Just the Way You Are Page 3

  A good deal is hard to find.

  Amanda was also growing old – in an ageist industry. Her ash blonde hair was increasingly turning grey. When younger she used to turn heads and charm middle-aged editors into upping their offers with a smile or the promise of a lunch or dinner. But the distinguished agent could no longer captivate the thirty-something commissioning editors. They were a different generation too in terms of shared cultural denominators. When Amanda recently pitched a literary thriller, describing it as a cross between John Buchan and Ford Maddox Ford’s The Good Soldier, the editor stared back at her with a vacant, or even gormless, look on his face.

  Gemma suspected that her boss had deliberately arranged to be out for lunch during Thomas Silver’s visit. Amanda wanted Gemma to know that she was in charge of the project and that she trusted her.

  “Darling, I seemed to have crashed my twitter account again. If you could fix it while I’m out, although I barely use the damn thing. Seems to be a message board for the vain, vacuous and perverted if you ask me… Also, David Cochrane might call to put in an offer for Mary Shard’s novel. It better be ten thousand plus. If they can afford to offer Pippa bloody Middleton six figures for a book which proved to be about as popular as the Black Death then they should be able to manage paying a five figure sum for a prize-winning novelist, whose last book sold twice that of darling Pippa’s ghost written effort,” Amanda Williams remarked, frustrated with both publishers and the fact that she had not smoked a cigarette for more than an hour. “Have a good meeting. I once met Thomas Silver at a party, years ago. He’s a bit of a dish if I remember rightly. It’s a shame what happened to him,” the agent said, suddenly turning thoughtful.

  “Yes,” Gemma replied, although Roger Ash’s loss is Williams & Powell’s gain she thought as her boss departed for lunch.

  Usually Gemma would work in the central, open plan part of the floor but Amanda gave her assistant the use of her corner office for the meeting. The glass walls to the room meant that she saw her author before he even knocked at the door, as Libby the receptionist showed him in. Gemma quickly rose and smoothed her skirt down one last time. This is it.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Libby asked. The smile she gave him – and the way she mouthed the word “wow” to Gemma as his back was turned – indicated how much Libby was pleased with Williams and Powell’s new client. He looked like a young Harrison Ford, not that there would have been anything wrong with a middle-aged or older Harrison Ford in Gemma’s eyes. He was slim, but not overly so. He had short black hair, unadorned with product – or indeed barely brushed. Feeling a little like her sister Gemma took in what Thomas was wearing. The dark blue summer suit might have looked stylish in its day but it now appeared a bit worn or uncared for. Similarly, his Jermyn St shirt could have used an iron.

  “Thanks. Just a water will be fine,” the author amiably replied.

  Gemma had always somehow imagined that the author would sound posh, like a BBC presenter or army officer, but Thomas’ accent betrayed his South London roots.

  “Please, take a seat,” Gemma remarked, polite but business-like. She was keen for Thomas to think that she was older and more experienced than she actually was – and that it wasn’t the first book deal she had ever been responsible for. “Thank you for coming in.”

  Thomas half-smiled by way of a reply. He briefly took in Gemma with a neutral expression and then, for perhaps a moment or two longer than was natural, wistfully gazed out of the window at the London skyline.

  He has a kind, but melancholy, face.

  Libby re-entered, wanting to attend to the client quicker than normal. Gemma had half-expected the “friendly” receptionist to be wearing lip gloss, or to have re-styled her hair or undone a button on her blouse, to catch the attention of the good-looking writer.

  Rather than good-looking, I’d call him nice looking.

  “Thanks Libby,” Thomas said, again with a lopsided half-smile, as the receptionist handed him the glass.

  They seem friendly already. He must have spoken to her for all of two minutes, waiting at reception. Was he forward with her, or was she forward with him?

  “Is there anything else I can get for you?”

  God, she’s like a dog wagging her tail, wanting to please her master… And no Libby, you can now go. He’s here to talk to me, not you.

  “No, that’ll be fine Libby. Thank you.” Again he smiled. Again she nigh on simpered.

  “I’m fine too Libby. That’ll be all.”

  The receptionist left, her head still turned towards the attractive looking novelist as she walked back to her desk and stared through the glass of the office.

  Alone at last…

  7.

  “I thought that it would be useful to meet up now as we’re basically ready to take the book to market. We have got plenty of options. You are still a name that editors will remember – and the book deserves to find a home… I will be emailing or having lunch with a number of editors from the five major publishers over the next fortnight… I should warn you that it may take some time for them to respond, due to staff cuts and other reasons… It may be we get an offer back straightaway or some suggestions of how they would like to see some changes to the manuscript… There will be plenty of other editors and publishers we can pitch to subsequently as well… Obviously what we’d love to engineer is a bidding war, which is entirely possible. But I’m sure you have spoken to enough people or read things in the press about how parts of the trade are contracting. There are fewer bookshops, smaller pre-orders and shrinking lists… £50, 000 is the new £100, 000 advance I’m afraid – and £10, 000 is the new £50, 000.”

  Most of her lines Gemma had learned from her mentor but the young agent here checked herself, as she felt that she might be being too honest about the state of publishing and the expectations for the book. Amanda might not approve of her frankness. Authors want to hear optimism, be deluded and have their egos massaged she had been told, on more than one occasion. Yet Gemma felt that Thomas would want to be told the truth. Too many people – for too long – had overpromised and under delivered in regards to publishing. Gemma wanted to turn the culture on its head. Under promise and over deliver. Yet she was unsure just how much her author had taken in.

  Thomas gazed out the window, either in a gloom or daydreaming, seemingly trying to see the face of God or a woman in the clouds. There was a faraway look in his eyes yet when Gemma finished speaking Thomas suddenly seemed to snap out of his trance.

  “It’s a nice afternoon Gemma. Shall we make it even nicer and have our meeting outside? There was a bar I spotted around the corner with seats outside.” The faraway look had vanished from his face. His eyes were now locked on her – warm, imploring almost. Gemma was briefly tempted to assert her authority and shoot down her author’s suggestion. Let him know that you’re in charge. But she sensed the author was neither playing games nor looking to assert his authority. He just wanted a drink – and to take advantage of the sunshine. It is a nice day. It’ll be a shame to waste it.

  *

  The bar was thankfully situated off the main road, away from the traffic snarling up along Warren Street. Multiple heels clicked across the pavement like castanets and gauze-like summer dresses billowed in the breeze. Big (in some cases comically large) sunglasses and Michael Kors watches were in fashion. Women – and more so men, lamentably – checked themselves out in the mirrored windows of the office buildings.

  A pretty, overworked Spanish waitress brought over their drinks – a beer and iced-tea. Thomas briefly thanked her and offered up a joke in her native language and the girl broke into a coquettish smile and laughter, basking in either being able to talk in her own language or being the centre of attention for the handsome, charming man.

  Thomas gulped down the beer as Gemma tried to re-instigate the business part of the meeting.

  “Now, I just want to address the question in your email about the state of eBook royalties…�
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  Thomas, more out of curiosity than greed, had emailed Gemma about the royalty rate of eBooks – as in terms of a legacy of sales for Daylight it would sell more digital than hard copies. Gemma had heard Amanda and other colleagues answer this question by saying that Williams and Powell negotiated as competitive an eBook royalty rate as any other literary agency.

  “The truth however is that publishers such as Bradley House are colluding with others to set the royalty rate at a mere twenty-fiver percent of net revenues, which often means just twelve percent of the cover price. Agents have been cowered into submission by subtle or overt threats that publishers will not buy any new books from an agent if they try to negotiate a fairer eBook royalty for their authors. It’s the unspoken scandal of the publishing industry at the moment,” Gemma explained, realising that she had broken the code of omerta of her fellow agents, by being honest with Thomas. She added that she would still do her best to negotiate the best deal possible for Thomas’ novel, mentioning that the publishers might pay a premium for buying world-wide rights for Daylight.

  When Gemma finished speaking Thomas looked at her, as if seeing her for the first time. He cocked his head to the side a little, intrigued, as if viewing a painting or reading a poem that needed to be decoded.

  “Thanks for your honesty Gemma, it’s appreciated – and refreshing. As a novelist I’m used to often being lied to. Perhaps it’s a fitting punishment for someone who makes stuff up for a living,” Thomas remarked, the cold beer starting to produce a warm, familiar feeling inside of him. He drained the bottle and caught the eye of the waitress (who had more than once looked over in his direction) to order another.

  “I’m not so sure. If authors were really as proficient in lying as you say then they would go into politics.”

  “Jeffrey Archer did. But let’s not talk about Jeffrey Archer – he doubtless does that enough for the both of us. Tell me more about yourself Gemma.”

  After being initially taken aback that an author would choose to take an interest in her as opposed to talk about himself Gemma spoke about her job.

  “Five percent of our authors take up ninety-five percent of our time… There are some Hollywood actors who feel the need to be the centre of attention less… One literary novelist emailed me the other day to ask if I could tell Amazon to take down an unfavourable review, because the book was “more than a three star book”… I had another author ask if I could insert into the contract that his daughter design the cover for the book – and his cousin be the printer of choice… But I don’t want to complain too much. The authors amuse as much as frustrate me most of the time… And I genuinely love my job and working with books… They’re the best things in my life.”

  It was only after saying the words that Gemma realised how potentially sad, or rich, her life was. Would she have said that Daniel was the best thing in her life nine months ago?

  Thomas half-smiled, either in sympathy or pity. Gemma couldn’t quite tell which.

  “And what’s the best thing in your life right now, if you don’t mind me asking?” Gemma said.

  There was a pause. At first the light in the author’s eyes went out and he briefly bowed his head. He looked as if his life was drenched in sadness rather than richness. The moment passed however as Thomas raised his head, grinned and answered.

  “The best thing in my life right now, I guess, is this next beer that Maria is bringing over.”

  The author gratefully received his drink and the waitress gratefully received another compliment in Spanish. Thomas immediately took a swig from the new bottle. As he did so his wedding ring clinked against the glass and glinted in the afternoon sun. Gemma noted how Thomas didn’t say that his wife – or family if he had one – were the best things in his life. Was he going through marital problems? He wouldn’t be the first author in the history of the world to be more in love with himself than his partner. Or to be unfaithful. Or was his wife to blame? Did she take care of him about as well as she did the un-ironed clothes on his back?

  “And what’s the best thing about being an author?” Gemma asked, ignoring the awkward moment that had just occurred – but still wanting to get to know Thomas more.

  “I’ve heard plenty of other novelists say how they write because they are somehow paying a debt to society or art. My main concern however is to pay the mortgage… The best thing I can do is just to prompt someone who has read one of my books to read another book, whether it be one of mine or not. But maybe I’m lying to myself. Maybe it’s all about the money – and I’m telling both you and me what we want to hear. The cynical answer is usually the right answer, unfortunately. But blissfully ignore me Gemma. It’s just the drink talking, or slurring…”

  They spoke some more – about the proposal for Daylight and a shared love of Chekhov. Gemma also spoke about her plans for her career. She relaxed, was herself and ordered a glass of wine. They made each other laugh. Eventually Gemma said how she had to get back to the office for another appointment. She had enjoyed meeting him though – and he her. Thomas insisted on paying for the drinks, partly because he had consumed most of them. He left a generous tip for Maria. She hesitantly looked at Gemma but then asked, in Spanish, if Thomas would like her number. He could practise his Spanish on her some more and she could practise her English. Her expression said as much as her words. Thomas replied, “Gracias” – but then politely remarked that he was “married”. Little did either of them know it but Gemma had studied enough Spanish to understand most of what was said.

  Perhaps a good man isn’t impossible to find.

  8.

  “How did the meeting go?” Amanda asked, having come back from her lunch with a senior commissioning editor. “Any gossip? What did you think of Thomas? Is he still a dish?”

  “He was fine,” Gemma replied, non-committedly – as though she had barely thought about him since parting. In truth she had thought about little else whilst waiting for Amanda to return. She pictured the surprise and pleasure on his face as she quoted Chekhov to him.

  “How intolerable at times are people who are happy, people for whom everything works out…”

  Some of what the author said still rang in her ears too, such as when Thomas had quoted from Chekhov as well.

  “Man will only become better when you show him what he is like.”

  There had been a sense of sorrow and wistfulness – as well as dry humour – in his voice when he had spoken the words though, Gemma thought to herself.

  I can’t quite work him out… but that’s good in a way.

  Gemma couldn’t get Thomas out of her mind. He was like a crossword clue that she was on the verge of solving.

  “Just fine? It seems your meeting may have been as equally underwhelming as mine,” Amanda said with a sigh, as she glanced at the emails that had entered her inbox since she last looked. Authors could be as needy and time consuming as children. More so in fact, as authors seldom grew up or realised how demanding and childish they could be. Male and female authors were as bad as each other, but for different reasons. The veteran agent sighed again, recalling her meeting. “He asked me if we had any Vampire meets Zombie fiction. Oh, the horror, I thought… Also, he wants a ghost writer for one of the cast of some television programme called Geordie Shore. They even have a title for the book, Shore Thing. And of course they asked if we had anything resembling Game of Thrones, as rival publishers have recently signed deals for Throne Games and Game of Kingdoms. The Lannisters always pay their debts, although I fear that publishers like Bradley House will soon fail to pay theirs if they keep over paying for books like Shore Thing or Rolf Harris’ life story… It used to be that the senior commissioning editors were the smartest people in the room at a publishing house. Now they seem to be the quietest, being shouted over by metrosexual marketing managers and sales directors who spend more time reading self-aggrandizing tweets than they do books…”

  Gemma listened patiently to Amanda’s complaints and then her pin
ing for the net book agreement and the golden age of the book trade (and advances for mid-list writers) before heading back to her own desk. She finished off the final touches to the proposal for Daylight and sent it off to a dozen editors, thinking good thoughts as she did so. She rolled her eyes as she emailed Julian Smythe, an editor at Bradley House. He would doubtless reply with a flirtatious, or sexist, comment and look to invite Gemma out to lunch whether he was interested in the novel or not. But the agent felt she owed Thomas and the book enough to cover all bases. Gemma had once heard the lecherous editor say, only half-jokingly, to a colleague, “The higher the hem on an agent’s skirt, the higher the advance I’ll offer.” Gemma also made sure she emailed Sara Sharpe, an editor at Falcon Publications. Gemma had met Sara at a Women in Publishing event a month or so ago. Although it wasn’t quite within the young editor’s remit, in regards to genre, Gemma thought she might as well cast her bread upon the water. She liked Sara – and they could use the book proposal as an excuse to have lunch and catch up.

  Gemma also received an email, enclosing a party invite, from her sister during the afternoon. The event was a post-premier party at The Ivy for a new British gangster movie, Evil Be Thou Our Good, by the writer-director George Fuller. Fuller was currently the darling of the broadsheets and tabloids alike. The former praised him for his films, the latter loved him for his string of celebrity girlfriends and the puns that they could make out of his surname.

  “Oliver is a friend of one of the producers of the film. The gathering is on Thurs night and uber exclusive…You owe me, again, little sister… Frock up. Wear the Sonia Rykiel number that I bought for you on your last birthday. If you somehow find a husband at the party I will want five percent of any divorce settlement… You can check out a profile of the director in today’s Evening Standard. The film has been described as “urban and gritty”. Normally I’d avoid such films like the plague, or a sale at Topshop, but I suppose I should attend the premiere too, in case someone references the movie during a conversation at the party… Anyway, I expect to see you there – no arguments. Love, V. xxx.”