‘Wine glasses in the sideboard; library is down the hall, turn left, double doors.’
‘You aren’t saying I should go?’ Eve was incredulous at how much this woman allowed Edward to get away with. He was just awful. She had no idea why Serena was usually so positively gushing about him.
Hil had finally finished her task and wiped her hands on a tea towel.
‘He does write more when he’s had some wine. Take six glasses.’
Great, Eve thought as she went to the sideboard and found the glasses. An alcoholic with writer’s block. How did she get to be so lucky?
‘Where is the library again?’ she asked.
Hil escorted her to the library and then turned and left Eve alone outside the door.
The library doors were closed. She tried to knock but then they swung open and Edward bellowed her name.
‘I’m here. You don’t need to yell,’ she sniped at him.
‘We were about to swig from the bottle.’ He laughed and took three glasses from her and waited for her to pass him into the room.
‘Everyone, this is Eve. She’s come from Henshaw and Carlson as a spy. Apparently if I don’t write my book she and hundreds of others will lose their jobs, so let’s get drunk and help Eve rework her résumé so she can find a wonderful job when she returns to London off the back of my talent and hospitality.’
Eve gasped and turned to see four pairs of eyes looking shocked and embarrassed.
‘Edward,’ said one of the guests in a sharp tone.
‘Yes, Caro?’
‘That’s rude.’
Edward laughed. It was a mean sort of laugh. Almost bitter.
‘All these people at the company sucking from the teat of my talent and they send a child here to try and coax me on. Have you edited many books, Eve?’
Eve was silent. She had edited some parts of books at Henshaw and Carlson. Structural edits on the flow of a story and recommendations, but she had also worked her way from being freelance reader of the slush pile to where she was now. And she had recommended some books that became best-sellers. She had an eye and Serena knew it, even if she never said as much to Eve.
For a moment she felt a hot flush of shame and insecurity on her face and then she remembered that she actually had a choice.
Perhaps it was too much of Serena over too long a time – the constant snide remarks and unrealistic work expectations. There was a snap of realisation that she could go. No one could treat people like this, even a relative stranger.
Eve placed the glasses down on the wine table and then clasped her hands and took a breath. ‘Not everyone has the privilege to come and go from their talent and calling. You might not care about my life. You don’t even know me – I get that. But I deserve more than this display of arrogance and rudeness.’
The strangers in the room were silent but it wasn’t a hostile silence. She took strength from it and went on.
‘I don’t know if you’re already drunk or deliberately mean but do not belittle me. You don’t know anything about me. And don’t bother calling Serena to tell me I’m fired. I’ll be leaving as soon as I can get the next train back to London, because I would rather eat raw potatoes with your daughter – who, by the way, is in a cupboard because she hates you spending time with your friends rather than her – than stay here another moment. And for the record, your last book didn’t sell as well as the company hoped. You were outsold by Lee Child and Dan Brown, who I know you believe to be inferior to you. And I think Serena is currently in New York wooing Dan Brown instead of being here but what do I know? I’m nothing as far as you’re concerned.’
At least Eve could take some pleasure in the shock on his face at her outburst. And as she ran up to her room, she wondered if she should use Calibri or Times New Roman for her résumé after Serena fired her.
6
Eve lay in her bed, again wearing her coat and her hat, trying to not let the tears fall. Serena’s phone was off, so her planned texts telling her that Edward was a complete prick and she would resign, effective immediately, were not being delivered.
Her career in publishing hadn’t been anything like she had expected when she finished university and interned at a small niche publisher who specialised in literary fiction and poetry. She had lucked out and read a volume of poems by a young writer who had a unique turn of phrase that resonated with Eve. The writer also had a huge Instagram following and Eve had convinced the company to publish the work.
Fifty reprints and still going, the book had made the author a millionaire and a much-wanted public speaker. It had given Eve a reputation for being prescient about what women her age wanted to read and she was offered a job she couldn’t refuse at Henshaw and Carlson on twice the money, propped up with all the promises in the world.
Since taking the role a year ago, she was still no more than a glorified assistant to Serena and none of the promises about championing young authors into the fold of Henshaw and Carlson had come to fruition. And now she was being abused by Edward Priest.
There was a knock at the door and then it opened. She sat up, expecting Edward, but it wasn’t him. It was Flora with her long flaxen hair and pale face looking like her namesake inTurn of the Screw. She was wearing a dark navy woollen coat and what appeared to be black Mary Jane shoes and no stockings, the colour of her skinny legs nearly matching the coat with the cold.
