by Kay Williams
'Promise.'
Grabbing my coat, keys and bag I left home.
I found myself looking down as I walked and trying to hide behind a free paper on the train, but no one took any more notice of me than before. My name and my book cover might be all over the glossy magazines and the tabloids but it appeared that my face was still largely unknown and though some people gave me a second glance as if they knew me from somewhere, but couldn’t place my face, most didn’t even look at me and I arrived at the library unmolested.
It was still early but there was a fair crowd of people lingering around the shelves while keeping an eye on the conference room. It had long glass windows which were prominently displaying posters of my book; Jonathan was on lookout for me through the glass and came to let me in when he saw me.
“How are you doing this morning?”
“I still feel like I have been run over,” I confessed as I took off my jacket. “It seems to be happening too fast for it to actually be real.”
“This morning Rosemary said it was like winning the lottery. Or a jackpot in Vegas. You choose your numbers or throw the dice knowing that you could stand to win something life changing but never thinking that it’s going to be you.”
“It won’t be life changing is a mantra I’ve been repeating to myself since we started working together,” I agreed.
“Except Anthony rather burst the bubble of a lottery win by reminding us that this may be taxable.”
“I never even thought of that!” I felt myself pale.
“We never did either,” Jonathan apologised. “All the other authors we work with are below the threshold for paying taxes on second incomes.”
“Simon told me I wouldn’t even have to declare this as a second income unless I began making over ten thousand a year.”
That was the law and it was introduced after the Pause when money was desperately short and people from all walks of life were fighting over any job that they could get. To stop them being taxed three or four times over and penalising people struggling to make ends meet tax was only charged against the job earning the highest yearly wage, every other job was tax free until you began making over ten thousand pounds, at which point you had to declare and start to self-assess. Simon had told me that every couple of years the threshold came up for debate in Parliament and to keep an eye on it once my book began to turn a profit, but I had been confident that I would never have to worry about it.
“Obviously you are going to be paid weekly, this circus isn’t going to change that. But we are three weeks from the end of the financial year. I wanted to warn you that with things the way they are now you might easily get over that threshold if your sales don’t calm down.”
I knew from Lucy's figures that I was already over halfway there, and was sitting on almost six and half thousand now. I didn't think I could keep that secret any longer, there didn't seem much point in pretending that I didn't know my own figures, especially as the sales sheets she had made for me didn't breech my contract in any way.
“I know.”
“How?” Jonathan frowned.
“I have a friend who is really clever with computers, she didn't like the idea I would be paid weekly and could end up owing you royalties back. So she took the book's ID and asked me what my royalty payments were and set me up a sales counter.”
“I see. That's good actually; I won't have to worry about telling you if you need to pay us back.”
“I suppose I also need to consider that I am technically classified as out of work because I am registered as an agency worker and not full-time with a company,” I added.
“Exactly,” Jonathan winced. “The tax office might classify these earnings as primary income because you have made the profit while not under contract with another firm.”
“You are telling me that as fun as it would be to take my royalty payment and rush out to spend it like a lottery win it wouldn’t be wise. That I should save it and self-assess as a precaution against accidental tax fraud.”
“It might be an idea if you don’t want to waste money on an accountant who can talk you through the grey areas. Self-assessing is very easy if you have your old payslips to couple with your agency earnings and the official royalty reports we will issue you.”
“But that’s the end of the month,” I replied, determined not to get ahead of myself. “How is today going to work?”
“You are going to stay behind that nice little ring of tables, smiling in selfies, signing postcards and answering questions. Rose has set up her phone to record everything on a tripod and we will handle the crowd and pass out flyers.”
“You are making this a signing?”
“Yes, change of format because of your sudden popularity. Do not sign tablets or blank pieces of paper just the postcards and copies of your book if people offer one and do not use your real signature; identify theft using signatures isn't as prolific as it once was but it does still happen.”
“Anything else?”
“Try to enjoy yourself, people will leave with a poor impression if they think you are nervous or faking it.”
It ended up being just as busy as I thought it was going to be; and as strange as it was enjoyable. I was still a fraud in my own mind, my novel's sudden popularity nothing to do with hard work and good advertising, but there was no stopping my flash in the pan celebrity status as Rosemary had called it, it was just as case of waiting for the frenzy to calm down and then my flash would diminish all on its own.
It was peculiar to watch all these strangers gush over me in a way that was embarrassing and yet their silliness made it easier for me to smile at them; many of them were so enamoured that it didn't matter what I said; they all just laughed and blushed and wanted to shake my hand. The oddest ones of all were the shy ones who needed to hold hands with their friends before coming up to the table and who would mumble rather than speak.
I never thought that I took a good picture and I cringed inside whenever someone asked for a selfie, but got round my reluctance by saying I was only giving out pictures if people were willing to pull a funny face, and with one rubbish picture followed an instant later by a second of us both laughing I did manage to send people on their way with photos I didn't regret too much.
It was obvious to me who hadn't finished the book yet or had no intention of finishing it as they always asked who had done it; I didn't want to blurt out the information and ruin it for people in the queue who were reading it. So instead I told them the chapter number the killer was discovered in.
The ones who were reading the book and who would tell me who their favourite characters were I signed the postcard twice; once from me and once from the character which made a lot of people laugh. The ones who complimented my writing usually had favourite lines or phrases spoken by the characters and so long as they weren't too long I would write those out too.
Journalists made an appearance but Jonathan quickly moved to stop them from pouncing on me and instead they stood outside the conference room interviewing people going in and out. Most of them showed off their free postcards and the silly photos.
My hand was stiff from fake signatures by the end of the session, and my cheeks ached from the laughing and smiling through it. I did have to say a few words to the reporters that had stuck around but I was buzzing on a high from so many compliments and it wasn't difficult to tell them how much I had enjoyed the experience.
It was in the alley behind the library as we were packing up the posters and things we didn't use into Jonathan’s car that Rosemary told us how my author page on their website had gained hundreds of hits. People were uploading messages of their positive experience and sharing the daft photos that we had taken. I winced at those but giving the number of likes and laughs the pictures were getting, and how many jealous comments some people couldn't make it today were leaving, I was willing to put up with the slight indignity of them.
“We could run a competition,” Rosemary commented. “We've got
the second edition of the print run due soon, we can pick a photo and the best caption wins a signed copy.”
I had no idea that they had ordered more print books in; they must have had pre-orders stacked up to make a second run worth their while.
“I like the idea but you wouldn't able to do that with a fan photo,” Jonathan replied as he packed up the last of the posters.
“Make another face,” Rosemary ordered turning her phone's camera on me.
“Only if you both make one with me. It's the full team or not at all.”
“Excellent idea!” Rosemary grinned.
“No it isn't!” Jonathan argued his nose wrinkled in disgust.
“We could pull the faces and you can look mortified and then people could write a caption from our perspective or yours,” I argued.
Rosemary was entirely to delighted with the idea, she dragged the posters back out even as Jonathan tried to stop her, protesting that the alleyway wasn't really the best place for it, that the light was wrong, and that with our coats on people wouldn't get us at our best, but in the end he stood resigned while Rosemary finished tacking up the posters on the wall the way she liked and setting her phone back on the tripod to take a video she could cut a still out of later.
“I hate you,” Jonathan whispered. “If you had any idea how old I am.”
“I wasn't going to make a fool out of myself on my own,” I answered.
I found myself frowning as I considered his complaint, they had always introduced themselves and uncle and niece so I had assumed there couldn't be much more than a twenty or thirty year gap between them, instead he made it sound like he was much older than that, but if that was true how could he be her uncle?
“So what do you want to do?” Rosemary jerked me from my thoughts.
“Something that will keep us warm, Jonathan is right about the coats,” I answered.
We took our coats off and I instantly regretted it, there was no getting away from the fact that spring was on the way but it was shady in the alley and it was cold. With Jonathan barely in shot and with his frown of contempt accompanying our efforts we made faces at each other breaking into silly giggles at each other’s expressions when we should have been too old and sober to find them so funny. We pretended to box but it only took a couple of jabs for me to realise that Rosemary could handle herself and I when I backed off and tried to hide using Jonathan's coat tails he actually pulled them out of my hands and made shooing motions for me to leave him out of it with a pained expression that caused Rosemary to break down into a fit of laughter that took her to the floor and we both had to pick her up before we could continue. With Jonathan alternating between pinching his nose and scanning the alleyway lest he be seen by someone he knew Rosemary and I danced through the chorus of a popular club song that had a lot of timed head flicks, hand gestures and hip rotations, we decided to face each other and add our own poses as if we were in a dance off. I had never been much of a dancer or a show off but Rosemary was so effortlessly self-confident she was able to get me doing things I wouldn’t normally have the courage for.
Jonathan called it day when we started shivering despite the exercise and I refused to watch the playback knowing that I would never be able to look at myself in the mirror again if I saw it.
As I had been ignored on the way to the library I was happy to wave them off and make my own way home, but I didn't make it as far as the bus stop before I got a text.
'Buy you a beer for all your hard work?'
Simon.
Was it legal to spend free time with your lawyer?
I shrugged, I was thirsty and he wanted to buy me a drink, win win for me. He texted me the address and after checking it on my phone's map, I changed direction and caught a different bus.
# # #
The address turned out to be for The Pavilion; one of London’s most exclusive private members’ clubs.
I gave my name at the security desk and received a double-take from the girl behind it as she recognised me and then tried to blink her wide-eyed look back and act more professional. I was escorted through a couple of corridors and into a comfortable room set with leather sofas, low glass tables, and pretty house plants while immaculately dressed staff tended a small bar.
There were only a few people in the room and they were sharing quiet conversations in small groups and didn’t even look up as we walked by. Eventually I was shown to a sofa tucked away in a corner and further hidden by a plant.
“May I get you a drink while you are waiting, Miss South?” My escort asked.
There was no menu on the table I could have flicked through and chosen something from so I went with my usual non-alcoholic order. Simon might have offered me a beer, but I didn’t usually drink during the day.
“Pineapple juice and soda, please.”
He didn’t say that my order wasn’t possible and he waited while I shrugged off my coat and scarf before taking both to be hung up on the stands near the bar and to complete my order.
I sat down; the soft leather of the couch was comfortable and I managed to sit on my hands and stop myself from instantly texting Lucy where I was. I wasn’t one to get worked up over celebrity places or designer labels; but even I felt special sitting there.
The man came back over and lay down a paper coaster and my drink complete with crushed ice, little chunks of freshly cut pineapple and a thin stirring stick.
“Forgive me, Miss South, as you are not a member I must ask you to settle your account up front.”
So much for Simon buying me a drink, then again if I had said I was going to wait for my company I wouldn’t have been charged.
“Of course,” I placed my thumb against the scanner he offered and made payment.
“Thank you,” he smiled as he tore off the receipt and left me be.
I sat back and waited until he was out of view before checking to see what my simple drink had cost me, the answer had my mouth dropping open and hurrying to dig my phone out of my bag and texting Lucy.
‘Simon asked me to drinks at The Pavilion, guess how much pineapple juice and soda has just cost me?'
‘I should hope nothing if Simon has said he would buy it.'
‘I got here first and been told to settle my account up front because I’m not a member.’
‘Nice of the waiter to tell you that before you placed your order.’
‘Quit stalling. There are no menus here so I doubt you’ll find the costs online.’
‘I wasn’t cheating!’
I smiled but didn’t bother calling Lucy a liar; we both knew what she had been doing.
‘Alright I give.’
I took a picture of my bill and sent it.
‘Seriously!? £18! How do the rich stay rich?’
‘It’s very nice, with real pieces of pineapple in it and everything. But this is going on my receipt wall of shame.’
‘You should have got a whole pineapple for that price! Make sure you get Simon to turn his pockets out when he gets there!’
I grinned at the text.
The nice thing about the club was the fact that it was quiet so when I heard someone approaching I had plenty of time to cancel the message system and put my phone away before company arrived.
“Pleasure to see you again, Miss South.”
I looked up and nearly shot out of the chair in shock as Heronsgate took off his coat to pass to the same man who had escorted me to the table, I managed to get up in a far more restrained manner but I was sure that I looked as shocked as I felt.
“Mr Heronsgate, I was not expecting you,” I managed while offering him my hand.
We shook, and I noticed that his were large and warm and slightly rough at the edges, whatever it was he did with them it wasn't anything as simple as sitting in a board room and signing billion dollar cheques.
“May I get you something to drink, Mr Heronsgate?” The waiter asked.
“Coffee, please, and the cart,” Heronsgate replied. “Miss South?”
“I’m good, thank you.”
Heronsgate noticed the drink and though he didn’t frown the slight tightening to his expression and the sudden way the employee had managed to disappear, told me he knew the general rule of payment in advance for non-members.
“I was expecting to be able to go through Simon’s pockets when he got here.”
“After the mobbing we both suffered yesterday he was happy to keep the secret and save us both being cornered again,” Heronsgate explained as we sat down.
That surprised me, I had been so caught up in my own manic day I hadn’t stopped to consider he was facing it as well, but it made sense and in essence we were two sides of the same story.
“I’m sure your public address was far more professional then mine.”
“You did look very nervous,” Heronsgate smiled. I was stunned he had been watching and I covered my flinch poorly by reaching for my drink. “You had a nice ice-breaker, you had been written a calm and measured statement. It didn’t look natural because you had obviously been coached in looking at the crowd and trying not to rush, but I think you did well.”
“Thankfully I don’t think it will be something I’ll have to repeat often.”
If at all, I added silently. I had every intention of fading from this fraudulent lime-light as soon as possible. The waiter returned with fresh coffee and a cart laden with slices of cake and little platters of sandwiches complete to flavour labels that I barely resisted taking pictures of for Lucy.
“Strawberry tart for me. What would you like, Miss South?”
“That is a very cruel question,” I complained, while wondering if any of the cakes on the cart could possibly taste as good as their likely extortionate price tag. Heronsgate surprised me by chuckling softly, and I made my choice. “Chocolate and vanilla cream, please.”
