Lily
The funny thing was that less than an hour after Miranda England rang, Jojo called, explained that she was setting up on her own and asked me to stay as her client. When I took my courage in my hands and asked why she had not called me before now she explained that her other authors were all mid-contract. 'I needed to know if they were coming, so I could do the necessary untangling.'
I, by contrast, was wonderfully simple; I had no contract for Jojo to worry about. 'But if you decide to write another book,' she said, 'you bring it to me and let's see what we can do.'
Later that same day Anton found out that Chloe Drew had had some sort of breakdown — the rumours said it was alcohol-related. She had been pivotal to
Chasing Rainbows;
without her the BBC were not interested and the deal was not going to happen.
I should have been happy. Anton and I were safe now, were we not?
Unfortunately, no: Anton's brush with Gemma, or at least her book, had revealed the full extent of the rot in Anton's and my relationship.
And the fact that, once again, another of Anton's business ventures had collapsed, convinced me that my life with him would always be a financial roller coaster. I could not live that way. I owed it to Ema to seek stability.
That evening, I went to see Irina in her beautiful new apartment. At first we talked make-up and skin-care but in a conversational hiatus I threw out an experimental line: 'Anton and I are going to split up.'
Most people would yelp, 'What? You and Anton? You're bonkers about each other! You're just going through a bad patch!'
But Irina simply exhaled a thoughtful plume of smoke and shrugged, 'Thet is the nature of love.'
Her phenomenal pessimism led by example and encouraged my own pessimism to walk tall through every aspect of my life. She provided precisely the right environment to enable me to see the full extent of the wreckage. There was no chance that any ersatz optimism might pop up cheerily and scoot my hopelessness back into hiding - not in Irina's home. She would not stand for it. I heard myself say, 'I have to find somewhere for Ema and me to live.'
'I hev two spare bedrooms. You can stay vit me. Vassily is not in London werry often. Thanks Gud. All he wants to do is make the sex.' She seemed to hear herself and slightly changed tack. 'But when you meet him you will like.'
It was a beautiful apartment and I was tempted. But my imagination conjured up images of Ema and me caught in some Russian Mafia turf-war, of both of us tied to kitchen chairs with duct tape as big-moustachioed, stone-washed-leather-jacket-wearing men called Leonid and Boris, threatened us with knives to encourage us to reveal the whereabouts of the man/money/briefcase.
She read my mind. 'Vassily is legit.'
'Is he?' I was sure she had implied his activities were illegal. 'He is criminal' She sounded bored. 'Of course he is criminal. But not Mafia.'
Well, that was all right then!
And what were my other options? Dettol Hall? Far more likely to have a negative impact on Ema than being duct-taped to a kitchen chair. Even a DSS hotel would be better than Dettol Hall.
So, from the moment Irina made her offer, the die was cast.
Jojo
On Friday evening, Manoj helped Jojo carry her cardboard boxes down to the taxi.
'I can't believe you're leaving,' he quavered.
'Don't be such a girl,' she said. 'I'll send for you. Soon as I'm up and running.'
The high of her dramatic resignation was wearing off. It had all happened so quickly — on Tuesday she had started calling her authors to see if a solo career was viable. It was now only Friday.
All week she had surfed on the idea of bucking the system. She would be the one who would transcend the sexist pecking order. It had fired her up, made her believe what she was doing was right. But when she looked at Manoj's wobbling chin, she lapsed back into the dream state that had been such a feature of this week and wondered, What have I done?
She had walked out of Lipman Haigh and she would not be going back. The realization was like a ten-pound sack of sand falling on her from a height.
No going back. To her well-paid position as partner. Or to Mark.
And she was the one who had made it happen.
The cab ride home was like a bad dream. What was she doing —
had already done
— to herself ?
Her mobile rang. She checked caller display — Mark — and let it roll over to message service. Once in her flat, she dumped the cardboard boxes and noticed that her machine was flashing with messages. Already?
The first was from Jim Sweetman. 'Jojo, I'm flattered by your offer, but I'm staying with Lipman Haigh.' Damn, she thought. Then - So what? She'd get another media person, and Olga was still on board. OK, Olga had not actually said yes when Jojo had made her pitch. She had simply sat wearing an expression of utter astonishment. But she had
not said no
and right now Jojo decided that that was as good as a yes.
The second message was from Mark. 'You're good, I'll say that for you, you nearly had me convinced there. But there's no need for any of this, Jojo. I've already torn up your resignation letter, just come in on Monday, same as ever and we'll get everything back on track. You're
a partner
now, Jojo. And as for you and me, you're the most important person in my life, the most important person I've ever met, we
have
to work this out, Jojo, we
have
to, because the alternative is unthinkable —'
At that point the message time ran out, but the next message was also from Mark, carrying on like he hadn't been interrupted, '— this can all be fixed right now. You and me, Jojo, we can make it all alright. We can make anything alright. You can have your old job back, or the partnership or anything you want. Just say what you want and you can have it…'
In all there were six messages from him.
She went to stay with Becky and Andy for the weekend.
'Because you want to be with people who love you,' Andy said sympathetically, as he opened the door.
'No, because I just bet Mark will call round to my apartment in the middle of the night and lean on the buzzer until I let him in.'
'Have a glass of wine, put your feet up and forget about it all for a while,' Becky soothed.
'I can't.' Right on cue her mobile rang. She looked at caller display. Not Mark, not this time. She hit 'talk'.
'Hey you, Nathan Frey! Yeah, I did call earlier. I was, like, wondering if you'd had a call from Richie Gant, offering, like,
the earth
?
Jojo took the call into the hall, where she paced back and forth, talking up a storm. Then she came back and collapsed onto the couch. 'That was Nathan Frey. Looks like Gant's got to all my authors. All the big ones, anyhow. Gonna spend my weekend doing damage limitation, trying to get them back on side.'
Her phone shrilled into life again and she dove on it, checked caller display, then said, super-jovially, 'Mr Eamonn Farrell, how the devil are you?'
Out to the hall again, her anxiously pacing feet at odds with her upbeat tones. Then she was back. 'Jesus H! This is a nightmare! Gant is offering such super-low percentages that he'll barely make any money. He's just doing this out of spite.'
Her phone burst into life again.
'Ignore it,' Becky urged.
'I can't.' But when she checked caller display, she clattered the phone back onto the table, as if it burned. 'Mark again.'
The phone rang and rang, sounding louder and more insistent with each unanswered peal. The three of them regarded it fearfully, then the ringing stopped and the air hummed with merciful silence.
' Turn it off now,' Becky begged.
'Sweets, I'm sorry, I can't. I'm still waiting to hear from…' she counted on her fingers. '…
eight
authors. I put calls in to all my major ones when I found out what Gant was up to. He's freaked them out with how crap I'm going to be on my own. I've got to be available to reassure them.'
The phone chirruped once, twice.
'A message from Mark,' Jojo said.
'Are you going to listen to it?'
'I don't need to. He's just going to say that he loves me and we can work this out.'
'And you're not going to?' Becky asked. 'Work it out, I mean?'
Jojo shook her head curtly, then leapt as her mobile rang again.
She studied the number, then handed it to Andy. 'Answer it?'
'Mark again?'
'Not his number, but I've a feeling…'
Gingerly, Andy answered. 'Ah, Mark.'
'Sneaky,' Jojo told Becky. 'Must've used a phone box.'
Andy spoke for a short while then hung up.
'Mark,' he said. 'Standing outside your flat. He's been buzzing for the last half-hour. Says he's going to stay there until you let him in. All night if he has to.'
'He's gonna have quite a wait.' She sounded upbeat but she felt shitty. She didn't want him to be like this.
All weekend and through into the following week, her phone was on fire, but with the wrong sort of calls. Her resignation had - understandably - generated great furore in publishing circles; she had resigned the day her partnership was announced — WHY? Theories abounded. She'd discovered that Richie Gant was the illegitimate son she'd had when she was twelve and given up for adoption (from an editor who specialized in sagas). She'd been having a lesbian affair with Olga Fisher who had taken up with Richie Gant instead (from someone who worked at Virago). She'd been having an affair with Mark Avery, who hadn't voted for her, then dumped her (from the vast majority of London publishing).
But far worse than the people exercising their naked curiosity were the calls from her authors. On Tuesday afternoon, there was a call from Miranda England. She was making it official — she was going to Richie Gant. It hit Jojo like a blow from a baseball bat.
On Wednesday, Marjorie Franks signed to Richie. On Thursday, Kathleen Perry, Iggy Gibson, Norah Rossetti and Paula Wheeler jumped ship and on Friday a trio of thriller-writers went, all of them steady-sellers.
Every time an author walked, the chances of her making it as a solo agent shrank further.
Becky said over and over, 'Why don't you go back? You could just go back into your job as a partner. A
partner
, Jojo.'
'I will not collude in that patriarchal system.' Jojo had learned the word 'patriarchy' from Shayna. She liked it. She produced it whenever someone tried to persuade her to return to work. 'Now that I know what I know, it would be too soul-destroying.'
But it was way, way tempting.
And all the time, she was bombarded with messages from Mark; day and night, he emailed, texted, wrote letters, sent flowers and a box of goodies from Jo Malone, he rang on her home phone and mobile and he loitered outside the apartment. Two drunken nights he had leant on her buzzer, each time for over three hours. He stood in the street and yelled stuff at her window. Her neighbours complained and threatened to call the cops if he did it again. She could have called the cops herself but the idea affected her like lemon juice on an oyster. She couldn't do that to him, it was too fucking sad.
But far worse than Mark behaving insanely was when he was being smart - when he left messages reiterating that a position of partner was still waiting for her in Lipman Haigh and that a life with him was available any time she wanted. Jesus H, it was enticing.
His buzz-phrase was, 'Just say what you want, Jojo, and you can have it.'
But she could not have the one thing she wanted, and that was to rewrite the past: she wanted Mark to have voted for her and not for Richie Gant.
It was weird - she knew she was angry with him even if it didn't feel that way and although she missed him like a limb, there was no way back. Whatever had happened - and she still wasn't sure exactly what — had contaminated them beyond fixing. It was so over.
The amazing thing was that, despite him almost stalking her, she never spoke to him or even saw him. And yeah, that made it easier to stick to her guns. She suspected that if they saw each other, she would crumble. Things, right now, were so scary and bad that walking back into the cocoon of her old life, where she was loved and secure, would be just too hard to resist.
Monday morning
Her second Monday as a self-employed agent. She felt confident and hopeful, like she was turning a corner.
The phone rang. It was Nathan Frey's wife, to say that Nathan's new agent was Richie Gant.
Fuccckkk.
She had only one big author left: Eamonn Farrell.
She decided to ring Olga Fisher. Over a week had passed and she had heard nothing about when she was coming to work for her.
'Hey, Olga. Have you given notice? When're you coming to work for me?'
'Don't be so impertinent. Of course I've not given my notice.'
'Hey, you might have told me,' Jojo said hotly. 'I thought you were coming to work for me.'
'But, but my dear girl, the very idea is so patently ridiculous… why on earth would I… Oh!' On that note of exasperation, Olga ended the call.
On Tuesday, only two smaller authors walked.
But Wednesday was Meltdown Day.
When she switched on her computer, waiting was an email from Eamonn Farrell, saying he had found new representation. She leant her forehead against the screen. That was it, her last big author gone.
Then the phone rang: Mark. He left a frantic, pleading message for her every morning around this time. But today he sounded different. Like,
sane
.
'Jojo,' he said, 'I'm going to stop bothering you now. I'm sorry we didn't manage to work it out, I've never been sorrier about anything. We were one inch away from perfection, we were almost there, but I know when I'm beaten. Good luck with everything. I mean that.'
Then he clicked off and she almost felt the molecules of her phone relaxing after its recent spate of very demanding work.
This wasn't some dumbass trick of Mark's to get her to change her mind. She knew his MO; he had given this his all, it hadn't delivered the desired results, so he was quitting. Game over.
This was what she had wanted. She had never intended to go back to him.
But, like an out-of-body experience, she saw herself, sitting in her apartment on a bleak Wednesday morning in February, with her best friend gone and her career in ruins.
At that Jojo cried so hard and for so long she barely recognized herself in the mirror. When she stuck her face in a sink of cold water to calm the red swelling she found herself considering just staying there and letting herself drown. For the first time in her thirty-three years she could understand the urge to take her own life.
For about half a second.
Then she got it together. Colleagues? Who needs 'em? Authors? Hey, plenty more where they come from. And another Mark? Plenty of them too, if she could be arsed.