Bitter Sweet

Bitter Sweet

Chapter One

2010

Richard Aveling stood to the left of me. I had been so distracted by thoughts of the man that I hadn’t even noticed him as I’d fumbled a wet thumb over the wheel of my lighter trying to get a spark to light my cigarette. I had been watching this day move closer in my calendar for months, knowing it would be the day that I would finally get to meet him. He was as tall as people said, and broader. He was older than the photos printed on the inside of the covers of his books by perhaps ten or even fifteen years.

“Do you need a light?”

“Yes, please,” I said, my heart hammering against my ribs. I pushed my hood back, realizing in horror that I was standing in the alleyway at the back of the Winden & Shane office in my old blue waterproof jacket and a fake leather skirt, smoking a roll-­up in front of a man who had lived inside my head for over ten years. I’d planned my outfit for today so carefully, but my heels were upstairs waiting for me under my desk. This wasn’t how I had imagined it. Not at all. “I don’t usually smoke this early in the morning.”

He lit my cigarette, positioning his own between his lips as he did. One hand shielded the flame from the gray drizzle that was falling quietly around us. The attraction was immediate.

“Neither do I. But I have an insufferably boring meeting this morning so I thought I would allow myself one.” His voice was deep, and the soft northern corners of his accent were more angular than when he spoke on the radio or television. He looked me straight in the eye, drawing heavily on his own cigarette. There was a spot of rain on the white paper and the end burned gold around it.

The meeting he was referring to had been booked in since before Christmas. I had felt like it might never really happen. As I’d shaken my umbrella off outside the office building that morning, I’d thought, how did I get here? I had felt elated, excited for everything. This was my adult life. I felt proud of myself. The shelves of books that lined the walls in Reception only confirmed to me that I had moved seamlessly into the majestic, distinguished literary world of publishing. Now, though, I didn’t know what to say.

“Richard Aveling.” He presented the hand he wasn’t smoking with.

“I know who you are. I’m Charlie. I’m Cecile’s assistant.” I surprised myself by saying it in a tone that implied that it was just a silly job and I knew it, this job that I was so proud to have, that I defined myself by. I took his giant hand, shook it, and leaned back against the wall so that we were standing opposite each other. The concrete was cold and wet through my thin coat. I regretted this move immediately but committed to it. I tried to look confident.

“What happened to the last one—­Kate, was it?”

“Katy. She got a job at Simon and Schuster. I joined last spring. I’m going to be helping Cecile with the PR for the new book.”

“Are you now?” He raised a thick, dark eyebrow and took another long drag on his cigarette, which he held like a dart, eyes never leaving mine. “And what is it exactly that are you going to be doing?”

I stuttered. This was not something I should have said to him. He was celebrated as one of the best British authors of the last century, famous far beyond the confines of publishing. He was certainly the biggest and most important author that we published. He was guarded like a secret by everyone who worked in his team. This was unthinkable.

“I just mean helping her with admin, booking trains, restaurants, mailing books, that sort of thing. I won’t be doing anything important, I’m just the publicity assistant. You probably won’t even see me again.” I tried to smoke my cigarette but a raindrop had put it out. He said nothing. Then—­

“Well, I hope that’s not the case.” A half-­smile equally reassured me and made me feel uneasy. “It’s nice to have someone new here. It becomes quite tedious working with the same old lot of them every time. They mean well but they do fuss. It wears me out.” He flicked his cigarette to the ground, ignoring the ashtray. “Would you be so kind as to let me back in this way? I left my umbrella in Reception.” A twitch at the side of his mouth. I wasn’t fussing, it said.

I punched the code into the keypad and the door clicked open. He moved past me and I could smell the smoke on him, and something else that I half recognized: something expensive. He nodded and headed in, familiar with where he was going.

A little while later, I was sent to Reception to collect Richard and his agent, an important and serious man called John Cormorant, and take them up to the boardroom on the top floor. I had recovered myself and without the blue raincoat, and with some lipstick and my best heels—­a pair of black suede boots that had cost close to a week’s pay—­I knew that I looked good. I was thin and young and with that, I was powerful.

When I introduced myself formally, Richard made no acknowledgment of our earlier meeting, which I liked very much.