1
‘But it’s Christmas,’ Eve Pilkins cried.
‘There are plenty of others wanting this job, Eve,’ her boss Serena Whitelaw said, staring at Eve with such disdain that she wondered for the one hundredth time that day if Serena regretted hiring her and was looking for an excuse to fire her.
‘But it’s also my birthday on Christmas Eve.’
Serena shrugged her white-silk-covered shoulders and pushed her tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses on top of her blonde head.
‘Nobody cares about that anymore.’
Eve wasn’t sure if Serena meant her birthday or Christmas but was too afraid to ask.
‘If you don’t get Edward Priest to deliver this book then it’s on you. You can explain it at the redundancy party when we let you and many others go.’
Today was one of those work days where Eve wondered if she should just run away and open a café or a bakery like they do in the romance novels her company published, but then she remembered she couldn’t bake or work a coffee machine. All she was good at was reading books, playing electric guitar and wrapping presents.
What could Eve had said in reply to that? Two hundred jobs relied on this book. Was that even true? She knew Edward Priest’s books were the money-spinner for the company. His books sold faster than any adult book on record and even though they weren’t to Eve’s taste, she admired his dedication to research and to the dogged process of writing such enormous tomes.
But Edward Priest didn’t do interviews and he didn’t deal with anyone at the company but Serena Whitelaw – and that was only by phone.
All she knew about Edward Priest was that he had made all the other editorial assistants cry and that’s why Serena personally managed him.
‘Why can’t you go?’ Eve had tentatively asked and Serena had shot her a look that would have turned anyone else into a gelatinous mess, but Eve had survived them before and was sure she would survive this one.
‘Because I’m going to New York for Christmas,’ she stated proudly. ‘Edward has a lovely country estate in Northumberland – quite posh I believe – but then you would have something grand with those royalties. Apparently, the wife bought it, wanted to play the lady of the manor from what I heard. I’ve also heard she grew tired of that pretty quickly.’
When Eve had readThe Devil Wears Prada, she had thought it read like a non-fiction book. Just change the names and change fashion to publishing and that was Eve’s working life at Henshaw and Carlson.
One day everything would be fine – meaning Serena was ignoring Eve. Then the next day Serena would scream at Eve for not remembering that Serena’s white Carolina Herrera shirt was waiting to be picked up from the dry-cleaner. Even though Eve had no memory of being told that the blouse was at the cleaners and would need to be picked up. She had checked her texts, emails and phone messages and there was nothing about the blouse. In the end, Eve apologised and worked late to finish the edits on a book that Serena would then claim as her own work.
Eve tuned out from Serena’s gossip. Her boss was always indiscreet about her authors but there wasn’t much she could say about Edward, other than what anyone could read on the internet.
Edward was married to a former supermodel from America, and they had a daughter, who was about seven or so, according to one of the magazine articles Serena sent her later when she was back at her desk.
Eve had wanted to cry and then resign, or she wanted to resign and then cry, but instead she took her phone and went into the bathroom.
She put down the lid of the toilet, closed the door and dialled her mum’s number.
The phone rang out and Eve sat staring at the screen when her mum’s face popped up with an incoming call.
‘Hello, pet,’ she said. ‘I was outside feeding the dogs before I head off to work. Everything all right?’
Donna Pilkins had four rescue dogs and counting. She found them all on the streets, watching them beg or dodge the cars and buses as she drove the number 23 bus through Leeds. She would go back after her shift and gain their trust with her gentle nature and treats. They seemed to be very fond of her rissoles, which was understandable; she had inherited the recipe from her grandmother, who had always said it was the Worcestershire sauce that made them so moreish.
Clearly the dogs agreed, as she had rescued twelve in all and kept four.
Eve felt the tears release. ‘I can’t come home for Christmas,’ she sobbed.
‘What? Why?’
‘Serena is making me work, go to an author’s house and edit as he writes. It’s awful. She’s awful.’
Donna sighed. ‘Oh, dear me, that’s a nasty thing to do to someone and on their birthday too. Did you tell her it was your birthday on Christmas Eve?’
‘Mum, she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care about anyone but herself. And she’s bloody well going to New York. I want to resign.’
‘You can’t come back for the day?’ Donna asked.
