A Murder of Magpies (18 page)

I didn't want her sister, but I did want Mehta. In ten minutes the thing was tied up. There were formalities—she needed to put my offer to Mehta for his agreement, we had to meet, but I could see that the money was what she had been expecting, and she thought the book was mine. Not only that, but we ran through a couple of other things she was going to offer in the next few months, and I got a chance to tell her what I was interested in. Usually with Kath I got the stuff that the bigger spenders had already rejected. It was fun being a big spender myself. Even if it was because I was a baby snatcher.

Eventually we had to discuss my new tendencies toward adolescents. Fair was fair after all. Kath was direct. She put down her coffee cup and said, “Have you known Charles for long?”

I looked as shocked as I could manage. “Who told you?” I lowered my voice. “We don't really want to talk about it yet.”

Kath was prim. “I won't say a word. Promise.” Yeah, right. She wouldn't say a word, she'd say about a million. She egged me on: “I heard Peter was very upset.”

I tried not to look puzzled. Peter? What the hell had he got to do with it? Then I remembered that in the Gospel According to Miranda he'd broken into my flat in a state of thwarted rage. I tried to sound like I was lying, which was easy, because I was. “Well, we don't
know
that it was Peter.”

Kath was skeptical, so I moved on quickly. “At least, it might have been, but it might have been … Well, it's just that after Peter I'd been seeing two other guys. One after the other,” I added virtuously. I didn't want her to think I was a total slut.

Kath's eyes bulged. If I didn't control myself, I'd be telling her that the All Blacks stopped by regularly whenever they played Twickenham, forming an orderly queue down the garden path. I looked at my watch. I really did have to get back to the office, and anyway, I couldn't keep this up for much longer. Kath had enough to keep the phone lines white-hot for weeks, and I might even get a couple more books out of her. It had been a worthwhile lunch all around.

As we got our coats she said, “Is the one keeping tabs on you now one of them?”

“Keeping tabs? What do you mean?”

She thought I was trying to bluff her. “Come on, the guy near the door, sitting at the bar. The one who arrived just after you did, who has been looking over here the whole meal, and who asked for his bill as we stood up.”

I whipped around. It was the thin boy from the LSD. I pulled Kath around so she was between him and me. “Can you just stand there, as if we're talking, so he can't see me for a minute?”

I was going to get books from Kath for life. If she'd had doubts about the Pool thing before, she didn't now. Here was another man barely into his twenties following me around. Granted, he wasn't particularly attractive, but no one was following her around. I was a little more concerned.

I rang Jake, and as usual he answered on the first ring. “Me. Hi.”

“What's wrong?” he said immediately. He was right, there were pluses to seeing a detective.

“I'm in Les Deux in Notting Hill. That guy from the LSD, the one who was in Timmins and Ross yesterday, has followed me to lunch. The friend I'm with spotted him. What shall I do?”

“Does he know you've seen him?”

“I don't think so. I'm phoning out of his sight.”

“I'm in the middle of something and I can't get away. Go back to your office, by bus if you can so he can follow you easily. Wait there.”

“I really want to talk to him.”

“Me, too, but you're not—
not
—to approach him on your own. Do you hear?”

I disconnected.

I hooked my arm through Kath's, who was enthralled. I said, “As you can see, there's a bit of a situation. I don't think he'll do anything, but can we just walk past chatting about publishing? I don't want him to know I've seen him.”

“Sure, absolutely. Is he one of the ones who…?”

I shook my head impatiently. “No, he's just trouble. My problem is, I don't know what kind.”

Kath had no idea what I was talking about, but she didn't care. Who would have thought having lunch with Sam Clair would produce this much gossip?

As Kath and I drew level with the Thin Boy, as I now thought of him, he turned his head away, which was good because Kath was ogling him unashamedly. I'd contemplated trying to corner him, whatever Jake said, but he was in the middle of the bar, with empty seats on either side. Whichever way I approached, he could cut and run. So instead I asked Kath about a launch party that she had been at the night before. She was immediately diverted by the thrill of being the first to tell me all about the scandalous behavior of an agent and the husband of one of her authors. I knew them, and I figured they'd got involved because no one else would even talk to them, much less sleep with them. I managed not to share this view with Kath.

We air-kissed on the pavement after I told her I was taking the bus, which rocked her view of me as Hot. Well, at least I was a Public Transport Princess with four lovers, all insanely jealous.

After all that, my return to the office was anticlimactic. The Thin Boy made no effort to follow me outside, much less get on the bus. The stop was visible from the restaurant, so maybe he just figured I was going back to work? I contemplated waiting for him to come out to see where he went.
I
could follow
him,
I thought, patting myself on the back. Then I realized I'd just invented a street version of French farce: I'd follow a man who was following me so that I could … Either we'd chase each other around the block, or we'd both stubbornly sit at the bus stop till we grew old and forgot what we were doing. Instead I got on the bus and tried not to think about him anymore. I was having enough trouble working out what I was doing these days, without wondering what strangers were doing.

As I walked down the hall, Miranda was finishing a phone conversation. She held up a finger to delay me, and when she put down the receiver she followed me into my office looking confused and worried. I sighed. I wasn't sure I could deal with any more. Maybe I should go into craft books:
How to Knit a Chicken,
with diagrams. No one worried about those. I pulled myself together.

“What's the problem?”

“There isn't one. That's the problem.”

She didn't appear to be drunk, or high. Just worried. “Start at the beginning,” I said gently. “First tell me what we're talking about.”

“Breda.”

“Go on,” I said, still trying to encourage her. It wasn't like Miranda to be incoherent. “What about Breda?”

“They love it.”

Maybe it was me. Maybe I just attracted nutters. “Miranda, stop. Who loves what? What are you talking about?”

She laughed, which was a small improvement. “Sorry. I've just got the third call, and it threw me.” She saw me looking patient again. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. It's about Breda's book. I gave the manuscript to a bunch of people yesterday, when you told me to.” I nodded encouragingly, trying not to let hope blossom. “Not just my friends—two friends, and also my sister, who is two years younger than I am. I offered them a double fee if they read it overnight. And I sent it to Nadila from WHSmith. Do you know her? She does their author events. We met when you did Breda's last book, and we're quite friendly, so I sent it as a ‘favor.' You know, letting her get a sneak preview.”

I nodded again, hoping that if I didn't talk, what she seemed to be saying would indeed be true.

“Well, I've had three calls so far—three out of the four—and they all love it. They think it's the funniest thing they've read in years.” She stared at me with a
now what?
look. “That last call was from Nadila, who said she'd sat up all night reading it, then she'd given it to her colleagues this morning, and two read it over lunchtime, and, well, the result is, they want it for the September Book of the Month, to lead off the main push before Christmas. Her only concern was that we hadn't highlighted it in our presentation, so did that mean that we were giving the other chains preference?”

I argued, just because none of this could possibly be real, “They've settled the September book already. It's one of Ben's.”

“I know.” Miranda sounded incredibly smug. “They said they've never changed one before, but they hope that since it's in-house it won't cause problems.”

“Yeah, right. Out-of-house, it wouldn't have caused problems. In-house it's going to be blood on the carpet tiles. Especially since I think I've just bought the Mehta from Kath.”

Miranda was jubilant.
“Yesss!”
She sobered up. “How are you going to tell Ben?”

“Wearing a flak jacket.” She laughed and I tried to think. “Not today. I want to get the trip to Galway over with first. And get David on side. In the Tuesday meeting, I guess.”

Miranda put her hand up, stopping me in my tracks. “The meeting has been moved to Monday, because of all the foreign publishers coming through for the Book Fair next week.”

I closed my eyes. The London Book Fair. Maybe it wasn't too late to run away and join the circus. I pushed away the alluring thoughts of having spangly tights and no authors and concentrated on breathing deeply. “Fine.” It wasn't, but what could I do? “I'll tell him then. In the meantime, ring Breda and let her know I won't be staying for the weekend. Since there's suddenly no editorial work to do, I can go, present the marketing and publicity plans, show her the jacket, and get back tomorrow night. She'll be thrilled. Once you've spoken to her, will you make me a reservation home on the seven-thirty-five?” She made a note. “Now, about the book itself. How stupid do we want to appear?” Miranda looked blank. “Did you tell everyone you'd read it and it was awful?”

“God, no, I never mentioned it at all if I could help it. It was too embarrassing.”

“Me too. I gave it to everyone else to read, and didn't argue when they made sick noises, but I didn't actually say I thought it stank, because those things have a way of getting back to authors. So. Neither you nor I have said anything. Given that we have been telling lies like sociopaths for the last week, do you think we can carry off the impression that we knew all along that
Toujours Twenty-one
was a comic novel?”

For the first time, Miranda looked at me with real respect. “Can we?”

“Get me the cover brief, and let's see what I told the designer.” I looked at it, and said, “It doesn't actually say what the book is about at all, mostly because I was too ashamed to write it down. It suggests that the jacket should be a send-up, and asks for a kitsch look. I was trying to disguise the contents, but I don't see why we can't claim we knew it was the very send-up and kitsch comedy that I asked for on the cover.”

I thought through the people I'd talked to. “I'll have to tell Sandra. We talked about it at length. But she's not going to want anyone to think she hasn't got her finger on the pulse, and didn't recognize a comic masterpiece when she read it.”

Miranda was awed. “It's Stalinist. Airbrushing history. Can you get away with it?”

“Watch me.”

*   *   *

My mother rang me while Sandra and I were finalizing our plans. “Do you want to be my date tonight? It's the dinner for the Anglo-American Bar Association.”

“Jesus Christ, Mother, what a totally awful idea.”

“You do, you know.”

“No, Mother, I don't.” My mind was still on marketing and publicity budgets.

“Cooper's are this year's hosts, and they'll have at least twenty of their partners there. Kenneth Wright will be there. But if you're too busy…”

“Right, I'm with you now. What time, where?”

“The Dorchester, drinks at six thirty. I'll see you then. And wear a dress, for goodness' sake.”

At six forty-five I was pushing my way through a be-suited throng. The Dorchester has always struck me as a really strange place, and having a posse of solicitors collected in one of its function rooms wasn't making it any less strange. The outside of the building is a rather severe gray Art Deco monolith, sort of attractive if you like that kind of thing. But waltz through the revolving door and you're in kitsch 1950s stage-design land, full of rococo twirls and cream-and-gilt flourishes. I always expect a line of chorus girls to appear, and the foyer really needs them. It's too silly to contain nothing but a bunch of people in business suits checking in and out, with suitcases creating an obstacle path at the entrance, just like in any downmarket motel.

Once directed upstairs to the room where the drinks party was being held—excuse me, the “Messel Suite”—the Dorchester had no truck with mere “rooms,” it was Suites for the Suits—the same feeling of dislocation persisted. The place was jammed with people talking and drinking, like any publishing party, but these people looked different to the ones I worked with. They spent more time and money on presentation. They also sounded different. They spoke more assertively, laughed much less. Helena, as always, was the diminutive center of an appreciative crowd. At least these ones were laughing. I joined them, first stopping one of the waiters passing trays of drinks. Another difference. At publishers' parties it's hard to find a non-alcoholic drink. Here three-quarters of the glasses were filled with water. I took wine. Me and six hundred lawyers. It was going to be a long night.

Helena introduced me to Derek Gascoigne, Cooper's senior partner. “This is my daughter, Samantha.”

He looked at me with some interest, which surprised me. I'm not usually a magnet for the City crowd. Then he said, “Pat Conway told me about you.”

I blinked. How did that man end up everywhere? My confusion must have showed, and he filled me in. “Cooper's are Lambert-Lorraine's solicitors.”