The Girl at the Bus-Stop (7 page)

On the fifth floor they stepped out on to a small landing and walked through a door marked, ‘Fantasy Lit Publishing Ltd’, and into its cramped but trendily-decorated and furnished reception area. A middle-aged receptionist looked up the name of Raspberry Caine on her typed visitor list, and surveyed Rudge with exaggerated disdain.

‘And you are?’ she barked.

‘Reuben Rudge,’ he replied, ‘I’m Ms Caine’s personal secretary.’

‘Are you indeed?’ she replied, double-checking her list again. ‘You don’t seem to be down here, Mr Rudge. Still, never mind, I suppose you come as a package.’

Rudge and Becky sat down in the trendy Scandinavian-style armchairs, and looked at each other nervously. Ten minutes later a tall gawky-looking young man wearing Levi’s and a pin-striped suit jacket came out to greet them. He introduced himself as Scott Jarrold, and they followed him along the narrow corridor and into his minimalist office.

‘Please, take a seat both of you,’ said Jarrold, ‘Mr Newman was supposed to be here to see you, but unfortunately he’s had to dash off at short-notice. No worries though, he’s left me all the details and a contract for you, Ms Caine. All I need you to do is to read it, agree to all our terms and conditions on pages eighteen to forty seven, then sign each copy where indicated.’

He handed Becky the hefty A4 documents, and she thumbed through the pages.

‘Goodness, such a lot to go through,’ she said meekly, ‘it’ll take me forever.’

‘There’s no hurry, please take your time,’ Jarrold replied with a smile. ‘Unlike a lot of publishers we like to keep things simple, so basically you have two options. Option One is to sell us your work in its entirety for a single fixed fee and minor royalties. This means relinquishing all rights to the manuscript of course, copyright and all that stuff, to become the sole property of Fantasy-Lit Publishing Limited. Option Two allows you to retain your rights, but only provides you with a token payment, but it has a very handsome royalties package.’

‘Er, I see,’ replied Becky, ‘can you explain it in a bit more detail.’

‘I just did,’ Jarrold replied, ‘I told you it was simple, but there is one other thing. If the book sells as well as we think it will, Mr Newman will obviously want a sequel out of you. We will need some commitment from you up front to give us an exclusive option on it. Which means that we’ll pay you a retainer and you deliver it to us within say, three months?
 
It may well be longer, but that’s the usual time period for this type of book with Fantasy-Lit.’

‘What if you don’t like the sequel?’ asked Becky.

‘If we don’t take you up on the option then you’re free to sell it elsewhere. Although having said that, we will still maintain the rights to the original book. Any similarity in content would have to be edited-out so we’ll need to check it thoroughly, but hopefully that won’t be necessary. ’

‘Have you read the book yourself, Mr Jarrold?’ asked Rudge.

‘No, heaven forbid,’ he replied with a laugh, ‘I never have time to read a newspaper these days, let alone a book.
 
We have people who do that sort of stuff.’

‘I see,’ replied Rudge, ‘so you have no idea what it’s about?’

‘Absolutely clueless, Mr Rudge, but I do know that it got a few of our marketing people very hot under the collar. As soon as it’s out in the UK they want to push it into Europe and The States too. Now I’ve got to make a couple of calls and shoot off to another appointment, the dentist actually. Feel free to use my office as your own and take your time reading the contract. There are all manner of refreshments just along the corridor, so help yourself.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Jarrold,’ said Becky.

‘Scott, please, Ms Caine. If you fancy a spot of lunch later we’ve got an account with that little Moroccan bistro opposite,
Flambé Farouk’s.
Don’t worry if you don’t recognise anything on the menu just go for the miscellaneous starters. I’ve no idea what’s in them, but they’re absolutely delicious.’

‘Thank you, Scott.’

‘Not a problem. I would join you myself, but I’m having root-canal treatment so it’ll be hours before the
Novacane
wears off.’

Jarrold left the office, and Rudge walked over to the window and looked down at the busy street.

‘It’s a different world here isn’t it?’

 
‘What do you think?’ asked Becky. ‘Option One looks a decent amount of money.’

‘You heard what the man said, Becky. If they’re going to market it all over the place, the royalties option sounds like a better deal, long-term especially.’

‘Well, yes, but just think what you could do with all that money,’ she replied looking starry-eyed. ‘If it was mine I’d be able to buy a car, a brand-new convertible, and go on holiday somewhere exotic. I could even put a deposit down on a decent flat.’

Rudge turned away from the window and looked across at her, his expression sombre.

‘And then what? Drive your fancy soft-top to work every morning to the offices of Schopenhaur & Beauvoir, so you can keep up the repayments on the new flat? I don’t think you’d like that one bit, Becky, I know I wouldn’t.’

‘If you put it like that, no, I don’t suppose I would.’

‘Well, it has to be Option 2.’

‘But if it doesn’t do as well as they anticipate, you’d be throwing that lump-sum away.’

‘Back in the late-1920s there was a Music Hall comedian called Sandy Powell, who was asked by a record company to make some recordings of his comedy routines. This was obviously in the days before television, and often the only way an entertainer could reach a wider audience was to either get on the radio or make records. For his first recording he was offered a lump sum of, I think, around ninety pounds or so, which was a hell of a lot of money back then. Or he could have a royalty of a penny per sale.’

‘Which did he go for?’

‘He was working regularly so he wasn’t hard-up or anything, so he opted for a penny a sale.’

‘And?’

‘He sold thousands, and they were so popular that he went on to make even more recordings and amass a fortune.’
 

‘Option 2 it is then.’

‘Do you want to borrow my pen?’

  
In the days following Becky’s signature on the contract, Rudge took more time off work to travel to London, ‘for more interviews’ as he’d informed his wife. After checking the Net, he employed a firm of accountants with offices close to Central London, instructing them to set up a company in the name of Raspberry Caine Limited. The accountant’s address was to be used as the company’s head office, to avoid any risk of correspondence finding its way through Rudge’s letter-box at his home.
 
After receiving the company’s articles and a registration certificate from Companies House, Rudge set up a business bank account and deposited the two cheques given to Becky by Scott Jarrold.

Rudge had told his wife that he was now a strong candidate for a very good position in London. When she enquired about the salary for the job and whether or not they’d be able to afford satellite television, he plucked a figure of sixty thousand pounds from the air.

‘Of course if I do get the job I’ll have to stay in London during the week.’ he explained, feigning disappointment. ‘They’ll be expecting me to work late quite a bit, otherwise I’d be more than happy to commute on the train every day. They a company apartment which “out-of-towners” like me can use free of charge. It’ll save me a king’s ransom on paying for rail season tickets, which makes perfect sense.’

For the first time in a long time his wife seemed genuinely pleased at his change of fortune. She immediately grabbed the
Argos
catalogue to read up on fifty-inch widescreen televisions.

One of the editors from Fantasy Lit had been making changes to Rudge’s manuscript, and corresponding with Rudge via the Raspberry Caine e-mail account.
 
Rudge would sit in his shed until the early hours reading the edited chapters, making his own changes and e-mailing them back. This went on for three weeks before both parties were finally happy with the end result, and a polished manuscript was almost ready for publication.

 
It was another few days before he received the next e-mail in Raspberry Caine’s Inbox. This time it from was Nikki Blandford, from Fantasy Lit’s marketing department. He was so excited he almost ran into the house and kissed his wife, but thought better of it and made himself a mug of tea instead. He disappeared back into his shed and dialled Becky’s number on his mobile.

 
‘Hello,’ her tired voice replied.

‘It’s me, Rudge, what are you doing a week on Tuesday?’

‘Going to work, why?’

‘Wrong answer, try again,’ he said cheerfully.

‘Go on, I’ll buy it,’ she said, ‘what am I doing a week on Tuesday?’

‘You’re attending the launch party for your debut novel,
Disciplinary Attraction
,’ he replied, ‘it’s at the Dauphine Hotel near Hyde Park, and they’ve even booked you a room.’

‘Brilliant,’ she said, sounding more awake, ‘but what about you, are you going?’

‘Well it says you can bring a guest so I assumed it would be me, unless you want to take someone else of course. But don’t worry about my accommodation I can make my own arrangements.’

‘Okay,’ she said, ‘but I’ll need something to wear. I haven’t been to any sort of formal do since my Mum and Dad’s wedding, and I was only twelve.’

‘No problem, we can sort all that out beforehand. I’ve decided not to bother with the train this time. I’m going to book us a car and driver instead.’

‘That’ll cost you a few quid.’

‘It will be worth every penny.’

‘Talking of which, am I getting paid for this little jaunt?’

‘Of course, but as it’s an overnight thing I’ll give you a bit more if you like. Is five hundred okay?’

‘For five hundred I might even let you share in my hotel room,’ she replied happily, ‘no, I’m just kidding.’

The
Auvergne
conference suite at the Dauphine Hotel was filling with well-dressed and polished people from the world of publishing, the media and entertainment. They huddled in small satellite groups chatting excitedly, taking advantage of the free champagne. As fresh people entered the room, group members would glance across briefly in case they recognised anyone before resuming their conversations.

Becky looked stunning in a simple black cocktail dress, a short fitting Brando style patent leather jacket and calf length motorcycle boots. She entered the room shielded behind two waiter and quickly located Scott Jarrold, who immediately offered her a glass of champagne.

She endured forty minutes of being shunted around the room and being introduced to various important executives, fellow authors and nameless partners. She smiled warmly, answered questions politely and nodded her head in all the right places before being moved along to the next batch.

Seeing her being escorted around to meet so many VIPs, it must have dawned on some of the other guests that the petite young woman in the leather jacket and jet black hair must be the subject of the evening’s event. The small groups broke up, and individuals moved towards her to try and get in on the introductions. Some stood at the back of the people surrounding her, joining in the laughter after something bordering on wit was demonstrated. Others muscled their way through to stand directly in front, or at the side of her, desperate to get close.