Page 11 of You Had Me at Chateau
‘I know you do,’ he chuckles. ‘That’s why you never got away with anything as a kid. It’s probably why you have a chronic apologising problem too.’
‘Something which I am tempted to apologise for, but I’ll start as I mean to go on,’ I say with a smile. ‘Okay, I’ll let you get back to work, and I’ll go kill a little more time before I head back in to see Jen, and I’m leaving with the kind of reply I want this time.’
My confidence builds as my sentence goes on – of course, it’s easy, when it’s just me and Tom.
‘That’s what I’m talking about,’ Tom says, wrapping an arm around me, giving me a reassuring squeeze. ‘You can tell me all about it later, at Mum and Dad’s.’
‘They just had to tell us they were getting pre-divorced before Dad’s birthday,’ I say with a sigh.
‘And before Christmas,’ he adds. ‘It’s going to be so awkward. But, hey, at least we’re in it together.’
‘Yeah, there is that,’ I reply with a smile.
‘And if all else fails, bring your mucky books, and we’ll get them reading pages,’ he suggests. ‘That ought to keep them quiet.’
I know that he’s joking but that might work.
‘Okay then, I’ll see you later,’ I reply. ‘Thanks so much for your help.’
‘Thanks for lunch,’ he says.
‘You paid for lunch,’ I point out.
‘But I would’ve eaten it over my desk if you hadn’t called, so you’ve saved me a bit of indigestion.’
‘Oh, okay, well, I guess we’re even then,’ I laugh. ‘See you later.’
Tom heads out, back to his serious job, whereas I bundle my novels into my bag and wander aimlessly outside.
I’ll saunter back towards my publisher – hopefully, the VIP is gone now, and my editor will have time to hear me out.
I just need to remember what Tom said and do my best. And I need to do it now, before I lose my nerve.
6
I stride back into the publisher’s office with all the confidence of a catwalk model in sky-high stilettos – although, if I’m being honest, I’m probably more likely giving Bambi on the ice. But I’m doing it. My brother’s pep talk is still ringing in my ears, like I’m listening to a motivational podcast, and it’s driving me right now. Today is my day. Nothing can stop me now.
Except, apparently, the security guard.
He’s the kind of bloke who looks like he moonlights as a bouncer – but probably for fun, rather than for the money – a towering figure with a buzz cut, a jawline you could (and I’m sure he does) sharpen knives on, and arms that strain the fabric of his black shirt. He’s wearing an earpiece because I’m sure an office building (okay, fair enough, it’s a big one, but still) needs a doorman. Great, just what I need right now.
‘Erm, excuse me, stop right there, please. Who are you? Who are you here to see?’ he asks, giving me a look that suggests I might be here to loot the place, rather than for a meeting with my editor.
‘I’m an author, I’m here to see my editor, Jen Brooks,’ I say, trying to maintain my composure – why do I always feel likeI seem suspicious when anyone questions me? You should see me going through passport control. ‘I was here earlier – only a couple of hours ago, actually. There was a different guy working. Jen told me to come back after lunch.’
‘We don’t have a guy called Jen,’ he replies.
‘No, there was a different guy working earlier, but it’s my editor, Jen, who I’m here to see, again,’ I try to explain, the more I say, the more suspicious of me he seems. Wow, Tom was right, less is more.
He narrows his eyes before practically patting me down with them. Bloody hell, he’d better not actually pat me down. I know it’s been a minute since I had a man’s hands on me but, as welcomings back to the physical world go, this wouldn’t be it.
Hazel Tree Books, my publisher, is based in London, in the infamous Cactus building, and I get it, it is home to newspapers, magazines and even a TV studio, so it needs security, but do I really seem like a legitimate threat?
‘We’ve got a high-profile client in today, so we’re doing extra checks. There have been reports of females trying to sneak into the building,’ he explains.
‘Oh my gosh, not females,’ I say with a sarcastic gasp, barely resisting the urge to roll my eyes.
‘What’s your name?’ he asks, his suspicion deepening.
