Authors: Anne-Marie Hart
A brandy at the table turned into two more in the living room, while the boys repaired to watch some kind of special sports instalment on the TV, and the woman were left to clear the table and fuss over the men (young boys included). There had always been this divide in my family, and I hated it. I'd wanted for a long time to find someone who didn't replicate it, but I guessed with Devizes we wouldn't have that problem, because a team of staff members would be around us at all times to clear up any mess we might want to create.
While we were tidying the kitchen, and Vicky had conveniently made herself scarce (whether on mum's orders or not) mum pulled me aside for a 'quiet chat', and then had the audacity to suggest I might need to see a therapist. She refused to believe I'd been whisked away to a Polynesian island, and when I pointed out my brand new tan, she dismissed it as having come out of a bottle. She was convinced I'd made up the story about the book contract as a way of undermining my brother, and she even thought Devizes was a figment of my imagination. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. The worse thing was the way she told me.
'Darling', she said. 'You know you're father and I love you dearly, well I'm sure he's got some old colleagues he can talk to, or maybe James knows someone you'll be able to speak to. You just look like you're unravelling.'
'Unravelling?' I said, amazed at what I was hearing.
'Yes darling. You have to be realistic. If it's not working, you have to give up. I think therapy might be the only answer.'
'Therapy?'
'Someone to talk to. I did it once, years and years ago now, there's nothing to be embarrassed about.'
'Mum, I don't need therapy', I said.
'I'll ask James and dad', mum said.
'Mum, do not do that, please.'
She gave me a condescending hug then loaded me up with a tray of tea and biscuits to take into the boys, as if my purpose in life was to serve those that were better than me. I was so close to giving the tray back to her and walking out, or dropping it violently on the floor even, but I didn't, and only because the tea set belonged to my dead grandmother, who I adored, and because my mother was the one who was disillusioned, not me. I actually pitied her, even though she believed she was the one pitying me. I took the tray next door, put it on the side and told everyone to help themselves.
The following day, a day I would usually have spent polishing cutlery and carrying plates of dubious quality food to waiting customers, while I dreamt of men and adventure, was my first day as a professional writer, and the proudest day of my life so far.
I signed the book contract in the offices of Devizes's publishing house - a huge thirty seven page pamphlet of legalise, terms and conditions, deadlines and payment schedules all held together with the thickest staples I'd ever seen - while I looked out of the floor to ceiling window of the corner office in which I sat, all the way down The Strand. Devizes was with me briefly to offer his support and congratulations, before he had to leave and work himself, the next day taking a flight to another European country for yet another work conference. I met the senior editor tasked with tidying up the grammatical mishaps in my book, who was tight-lipped about what she thought of the story, and I had several pictures taken for the promotional campaign.
We drank champagne, which nobody seemed all that interested in, the senior editor and the CEO both sipping at their glasses as a formality, while I sipped at mine, a little disappointed that no-one I knew was there to celebrate this success with me. Chat was light-hearted, and carefully steered away from my books, which I considered to be an affectation employed by publishing houses all over the world. The writers do the writing, the editors do the corrections and no-one is questioned about their roles. Whether you like the book or not, really doesn't come into it. I didn't need to worry about that anyway. They were publishing it, and they were buying three more, for more money than they'd given J.K Rowling! I made a mental note to check that that was true, because I planned to gloat wholeheartedly the next time I saw James, and those disbelieving parents of mine.
Afterwards, contract in hand, head full of ideas, and a little merry from the two glasses of champagne I'd drunk, I went to celebrate on my own. I sat in the burger king on the Strand, and literally inhaled a double whopper, large fries and ice cold coke, and I had to tear myself away before I went up for seconds.
***
'I thought it was called 'Fallen Away', Sophia said slurping away at a milkshake she'd mixed with whisky, as we both stared up at the billboard poster.
'It was, I mean, it is', I said.
'Fixing My Broken Heart', sounds like it could be a medical journal. 'Nice picture of you, but they changed the cover as well, huh? Are you sure it's the same book?'
'No, yes, I guess it has to be.'
'Didn't you spend like a million pounds on that cover?' Sophia said.
'I spent a lot of money on it, yeah.' I said.
'I kind of like the new cover', Sophia said. 'Obviously it's not as good as the original, but at least it's not terrible.'
'It's ok', I said. 'It kind of fits the title I suppose. I just wish they'd told me before changing it, you know, consulted me.'
'I guess they are the experts', Sophia said.
'Yeah but it is my book', I said.
'Not when you sell your soul to a publishing house. I wonder what else they've changed', Sophia said.
'Don't say that Sophia, you'll make me paranoid.'
'Come on, they told you they liked it right?'
'Devizes told me they liked it. They didn't say anything to me in the meeting.'
'Of course they liked it', Sophia said. 'They wouldn't have spent all this money promoting it otherwise. Look, you're famous dude. You're on a fucking billboard. How cool is that?'
'I know.'
'Wait til your brother gets a load of this. He'll crash his fucking car trying to work out what's going on.'
I laughed. Sophia looped her arm into mine.
'There are always three sides to any story', Sophia read from the billboard in her best American announcer's voice. 'One side, the other side, and then the truth. Katy is about to find out the truth, and it will change her life forever. Prometheus publishing are proud to present this debut novel by a rising star, Alice Cartright.'
'That's not bad', I said.
'You've got to be proud of yourself', Sophia said.
'I'm proud', I said. 'I still don't believe it. I don't know where they got that quote from either.
'You know Richard & Judy will promote anything for the right money', Sophia said.
'Sophia!'
'Ha, I'm kidding doofus', Sophia said. 'They must have been given a copy. That's what the publishing house is for. They represent you and sell your book. You'll see. You'll be a successful writer in no time.'
I called Devizes about the changes. It was a bit of a shock seeing my book being promoted with a title and a cover I didn't recognise.
'I'll look into it', Devizes said. He was abroad again, and sounded exhausted. I would have gone directly to the publishing house, but I was kind of afraid to in case they thought I was being ungrateful. I don't know. It was all so new to me I wanted to do it through Devizes, just in case.
'They thought it was better like that', he said, when he'd finally had a chance to get back to me.
'Ok', I said. 'It's just, they didn't tell me before hand. It would have been good to have been told.'
'Trust them Alice, they know what they're doing. Any decision they make is about ensuring the book is the most appealing product for the commercial market. Have you seen the posters in the tube stations?'
'Yeah, they're amazing', I said. 'They're everywhere.'
'That's what a promotional campaign is all about', Devizes said. 'Do your family believe you now?'
'They don't believe it's happening', I said. 'I think they're all a bit jealous.'
'They should be proud', Devizes said. 'I know I am.'
'They are proud', I said. 'In their own way.'
My parents were stunned. James was the first to see the campaign, spotting a bill board on his drive home from work. Sophia was right, he did nearly crash the car. He told my parents before calling me, and then when he called me, instead of congratulating me on my success, he said, 'how the fuck did you do that?'
Mum and dad's response was little better. 'James says you're on a billboard', dad said. 'Something about a book. I said it must have been someone that looked like you. Do you know anything about this?'
'Is it true?' mum said. 'Someone has agreed to publish your book?'
In the time between signing the book contract, and the night of the book launch, I saw Devizes much less than I wanted to because of work commitments he had, although we did manage a few very expensive restaurant dates, a hot air balloon ride that was part of a stunt to try and win a valuable work contract, a night at the ballet (during which Devizes fell asleep), and just about enough nights in under the duvets, lost in each others bodies, before we spread out on the massive bed, and looked at the stars. In that time, despite trying on several separate occasions to get an advance copy of my book (now called Fixing My Broken Heart), I wasn't able to. Before the morning of the night of the launch, when a copy was couriered to me at home, I had no idea what changes the publishing house had made.
'They can't send you out something that hasn't been finished yet', Devizes said. 'You'll get it, don't worry. I don't know why you are worrying.'
'Why does it take so long to spell-check an eighty thousand word document', I said.
'Because it's not just that', Devizes said, 'and I think you know that already. They'll be checking grammar, doing a line edit, it'll go to a proofreading team and besides which, this isn't the only book they'll be working on. Kathyrn Meadows has got a new book coming out this month too.'
When the book arrived that morning, and I excitedly sat up on my bed to tear the package open and greedily devour what was inside, my greatest fears were realised when I found upon opening it, that despite my name being on the front, and my picture being in the back, and my characters being the characters I'd written, this wasn't the book that I had submitted to them.
With horror dawning, and tears now railing down my cheeks, I flicked through the bastardised copy of my work, outraged it had been operated upon like a sick infant. Immediately I called Devizes. That evening the book was being launched, and I was expected to stand there and promote it. That lie that I now held in my hand, that had once been my baby. I felt like someone had not only changed my book, that they'd changed my life, and were trying to change my memories too. That hurt more than anything else. Fallen Away was a work of fiction, there was no doubt about that, but fiction that was heavily based on my own life experiences, my agonising time through school, my attempts to write, and my first love, perhaps my only real love, Toby. They'd cut into it like it didn't matter, stitching it back up into something it never was.
The call went to answer phone. 'You've reached the answer phone of Devizes Carter. I'm sorry I can't come to the phone right now, please leave a message and I'll get straight back to you.'
'Fuck', I said, and threw what used to be my book against the wall.
They weren't the only school in the area to do it, but in general it was pretty rare. They'd borrowed the custom from America, in a much more light-hearted way, so essentially the school prom was a glorified disco, to which sixteen year olds attended, got as drunk as possible on alcohol they'd either convinced on older sibling to buy for them, or stolen from their parent's drinks cabinet, and danced the night away in hired suits that make them all look like they were part of a theatrical performance.
The prom at the high school that Alice and Toby attended was running into it's sixth year, and was tolerated by the principal, only because the students were required to pay for their entry, and it was a good way of topping up the school coffers. What this actually meant was that Principal Talbot got a nice little bonus at the end of the school year, because any of the proceeds that were made, went directly into his pocket.
It was an event to be seen at - perhaps the most important social event of the year - and it also happened to be the last time Alice would get to see Toby before she moved away. The prom had been scheduled on a Friday night, the last day of the school year for every year apart from the last, who had been let out a couple of weeks early after getting their results. In those two weeks, Alice had spent as much time as she could with Toby, and the rest of the time trying to convince her parents not to leave, or at least agree to leaving her here. They hadn't, and still as a minor, Alice had no choice but to go with them.
Toby seemed to go through waves of understanding, waves of denial, waves of anger, waves of acceptance, and waves of depression, the like of which she hadn't seen since the height of the bullying years. Most of all he just didn't want to talk about it, which upset Alice even more. She knew that blocking it out, or numbing the pain with spliffs, or beer, which he'd taken to drinking from time to time, wasn't the way to solve their problem. They agreed that they'd continue seeing each other, despite the fact that Toby would be studying at an art school in Cambridge and Alice would be enrolling in a college in Dulwich. They'd still have the weekends free to see each other, and Alice planned to get a part time job waitressing during the evenings in the week, so she could save up to come to Cambridge to see him.