Not Quite Perfect. Annie Lyons
shouts Will. ‘Just got to take this penalty to win the World Cup for England.’
‘I’m having a poo!’ bellows Lily.
‘Breakfast in paradise, darling?’ asks Steve, grabbing a banana on his way through.
‘Oh yeah, baby, it’s like a week in Mauritius.’
‘Bless you, Mummy. Achoo!’ says Alfie mishearing.
Rachel removes the second batch of cereal from the microwave and pours a pot of something pink, gloopy and organic all over it.
‘Naaaaaooooo, Mummy, want bananaaaaa!’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Alfred!’
‘Maaaarrrrm,’ shouts Lily, ‘I’ve run out of bog roll!’
‘Did you teach her to call it that?’ Rachel asks Steve.
‘Darling, I thought you were the queen of spade-calling. Got to dash.’
‘You’re a bit early, aren’t you?’
‘Lots to do, my sweet. Got to start early so I can be home on time. Let’s talk later. Properly? Over a bottle of something nice? Love you.’ He plants a kiss on her cheek and on each available child’s head.
‘Bye Lils!’
‘Bye, Daddy. Love you.’ Her voice is sweet and charming and then changes as she shouts, ‘Maaarrrm!’
‘OK, Lily. I’m coming!’
‘Mummy, banana!’ insists Alfie.
‘OK, OK. Will, please can you sort out your brother while I attend to your sister.’
Lily looks disappointed at Rachel’s entrance.
‘I want Daddy.’
‘Well, unfortunately you have Mummy.’
‘Oh.’
Five minutes later, the ladies of the house come downstairs to a suspiciously peaceful kitchen.
Rachel looks pleased and then horrified. ‘Will, what have you done?’ she cries, seeing that Alfie’s face is smeared with the remains of a packet of Giant Chocolate Buttons, which his obliging brother has tipped over his cereal.
‘What? He likes them.’
Rachel is about to open her mouth when her phone beeps with a text. It’s from her friend, Sue: ‘Fancy Baby Bump and Grind aka Bounce and Rhyme at the library at 10?’
Rachel fires off a reply: ‘In the absence of an offer from George Clooney, you’re on. Got to pop home after school run. Save me a tambourine.’ And then as an afterthought, ‘Shall I text Christa?’
The answer pings back: ‘Good idea.’
Christa, who has recently moved from Switzerland, is clearly pleased to be asked: ‘Danke viels. Roger and I would that love. Bis bis.’
Rachel smiles and takes a deep breath, making ready to coax, cajole and nag her family out of the house.
Emma walks into Allen Chandler’s impressive, marble lobby. She smiles at Derek on reception, who gives her a wink and a thumbs-up.
‘Hold that lift!’ orders a voice.
Emma turns to see Joel Riches marching through the door radiating an air of self-importance. He ignores Derek, who in turn shakes his head in disgust. Emma is tempted to pretend she hasn’t heard, but knows this won’t work. Joel is a persistent force in her life. Every book she publishes or pitches for, he’s there ‘thinking outside the box’ or ‘campaigning above the line’, ready to disassociate himself from things which don’t work and take the glory for things that do. As a member of the ‘say what you mean and mean what you say’ club Emma loathes him.
‘Hi, Emma,’ he says with a condescending lilt. ‘So Richard Bennett? It’s either going to be a huge opportunity or a complete drain on resources and the bottom line. Thoughts?’
Emma bristles at his patronising tone but answers as calmly as she can. ‘I think it’s a formative work for an emerging talent in a brave new world of modern fiction destined to win awards and generate sales and profit for the company,’
‘Well done, Emma. Good work,’ he says, which makes Emma want to stave in his head with the manuscript she’s holding. ‘Personally, I prefer something a little meatier. Did I tell you I’d read Don Quixote last summer?’
‘Several times.’ They have reached the twelfth floor and the lift doors open. ‘Got to dash, Joel. Got a book to buy.’
‘Good luck. Don’t be nervous. Mind you, I would be. Digby’s relying on this one.’
‘Tosser,’ mutters Emma under her breath as she makes her way into the open-plan office. Ella has left a small bunch of butter-yellow freesias on her desk with a card that says, ‘I know you can do it.’ Emma is touched, but at the same time feels a little inadequate as she doesn’t know if she would have been so thoughtful herself. Behind the lovingly placed flowers is a less lovingly placed Post-It note slapped onto her computer’s blank face. It’s from Miranda and it simply says, ‘Emma – please pop in at 9. Digby wants a word.’
Emma feels as if she might regurgitate her breakfast. It’s not that she’s afraid of Digby: He’s a pussy cat compared with the bottom-line obsessed powers that now run the company. But he is one of Miranda’s oldest friends and was a traditional, independent, gentlemen publisher, who launched a whole host of seminal works, as well as being the founding member of the day-long publishing lunch. Emma takes a deep breath and knocks on Miranda’s closed door with what she hopes is an air of quiet authority. There is no answer, so Emma inclines her ear towards the door, just as it is flung open by the literary powerhouse that is Miranda Winter.
‘Ah, Emma. I thought I heard something. Morning. Morning. And how is my brightest and best on this exquisite day? Come, my child, don’t be shy. Digby won’t eat you. He’s had his breakfast.’
Miranda’s office is a shrine to the great and good of publishing, books and reading. Her walls are adorned with photographs, sketches and mementos from her forty-odd years as the matriarchal founding editor of Chandler and now Allen Chandler. The world of books and publishing may have changed, but Miranda Winter is not a woman to be trifled with and the newer suits at Allen Chandler simply wouldn’t dare. They’re terrified of her and she makes them far too much money. The photographs of Miranda with everyone from John Gielgud to John Updike read like a history of cultural movers and shakers from the post-war years. Emma is particularly impressed by the rumours that Miranda has slept with most of the men photographed here, even the gay ones. They are like the photographic equivalent of notches on her bedpost.
As Emma enters the room, Digby is perched on the edge of Miranda’s dark oak monster of a desk, a pudgy hand pawing at one of his many chins. Although publishing today is a very different world to that of fifty or even twenty years ago, when lunch neatly segued into afternoon tea, cocktails and dinner, no one seems to have told Digby and he remains the very picture of old-school corpulence. He is suited by a little man in Saville Row and his Oxford brogues are always shiny. He prefers a dickey bow to maintain the air of an eccentric publisher and today his pink shirt looks fit to burst as his belly extends over his blue pinstriped trousers.
‘Ah Ella,’ he begins, raising his fat hands in a sort of waving gesture.
‘It’s Emma.’ She corrects him. ‘Ella’s the other one.’
Digby snorts with amusement as if having two people with vaguely similar names is the funniest thing he’s ever heard.
‘Sorry, so sorry. Now, Emma, I know I don’t need to tell you how much our hopes are resting on you today. And I just wanted to say good luck. I know you can do it.’
Emma tries to speak but only manages a squeak of agreement.
Miranda leaps to her