She took a deep breath and then let all the air back out of her lungs, trying to expel her stress along with it. Then, knowing resistance was futile, Amy resigned herself to spending some time googling for inspiration this afternoon. At least that way she’d have a few thoughts to share with Carolyn at their meeting next Monday.
Further down in Amy’s inbox was another red-flagged missive, simply titled ‘PHILIPPA FOTHERINGHAM’. She opened it with trepidation, and a grim certainty that her day was about to get even worse.
Amy–
Philippa Fotheringham is an old contact of mine– massive seller in the market I want you to target. Also coming out of contract with her publisher later this year.
Bringing her in istop priorityfor our new H-K imprint.
Inroads made with her agent– she is expecting a call from you this week.
All best,
C
PS: PF is based in Midlands– useful.
Amy groaned. Since Carolyn’s message made no mention of who Philippa’s current publisher or agent were, Amy would need to dig for the information without ruffling any feathers or raising suspicion. Carolyn was expecting that she’d do her best to poach Philippa for their new imprint once contact had been established– but rather unhelpfully she’d provided no context that would help Amy understand why Philippa might want to jump ship, or what could tempt her to sell her next book to someone she had no prior relationship with.
As for ‘PF is based in Midlands’ … Would it have killed Carolyn to indicate a city? A county, even? Philippa might live anywhere from Hereford (which was practicallyWales), to Derbyshire. Knowing where this writer spent most of her time would certainly help when it came to wooing her– not to mention organising their first meeting.
Amy checked her watch; it was only 10.38 a.m., but she could already feel a heady mix of hormones, outrage and exhaustion sloshing around in her bloodstream. Sighing, she stood up and strode across the kitchen to reboil the kettle and hunt down a snack.
As her workday drew to a close, Amy faced a truth almost as unpalatable as some of the other truths she’d confronted today. It appeared that in the process of getting to grips with her new position as reluctant romance editor slash event planner, she’d drained her gran’s fridge of milk, massively depleted her teabag supply and eaten an entire packet of Jaffa Cakes– all of which she should replace, ideally before Grace returned from her afternoon WI meeting.
Bertie– quite possibly the neediest dog in the world– had barely left her side all afternoon, snuggling and snoring in his basket at her feet, or even whining to jump up on her lap for short periods. Now, as Amy began to search for her handbag and keys, he padded after her, his soulful little face full of concern at the prospect of abandonment.
‘Sorry, Bertie,’ Amy told him, ‘you’re going to have to cope with no attention for half an hour or so. I need to pop to the shop.’
As she said it, her mouth went dry. But she was going to have to go there sometime, and it might as well be now.
As Amy crossed the bridge into Old Rowton and made her way towards the high street, her heart kicked up a gear. Trying to get a handle on its fluttering, she reasoned that she should have expected this: while Hari had never been particularly attached to his parents’ shop, it was a place with associations Amy couldn’t ignore– and it was a long time since she’d been there.
As she stepped across the threshold of R. J. Chauhan’s Mini Mart, though, she was surprised by the sudden presence of a golf ball-sized lump in her throat. It refused to be swallowed away and her eyes resisted all inducements not to start weeping.
Remember him as he was,Amy told herself firmly as she swept away tears.Focus on how lucky you were to find each other when you needed one another most.
Scenes in which she and Hari starred flashed before her eyes like old home video footage. She and Hari, young and impetuous despite their bereavements, popping into the shop to buy snacks after they got off the bus back from college. Hari trying to cadge extra pocket money so they could escape the village for the night in the year before he’d passed his driving test.
On several occasions, Amy recalled with a smile, she and Hari had actually hidden at the sound of his mother’s high heels clicking on the strip of tiled floor that separated the back office from the shop. She was a kind but imposing woman: the sort who’d always insist they mustn’t spend their afternoons unproductively, then manhandle them in the direction of her dining table and hover until every scrap of homework was complete. Amy pictured herself and Hari stifling giggles as they crouched behind a stack of Kellogg’s cornflake boxes.
God, she’d loved him. And she missed him– especially now. Especially here.
‘Are you all right there?’
The voice asking the question was unfamiliar but friendly– bright enough to cut through Amy’s fog of fond memories. She looked up, only to feel as though she were seeing a ghost. She was staring into eyes that were so like Hari’s, the woman who owned them could have been his twin.
Amy had no idea what to say, but after a few beats of silence she managed to mumble: ‘Jaffa Cakes. I need Jaffa Cakes. Where are you keeping the Jaffa Cakes nowadays?’
Shit. She sounded like some sort of chocolate orange addict, jonesing for her next fix.
A bemused line appeared between the woman’s dark, perfectly arched eyebrows. She was taller than Amy by several inches and had long, lustrous hair casually swept up in a high, unruly bun. Around it, she’d tied a shocking-pink silk scarf.
‘Biscuits and stuff are here,’ the woman said, smiling and pointing. ‘Let me show you.’
Once the woman had retreated, Amy grabbed the Jaffa Cakes, two cartons of semi-skimmed milk, a bunch of bananas and a box of Gran’s preferred teabags.
When she went to the counter to pay, the woman had a slight smile on her lips and interest written plainly in her richly lashed eyes. She scanned the barcode on the first carton of milk, then said, ‘You’re Grace Perry’s granddaughter, right?’