Page 6 of The Honeymoon Affair

I was an ambitious young agent at Saxby-Brown, one of the UK’s most prestigious literary agencies. Saxby-Brown has always had lots of big-name authors on its books, and it’s a badge of honour for the agency that quite a number of them have won the Booker, or the Impac, or any one of the many literary prizes that are up for grabs throughout the year.

None of my authors at the time were prizewinners, because I generally looked after non-celebrity writers who sold enough to be profitable but not enough to get their books into the big promotions, the TV book clubs or the radio shows. Nevertheless, they were all wonderful, hard-working people and I was privileged to represent them. I truly hoped one day they’d be top-ten bestsellers and prizewinners too.

When Charles Miller’s manuscript arrived on my desk (well, arrived by email as per our submission instructions, which was a positive start in itself; you wouldn’t believe the number of hopefuls that ignore them), I began to skim through the covering letter, but it was so elegantly written that I started again and read it more slowly.

It was brief and concise, giving relevant information about his book while clearly conveying how much it meant to him. He said that he hoped he’d managed to write something that people would want to read, and added that he’d been writing for years but this was the first time he’d ever reached the end, and that in itself was so exciting he had to send it off to someone. And he’d picked me because he’d done some research and seen that I was looking for new voices and unique books and he hoped he fitted the bill on both counts.

I clicked on the attachment, hoping his novel would flow as fluently as his email. It did. I read all 90,000 words of it that evening.

I wanted to sign him right away.

Apart from the undoubted exquisiteness of his writing, the characters were real and alive. The story tugged at the heartstrings. I was absolutely convinced it would be a hit if it was handled in the right way by the right team. And I knew I was the right agent and Saxby-Brown definitely had the best team to find a publisher who’d support Charles and nurture his career.

Of course, the other part of potential success is the author themselves. If Charles had an engaging personal story, if he was attractive, if he got on well with people and could do a good interview, that would make it easier. The key was to sell him as well as his book. And that it was a poignant romance, skilfully portrayed by a man (fingers crossed, reasonably good-looking, articulate and not psychopathic), made it an excellent selling proposition. As I sat and planned, I realised I was getting too far ahead of myself. Right now, it was only about convincing a publisher that they’d have a bestseller on their hands.

I replied to Charles the next day asking if he could come and meet me at the office. His response was that he could, but not until the following week, as he’d have to take time off from his job as an accounts manager to come to London from Dublin, where he lived. I was surprised at hearing he was in accounts. He had the soul of a poet, not a number-cruncher.

In the days before virtual meetings were a thing, I told him I’d meet him wherever and whenever it suited him, and that if he preferred, I could come to Dublin.

I think I’d like to see your offices, he wrote. Also, I haven’t been to London for ages and I love the idea that I have to visit in order to meet my potential agent.

I told him I was looking forward to meeting him.

When he turned up at the office, I knew I’d made the right call.

Despite my hopes for an interesting backstory (you know, like he’d recovered from a life-threatening illness, or a heart-rending divorce, always good for some column inches), Charles said his life was as dull as his accounting career. But it didn’t matter. Because the only thing that did matter was Charles himself.

The man was a Greek god. The handsomest male author who’d ever walked into the Saxby-Brown office – and we’ve had our fair share. We’ve sold boy-band memoirs and biographies of actors and celebrities who’ve been filtered to within an inch of their lives. But Charles Miller, aged thirty-three and a half, wasn’t a boy. He was a man. And the kind of man to make a woman go weak at the knees.

He had a lion’s mane of thick golden hair, piercing blue eyes, and a jawline that was so square and strong it really did look as though it had been chiselled from granite. He was tall and broad-shouldered and he seemed to fill my small office both physically and with the strength of his character.

As I was a consummate professional, I didn’t allow my knees to weaken. I told him to have a seat and I poured us both some water from the pitcher on my desk. (I needed the water. He was as cool as the proverbial cucumber.) I asked him about his book, what had inspired it, if he’d written it from his own experience, if he’d written anything else. And I asked him why he’d become an accountant.

He frowned slightly and scratched the red-gold stubble on his chin.

‘Accounts manager,’ he said. ‘In a business. Not an actual accountant, though that’s my qualification. I needed a job and I’m good with numbers.’

Most writers are terrible with numbers. I guessed I could spin something about a transition from facts and figures to romantic literature. But it would be nice to have something deeply personal too. I asked again about his inspiration. Had he had his heart broken like the hero of his novel?

‘Not at all. I made it up,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘It came to me one afternoon when I was working on a spreadsheet.’

‘I didn’t realise spreadsheets could be so emotionally gripping.’

‘Neither did I.’ He smiled, and I was glad I was sitting down because my knees definitely would have buckled under his all-round hotness.

‘It’s a fabulous book, and if you allow me to represent you, I’ll do my best to get it the success it deserves.’

‘Wonderful.’

‘But it doesn’t always work,’ I warned. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many books are published every year, and each author wants theirs to be a bestseller. Some very deserving ones end up selling only a few dozen copies. It’s not fair, but it’s the industry.’

‘Life’s not fair.’ Charles shrugged. ‘If it fails, I won’t blame you.’

I couldn’t help thinking that the perfect client had walked into my office. Authors often do blame their agents when things don’t go to plan, so having one say upfront that he wouldn’t was refreshing. One way or another, I was going to try my hardest to make him a success.

Looking at him across the desk, the sunlight glinting off his magnificent hair, he reminded me of a young Hugh Grant without the stuttering awkward Englishness. Charles Miller was attractive, quietly confident and spoke in a smooth baritone that I knew would be ideal for radio. The whole package, of course, would be even better on TV.

But first I had to find him a publisher.

---