Just the Way You Are Read online

  “Feel free to borrow it,” her father remarked, standing in the doorway to his study.

  “I’ve taken the author on as client. I’ve just sent his new book off to various editors. What this like?” Gemma asked, deciding to take her father up on his offer and borrow the novel.

  Although Richard Miller barely remembered the names of his daughters’ various (useless) boyfriends, or what they studied in college, he still had a keen memory when it came to cricket scores and recalling how enjoyable certain books were. He even helped the family win a pub quiz once through his knowledge of Graham Greene publication dates.

  “Hmm, it was a more than decent spy thriller. The chap did his research, but he didn’t overwrite. He wasn’t woolly or naïve about how the world works either. It was far from le Carré at his best but then it wasn’t le Carré at his worst either… It’s worth reading. The story concerns a British spy in East Berlin. He falls in love with the secretary of a diplomat who wants to defect. In the end he has to choose between love and duty – and he chooses the latter. Yet there’s an epilogue. When the wall comes down he finds her again and they marry. Not all love stories are tragic… If you want to read a good spy novel on the fall of the wall itself then I can recommend Henry Porter’s Brandenburg… What’s this new author of yours like though?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve only seen him twice. Everything’s done by email nowadays. I probably won’t even see him again.”

  Gemma decided to put the book back on the shelf. As she came into her station however she determined that she would not leave herself on the shelf. She texted Daniel again, signing the message off with xxx.

  17.

  Gemma arrived in work on Monday to find an email from Thomas Silver at the top of her inbox. She had not had the best of mornings beforehand. She had forgotten her headphones and had to listen to all manner of drivel from people talking loudly on mobile phones in public about things that should remain private. Someone also managed to spill a couple of drops of coffee down her cream blouse. They did so just as Gemma was receiving a couple of rejection emails from publishers. Rather than feel bad for Thomas though the agent felt bad for herself. Her career might suffer if she was unable to secure a deal for the novel.

  Dear Gemma,

  Let me first apologise for the delay in getting back to you. I’ve been thinking about things, about you and my wife. I crossed a line on Thursday evening. I don’t wish to ruin our professional relationship. If possible, I’d like to take you out to lunch to explain myself and apologise in person.

  Regards,

  Thomas.

  Gemma pursed her lips and read the message over again from the “love rat”, as Abbie had called him.

  He should be apologizing to his wife, not me.

  Now biting her lip, Gemma tersely replied by saying that what had happened between them would not alter their professional relationship. She further tried to take the sting out of things by saying that she was unsure about what happened that night due to the wine she had drunk. There was nothing to apologise for and therefore there was no need for them to have lunch together either.

  He should now realise that it’s over too.

  Gemma felt good, or told herself she did, having kicked the dust from her feet in regards to her episode with the author. Thomas didn’t write back. He had got the message. She now looked forward to her lunch with Sara Sharpe. Shortly after checking out the menu of the restaurant online however Gemma received an email from the editor, explaining that she had to attend an emergency meeting and they would have to postpone catching-up. No sooner had Gemma replied to Sara to suggest some alternative times and dates than she was herself called into the conference room, along with all of the other agents, for an emergency briefing.

  An article had appeared on The Bookseller website, as well as other newsfeeds, saying that the major supermarkets (and some online book retailers) were looking to renegotiate their terms with the big five publishers. Some of the agents walked into the meeting leaden-footed. Some held their heads in their hands when they sat down. They were experienced enough to know that, should the publishers be squeezed and their margins reduced, the authors would be the first ones to suffer. Publishing executives tended to naturally give writers, rather than themselves, pay cuts. All the contracts that the agency had negotiated based on net revenues would be worth even less. Such were the low royalties that publishers would prospectively pay out on eBook sales (less than 10% of cover price in some cases, perhaps) that very few authors would ever earn out their advances. The ranks of a professional class of authors would be decimated.

  Even before the meeting started in earnest a number of agents cursed certain supermarkets and e-retailers. Gemma measured the seriousness of the situation through the fact that the people around the table weren’t even checking their twitter feeds on their phones. One agent was worried that a potential six figure deal for her client, Sindy Pearl (a second-rate Katie Price, if there was such a thing), might not now go through. The glamour model and reality TV star had already had a ghost writer picked out for her. A few of the agents brooded in silence, worried that their bonuses might be cut again and they would no longer be able to afford the school fees for their children. They might now have to send their kids to a state school, where English wasn’t the first language for a number of the pupils. They thought about what their wives and neighbours would say once they found out. In short, they were quietly despairing.

  The curses increased. One female rights agent used the C-word three times in one sentence. Some of the older agents blamed Waterstones for the state the book trade was in – and the inept, centralising culture they had adopted over a decade ago.

  “They were alchemists, turning the gold of Ottakar’s into the lead of Scott Pack’s Waterstones.”

  The result was that the trade was now too reliant on Amazon and the supermarkets. They also criticised publishers for ignoring independent bookshops for years. They offered them such poor terms, that it was cheaper for shops to buy their stock from Amazon and Tesco rather than the publishers. They seldom also offered independent bookshops the opportunity to host events with their big name authors, giving priority to Waterstones and W.H.Smith’s.

  There would now be a further lack of confidence when it came to editors buying books by mid-list or debut writers. Or authors would migrate across to smaller presses, or self-publish. Either way the agency would lose significant sources of income.

  The agents carped on and blamed everyone, except themselves. Yet they had been the ones who had encouraged authors to sign eBook contracts based on net revenues (instead of gross receipts) out of fear of upsetting the major publishing houses. They had been the ones to underestimate how popular eBooks would prove. They had been the ones to greedily raise their commissions to 20% – and watch some authors move to other agencies or manage their own careers. Gemma was also surprised that this latest news had come as a shock to her colleagues, as on more than one occasion they had discussed how the supermarkets would inevitably try to renegotiate terms, in their favour, with the publishing industry. The supermarkets had been squeezing the likes of pig farmers over margins for thirty years. It was naïve of the book trade to think that it would be exempt from such practises. It would be now more profitable for an author to become a pig farmer, as opposed to write. At least they could then bring home some bacon, Gemma joked to herself rather lamely.

  More people aired grievances than offered constructive comments during the increasingly fractious meeting. Pale, sheepish interns brought in cups of coffee and tea and hurried out again, recoiling at the colourful language and atmosphere of panic. It was decided that should any authors get in touch and ask about the articles coming out then everyone should maintain a party line that nothing had actually happened yet and the agency would be in touch when there was any concrete news to report. Although if any big name clients expressed concerns then their emails should be forwarded onto a senior agent for them to reply personall
y. It was decided too that the senior agents would get in touch with their opposite numbers in other major agencies. They should present a united front against the publishers to improve the royalty rate across the board for authors. The tidal wave was approaching but lines must be drawn in the sand. They were in danger of being washed away. Staff were tasked to mobilise relevant authors in order to encourage them to demonise Amazon and the supermarkets. Big name writers could place pieces in newspapers or instigate twitter campaigns to put pressure on the retailers.

  “We should see ourselves as the custodians of high culture,” the agent who was representing Sindy Pearl argued.

  18.

  Abbie had little to say on the subject of Daniel when Gemma brought him up that evening. She had plenty of thoughts on the subject however, which she prudently kept to herself. Daniel was not the answer to her best friend’s prayers. It would end in tears – whether the relationship lasted two weeks or two decades. They had little in common. It would be a marriage of convenience. She genuinely shuddered at the thought of Gemma taking Daniel back and marrying the accountant. For better or worse. It would be the latter.

  Over a bottle of wine and a small-ish box of Thornton’s chocolates Gemma spoke about her ex’s virtues, trying to convince herself of them as much as her friend. He wouldn’t cheat on her. He wasn’t pretentious. What you saw was what you got. He worked hard. His family were nice. Gemma spoke long into the night, talking over a couple of episodes of Homeland that Abbie was keen to catch up on, about some of the good times she had shared with Daniel. He had a silly sense of humour and, although not always meaning to do so, he could make her laugh. Abbie nodded her head and listened to her friend but at the same time she recalled all the late nights that she had been there for Gemma when she had complained about Daniel, her eyes puffy from crying. How he was all wrong for her. How she felt trapped. How things would never change, except for the worse.

  In the end Abbie neither dissuaded nor encouraged her friend to see her ex again. She just hoped that Gemma was going into things with her eyes wide open, for the right reasons. She hoped that Gemma would look to just have some meaningless sex, rather than force a meaningful relationship. Later that evening though, tucked up in bed, Abbie realised how much she now wanted a meaningful relationship instead of just meaningless sex.

  Late that evening Gemma sent a text to Daniel, asking if he was free to meet earlier in the week. He replied yes, inserting a smiley face and three kisses.

  *

  The balmy summer’s evening was turning colder. A sickly, sickle-shaped moon hung in the night sky. Thomas Silver poured himself another inch of whisky – and into it an inch of coke. He hadn’t shaved since Thursday evening. He had barely slept since the night of the party as well. Thomas sat in his garden – the garden which had been meant for children to play in. A half-read copy of Albert Camus’ The Plague sat face down upon the table, next to a half-empty bottle of Chivas Regal.

  Thomas wanted to text or call Gemma but he knew it was too late in more than one sense. He wanted to say that he never meant to hurt her. But in contacting her again he knew that he might hurt her all the more.

  The melancholy author downed another drink – and poured himself another. He thought about how unlikely it was now that he could secure a decent book deal, or any deal at all, for his novel given the news during the day. The publishing trade was in free fall, again. He thought about the job offer from George, as a script consultant for the director’s next film. He would have to move to Hollywood for a couple of months. The offer was tempting. He needed to turn the page, write another chapter into his life. But most of all Thomas thought about Gemma.

  Is she worth turning the page for? Is she the chapter that I need to write into my life? She’s special. She can both laugh at the world and laugh at herself. Her voice and laughter was like a song he couldn’t – or didn’t want to – get out of his head. The lines of her figure carved themselves into his thoughts. Thomas had, quite literally, dreamed about her. He felt her lips on his, her arms wrapped around him. It felt good being needed – and needing someone again… It wasn’t just down to the drink and the nature of the chance encounter. It wasn’t fate – but there was chemistry.

  The author wrote scenes in his head of them together. They would have dinner or go see a film or play. He even composed dialogue between them. There was so much he wanted to tell her. They would make love and then read together in bed, or vice-versa. Thomas wanted to read all her favourite books, see all her favourite films and listen to all her favourite songs. They could live in their own world – a dream or bubble. Like he had done with his wife, Christina. The dream and bubble here deflated or burst. He couldn’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t be unfaithful to her. Thomas finished and started another drink. The darkness dulled the colours on the flowers skirting the lawn. Crickets chirped in the distance, but the sound was more akin to a lament than mating song. It’s over. I pushed you away that night. You rightly pushed me away today… In the history of love affairs there have been so many more instances of things that are not meant to be, compared to things that are meant to be…

  “Supper’s ready,” a woman’s voice called out from the kitchen.

  Thomas sighed, finished his drink and went inside.

  19.

  There were periods of activity and industry, from some people, throughout the day at the agency. But Gemma couldn’t help but note a funereal air in the office. People quietly, morosely, stared out of windows. The future felt more like a black hole than a bed of roses. Some of the staff were doubtless updating their CVs in preparation for job hunting. Libby the receptionist did her nails and posted some more photos on Facebook during the afternoon but promised herself that she would update her CV too by the end of the week.

  Gemma received a number of emails from authors asking about the articles they had read in the press – and how any changes in royalties would impact upon past and future contracts. The agent was polite and decisively non-committal in her replies. Unfortunately the other kind of emails Gemma got in that day were rejection letters for Daylight. Various editors praised the book but there was always a “But…” The novel was either too literary or too commercial. It was “too dark” for the Asda and Tesco market. Historical fiction set during WW2 wasn’t selling at the moment, or it was a genre that was too populated. Some said they would take a look at things again if the book could be reworked and have a happy ending.

  Sensing that her assistant was having a bad day Amanda Williams took Gemma out for a morale-boosting lunch. The veteran agent was a surprising ocean of calm within the surrounding storm of what was going on. One major agency had already put out a profits warning. Over lunch and a few glasses of red wine in Sardo, near Warren Street, Amanda offered Gemma some thoughts.

  “I’ve been working in this industry for decades now Gemma. Every year is a supposed year of great upheaval and change – and Armageddon is always on the horizon. People in this trade are prone to drama. Agents and authors alike can behave like divas or vicious queens… For all of the panic going on now things will be fine in the long run. Readers still want to buy good books. Publishers still need to publish… We had our years of plenty, we just now need to adjust things to deal with some leaner years… I sat down and watched a film with my grandchildren the other day. Finding Nemo. It’s was a hit, I believe. The children loved it. In it one of the characters says that all you need to do is ‘Just keep swimming’. My advice to you Gemma – and the rest of the world – would be to ‘Just keep reading’.”

  Despite the wine and wisdom at lunch certain gloomy thoughts still plagued the young agent when she got back to the office. Should the company implement cost cutting measures then she feared that she might not survive any cull. As “indispensable” as she was to her immediate boss Gemma didn’t have a stable of authors and wouldn’t be considered an asset in the grander scheme of things. She would suffer if the policy was “last in, first out”. She grimly joked to her
self that, not two weeks ago, her dream had been to one day leave Williams & Powell to become an independent agent. Her dream could now come true, earlier than expected. She had told Thomas her long-term plan over dinner, having not told anyone else. The author had replied by saying that he would be happy to be her first client.

  Gemma remembered how, if ever she was in trouble, her sister had offered to let her live with her rent free. Should Gemma make a leap of faith and try to become an independent agent then she might have to take her sister up on her offer. But then her dream might turn into a nightmare. The apartment would eventually turn into a battleground. At best she’ll drive me insane or, worse, I’ll become more like her… I know the term for killing one’s brother is fratricide. But what’s the word for when someone murders their sister?

  Before Gemma had the opportunity to google it she received an email from a colleague who worked in the Film & TV department of the agency. Veronica Philby lunched as much as a politician – and some would argue she was equally as effective as one. She knew everyone, through her father being a famous film producer, but she seldom secured anyone a film or TV deal. Words eclipsed deeds. Beneath a haughty manner lied an even bigger snob. She considered herself cleverer and more importantly socially grander than any of the agency’s clients. Few people in publishing over promised and under delivered as much as Veronica Philby. Daddy got his daughter her job and he would make sure she kept it, even if he had to purchase even more shares in the agency. She was the agenting equivalent of an albatross yet Veronica had emailed Gemma asking for more information on Thomas Silver. She had just had a contract sent through from a film production company, looking to hire the novelist to work on a script. Veronica filled Gemma in. Silver had been asked to move to Hollywood for three months, with an option for him to extend his contract, to work on George Fuller’s next movie.