The Accidental Life of Greg Millar (2 page)

2.

N
ext day, I’m at my desk, working on a corporate logo for a financial institution and trying not to nod off, when Matt rings. I
m
ove the receiver an inch from my ear and wonder what he wants. Matt never gets involved in day-to-day business.

‘I want to set up a brainstorming session. We’ve signed Greg Millar! I want all heads together for the marketing campaign of his new title. Greg himself will be sitting in, so I want a good show. You and Fintan from Get Smart.’

Just demand the managing partners. I try to sound enthusiastic. ‘When were you thinking?’

‘Monday. Give Glenda a call to firm up a time. I’ve asked her to get a copy of the manuscript over to you. Remind her when you’re talking to her, would you? Oh, and it might be wise to get cracking on some ideas before the meeting.’ He hangs up.

This is the first time I’ve heard of an author sitting in on a Copperplate Press brainstorm. But then, Greg Millar is not just any author. His books hit Number One all over the world before they even go on sale, such are the pre-orders. Matt’s been in the business long enough to know that authors like Millar don’t walk in off the street every day, and when they do, you bring out the dancing girls.

Five days later, I follow Fintan into the boardroom of Copperplate Press, which has undergone quite a transformation. On the walls are posters of Millar’s published titles. Running up the centre of the table are hardback and paperback editions, with media folders forming a mini skyline at the end. On the sideboard, refreshments have been laid out: pains au chocolat, coffee, croissants. I’m sure Millar has seen all this before. And yet he looks enthusiastic, standing up and beaming at us as he shakes our hands.

There are only two seats left: one beside Millar, which Fintan takes, and one opposite. I feel his eyes on me as I sit. I busy myself unloading my briefcase, wishing Matt would hurry up and get started.

At last, the MD clears his throat. I look up to find Millar studying me. There’s something innocent about his smile. It seems to say, ‘Great to see you again.’ No more. My return smile is professional. Then I turn my attention to Matt, who’s standing now and looking around the table.

‘Thank you all for coming. Before we start, I’d like to share what a great personal thrill it is for me to have an author of Greg
Millar’s
calibre join our list here at Copperplate Press.’ He turn
s t
o the novelist. ‘Congratulations, Greg, on your decision to move t
o a
n indigenous publisher in your home market. Inspired!
Inspired!
Let me take this opportunity to personally guarantee that you’ll receive every support available here at Copperplate Press.’

‘Thank you, Matt,’ Millar says with an appreciative nod.

Matt’s eyes sweep the table. ‘You’ll all, by now, have read the manuscript. So, Lucy, any thoughts on covers?’

He
always
does this, lulls you into thinking he’ll waffle on forever, then boom! He springs. I look at my spiky-haired, dark-suited partner, who has agreed to do the talking.

‘You can stay sitting, if you like, Lucy,’ says Matt.

Fintan nods for me to go ahead as it’s clear that’s what
Mat
t wants.

‘Thanks, Matt,’ I say, glued to my chair. I switch to pitch mode. ‘Well, firstly, I’d like to say that I really enjoyed
A River Too Wide.
’ I feel Millar’s eyes on me. ‘Fintan and I’ – I look at my partner, hoping that everyone else will, too – ‘had our own brainstorm back at the office. We feel that, while the jacket should complement the traditional look of . . .’ –
What should I call him?
– ‘Greg’s’ –
Cringe
– ‘previous titles, we think that, this time around, the cover could focus more on the main character than the plot. Cooper is such a great protagonist—’

‘Great idea!’ Millar interrupts. ‘Why hasn’t anyone thought of that before?’

‘I imagine that it made sense, in the beginning, to have the jackets primarily indicate the genre because you were establishing your reader base,’ I say. ‘We feel that the covers should continue to do that, just shift the focus to Cooper. He has such a loyal
following
. He’s another Morse, really, isn’t he?’ I stop. I’m coming off as a fan. Which I actually am. I just don’t want Millar to know it.

‘Do you have anything for us to look at, Lucy?’ asks Matt, pushing it as usual.

‘Only roughs. I need to source some images before showing you anything.’

‘Hmm.’ He looks at Millar.

‘I’d love to see your roughs, Lucy,’ the author says, with what seems like genuine enthusiasm rather than the double entendre I initially suspected.

Matt’s nodding furiously. I decide, there and then, to bill him extra for the job. I pull my work from a folder and hand it across to Millar.

‘They’re just concepts, at this stage,’ I explain.

He takes a moment. Then: ‘Wow! These are incredible.’ He passes them to Matt.

‘
Yes
!
’ he enthuses – most likely because Millar’s just done the same.

It’s decided that Get Smart should go ahead and develop the discussed concepts. The brainstorm moves to other areas of
marketing –
in-s
tore display, author tours, signings, talks, PR, advertising, social media. Orla, in marketing, is a natural performer. Jim, the sales manager, is equally enthusiastic. The PR woman, Debbie, suggests a list of possible angles. The only person who doesn’t say much i
s Em
ma, the managing editor. And I get that. How much editin
g i
s an author of Greg Millar’s calibre likely to need?

As we’re leaving the boardroom, Copperplate’s hottest new property suggests that we celebrate. Matt names a local pub. I open my mouth to make my excuses, but get a look from my client. It’s settled. I’m going.

We get to the pub just before the post-work rush. Matt spots that the snug is free and makes a dash for it. Fint remembers an urgent call and excuses himself, leaving Millar next to me. I look at my disappearing partner and realise that there
is
no urgent call. My self-appointed Cupid is popping out to refill his quiver.

We’re packed tight. Matt dominates the conversation, but knows how to keep it lively and sharp. Everyone chips in, except me. At first, I’m happy listening, but I soon become aware tha
t Mil
lar has gone equally quiet, speaking only when asked a direct question. I feel he wants to turn to me and say something. I avoid looking at him, yet notice his every movement, word, breath. Our legs are touching. I move mine away by crossing them. It does nothing to stop the tension that is building between us.
What the hell is wrong with me? I don’t even
like
this guy.
My face is burning. I have to get out. Cool down. Get a grip.

I stand and excuse myself.

People have to file out to let me pass.

The cool air in the toilets is a relief. Piped music, something light from the charts, makes everything seem more normal. I look around. Nothing like porcelain lavatories to bring you back to earth. I read the graffiti – ‘Beware Limbo Dancers’. Arrows point to the bottom of the door. On the other side of it, high heels make quick, uneven steps. Their owner slams the door next to me and takes a long, noisy leak. She sighs with the simple, uncomplicated pleasure of relief. I remember why I’m here and begin to tense. Maybe I could slip away. Would anyone notice? I think of Matt, then a
solution
. I’ll just sit in a different place. It’ll be fine.

I wash my hands, hum to the music, and look in the mirror. One last deep breath. I walk out.

Wham. I crash straight into him.

‘Oh, God, sorry,’ I say, stepping back.

He steadies me. ‘You OK?’

‘Yeah, yeah, fine.’

Three seconds of silence, then, ‘Have dinner with me, Lucy.’

I wait for his smile, but it doesn’t come, leaving nothing to hide behind. ‘I can’t . . . I’m sorry.’

‘Why not?’ he asks with childlike simplicity.

‘I’m . . . with someone . . . Sorry. But thanks. Really.’ Brendan is private.

‘Is it serious?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Your relationship . . . Is it serious?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Well, that’s no good.’ His smile is back. ‘Whatever happened to fun?’

It died.

‘Come out with me, Lucy. And forget about serious . . .’

‘I can’t.’ I hear the finality in my voice.

So, apparently, does he. ‘I’m sorry. Of course you can’t.’ He shakes his head as if he was stupid to ask.

‘I’d better get back,’ I say.

‘Of course.’

It’s a while before he rejoins the group. Not long after that, he leaves.

At work, next day, I pick up the phone to his voice.

‘Lucy, hi. Greg Millar here. I was wondering if we might discuss some ideas for the cover of
A River Too Wide
.’

‘Ah, OK, sure.’ But not really. No author has ever contacted me directly. ‘What were you thinking?’

‘Oh. I was hoping we could meet to discuss it.’

I wonder if this really is business.

‘You know, Greg, publishers don’t really like their authors to deal directly with the designers they use. They like to control the design themselves, you know?’

‘It was Matt who gave me your number. How about lunch?’

‘I’m sorry, but I’m busy for lunch all week,’ I lie. ‘It would have to be at our offices.’

‘Fine. How about tomorrow?’

Better to get it over with.
‘Ten?’

‘Ten.’

Tomorrow comes. And with it the deadline for the bank logo. By ten, I’ve already put in four hours. I’m manipulating a computer-generated design, on screen, when Sebastian, one of our trainee designers who doubles as a receptionist, struts into my office wearing a flamboyant mix of pastels – pink, lemon and white, reminding me of Neapolitan ice cream. Behind him is Millar, who has once again managed to elicit special treatment; Sebastian never shows visitors in, just buzzes us when they arrive at ‘reception’ (his desk). And yet here he is, offering to make tea and coffee, something that he is always too busy to do. Millar declines. With nothing more to offer, Sebastian reluctantly leaves.