the bin. Something must have made you take it back out.’
‘Yes.’ He fiddled with the small bust of Napoleon. ‘A fly.’
Had he just admitted to using the novel she'd slaved over for the last year and a half as a fly swatter?
‘It was a highly persistent fly,’ he added in a conciliatory tone. He pushed a bored hand through his hair. ‘I'm busy, so I'll keep this brief. I read your novel. I'm afraid it needs work. A lot of work.’
Hot tears pricked her eyes. She blinked furiously, trying to hold back the waterworks. She hadn't cried in years, not since her dad left, and now here was this man making her feel like that little girl again. It wasn't the rejection—she'd shrugged off dozens without resorting to tears. It must be him. The bastard. To actually reject her face to face.
‘But it has potential, so I'm going to publish it.’
What a complete and utter shit. Making her come all the way here just to wait in his stupid little office, only to be told—
Wait. What?
‘Ms. Lockhart?’ He peered into her stunned face. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Publish? Me?’ She just had to check. ‘In a book?’
He gave an exasperated sigh. ‘I'm offering you a two-book deal. It will mean a lot of rewriting—definitely a new title—and neither of us will get rich. But I think you have it in you to be a writer and, unfashionable as it may seem, that is what I came here to find.’
She waited for the punchline, searching his face for the appearance of a grin that would say, ‘only joking’, but it didn't come. He was serious. This man wanted to publish her novel. This kind, wonderful man. There was only one rational response to the news.
She dissolved into tears.
She'd always wondered how she'd feel if—she corrected herself—when the moment finally came and the flood of ‘no's’ was stemmed by one small, clear ‘yes’. In the end it wasn't even a ‘yes’ so much as a ‘oui’. Vive la France! Vive le Candleriggs! But this was more than an air-punching victory, it was … happiness. That's what it felt like. Through great hiccupping sobs she could see him watching her, confused. ‘I'm sorry. I didn't mean to …’she blubbed. ‘It's been so … so long … so many rejections … I have a board.’
‘You have a board?’
‘Of rejection letters. I call it my Board of Pain.’
‘Well,’ he said with a straight face, ‘that's completely normal.’
‘It is?’ Oh good, that was a relief.
‘So, how many publishers turned you down exactly?’
‘All of them,’ she said, palming away tears. ‘Well, obviously not all of them. All of the big ones, I mean.’ She caught his eye. ‘Not that I'm saying you're not big. I'm sure you're very … important. I mean, really, I should have sent you my novel ages ago, given that it's set in Glasgow and so are you.’
‘So why didn't you?’
‘Umm.’ This was awkward. ‘Because I'd never heard of you?’
He grunted.
‘But then I read The Final Stop by Nicola Ball and I loved it and she is really talented and really young and I saw your logo on the spine and, well, here I am.’
She lapsed into a renewed bout of weeping.
The office door swung open and the secretary in the brown suit entered, flourishing a paper tissue from a man-sized box. He'd come prepared. ‘I'm sorry about him. He was like this at uni. Everywhere he went—crying women.’
She took the tissue and blew her nose loudly.
‘Roddy—’said Duval, trying to explain that, as unlikely as it appeared, this time he was not the cause of the great lamentation.
Roddy wagged a finger. ‘Uh-uh. You lot are supposed to be charming. Charmant, n'est-ce pas?’
Jane shook her head, struggling to form words through the wracking sobs.
‘I've told you,’ snapped Duval, ‘never try to talk French to me, you—’
‘Happy!’ Jane's outburst silenced both men. ‘No, really.’ She bounced out of the low seat. ‘I've … I've never been so happy in all my life.’
She hugged a surprised Roddy and then circled round his desk to embrace Duval. Gosh, up close he was very tall. In her exuberance she knocked over her umbrella. It sprang open, an inauspicious red blot in the centre of the room.
But it was probably nothing to worry about.
‘Nine Million Rainy Days’, The Jesus and Mary Chain, 1987, Bianco y Negro
‘THIS IS THE marketing department … And this is sales … And this is publicity.’
‘Hi, I'm Sophie,’ said a shiny young woman with a sleek bob and perfectly applied make-up.
‘Sophie Hamilton Findlay,’ said Tom, ‘three names, three departments. You blame Sophie if no one reviews your book, or if you can't find it in all good bookshops. Don't blame her for not marketing it … I don't give her any money for that.’
They turned a hundred and eighty on the spot.
‘And this is George. He's production.’
A pinched face looked up from a wizened baked potato overflowing with egg mayonnaise.
‘I'm on lunch.’
‘You blame George if the print falls off the page, or if the pages themselves fall out. So, you've met the rest of the team. Any questions?’
‘Well …’ Jane began.
‘Good.’ Duval clapped his hands. ‘Time to get to work.’
When he suggested heading out of the office for their first editorial meeting Jane pictured them moving to a quiet corner of Café Gandolfi sipping espressos and arguing about leitmotifs. He had different ideas. One thinks at walking pace, he pronounced, and took off along Candleriggs at a clip, brandishing her manuscript and a red pen. Andante!
She scurried after him, his loping stride forcing her to trot to keep up. The man thought fast. He did not approve of the modern fashion of editing at a distance, he explained, with notes issued coldly via email; adding with a grin that he preferred to see the whites of his writers’ eyes.
‘Readers are only impressed by two things,’ he said. ‘Either that a novel took just three weeks to write, or that the author laboured three decades.’ He sucked his teeth in disgust. ‘And then dropped dead, preferably before it was published.
