‘It’s not like that. It may not be easy for a couple of years but Cloverleaf isn’t going to disappear overnight. I’ll commission new authors—’
‘You want to find another Atticus Pünd?’
He had said it with such scorn that I stopped, surprised. ‘I thought you liked the books.’
He reached out and took the cigarette from me, smoked it for a moment, then handed it back. It was something we did unconsciously, even when we were angry with each other. ‘I never liked the books,’ he said. ‘I read them because you worked on them and obviously I cared about you. But I thought they were crap.’
I was shocked. I didn’t know what to say. ‘They made a lot of money.’
‘Cigarettes make a lot of money. Toilet paper makes a lot of money. It doesn’t mean they’re worth anything.’
‘You can’t say that!’
‘Why not? Alan Conway was laughing at you, Susan. He was laughing at everyone. I know about writing. I teach Homer, for God’s sake. I teach Aeschylus. He knew what those books were – and he knew when he was putting them together. They’re badly written trash!’
‘I don’t agree. They’re very well written. Millions of people enjoyed them.’
‘They’re worth nothing! Eighty thousand words to prove that the butler did it?’
‘You’re just being snobbish.’
‘And you’re defending something that you always knew had no value at all.’
I wasn’t sure when the discussion had turned into such an acrimonious argument. The table looked so beautiful with the candles and the flowers. The food was so good. But the two of us were at each other’s throats.
‘If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were jealous,’ I complained. ‘You knew him before I did. You were both teachers. But he broke out …’
‘You’re right about one thing, Susan. I did know him before you and I didn’t like him.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not going to tell you. It’s all in the past and I don’t want to upset you.’
‘I’m already upset.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m just telling you the truth. As for the money he made, you’re right about that too. He didn’t deserve any of it, not one penny, and all the time I’ve known you, I’ve hated the way you’ve had to kowtow to him. I’m telling you, Susan. He wasn’t worthy of you.’
‘I was his editor. That’s all. I didn’t like him either!’ I forced myself to stop. I hated the way this was going. ‘Why did you never say any of this before?’
‘Because it wasn’t relevant. It is now. I’m asking you to be my wife!’
‘Well, you’ve got a funny way of going about it.’
Andreas stayed the night but there was none of the companionship we’d had on the first night he’d got back from Crete. He went straight to sleep and left very early the next morning without breakfast. The candles had burned down. I wrapped the lamb in silver foil and put it in the fridge. Then I went to work.
Cloverleaf Books
I’ve always been fond of Mondays. Thursdays and Fridays make me edgy but there’s something that’s quite comforting about coming in to the pile on my desk; the unopened letters, the proofs waiting to be read, the Post-it notes from marketing, publicity and foreign rights. I chose my office because it’s at the back of the building. It’s quiet and cosy, tucked into the eaves. It’s the sort of room that really ought to have a coal fire and probably did once until some turn-of-the-century vandal filled in the fireplace. I used to share Jemima with Charles before she left and there’s always Tess on reception, who will do anything for me. When I came in that Monday morning, she made me tea and gave me my phone messages: nothing urgent. The Women’s Prize for Fiction had asked me to join their judging panel. My children’s author needed comforting. There were production problems with a dust jacket (I’d said it wouldn’t work).
Charles wasn’t in. His daughter, Laura, had gone into labour early as expected and he was waiting at home with his wife. He’d also sent me an email that morning. I hope you had time to think about our conversation in the car. It would be great for you and I’m confident it would be great for the company too. Funnily enough, Andreas telephoned me just as I was reading it. Glancing at my watch I guessed he must have slipped out into the corridor, leaving the kids with their Greek primers. He was speaking in a low voice.
‘I’m sorry about last night,’ he said. ‘It was stupid of me just to throw everything at you like that. The school have asked me to reconsider and I won’t make any decision until you tell me what you want to do.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And I didn’t mean what I said about Alan Conway either. Of course his books are worthwhile. It’s just that I knew him and …’ His voice trailed off. I could imagine him glancing up and down the corridor, like a schoolboy, afraid of getting caught.
‘We can talk about it later,’ I said.
‘I’ve got a parents’ meeting tonight. Why don’t we have dinner tomorrow night’
‘I’d like that.’
‘I’ll call you.’ He rang off.
Quite unexpectedly, and without really wanting it, I had come to a crossroads – or more accurately, a T-junction – in my life. I could take over as CEO of Cloverleaf Books. There were writers I wanted to work with, ideas I’d had but which Charles had always vetoed. As I’d told Andreas the night before, I could develop the business the way I wanted.
Or there was Crete.
The choices were so different, the two directions so contrary, that considering the two of them side by side almost made me want to laugh. I was like the child who doesn’t know if he wants to be a brain surgeon or a train driver. It was quite frustrating. Why do these things always have to happen at the same time?
I looked through my post. There was a letter addressed to Susan Ryland, which I was tempted to bin. I hate it when people misspell my name, especially when it’s so easy to check. There were a couple of invitations, invoices … the usual stuff. And at the bottom of the pile, a brown A4 envelope which clearly contained a manuscript. That was unusual. I never read unsolicited manuscripts. Nobody does any more. But it had my name on the envelope (correctly spelled) so I tore it open and looked at the front page.
DEATH TREADS THE BOARDS
Donald Leigh