handing Sheila the sugar.
‘Oh, not one of those awful book club things?’ Her sister rolled her eyes heavenwards. ‘You really should write and get them to cancel your membership. Do you remember when Dad ordered that boat-building thing out of the Sunday colour supplement …’
As Sheila spoke, Dora surreptitiously slid her notes for the latest Catiana Moran novel under a pile of magazines and sat back to listen to her sister railing against the temptations of a mail-order culture.
Climbing the stone steps to Calvin Roberts’ office, Dora thought fleetingly about his strong jutting chin, his rippling muscles – and sighed – only in her dreams. Her agent was small, round, with a penchant for cheap cigars, Labradors he perpetually called Dido, and propagating geraniums. His office on Northquay, an elegant Georgian crescent that overlooked the tidal waters of the Western Ouse, smelt of all three, and was a brisk ten-minute walk from Dora’s flat in Gunners Terrace.
The girl behind the reception desk grinned at her. ‘Hello, Dora, how are you?’
Dora pulled a wry face. ‘Perfect. Is his lordship in?’
The girl nodded. ‘Just got back from walking the dog. He’s gone upstairs to read his horoscope. Do you want me to buzz him to let him know you’re here?’
‘Yes, you’d better. Can’t have our lord and master caught on the cusp –’
Calvin’s corner office was on the first floor. The opaque glass door bore the legend ‘Calvin Roberts, Literary Agent’ in faded gilt lettering arranged in a semicircle. Dora smiled as she turned the door handle. Calvin cheerfully embraced life’s clichés. His office always reminded her of something out of a Bogart movie.
Calvin was sitting at the desk in his shirt sleeves, his feet up on the windowsill, flicking through an impressive bundle of papers. Apparently deep in thought, he waved her in.
In a basket near the coat stand, the latest incarnation of Dido looked up with world-weary eyes and licked her lips. There was a rolled-up tabloid in the pocket of Calvin’s trench coat. It was still turned to the horoscope page.
‘Hello,’ Dora said, throwing her string bag onto his desk. ‘I hear you’ve found someone then?’
Calvin grinned, and swung round to face her. ‘Yes, yes, yes. She’s starting a promotion tour for the latest book next week.’
‘Calvin, I don’t think it’s supposed to work like this – I would really like to have seen this girl before you hired her.’
Calvin looked hurt. ‘You told me you didn’t want to be involved.’
Dora sighed. ‘I meant with all the admin, not who you picked. I don’t suppose it matters now, does it – the deed is done. Is she any good?’
Calvin grinned. ‘I think so. Just wait till you see her at work.’
Dora lifted an eyebrow. ‘At Smith’s in the High Street.’
‘You know about that?’ said Calvin, feigning surprise as he lit another fat little cigar.
‘I’m amongst the last by the looks of it. How did you manage to get her in there so quickly?’
Calvin tapped his nose. ‘It’s all to do with contacts, it’s not what you know – the manager owes me a favour.’
‘Better not tell me what. Have you got the kettle on yet?’
Calvin pressed the button on his phone. ‘Gena, can you bring up a pot of tea for myself and Mrs Hall?’
Dora leant over the desk, pushing her finger firmly down on top of his.
‘And if you’ve got any digestives in the tin, Gena, be a dear and bring them up.’ She paused. ‘Have you got a microwave in the office?’
The disembodied voice sounded surprised. ‘Yes, why?’
‘They’ve got some really good profiteroles in the freezer place in the precinct. If you nip out and get a couple of boxes I’ll treat you.’
Calvin extricated his finger and the line went dead.
‘Actually, I’m really glad you dropped in, I was coming to see you on my way home. Have you had the proofs of the latest book to correct yet? The guy at Bayers sent me the new covers over this morning.’ He pulled his in tray closer and scuffled through the heap of envelopes. ‘I’ve got them here somewhere. They’re not bad at all.’
Dora screwed up her nose. ‘Oh, please, Calvin, don’t bother. Wet-lipped lovelies with “Come up and see my etchings” eyes? They’re always the same. And no, I haven’t had the proofs yet.’ She paused. ‘Did you hear about Jack Rees?’
Calvin nodded. ‘Saw it on TV yesterday. Bloody shame, he was a good bloke. I nipped down to the Con Club, lunch time.’ He rolled his eyes heavenwards. ‘Total bloody chaos down there. Everyone running round like headless chickens. Jack’s a hard act to follow. We’re going to have a helluva job finding someone to fill his boots.’ He took a thoughtful puff on his cigar.
Dora snorted. ‘We? What’s with this “we” business? Have the Con Club finally given you sergeant’s stripes?’
Calvin deadpanned her. ‘Father-in-law’s on the selection committee. Anyway, about Catiana –’
Dora grinned and fished in her coat pocket for a roll of mints. ‘Smith’s next week,’ she said, waving the packet at Calvin.
He declined as she palmed a mint into her mouth. ‘Off the fags again? You’ll get fat.’
Dora threw herself onto the leather chesterfield under one of the windows and laughed. ‘Rubbish, I’m built like a ragman’s whippet. Besides, it won’t matter now that we’ve got a stand-in, will it? What’s she like? That picture in the Gazette was dreadful.’
Calvin grinned. ‘Pure twenty-four carat silicone.’ He held his hands out in an impressive gesture of size. ‘Teeth from ear to ear, big hair. She’s absolutely perfect. I’ve already sent some photographs off to the agony column in that dodgy magazine we signed you up for.’
Dora nodded ruefully. ‘Wonderful.’
‘Oh, and wait,’ said Calvin, warming to his subject. ‘Better yet. I may’ve got her on Steve Morley’s TV show.’
Dora screwed up her face. ‘That magazine thing they do from Norwich at tea time? How the hell can she pull that one off? She writes porn, for God’s sake.’
‘Wait, wait,’ said Calvin enthusiastically, clenching his fists. ‘A stroke of pure genius. As the subject is a bit risqué I’ve told them we need a list of questions up-front. They always pre-record some of it anyway. So, you can write the answers and Catiana can learn them.’
Dora sucked her teeth thoughtfully. ‘She can read as well, can she, Calvin? Good choice, good choice. And how exactly did you arrange this one off? Don’t tell me the manager owes you a favour.’
Calvin grinned, leaning back smugly in his swivel chair. ‘I’ve led young Steve to believe that I can
