Page 7 of The Do-Over

‘Exactly.’

‘And what do MacOsterley get out of it? Is Bookisti actually planning to invest in the business, or just steal the name and move everything to China like everyone else?’

‘They say they’re going to expand production in the UK. Publishing has a bit of an image problem with the eco lobby, so MacOsterley’s view that we need to be printing fewer books closer to the point of consumption is very topical at the moment.’

‘What the hell do they mean by “fewer books closer to the point of consumption”? They’re a fucking publishing house, not a sodding snack manufacturer.’ He’s trying to needle me now, I can tell. If he can pick away at my understanding to the point where I doubt myself, he’ll consider it a victory. He really is a toad.

‘Take your China model,’ I say, keeping my voice level. ‘Yes, you could print five thousand copies of a title pretty cheaply, but the environmental impact is problematic. You’ve got the trees that have to be chopped down to make the paper, the ink, fuel used in shipping and so on. Out of the five thousand originals, maybe only three thousand sell, so you end up pulping two thousand of them. MacOsterley has been investing heavily in PoD, and that’s what Bookisti wants a slice of.’

‘PoD?’

‘Print on Demand.’

‘What a waste of time. It’ll never pay.’

‘Amazon manages to make it pay, and where Amazon leads?—’

‘—the others always follow,’ he grudgingly agrees. I might actually be winning this conversation, I realise.

‘Exactly. I think Bookisti sees MacOsterley as a way to put a toe into the PoD market without contaminating their main brand if it doesn’t work.’

‘Is that what they’ve said?’

‘No, of course not. They’re spouting all the usual guff about wanting to partner with a well-respected British publishing house, but nobody’s fooled.’

He stares at me for what feels like an age before speaking again.

‘Good work, Thea,’ he growls eventually. ‘But don’t get complacent, understand? Little deals like this that seem simple on the surface have a nasty habit of turning round and fucking you in the arse when you least expect it. If we get fucked in the arse by this, be in no doubt that I will fuck you in the arse twice as hard. Metaphorically speaking, obviously, before you run off to HR squealing about sexual harassment. Am I making myself very clear?’

‘Yes, John.’

‘Good. Get out.’

As I gather my things and open the door, he fires his final shot. ‘Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re beyond my reach in New York. I expect regular reports, and I can easily fuck you in the arse from here if you screw up. Got it?’

I smile sweetly as I close the door, before very carefully flicking a series of highly unprofessional V-signs at it.

By the time I’ve finished the next steps meeting and followed up on a few crucial emails, it’s nearly four in the afternoon, but the jetlag means I still have plenty of energy as I ride the elevator down to the underground car park where my new car isallegedly waiting for me. It takes a little while to locate the bay, but the reassuring flash of the indicators when I press the unlock button on the key fob confirms that I’m in the right place. It’s a while since I last drove, so I take time to familiarise myself with all the controls before easing my way up the ramp into the traffic for my journey home. Janice, naturally, has already fixed the parking permit to the windscreen, and I’m surprised to see the space outside my house is empty when I drive up. Taking great care not to scrape the expensive-looking alloy wheels on the kerb, I manoeuvre my way into the spot before grabbing my luggage out of the passenger seat and opening the front door of my house. There’s no sign of the SUV, but then I remember that Saturday afternoons are Rollo’s extra tuition times. Sure enough, I’ve barely started annotating the updated documents that came out of the next steps meeting when the SUV appears. I watch as it stops dead, completely blocking the road next to my car, and Rollo’s mum hops out, looking furious. She peers closely at the parking permit on the Porsche and then, to my surprise, marches up my front path and rings the doorbell.

‘Hi,’ I say as I open the door to her.

‘Yes, hello,’ she replies distractedly. ‘Sorry to bother you, but I wonder whether you saw which house the owner of that car went into?’

‘That’s my car,’ I reply neutrally.

‘Ah, right,’ she says, adopting a faux-jovial tone that completely doesn’t correspond with the fury in her eyes. ‘You must be new because this house has been empty for as long as I can remember. The thing is, that’s my space. You’ll have to move.’

For a moment, I’m silenced by the bare-faced entitlement of the woman. I may not have owned a car since I’ve lived here, but I’m perfectly aware that none of the spaces are pre-allocated. It’s strictly first come, first served.

‘Oh, goodness. I’m so sorry,’ I tell her. ‘Let me just grab the keys.’ I half shut the door and steal a look at her out of the study window as I retrieve my car keys. She’s actually tapping her foot impatiently. Sorry, Sarah-or-whatever-your-name-is, but you’re about to get a lesson in manners.

‘Here they are,’ I say as I join her outside, locking the door behind me. ‘Now, would you mind just showing me how I tell which space is allocated to which house before I get out of your way? I’d hate to inconvenience anyone else.’

‘It’s, ah, more of an informal thing,’ she replies, looking less full of herself all of a sudden. ‘I always park here.’

I fix a puzzled expression on my face. ‘Sorry, I must be missing something. I thought you said this space belonged to you officially.’

‘Look,’ she says, changing tack again, this time to naked aggression. ‘I don’t have time to stand here arguing the ins and outs of street parking etiquette with you. The fact is that this is where I always park, I’m on a tight schedule, and I’d appreciate you moving your car so I can get on with my day.’

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