The Devil You Know (30 page)

She hoped it would keep .them distracted.

Her arrival had been enough for two weeks’ worth of conversation. She had lied merrily to them about prospective boyfriends and chatted about her course, her friends; anything to make them feel that her time in Oxford had been nothing but bliss. Her degree had been a good one - she’d got a First. Daisy might have told her mother about Brad, or even Edward, under other circumstances. But her parents needed to hear nothing but good news, so that was what they got. Daisy didn’t comment on the silver-grey streaked through her father’s hair, or the fact that her mother had lost fifteen pounds and now looked gaunt.

She also didn’t tell them about her agent, and her possible book.

‘DaisyF Her father was calling from the kitchen, with a cup of tea in one hand. ‘Phone for you. Some chap named Elliott.’

‘Daisy!’ her mother huffed, because Daisy had trodden on one of her newly planted petunias as she raced for the kitchen. Mrs Markham smiled, watching her daughter go. A reaction like that, it had to be young love. She hoped to heaven the boy was a man of means.

‘Thanks, Dad.’ Daisy grabbed the receiver, palms sweaty. ‘Daisy?’ It was Gemma. ‘Can you hold?’

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‘Sure,’ she said, breathlessly. They piped the Four Seasons down the line till she thought she was going to scream.

‘Hi, Daisy,’ said Ted Elliott finally. ‘How are you?’

‘OK,’ she said. Who the hell cared how she was?

‘I’ve sold your book,’ he said casually. ‘In fact, I’ve also sold the next one.’

‘But I haven’t written the next one,’ Daisy said, feeling stupid. ‘How much did you think these books were going to go for?’ She paused. The important thing was that she was going to be published. New writers got very little, Daisy knew that much. But it would still beat six months of waitressing.

‘About two thousand pounds?’ Daisy suggested tremulously. ‘Ha! I think you’d better sit down,’ he said, a touch smugly. ‘Ted, just tell me, please!’ shouted Daisy, losing it completely. Her father was giving her a concerned stare across the kitchen. He set his cup of tea down on the countertop.

‘I’ve sold this book and a sequel for seventy thousand pounds,’ Ted Elliott said.

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The tube pulled into Leicester Square and Daisy got out, electrified with excitement. She was due to meet her publishers for the first time.

Her editor had spoken to her on the phone and said nice things, but Daisy wasn’t listening; it all felt like a blur, .just a huge blur. Today would make it real.

Not even six months out of college, she had traded a waitress’s apron for being a writer. A real writer, with a proper contract.

Daisy felt slightly scared they would think they had made a mistake. She was nobody, really, not Jackie Collins, nor Jeffrey Archer, nor Jilly Cooper. She was going to be a real author, published by the same firm that put out Richard Weston.

She glanced at her watch. It was still only ten. She had fifteen minutes before she was due at her meeting but she hadn’t wanted to be late.

‘Nothing to be worried about,’ Ted Elliott told Daisy. ‘They love your writing. Fenella said it had sparkle she hasn’t seen for years.’

Fenella Granger, a publishing titan, apparently. Her new editor.

‘And they’ll all be very glad to meet someone as young and as glamorous as you.’

Daisy burst out laughing.

Her agent crooked an eyebrow. ‘What on earth is so funny?’ ‘Glamorous! Me? Have you taken a good look at me, Ted?’ He steepled his fingers and regarded her. ‘I think perhaps the question is have you taken a good look at yourself?’ Ted pointed to the gold-framed mirror hanging behind her. ‘Check yourself out. Isn’t that what the young people say?”

Daisy looked. The girl standing in front of her was beautiful. She hadn’t been paying attention to her transformation. She was slim; her clothes were actually hanging off her. Was it possible? Could she have dropped to a size ten? She’d always loved her eyes, but now

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you could actually see them, as they weren’t hidden behind folds of fat. She had real cheekbones - high, aristocratic cheekbones that seemed to go on for ever - and her hair, because she hadn’t bothered with it, was tumbling down around her shoulders in a rich, dark and glossy mane. She had full lips that were … well, pretty sexy. Her jeans and T-shirt didn’t exactly fit, because they were both too big, but the natural curves of her body were still impressive. She had a high, tight butt, full breasts, and she wasn’t too skinny, and …

‘You look amazed,’ Ted Elliott said. ‘Most girls your age can’t keep away from the mirror. My nieces, for example. The only time they get out of the bathroom is to get on the phone.’

‘I’ve never liked mirrors,’ Daisy said truthfully. The mirror had been her enemy. Who wanted to be reminded of being a lump?

‘Well,’ Ted said, losing interest, ‘it never hurts to be young and pretty when you’re selling something. Perhaps you should go shopping and buy something, um, funky.’

Daisy had taken the advice to heart. She’d popped down to Harvey Nicks - how she’d always longed to say ‘popped down to Harvey Nicks’ - and bought herself something flattering by Ghost, a cute dress in dusty pink with a matching lace cardigan, wedges frQ, m Dior, and a little Kate Spade pink-leather handbag. The price th.g almost made her faint, but Daisy told herself it was business.

She wavered between not wanting to count her chickens and’a steely determination to make this work. It was so hard not to think of herself as unworthy.

But I am, Daisy told herself, I am worthy. They didn’t sign me for fun. They think I can succeed.

She smiled. She was starting to value herself.

Artemis Publishing was located on Tottenham Court Road, right in the heart of book country. There were gleaming modern booksellers and mazy little specialist shops, antiquarian dealers and feminist presses up and down the length of the street, mingling with the odd record business building, like the Astoria, EMI publishing, and the instrument sellers on Denmark Street.

She wandered up towards the Royal George pub, ducking into Waterstone’s on the way. The rows of pristine books on.the shelves, the posters, the tables of bestsellers and new releases … she felt as though she was floating. Daisy picked up Savage Outcome, the latest Richard Weston thriller. It had big gold letters on the cover, fantastic reviews on the back - quotes from Company and Elle and the Daily

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‘So.’ Fenella shuffled her notes and looked at Daisy brightly. ‘That shouldn’t be too hard, now should it?’

They were sitting in the kitchen of Fenella’s glorious Cotswolds manor house. There was a gleaming red Aga in the corner, bunches of dried hops and beaten copper pans hanging from the ceiling, and a collection of chipped mugs hanging from nails driven into a beam. It had lead-paned windows and warm stone floors that were cool in the summer heat. Outside, there was a large garden with lavender-lined paths and wild roses climbing riotously up a trellis. Daisy had no idea how Fenella ever got any work done.

‘I suppose not,’ Daisy respo.nded gloomily. She had just finished hearing all Fenella’s editing suggestions for her book, The Lemon Grove. There were so many of them she wondered why Artemis had bought the manuscript in the first place.

‘Don’t look so upset.’ Fenella grinned. ‘I told you, you’ve got huge talent and your characters sing, but the plot just needs some tweaking.’

‘Tweaking!’ Daisy protested. ‘You want to get rid of Carl altogether and change the firm from clothes to make-up -‘

‘If one rival runs a store, clothes isn’t different enough. And Carl just isn’t likeable enough. He’s not necessary. Think about it.’

With a bit of resentment, Daisy considered it. She supposed Fenella might have a point.

‘It’s going to mean a page-one rewrite, you know.’

‘I know. That’s where the work part comes in.’ Fenella handed her a cup of coffee, stirring in the sugar. ‘This is your launch, and we only launch a writer once, so let’s getit right.’

Daisy sighed. ‘I hear you.’

At home, in the rented flat, her parents gave her her own room and let her lock herself away. Daisy would watch her mother in the

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garden from her small, neat, double-glazed frame as she planted and mowed and began to make something interesting out of the small space. Her parents were motivation enough, even if this hadn’t been a dream of hers.

Daisy wanted this book so badly. She wanted to see her name in print, pick her own book up at W.H. Smith’s, in the station’s Menzies, maybe even see somebody reading it on a bus. She also wanted to get her parents out of this rental situation, but they wouldn’t hear a word of it.

‘Darling, you only have thirty thousand pounds for this book.’ ‘Thirty’s a lot, and there’s forty for the next one.’

‘Yes, it’s a lot of money for a twenty-two-year-old, but you’ll have to make it last. Get yourself a house. Your father and I are going to be fine. He has that new job at the bank.’

‘And he gives all his extra money to bloody Lloyd’s,’ Daisy said resentfully. Her father was far too honest, too damn noble for his own good.

‘It’s a debt, darling,’ said her mother proudly.

Daisy was filled with a mixture of rage and pride whenever she thought about it. She would have expected her father to insist ,on doing the right thing. But she could not bear to see him do it.

She felt responsible, and the thought was strangely exhilarating. Daisy knew that opportunity was knocking for her fight now. ’”

She was not about to let the moment slip.

She worked furiously. At first there were problems. Daisy turned in some chapters and got worried phone calls from Fenella. ‘This isn’t working, Daisy. It doesn’t have any of the zest I found when I first bought the book.’

Daisy felt fear close a clammy hand around her heart. She couldn’t lose this, she just couldn’t. What if they said the book was unacceptable and refused to pay her, to publish it? Would she have to go back to waitressing? She felt nausea rise in her throat.

‘Let me give you a bit of advice,’ Fenella said. ‘You’re over thinking it. Go out to the bookshop, buy tons of the sort of books you like to. read, and curl up with them for a week.’

‘A week,’ Daisy said horrified. ‘I write three thousand words a day, that’s going to put me six chapters behind ‘

‘You need to remind yourself what it is you like. Honestly. Trust me on this one.’

Obediently, and still feeling scared, Daisy went into town and

2II

found a Books
Etc.
Now, the gleaming gold-spined rows of blockbusters didn’t seem so exciting, they seemed intimidating, mocking.

Resolutely, Daisy marched up to ‘Popular Fiction’ and pulled out her favourites. If she was going to learn, it might as well be from the masters. Kane and Abel. Best trashy novel ever written. Riders. Close second. Lace. Close third. She piled up her arms with fantastically plotted classics. Judith Krantz’s Scruples. Sally Beauman’s Destiny. Penny Vincenzi’s Old Sins. Hmm, she was actually starting to enjoy herselŁ Ken Follett! Pile it on… and finally, of course, her personal hero: 1Kichard Weston. Daisy bought Savage Outcome with delicious anticipation.

She tumbled her purchases on to the counter in front of a jaded shop assistant, who paused from cracking her gum long enough to blink.

‘Bored, are ya?’ she demanded. ‘Or are ya flying to Australia or something?’

‘Or something,’ Daisy said sweetly.

There were plenty of places that offered creative writing courses; even universities. But Fenella was right, she could do no better than immerse herself in the kind of.stuff she wanted to write. If you read the complete works of one writer, you usually started pastiching them. Especially with people like Jilly Cooper - one had to be careful of that. But Daisy thought this way was safe, just to read the best of the best and let it all sink in. She loved to be whisked away into the hearts of dark rivalries, strong men and gorgeous, cunning women, to read about the LA sun and the Siberian ice and World War Two and Argentinian polo matches …

She spent the next two weeks on the living-room couch, reading through one pop fiction legend after another. Her mother kept her supplied with hot tea and packets of Hob-Nobs. When Daisy was finished, she’d put on eight pounds. Ugh. But she was also prepared.

She could hardly wait to start writing again. Whenever she booted up the computer, Daisy got a buzz. And now her fingers were flying across the keyboard.

She faxed the new pages to Fenella and held her breath. ‘This is great, Daisy. This is exactly right. Keep it coming.’ Daisy did. She also pulled on a pair of old shorts and started jogging in the mornings. She had no intention of sliding back to the way she had been before. Maybe Edward wasn’t in her life, but that wasn’t the point.

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Daisy had no interest in men right now, not even Edward Powers. She didn’t have time to brood and mourn over him. Her career was all that counted. If she wanted romance, she worked it out in the pages of her novel. She didn’t care about looking good for men. She

cared about looking good for herself.

It was a fun summer.

Everything was coming together. Daisy felt the sense of achievement every day, when she finished her run, when she finally ran the last word-count of the evening. Maybe it wouldn’t work, after all, but she knew that she was giving it everything that she had. It might not have been blood, sweat and tears, but it was bloody hard work, and it was the best she could do.

‘So this is the cover. Or covers,’ Tony Morris told her. Tony was the Artemis Art Director, andhe was known for being one of the best in London.

‘Ahm, very striking,’ Daisy said uncertainly.

The Lemon Grove had been packaged up like a boiled sweet in two flavours. The book was laid out before her in two covers: neon lime green and neon hot-pink, both with the title in block silver letters. Daisy loved the silver letters; that was proper blockbuster stuff. But neon green?