Page 12 of Duke It Out
“That sounds perfect.” I don’t know what it is about Charlotte that makes me agree to stuff. It’s like my brain to self-esteem connection goes offline.
“Excellent. We can talk details then.”
So, I’m off to ghostwrite someone’s family history in the middle of nowhere. It’s not exactly on my five-year plan, but then it also didn’t include getting dumped by a cat insurance company.
“Well, that gets you off the hook for the marketing job,” says Anna, as if she’s reading my mind. I turn, realising she’s been listening to the whole conversation.
“And the rent.”
“Well, there’s that, too.” She gives a little smirk. “Beggars can’t be choosers, Ede.”
5
EDIE
The beautiful Londondistrict of Bloomsbury – home of writers, intellectuals, philosophers, artists, and… me. Well, for this afternoon, anyway. The red double decker bus groans to a halt, and I swing out of the door and into a gaggle of tourists who are heading towards the black iron gates which stand at the entrance to the British Museum.
Charlotte’s office is on a pretty street lined with tall white houses, which would have originally been homes to the rich and well-favoured.
Now they’re offices and fancy shops, and whenever I’ve been here in the past, I’ve always had a suspicion someone’s going to tap me on the shoulder and tell me I don’t belong here. The buzzer sounds and I start the long climb up four flights of stairs because it might be a fancy building, but it doesn’t have an elevator.
By the time I reach the agency door, I’m seriously regretting my life choices. To be more specific, my decision to wear a cute, knitted sweater dress with tights. February in London has a weird habit of skipping from Arctic chill to spring-likesunshine in a matter of minutes, and I never seem to dress for the weather.
“Edie!” Charlotte – tiny and chic in a white shirt and black trousers – opens the door to find me, a sweating tomato encased in knitwear, standing in the doorway.
Seemingly unconcerned, she kisses me on both cheeks and welcomes me in. I flap the neckline of my dress to try and cool myself down. A little rivulet of sweat trickles between my boobs and nestles in the seam of my bra. I do not look like a composed and chic literary goddess.
“Have a seat,” Charlotte says, waving to the little sitting area lined with bookshelves. “I’ll be with you in two secs.”
There’s a massive stack of papers on the table and two pens. I lean forward and peer at the top page. This looks like serious business compared to the contract I signed for Annabel’s book. Last time the paperwork was pretty muchsign here, agree to deliver by this date, promise not to tell the world you’ve written the book. This stack of paper looks bigger than your average novel. I sneak a peek to find that every single page is printed on the same luxurious thick paper, with the name of an expensive-sounding legal firm on the top. I pick up a pen, eager to sign on the dotted line.
“Uh-uh.” Charlotte returns, plucking the pen out of my hand and waggling a warning finger.“Hold your horses,” she says as the intercom buzzer sounds again. “We’re waiting for the legal bod.”
’She disappears and I use the hem of my dress to blot my sweaty nose in a sophisticated manner. The smell of coffee wafts through the air and I hear Amy, Charlotte’s assistant, clattering in the tiny kitchen.
Amy appears and puts a tray on the table in front of me. There’s a cafetiere of coffee, four different kinds of fancycookie, and to finish it off a cute little posy of flowers in an Emma Bridgewater jug.
“Just shout if you need anything,” she says and heads back to her office. I can see Charlotte hovering by the door.
I gaze around at the books that line the shelves, colourful and face out to show off Charlotte’s clients to their best advantage. There are well-known faces from television and music world, as well as New York Times bestselling authors and distinguished literary prize-winners. The kind of people who actually sign their own books in bookstores. And then there’s me, sitting here waiting to sign another contract to write a book that I can’t help feeling – despite Charlotte’s assurances – is taking me yet another step away from my dream of seeing my own name in print. I try and imagine my own book up there, my name on the spine in gold foil. It’s a nice thought. Ridiculous, maybe, but a nice thought.
I hear a man’s voice and look out into the hallway. A moment later he appears, stern and suited, and I scramble out from the depths of the sofa to shake his hand.
“Miss Jones,” he says with a nod, as Amy flutters around sorting coffee for everyone. Then we get down to business. There’s a lot of legal jargon about not sharing confidential information and the consequences of violating the agreement – legal action, financial penalties, and other remedies as deemed appropriate. I do my best to look serious and attentive, but mostly I’m wondering how exactly you financially penalise someone with exactly zero pounds in their bank account.
He finally stops talking.
“So,” I say, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “If I so much as talk in my sleep, I should expect a strongly worded letter?”
The lawyer doesn’t even twitch. He blinks at me, slow andunimpressed, like a lizard in an expensively tailored suit. Charlotte’s shut-up glare is so intense that I half expect my coffee to evaporate.
“Just joking,” I say.
The lawyer looks at me as if I’m missing several vital brain cells and we get to signing. There’s a mountain of papers and I scribble my signature over and over, getting pen over my hand in true left-handed manner.
“Excellent,” I say, trying to keep my signature identical, and at the same time not covering the paper with ink smudges. “It looks a bit like a Rorschach test.”
The lawyer allows a thin-lipped approximation of a smile.
