brooding, cleft-chinned Emmet, a hero straight from central casting; instead she falls for the quietly sexy pharmacist who has been dispensing the mom’s happy pills. It was the mom’s journey that was much harder to stomach. Sixty-two years of age, so ditsy and dependent that she’d never learned to drive, she was running her own business by page seventy-nine (importing Swiss skincare into Irela
nd, hand-in-hand with her Swiss toyboy).
It was baloney. In real life, for every abandoned wife who won Businesswoman of the Year, there were thousands of others who understandably never recovered their equilibrium. Which would Cassie be? Jojo wondered. If, if Mark and she ever… She sincerely hoped she’d be a Businesswoman of the Year version. Despite its flaws the book was fun and would probably sell. Sure, the critics wouldn’t even acknowledge it; books like this – ‘women’s fluff’ – flew beneath the radar. Occasionally, to make an example to the others, they wheeled one out and ‘reviewed’ it – although the review had been written before they’d actually read the book – and they poured scorn with the ugly superiority of Ku Klux Klan laughing at bound black boys.
Different, of course, if it had been written by a man… Suddenly there would be talk of ‘courageous tenderness’ and ‘fearless exploration and exposition of emotion’. And women who normally made fun of ‘women’s fiction’ would read it with pride in public places.
Now there’s a thought… What were the chances of convincing Gemma Hogan to pretend to be a man? Not to dress up as one, just to publish under the name Gerry Hogan, perhaps. But there was no way. Like many authors, Gemma was probably in it for the buzz of seeing her picture in Hello! and her name in the papers.
When Jojo rang to tell Gemma that she would represent her and her book, Gemma chuckled quietly. ‘I’m screaming my head off on the inside, but I’m at work,’ she’d said apologetically. ‘So you really liked it?’
‘I LOVED it.’ Well, she had enjoyed it. ‘Oh yeah, does it have a name?’
‘Of course. Didn’t I put it on it? It’s called The Sins of the Father.’
‘Oh no, it’s not.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Not as sorry as I am. Change the name, like, yesterday.’
‘But it’s representative of the story.’
‘This is light, romantic fiction! It needs a light, romantic title. “Sins of the Father” sounds like a clogs and shawl misery-fest: pubescent girls being thrashed with riding crops by half-brothers who want to schtup her. Lame ones.’
‘Who’s lame? The girl or the brother?’
‘I meant the brother. But it could be the girl, in fact it’s probably both. How about “Headrush”?’
‘But it doesn’t mean anything.’
‘Gemma, listen to me good. I-can-not-sell-this-book-with-that-title. Get-me-a-new-one.’
After a long pause Gemma said sulkily, ‘“Runaway Dad”.’
‘No.’
‘I can’t think of anything else.’
‘OK, we’ll use it as a temp. We need a new title but I’ll start sending the book out straight away.’
‘There’s no need to send it to lots of people. I’d like to be with Lily Wright’s publisher. Dalkin Emery?’
‘Woah.’ For a first-timer Gemma was surprisingly knowledgeable about publishers. Then Jojo thought about it – not a bad idea. Dalkin Emery were good with women’s fiction: as well as Lily Wright, they’d made a huge success of Miranda England.
‘We can try Dalkin Emery but I’ll send you to a different editor. It’s not a good idea for friends to share editors. You might find it hard to believe now but this could start a huge rivalry…’ If it wasn’t there already and she was beginning to suspect it was. ‘… and ruin your friendship.’
‘We’re not really friends. We just… know each other.’
Nevertheless, Jojo decided against it – the client is not always right – and sent it to Aoife Byrne instead.
But Aoife rang her and said, ‘Jojo, this Runaway Dad book is more Tania Teal’s thing. I’ve passed it on to her.’
The weird thing was that as soon as Jojo hung up, Gemma rang for a progress report and when she heard that Lily’s editor was considering her book she said, ‘I knew it. I’m meant to be with that editor.’
And although Jojo didn’t believe in any of that ‘meant to be’ crap, she was a little impressed.
For about five minutes. Tania passed. She said it was a sweet book, actually reminiscent of Miranda England’s earlier work, but it just wasn’t special enough.
Damn, Jojo thought. These so-what books put varnish on her nails but they were a lot of work for little reward.
Who next? Patricia Evans at Pelham. But Patricia had never really forgiven her for not accepting the Love and the Veil pre-empt. Sure enough two days after biking over Runaway Dad a standard rejection letter arrived on Jojo’s desk. She’d have betted that Patricia hadn’t even read it. It was now with Claire Colton at Southern Cross. So even though she had no good news, she rang Gemma. She had a policy of returning calls to all her authors, no matter how unlucrative they were – and giving it to them straight.
‘No sale yet, Gemma. We’ve had a couple more passes. But not to worry, there are plenty of publishers out there.’
‘Couldn’t we try Lily Wright’s editor again?’
‘No, we totally can not.’
‘OK. I’ve thought of a new name.’
‘Hit me.’
‘“Betrayal”.’
‘Too Danielle Steele. In fact… you know, maybe it’s not for me to say, but could be you need to, like, move on. All the titles you’ve picked, they’re a little… well… bitter.’
‘That’s because I am.’ She sounded proud.
‘OK. Whatever. Let me know when you get the right title.’
19
Thursday morning
Brent and Tyler, the two agents from CAA, arrived and lit up reception with a bright sunshiny glow. Brent was blond and Tyler dark-haired, and both of them were buff, tan and oozing easy West Coast charm from every perfect pore. They wore box-fresh chinos and polo shirts and even though they were jet-lagged, their eyes sparkled. They had suspiciously beautiful skin.
Jim Sweetman introduced Jojo as the woman who ‘discovered’ Love and the Veil.
‘We’ve got a lot to thank you for,’ Brent cooed super-appreciatively.
‘Yeah, we would not be here were it not for you.’
‘And we cannot wait to read your other authors. We’ve heard am-ayyyzzz–ing stuff about them.’
‘Am-ayyyzzz–ing.’
‘Truly am-ayyyzzz–ing.’
Jojo had to laugh. ‘Right back atcha, boys.’
On the way back to her office, she bumped into Mark. ‘Check out the Ken dolls from CAA,’ she muttered out of the side of her mouth. ‘Makes the rest of us look like Night of the Living Dead.’
Mark cut his eyes to them. ‘Christ! They’re the only things in colour in a black and white world.’
‘Like the yellow brick road at the start of Wizard of Oz.’
‘Or the child in the red coat in Schindler’s List. OK, I’m off to schmooze.’
‘Careful. They’ll be all over you like a cheap suit.’
‘More like a rash,’ Mark said quietly to her, when they met in the boardroom ten minutes later at a major meet-and-greet session.
Jojo watched all the agents file in. Here came Dan Swann who never seemed to take his mossy green hat off any more – looking to be promoted to a fully fledged Eccentric, Jojo decided. He sat beside her and stared, mesmerized, at the suntanned pair. ‘They’re like men,’ he said faintly. ‘Only shinier.’
Then came Jocelyn Forsyth, marching about in his pinstriped suit, being deb’ly, deb’ly Brrritish, calling Brent ‘my de-ah fellow’ and Tyler ‘de-ah, de-ah boy’.
Next came Lobelia French and Aurora Hall who, like always, looked right through her, then the Hon Tarquin Wentworth who shot her a glance of unabashed hatred. Not pleasant, but hey, could she help it if she worked harder and generated more money than they did?
But there was one person they despised even more than her and here he was now – Richie Gant who looked more unsavoury by the day. For a second all four were as one in their contempt of him.
Olga Fisher sat on the other side of her and looked at Brent and Tyler. ‘Marvellous skin, haven’t they?’
‘I w
onder what they use?’
‘La Mer. I asked them. I have a video on warthogs for you. Not the prettiest of creatures, but interesting. I’ll drop it in to that boy.’
‘Manoj. He’s permanent now. Louisa isn’t coming back.’
‘If I were mother to that little angel, I don’t think I’d return to work either.’
‘You wouldn’t?’ But they called her a ballbreaker.
‘No. Authors are as demanding as children but not quite so rewarding. Would you return to work?’
‘Of course!’
‘You say that now.’
‘For sure I would –’
But Mark was calling the meeting to order and Jojo had to shut up.
The meeting wound up at noon and then came the moment of truth: Jojo was having lunch at the Caprice with Jim and the CAA boys but she was way anxious that Jim would spring Richie Gant on them at the last minute. But he didn’t and as she said to Jim in the taxi on the way back to work, ‘I had the best time.’ Brent and Tyler were so enthusiastic they made it sound as if movie rights for all her books had already been sold and were currently being cast. They’d encouraged her to let her imagination run wild and tell them who she thought should play each of her author’s characters, even which directors she’d prefer. ‘I know they’re a little over the top,’ she sighed happily to Jim. ‘But I really feel my books will go to the head of the queue.’ She’d had three glasses of champagne and felt a song coming on. ‘Top of the HEAP!’
‘Well?’ Manoj asked. ‘Swanning back in at ten to four. I hope it was good.’
‘Mucho bonding. Mucho, mucho bonding. They loved me up so much, it was as good as sex. Hey, better than sex.’
‘Are you going out to spend money?’
‘You betcha. Late night shopping and all. How lucky is that?’
Friday morning, first thing
There was an email from Claire Colton at Southern Cross, saying thanks but no thanks for Gemma Hogan’s book. She said what Tania Teal had said and what Jojo thought – it was fun but not special enough.
