Miss South

by Kay Williams

  It wasn’t a helpful answer but it was the right one, I was here, Rosemary wasn’t. She couldn't have any possible idea how many postcards I would need. I made my way to the copier alcove and explored the different machines while I waited for her to email the file. One of the more high-end machines offered a plastic box with orders over two hundred pieces. A good deal when I would need something to lean on and it would keep the cards safe in all weathers, the box wouldn’t be so that large and I could easily get a shoulder bag or a pack to put it in.

  The file arrived, I scanned it to the machine, played with the options to qualify for the box and hit print.

  After shopping for a bag and a silver marker I called it a day and walked back to the hotel; my extra hours catching up with me with every step.

  It was still a good four hours before dinner and with time in hand I felt completely justified in collapsing on the comfortable bed and shutting my eyes.

  # # #

  It was almost dinner time and I was killing my nerves by flicking through my online author board. It was the first time I had ever done it since Rosemary had texted about its existence three months ago as Lemon Grove had begun their pre-advertising campaign.

  It was Jonathan who kept the boards of all of Lemon Grove’s authors, I could fill out a mock form or reply which would be emailed to him for proofing and approval before it made it to the board, everything else was either himself as ‘The Publisher’ or posing as me. I was grateful for the management, I could easily go a week without posting anything on my personal accounts, the idea of trying to find something worth saying five or six times a week for a professional one sounded more daunting than writing a book.

  Jonathan’s posts were always proper and professional, even when he was posing as me, something Heronsgate had noticed straight away, and that anyone who had met me and possessed half a brain should have been able to pick up on. It was surprisingly common for any kind of public figure to have their online presence managed by their company. Heronsgate hadn’t corrected me when I inferred that he didn’t manage his own so I guessed that his publicity department took care of his accounts.

  So far I had only skimmed through the posts, lingering on several from those members of my family and friends who had used their real names and claimed I had changed since my rise to ‘fame’ and who told the masses of my many faults. I wasn’t surprised to see all of the names of those who had left begging voicemails I had never returned amongst the rants. These were strictly monitored by Jonathan posting as The Publisher who blanked coarse language and derogatory terms from posts, and were all quickly followed by a response reminding them all that my ‘change’ was not due to my character or my popularity but due to the conditions of my contract with Lemon Grove.

  There were a few who felt that I should have been more professional at my first signing and who didn’t like the caption competition. Rosemary had eventually chosen a still picture of me looking afraid for my life as she held her boxer pose, while Jonathan, clearly not impressed with the whole affair, stood pinching the bridge of his nose. Though these observations were easily lost amongst the wince-worthy photos, posts from excited fans who had met me, images of my personalised autographs and general compliments from those who had enjoyed the more informal approach.

  Most recently was a photo that had caused a flurry of activity.

  It was of the seven schoolgirls and myself in the store, ‘I’ had posted back saying it had been nice to meet them, while hundreds of short posts had followed asking if I was in New York for a signing and when and where it would take place. Jonathan posting as The Publisher had tried to close the thread with a stern response that I was currently enjoying a short break while Lemon Grove worked with independent and chain book-stores and libraries to put together an itinerary of signing dates, but it hadn’t done much to quieten the over-excited New York fan-base who were all begging for more information.

  I wasn’t sure if it counted as trending, but lots of posts ended with #NewYorkSigning!, which left me no doubt that momentum-wise I was still a rolling stone gathering no moss.

  Maybe I could ask Heronsgate to burn my book on film. If that was slipped out to the media it might calm some of these fanatical posts down.

  Maybe I should just concede defeat and write full-time; I sniggered to myself at that idea, I had no idea how many sales I would have to generate every month to pay my rent, but I was certain it would be more than I was capable of.

  I had to wonder how many of them had actually read the book; so many at the signing I had done in London had obviously never made it passed the first chapter. How long would it be before they all started to request a refund?

  I cancelled the web page and typed a quick text to Rosemary.

  'Just looking over the boards, I am going to be in New York for a week, maybe a signing wouldn’t be a bad idea? I don’t want people to think I am ignoring them. So long as you guys can organise a gang of burly bouncers armed with automatic weapons to keep people in check.'

  I didn’t mention that milking this flash for as long as I could was going to pay my rent when I got home and was trying to find another job.

  On impulse I checked my sales log; it was strangely dissatisfying now it had reset, I was currently sitting on fifty-one thousand two hundred and thirty-two. Somehow I had managed over fifty thousand sales today, and for eight of those hours I had either been on a plane or sleeping, in some respects this was the easiest job I had ever had. I wished Lucy’s totals included time stamps so I could see if the sales had been steady or if they had come in a wave after the New York fans had found out I was in town.

  Maybe that was something I could ask her to do for me.

  Shoving the thought to one side I silenced my phone for the meal to come and got up to look myself over one last time.

  I had left my hair loose and had chosen a blue shirt, coupled with a knee length white skirt and the plain heeled shoes that had caused such a fuss amongst the schoolgirls.

  The closer it came to seven the more nervous I was; getting on his plane had been impulsive when Heronsgate had been mischievous. This planned dinner was something else, we had talked almost the whole flight covering every subject I could think of, and we had only been apart for eight hours, what did Heronsgate think there was left to talk about?

  The knock at the door made me run my hands down my shirt one last time, I guessed that I was about to find out. The nervous flutter in my stomach died the moment I saw Heronsgate; or more specifically the bright multicoloured tie he was wearing. It was so out of place to what I had seen him wearing before, even when he was dressed in his relaxing suit he was coordinated and the ties were muted and just as expensive. This looked like it had been brought on the high street, if I saw it I wouldn't have thought twice about buying it for my own dad.

  “A gift from my mother,” Heronsgate explained without me saying anything.

  “It's nice,” I smiled, and it really would have been if it was paired with any other suit then the one he was wearing.

  “It’s her way of helping me appear less formal. I think she chooses the ugly ties on purpose.”

  “Of course she does, she’s your mother,” I replied making him chuckle.

  “How was your shopping trip?” He asked as we walked to the elevator.

  “I got everything I wanted, and I helped sell three pairs of shoes,” I answered, explaining about the girls who had trailed around after me. “Hopefully that is something which passes quickly.”

  “What if it doesn’t’?” Heronsgate asked.

  “I would be tempted to launch my own brand of shoe so at least I would be selling my own product and not someone else’s.”

  “That’s more business minded than I expected.”

  “Either that or I become a hermit.”

  “I like the shoe idea better,” he chuckled softly.

  A short elevator ride later and we arrived at a dining hall that was less extravagant than I expected, with simple
white table-cloths already set with plain crockery and utensils that shone from the lights, the prettiest thing about the room was the view; with the large windows displaying the New York skyline.

  “Henry!”

  The delighted feminine voice caused a slight stiffening to Heronsgate’s shoulders and we both turned in time to see another elevator let off a group of people who looked about our age. I swam, I cycled and I ate healthy, although I wasn’t toned all over by any stretch of the imagination I had also never looked in a mirror and worried about my body image, but this woman made me feel like crawling under a rock and swearing off chocolate for the rest of my life.

  She was defined, curvaceous, and walked with a confidence that seemed to exemplify her beauty, she was followed by a small group of people all of whom knew Heronsgate if the smiles and familiar handshakes were anything to go by.

  “What is all this?” Heronsgate gestured to them looking completely bemused.

  “Intervention,” the other woman smiled. “We know we won’t get a chance to see you before the benefit so we decided to invite ourselves to dinner with you.”

  “But now it looks like we should have called ahead,” a man frowned at me and actually leant back as if my cheap clothes might rub off on his tailored elegance.

  “This is Harriet South,” Heronsgate introduced me. “Harriet, these are a few of my friends. Sarah Harper, William Ferris, Julia Harcourt and Gabriel Ignis.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I smiled.

  I shook hands with them all wondering if it be rude for me to excuse myself long enough to run an internet search and find out exactly what they were rich and famous for. Maybe I could just call it quits and invest in the room service menu.

  “How many, sir?” A waiter asked.

  Five. One rich man for an evening I could cope with, a whole group of people who felt they couldn’t get dressed in the morning without spending over a thousands of dollars on the outfit I was out of my depth with.

  “Six,” Heronsgate said.

  I hate you.

  I had no excuse though so I had to follow him and the others into the restaurant.

  “I loved your book,” the man Heronsgate had introduced as William Ferris, and who hadn't leant away from me, appeared warm and genuine.

  “Which part?” I asked, grateful that he had chosen a subject of conversation that I was confident about. Though I had explored the author board I was still avoiding the reviews of the book itself and had no idea what people actually liked or disliked about it.

  “I loved the fact that there were lots of twists and turns but they happened with a small selection of characters. I kept wanting to know what secret would be spilt next.”

  “A smaller group of people are easier to keep track of,” I said. “I'm glad you feel as though I didn't put too much on their shoulders. Sometimes too many secrets can lead to unbelievable character development.”

  We reached the table and I ended up between Ferris and Harcourt while Harper, Heronsgate and Ignis took the other chairs.

  “I hope that you are frantically working on your second book,” Ferris smiled. “I am desperate to know what happens next.”

  “Next it's arson,” I replied, smiling my thanks to the waiter as I was given a menu.

  “How far off is it?” Harcourt asked. “Please say soon, Will is driving me nuts about it.”

  “You never read it?”

  “No.”

  “I know that tone well.”

  I smiled to take the insult from the words and Harcourt accepted it with a grin of her own.

  “Well you managed to convince me to pick it up,” Heronsgate smiled, “but you might have more trouble with a Favlian.”

  “Don’t dig at my culture, Heronsgate,” she shot back, their banter good-natured.

  “I have a friend whose partner is Favlian, he emigrated to study law and policing and is a violent crimes detective now. It took nine months our dual efforts to needle his professional ego into reading it. I don’t think I am going to have any success over the course of one dinner.”

  “Did he work it out?” Harcourt asked. “I’m told your complicated plot has baffled more than one professional.”

  “He did actually. It has thrown down the gauntlet for me, I am determined to fool him next time.”

  “When is the next time?” Ferris asked.

  “It’s written in the basic sense of the word. But it does need proofing and editing, my publishers are more concerned at the moment with the success of this title then rushing with the next so I would think it is about a year or more off yet.”

  “So if the second one is written what are you working on at the moment?” Heronsgate frowned.

  “Book six in the same series, but there are also four stand-alone divergent stories that don’t include these characters.”

  “And you want me wait a year for number two?” Ferris laughed.

  “I’ve been writing since I was twelve, my style has improved and matured since then but it would be pretty unproductive of me to only have one story to show for nearly fifteen years of work. You would probably fire an employee with that kind of work record.”

  “I know I would,” Ignis agreed.

  I thought his words short tempered and bored but they made Heronsgate laugh.

  We placed our orders and conversation moved on. Thankfully work seemed to be a normal topic of conversation; anyone else I knew would have avoided talking about it during leisure time, but these people discussed it openly and it gave me the basics of what everyone did, allowing me to participate in a general sense, which stopped the atmosphere becoming awkward.

  I learnt that Harcourt worked for Favlian passport control on Earth and was deeply involved with the Waking Night and the US senate.

  Ferris ran his own security services company and was currently brokering a big contract with the US prison service to upgrade their infrastructure, he and Heronsgate had met at university and though their companies had nothing in common they remained very good friends.

  Ignis was an overly solemn man who owed his own fashion brand; he designed clothes for a string of expensive fashion houses and Heronsgate was particularly fond of his work.

  Harper was the only mystery; she cuddled up to Heronsgate as if they were in a relationship but he always pulled away and frowned at her and told her to back up as if she were unwelcome in his space. She often expressed opinions that sounded ignorant to my own ears; though being English in a group of Americans I was ready to admit that I wasn’t well versed in the ins and outs of the country's politics and trends, but more than once I watched Ignis roll his eyes at something she said. She didn’t once mention her own work or a field of study; the only thing she seemed to have going for her was her undeniable beauty.

  I quickly realised that I needn’t have silenced my phone, all of them apologised before doing it but they all responded to emails and texts throughout dinner. They never took a call and there was enough of us that I didn’t feel it rude and it didn’t interrupt the flow of the conversation, it was just a reminder that these people might have lived the glamorous life depicted in glossy magazines but it came at a cost that most probably had never considered.

  As we moved into after dinner coffee accompanied by a little plate of macaroons and with no one else bringing up the topic I found my curiosity getting the better of my tongue.

  “So how long have you two been going out?”

  For the first time all evening Ignis smiled, though he hid it behind a macaroon.

  Harcourt turned an amused snort into a convincing sneeze.

  Ferris just chuckled, comfortable enough with his friendship with Heronsgate not to disguise his feelings.

  Heronsgate for his part lost some of his colour and his ability to speak, but Harper was happy to answer the question.

  “Eight months.”

  “We are not dating,” Heronsgate found his voice an instant after she did and his automatic correction and the stern angry look he thr
ew Harper’s way was frightening in its intensity.

  “We are amongst friends,” Harper replied trying and failing to tuck her hand into his elbow. “We don’t have to lie. Everyone knows we are dating.”

  “We have never dated,” Heronsgate corrected her again. “Just stop. Now.”

  He was getting angrier with every passing second and I wished that I had never asked the question. Thankfully Harper seemed to realise that she was on thin ice and she backed up as he had told her to and changed the subject, but I could tell my question wasn’t forgotten.

  “So what do you intend to spend your million on, Miss South?”

  “Million?” I must have misheard her. “Where have you got that figure from?”

  “Everyone knows you have already made that much,” Harper answered. “You can tell us.”

  There was that phrase again, ‘everyone knows’ had been something she said often in conversation throughout the evening. When Heronsgate said ‘we’ I knew he was talking about his company. When conspiracy theorists used ‘they’ it was in reference to the government. So who was Harper talking about when she quoted ‘everyone knows’?

  I wanted to say that ‘everyone’ was dumb, but decided I was going to have to be more politic, the last thing I wanted was to do something that would damage the friendships that Heronsgate had with these people by behaving poorly.

  “In that case I am going to have to let everyone down,” I smiled. “I haven’t sold a million copies yet or made anywhere near a million.”

  “How many have you sold then?”

  “No idea, the book has only been on the market since Monday. I will have weekly updates from my publisher but I haven’t received my first one yet.”

  I didn’t like the demand or the challenge in Harper’s tone so I half lied; something about her set me on edge. Perhaps it was because everyone else had spoken about work and she hadn’t, or maybe it was because Heronsgate had adamantly refused something that apparently ‘everyone knew’, whatever the reason I knew I needed to be careful.