Blowing It (17 page)

She nodded. “I can see that.”

“Take my series, for example.” I tugged at the
collar of my shirt. “I got a ridiculous advance. I’ll admit that. Squire is
committed to paying me the money regardless of how the books sell. So it’s in
their best interests to ensure they do well. That means advertising, interviews,
even TV stuff. Anything they can think of to get the books front and centre in
the consumers’ minds.”

“And Cardwell & Grosse help, how?”

“Max has been brilliant, I won’t deny it,” I said.
“He coordinates my publisher and my publicist, manages my schedule, and
basically frees me up so I can spend most of my time writing. He’s maybe a
little more hands-on than someone from one of the bigger agencies would be, but
for the most part I like that.”

“So you’re saying I should sign with him?”

“I think that’s your decision,” I said
diplomatically. “There are pros and cons with every agency.”

“I just don’t want to sign with the first agency to
show interest, then realise down the line I’ve made a mistake,” Becky admitted.

I smiled. “That’s what we all want. Eventually you
have to piss or get off the pot.”

She laughed. “I love that expression.”

“No more wine for me,” I said sheepishly.

“So what’s it like, being a famous author? Is there
anything I should know before I jump in with both feet?”

I hesitated, seeing our waiter approach. We smiled
politely and waited until he had cleared the table and produced the menus again
for us to select dessert before resuming our conversation.

“The biggest thing to remember when writing YA is
you need to be kid-friendly,” I said. “Ooh, the sorbet looks good!”

“Mmm, chocolate pudding for me.” Becky set down her
menu. “Define ‘kid-friendly’.”

“Well, you can’t be seen falling out of nightclubs
at three in the morning, looking like you’ve been dragged backwards through a
hedge.”

She laughed. “Do I look the type to do that?”

“No, but I am.” We exchanged smiles. “Or I was, I
should say.”

“You mean they won’t let you go out?” A frown
crossed her face. “How do they stop you?”

“I can go out, I’ve just got to be careful where I
go. Who I’m seen with.”

Becky leant forward, an avid expression on her
face. “That sounds like there’s somebody in the background they don’t want to
become public.”

Dammit, could the woman scent gossip from a hundred
miles away?

“Yeah, there is someone,” I admitted.

“And?”

I adopted a bewildered expression. “And what?”

“Don’t play coy with me, Owen Black or Barnes or
whatever your name is. Tell me all about him!”

“What makes you think it’s a man?” I asked weakly.

She gave me an assessing look, which said I was an
idiot if I believed she thought otherwise.

“Okay, fine.” I surrendered. “But you can’t tell
anyone
.”

“Swear.” She drew a cross over her chest.

“His name’s Magnus.”

“And you’re not allowed to be seen with him?” She
frowned. “Why not?”

“Apparently it’s bad for sales.” I picked up my
wine glass and emptied it.

“You agreed to that?”

“I was single when I signed the contract,” I
explained, although it felt like I was making excuses. “It didn’t seem like I
was hiding anything. Not really. And it’s only early days with him. I don’t
know…. Maybe I’m making it a bigger deal than it really is.”

“It doesn’t seem fair. Why do people care who
you’re dating?”

“Beats me.” I set the glass on the table and pushed
it away. “But it’s done now.”

“I don’t know if I want to sign with an agency that’s
going to dictate my private life,” Becky said. “Surely that can’t be legal? There
are laws about those things.”

“Not if you sign an image clause, there aren’t.”

“Okay, so I need to look out for that.”

“Good luck. They’re pretty standard.” I leant on
the table, speaking earnestly. “Here’s the deal, the moment you sign, you’re
their property. A commodity. Your publisher won’t just be marketing your book,
they’ll be marketing
you
. You’ll have to speak and act and dress however
they tell you. People will be watching your every move.”

“You make it sound like Big Brother.”

“Don’t doubt it. You think actors and singers are
the only ones who have to put up with this crap? The minute you’re in the
public eye, there’ll be someone trying to control your image. Particularly if
you’re supposed to appeal to children.”

Her face fell. “But I love writing YA. I don’t want
to give up on it.”

“I’m not saying give up on it.” I softened my
expression and covered her hand with mine. “This is your life, your career. You
keep pushing me, but I’m not the one making this decision. You need to decide
what’s best. I’m just warning you of some of the dangers.”

She chewed her lip. “I’m not gay,” she said
uncertainly. “I don’t know that I’ve got anything to hide.”

“Neither have I,” I said a trifle sharply,
reclining in my chair and putting distance between us.

“I didn’t mean it like that. You know I didn’t.”

“No. Sorry. I’m just sensitive at the moment.”

“I can understand that.” She gave me a small smile.

“If you don’t have any skeletons in your closet,
there’s no reason an image clause should intimidate you. And being an author
isn’t like being properly famous. If the book gets a good deal, they’ll wheel
you out for the occasional interview or TV spot, but for the most part you get
to be pretty anonymous. I still go shopping and get the tube and wander around
like a normal person without being recognised all the time.”

“But you do get recognised?”

“Occasionally. Not often.”

“What does it feel like?”

I laughed. “Uncomfortable. I never know what to say
to people. I think I come across like an arrogant tosser half the time.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” she said diplomatically.

“I hope not.”

The waiter returned, and we gave our orders for
dessert. The conversation died as we lost ourselves in light, sharp sorbet and
decadent-looking chocolate pudding. Becky offered me a taste from her spoon,
and I handed over a scoop of sorbet in return.

Over cups of strong, rich coffee, we talked more
generally about our work: books which had fallen by the wayside, laughably bad
first drafts, and clumsy, amateur attempts. She admitted she’d been rejected by
Mills & Boon for writing romances which weren’t racy enough, which made me
feel better about my own failed attempts to scale the bastions of literary fiction.
Before we knew it, it was eleven thirty, and the tables around us were empty,
their cloths removed and surfaces wiped clean in preparation for the next day’s
business.

I lingered over the last of the coffee, unwilling
to have the evening end. Despite my doubts when Max had insisted I meet Becky,
I liked her. The dinner had been no hardship, and it was refreshing to be able
to talk to someone about writing without having to explain myself or temper my
words to my audience. As supportive as Ryan and Magnus were, neither of them
really understood what I did for a living. Becky
got it
, in a way they
couldn’t.

Eventually, however, we had to leave. I had a ten-minute
walk ahead of me to Tottenham Court Road, and my last train home was at 12:30.
I really didn’t want to be stranded in Central London, five miles from home. Yes,
I could get a cab, but years of scrimping and saving to make ends meet had
drilled into me a certain frugality when it came to transport. If my Oyster
card could get me there, I refused to take a taxi.

Becky apparently had no such qualms. While we
sheltered in the restaurant entrance, the doorman stepped into the street to
hail a cab for her. She lived off Holloway Road, a ride she was confident would
only take fifteen minutes at that time of night. I’d argued she could get the
Piccadilly Line from Leicester Square for a fraction of the cost, but she’d
sheepishly admitted to still being nervous riding the Underground unaccompanied
at night. While I was confident the transport system was as safe as any, I
couldn’t criticise her caution.

A taxi pulled up onto the pavement, and I gave her
a hug and a kiss while the doorman spoke to the driver and opened the door for Becky
to get in. I waved as the cab pulled back into the light traffic, nodded goodnight
to the doorman, and made my way home.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I was woken at some unearthly hour the next morning
by the cheerful ringing of my phone. Frowning at the handset, I barely
registered it was 8:03 a.m. before answering Magnus’s call.

“Did I wake you?” he asked, sounding bemused by my
gruff grunt of greeting.

“What do you think?”

He chuckled. “I’ve been up two hours already.”

“Bully for you.” I rolled onto my back and pulled
the duvet around my neck, keeping my eyes closed. “Some of us aren’t expected
to be awake and chipper at the arse crack of dawn.” A fact Magnus knew well
from the times I’d slept over at his place during the week. His alarm woke him
at six, but he let me sleep. I barely stirred even when he leant on the bed to
kiss me goodbye. I’d never been a morning person.

“I thought I’d let you know you’re in the papers.”

“I’m what?” I opened my eyes, wincing at the
brightness of my bedroom. Black drapes, I needed black drapes.

“The
Metro.
Gossip section.”

“Doing
what
?”

“Kissing some girl outside The Ivy.”

“Fuck off.” I sat upright, rubbing sleep out of my
eyes, trying to force my sluggish brain to wake up.

Magnus laughed. “It isn’t much. Just the photograph
and a small caption.”

“Which says what?”

Magnus cleared his throat, obviously enjoying
himself. “‘Sighted around town: children’s author Owen Black, enjoying an
intimate dinner with a female companion.’”

“What the actual
fuck
?” I threw the covers
aside, immediately causing my skin to pebble. It might be early June, but my
bedroom was still cool in the mornings. Stretching my legs to unstick my balls
from my thigh, I walked to the bathroom. “Where did they get that quote? What
are they implying?”

“I think you know what.” I could still hear the
smile in Magnus’s voice. “Did it go that well last night? Should I be worried?”

“I was being
polite
,” I protested, relieving
my bladder, taking care to aim the stream against the side of the toilet bowl
so Magnus wouldn’t hear.

“I’m teasing, Owen. I’m not worried.”

“I know.” I shook the last drip free and examined
my reflection in the mirror. My hair was stuck up every which way, and there
would be gel residue on my pillow again. I really needed to start showering
before bed. “It’s not you I’m concerned about.”

“This isn’t a bad thing,” Magnus countered. “Maybe
it’ll get your agent off your back about that picture of us.”

A sudden stab of suspicion seized me. “You don’t
think Max set me up, do you?”

Magnus scoffed. “I don’t think so. It’s not that
important, is it?”

“Max thinks so. He’s tying himself in knots over
the Carnegie business, and I wouldn’t put it past him to pull a trick like
this. I mean, it was The Ivy. He’s
never
taken me there on business.”

“I thought his story was legit?”

I frowned at my reflection. “I thought so, too. But
even at the time there was something off about it. I don’t know.”

“So ask him,” Magnus said. “But I don’t think it’s
that big a deal.”

“What if I hadn’t told you?” I countered, turning
from the mirror and crossing my narrow hall to the kitchen to flick the kettle
on. “What if you didn’t know I’d gone out with Becky last night? We could be
having a blow-up row about this right now.”

“But we’re not,” Magnus said gently. “I’m fine with
it, Owen. Honestly. I thought you’d be amused.”

I watched the light on the kettle turn from blue to
red as the water heated. Was I overreacting? I hadn’t even seen the picture and
already it had got my back up. Maybe I was too sensitive. Like Magnus said, if
it took the heat off us, that was good.

“Owen? You still there?”

“Hmm? Yes, still here.” The kettle clicked and thin
wisps of white steam filled the air. Taking my favourite mug off the draining
board, I added a spoonful of instant coffee and two of sugar. “Just wondering
what else Max is plotting behind my back.”

Magnus snorted. “You make it sound so dramatic.”

“Hey, I’m a writer.” I grinned. “I live melodrama.”

“Well, I’m a builder. I don’t.”

“Is that a nice way of telling me to calm my arse?”

“If you want to put it that way. I didn’t think
you’d be upset about it.”

“I’m more irritated than upset,” I countered,
slowly stirring the coffee. “I don’t like feeling like I’ve been played.”

“I get that.”

“I should have called you last night.” I’d
considered it while walking to the tube station, but it had been pushing
midnight, and I knew Magnus would already have been asleep. I hadn’t wanted to
disturb him.

“Is that what’s bothering you?” He sounded
surprised. “I assumed when you didn’t call, it was going well.”

“It was. It really was.”

“Tell me about it?”

I opened the fridge to get the milk and hesitated.
“You’re not working? I’m not keeping you from anything?”

“Owen, if I didn’t have time to talk, I wouldn’t
have called you. I’m stuck in traffic on the A12.”

“There isn’t much to tell,” I said, standing with
the milk and kicking the fridge door shut. “She’s nice. Wicked smart, and oh my
god, her book is the
best
idea.”

I added milk to my coffee and carried it to the
couch, curling up in the corner and drinking it in slow sips between telling
Magnus all about my dinner the previous evening. He made the right noises at
the appropriate times and concluded he was pleased the night had turned out
better than expected and I’d made a new friend.

“When are you meeting her again?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. I got her number, so I’ll probably
text her later.”

“You think she’ll sign with your agent?”

“I think so.”

“That means you’ll see more of her?”

“As much as I see any of the other authors in Max’s
stable.”

“And you’re not worried?”

“What should I be worried about?”

“Well, them signing a hot new YA author…. Isn’t
that competition?”

I laughed. “Some people might say so, but it’s not
like the market has to choose one book and never read another ever again. The
more successful YA is as a genre, the more successful my book becomes by
default. Whether readers find it through my book or Becky’s or J.K.’s or
whoever, it doesn’t really matter. If they enjoy the stories, they’ll buy
more.”

“I suppose so. All I know is, if my boss hired
another surveyor, I’d be worried.”

“
Or
it would mean you’re doing a great job, and
business is booming.”

He chuckled. “Are you always so optimistic?”

 “Only where you’re concerned.” My voice dropped to
something more intimate. “As long as you’re not upset about this stupid picture
in the paper.”

“Forget the picture,” Magnus said decisively. “I’m
sorry I ever mentioned it. I trust you, Owen.”

I smiled, heat rising in the pit of my belly which
had nothing to do with the coffee. “Good. Because I’d never play games like
that.”

“I know.” In the background, the sounds of traffic
picked up. “It looks like this jam is finally moving. I should probably go.”

“You’ve got a full day today?”

“Four surveys in Hornchurch and another two in
Brentwood.”

I grimaced in sympathy. “Good luck.”

Magnus laughed. “Thanks. You, too. Have a good day.
Go write me a masterpiece.”

Smiling, I disconnected.

҉҉҉

My good mood dissipated as I showered, working my
shampoo viciously into my hair as I replayed my meeting with Max over and over
in my head. I hated feeling like I’d been played,
hated
that he’d
managed to frame me so easily. All Magnus’s charitable advice to give him the
benefit of the doubt faded away, rinsed down the drain with the suds I washed
from my body. What if Magnus hadn’t seen the funny side, what if he’d thought
Becky and I had really been on a date? Max hadn’t given a damn about the repercussions
his actions could have had on my private life. He only cared how I appeared in
the media.

Who
did
that?

My fury carried me though a half-hour tube journey,
into Blackfriars and along Queen Victoria Road to Cardwell & Grosse’s
offices. In reception, Jennifer looked surprised to see me, but after a quick
conversation on the office phone, too quiet for me to catch the words, she buzzed
me into the inner sanctum.

Max rose from his chair when I barged into his
office, too irritated to bother knocking.

“Owen! How did it go last night?”

“Cut the bullshit, Max.” I flung a copy of the
Metro
I’d picked up at the tube station onto his desk. “Want to explain this?”

“It’s great, isn’t it?” Sitting again, Max beamed
at me. “Wonderful publicity.”

“You set me up!”

“Owen, please. Sit.” The word was ground through
gritted teeth, Max’s composure slipping.

Grumbling, I sat.

“I had nothing to do with this.” He picked up the
paper and dropped it into a waste bin under his desk. “There are always paps
outside The Ivy, you know that.”

“And so do you. You fed me a bloody line, Max. I
can’t believe I fell for it.”

“I asked you to talk to a prospective client and
ease some of her worries,” Max said firmly. “This isn’t a conspiracy, Owen.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well, that’s too bad.” Max rested his clasped
hands on the desktop, his expression grimly set. “I’m in your corner, Owen,
whether you choose to believe it or not. It’s my responsibility to manage your
career to make you as successful as you can possibly be.”

“By making me appear straight?” I sneered.

“If that’s what it takes, yes!” Max thumped the
desk, looking genuinely riled. “This isn’t a game, Owen. We’re three weeks away
from the Carnegie announcement, and you’re an idiot if you don’t think they
take your image into consideration.”

I rolled my eyes. “They made their decision months
ago.”

“And they can still change it.”

“So you
did
set me up.”

“I asked you to talk to Becky because she was
wavering, and we want to sign her. All that is true, and I’d have asked it
whether or not we had the Carnegie looming over us. If you were seen somewhere
public with her, and it made the papers, so much the better.”

“Kill two birds, you mean?” I curled my lip.
“Convenient.”

“Yes!” Max huffed. “I didn’t ask you to kiss her
while you were standing in front of a row of photographers. You did that all on
your own.”

“I was being
polite
,” I protested. “It’s
what people do.”

“And it made a great picture.” Max grinned. “Honestly,
Owen, I don’t see what your problem is. You had a nice dinner—Becky tells me
you got along like a house on fire—and we got a little bit of promo out of it,
too. Win, win.”

“You think that’s how my boyfriend saw it?”

Max frowned. “If your boyfriend is upset about you
having a business dinner with a colleague, then perhaps you need to rethink
your relationship.”

“Don’t you dare,” I hissed. “Don’t you
dare
push this back on him. Magnus is fine with it, for your information, but he
might not have been. You didn’t even warn me how you were going to spin it.”

“If Magnus is fine with it, then what’s your
problem?” Max asked. “It was a harmless photo.”

“You’re erasing my identity!” I protested, but even
as I said the words, I heard my own melodrama and wondered if I wasn’t
overreacting. Did it really matter if some people I’d never met got the wrong
idea about why I’d been having dinner with Becky? Wasn’t it smarter to tell
them what they wanted to hear and reap the benefits?

“Listen to yourself, Owen. You’re being
ridiculous.”

“Am I?” The question was half-genuine, because by
this point, I really didn’t know. I’d always been out and proud, always
believed the closet was a dangerous and stifling place. If I could come out in
high school, why on Earth would I accept being bearded as an adult?

On the other hand…. If people were going to be
bigots, wasn’t it a glorious kind of “fuck you” to pretend I was straight and
take their money and adulation and awards? Was I a coward, slinking in the
shadows, or a double agent working to defeat the system from the inside?

“Of course you are.” Max smiled, sensing victory. “Publishing
is a game, Owen, and this is how we play it. You and Becky can go for a couple
more dinners over the next two weeks—on the agency, of course—nothing arduous,
just be seen out and about. Another kiss or two wouldn’t go amiss. She’ll look
lovely on your arm at the awards ceremony. Everyone will
ooh
and
aah
over what a great couple you make, and off the red carpet, you’re free to do
whatever you want with this guy you’re seeing.”

A cold chill seeped through my veins. “Within
reason, right?”

“Pardon?”

“With Magnus. I can do whatever I want
within
reason
. I mean, we can’t be seen together in public or anything.”

“Exactly! I knew you’d catch on.” Max beamed. “Plenty
of people do it, Owen. Who really wants their private life splashed all over
the papers, anyway?”

“So he can’t come to the Carnegie awards with me?”

Max looked aghast. “Of course not! You’ll take
Becky, obviously. It’ll be great exposure for her, right as we’re negotiating
for a contract.”

“Win, win,” I said weakly.

“That’s the spirit.” Max leant across the desk and
clapped my shoulder. “I knew you’d see sense.”

“And if I refuse?”

“What?”

“What if I don’t want to pretend to be dating
Becky? What if I wanted to take Magnus to the awards?”

Max’s lips thinned, pale pink fading to pinched
white. “It’s out of the question. I can’t believe you ever thought it wouldn’t
be.”

“Max, you can’t force me to do whatever you want!”