Jojo
Jojo woke up — thought the two thoughts she had every morning — and knew that today was the day that something had to change.
In the first two weeks after she had left Lipman Haigh, life was busy. The phone rang all the time - authors telling her they were jumping ship to go to Richie Gant, Mark begging her to come back, publishing people desperate to know what the story was - then, like the flick of a switch, everything suddenly went very quiet. It was almost like a conspiracy. The silence was deafening and time — very slowly — began to pass.
Jojo discovered that sitting in her living room, trying to run a literary agency with almost no authors, sucked. The final shake-down showed she had lost twenty-one of her twenty-nine authors to Richie Gant and only the small - unlucrative — ones had stayed.
No money was coming in — like,
nothing
— and it freaked her right out.
Since age fifteen, she had never not had a job; being without an income felt like flying a trapeze without a safety net.
For thirteen straight weeks, every single morning, it was the second thing she thought of when she woke up. All through February, all through March, all through April. Now it was the start of May and nothing had changed.
She needed new authors but no one knew about her and, funnily enough, Lipman Haigh weren't forwarding on any manuscripts which had been mailed personally to her.
A profile in
The Times
, swung by Magda Wyatt, had started a trickle of books coming her way. They were mostly atrocious, but it meant she was still a player. However, so far, none had resulted in a sale.
The days, stuck in her apartment, waiting while nothing happened, seemed way too long. Publishers didn't take her out for lunch in fancy restaurants so much any more and she had a policy of deliberately swerving big industry do's where she was likely to run into Mark. However, it was hard to avoid them all because she had to let publishers know she was still alive.
But she did her best to stay away because Mark was still the first thing she thought of every morning. Even now, more than three months since she had seen him, there were times when the pain made it difficult for her to breathe.
But today was the day that something had to give.
There was no money left; she had sold her small holding of stocks, cashed in a pension scheme and had run her overdraft and cards to the hilt. She had used everything up, she had a mortgage to pay and whatever else happened, she was not going to lose her apartment.
She had two options, neither of them attractive - she could remortgage her apartment or return to work at a big agency. It was going to be hard (like,
impossible)
to remortgage her apartment without a steady job. So really, she had one option left, but saying she had two made it seem better.
One part of her told her she was lying down and giving up by going back into the system which had fucked her over the last time. But another part of her said that the important thing was to survive. She had tried very hard with this but the smart girl knows when to stop digging.
She had to eat. And buy handbags.
Since the news got out that she had left Lipman Haigh, there had been job offers from just about every other literary agency in town, all of which she had politely rebuffed. Indeed, she had said that she might be offering
them
a job in the not too distant future.
And OK, maybe she'd been a little over-confident. But if her authors had stayed with her, it would have all worked out. Anyhow, no point being sore. She had a mental list of who would be least unbearable to work for; she would start at the top and work down.
Feeling a little weird, a little sad, she picked up the phone and rang her number one agency, Curtis Brown. The person she needed to speak to wasn't available so she left a message, then rang Becky to tell her what she was doing.
'Oh Jojo! Going back into that patriarchal system is very bad for the soul,' Becky parroted.
'I'm broke. And what do I need with a soul? I never use it. If I had to choose between my soul and a handbag, I'd pick the handbag.'
'If you're sure…'
When the phone rang she thought it would be someone from Curtis Brown returning her call, but it wasn't.
'Jojo, it's Lily. Lily Wright. I have a manuscript for you. I think, I mean, how can anyone ever be sure, but I think you're going to love it. Like it, in any case.'
'You think? Well, let's take a look!' Jojo had no hope for this. Lily, a totally great person, was a literary untouchable. After the train-wreck of
Crystal Clear
, she would never be published again.
'I live quite nearby,' Lily said. 'In St John's Wood. I could drop it over to you now. Ema and I would enjoy the walk.'
'Sure! Why not!' OK, so she was humouring her, but it was better than telling her not to bother, right?
Lily and Ema came, Lily had a cup of tea, Ema broke the handle off a mug and hung it from the inside of her ear like an earring, then they left again.
Some time in the afternoon the woman from Curtis Brown rang back and gave Jojo an appointment for later in the week. And, sloooowly, the day passed. She spoke to Becky several times, watched TV all afternoon even though she had a strict no-daytime-TV rule, went to yoga, came home, made dinner, watched more TV and, at about eleven-thirty, decided it was time for bed. Looking for something to read to ease her into sleep, her glance bounced off Lily Wright's bundle of pages. Might as well take a look.
Twenty minutes later
Jojo was sitting straight-backed in bed, her hands gripping the pages so tightly that they buckled. She was only a short way into the book, but she
knew
. This was IT! The manuscript she had been waiting for, the book which would reignite her career. It was
Mimi's Remedies
mark two, only better. She would sell it for a
fortune
.
She glanced at her clock. Midnight. Was it too late to ring Lily now? Probably. Damn!
How early did Lily get up? Early. Yeah, she had a little girl, it would be early.
6.30 the following morning
Was this
too
early? Could be. She forced herself to wait an hour, then picked up the phone.
Lily
I am not a fool. Even before Ema broke the handle off her mug and wore it as an earring, I knew Jojo was not entirely overjoyed to see me. I did not blame her. The debacle of
Crystal Clear
had not reflected well on any of us.
But she accepted my new manuscript and promised to read it 'soon'. Then I returned to Irina's and waited for Jojo's call. It came at 7.3 5 the following morning.
'Jesus H,' she shrieked, so loud that Irina heard it in the next room. We've got a live one here. Name your price! We don't have to offer Dalkin Emery a first look. They didn't keep the faith last Christmas. We could go to Thor. They'd kill to have this, and they're doing really well at the moment. Or how about…'
I already had a plan. I was not sure I would ever write another book; something terrible seems to have to happen to me before I can produce anything worthwhile, and frankly, I would rather be happy. But this was my chance for a downpayment on a secure future.
'Sell it,' I instructed Jojo, 'to the highest bidder.'
'You got it! I'm on my way to the local copy shop, then I'm gonna make the calls, order the bikes, then sit back and watch them throw money at us.'
Gemma
When I came back from being banjoed out of my head on Pina Coladas it was nearly a week before I saw my parents - just like the good old days. When I did finally get it together to call over, Mam said, 'This came for you.'
She handed me an envelope that had several addresses crossed out then written over. It had originally been sent to Dalkin Emery and they'd forwarded it on to Lipman Haigh, who'd sent it to my parents. It had a Mick stamp on it.
'It might be a fan letter,' Dad said.
I didn't bother replying. My epiphany in Antigua had mosdy survived the transition back to real life, but not how I felt about Dad.
I opened the letter.
Dear Gemma,
I just wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed
Chasing Rainbows
. (I got it in the airport on my way to Fuertaventura.) Congratulations on a great read. I was happy that Will and Izzy finally got it together after all their trials and tribulations. I didn't think it was going to happen, especially when that other man was knocking around. I was concerned that Izzy was on the rebound but now I'm convinced - they make a lovely couple.
Love,
Johnny
PS Come and see me. I have some new surgical gauze in that you might find interesting.
Johnny. Johnny the Scrip. I didn't know any other Johnny. And he'd signed it 'Love'.
It was like someone had drilled down and filled up every part of me with relief. He'd read the book. He didn't hate me. He'd forgiven me for treating him like a stop-gap.
I hadn't realized the weight of the mortification I'd been carrying.
He wanted to see me…
How did I feel about that? I felt that I'd call in on my way home, that's how I felt! I understood something: I was finally ready. For the past year — more — I'd been way too mad to pursue anything with Johnny and I think I'd wanted to wait until I was myself again before trying to embark on anything with him. I reckon it was why I'd stayed with Owen - being with him kept me from pushing for anything with Johnny. He'd acted as a kind of emotional bouncer.
Not that I felt too bad about using Owen; I had fulfilled a similar role for him.
Then I noticed the date on Johnny's letter and I was shocked. It was the nineteenth of March — six weeks earlier. It had spent all that time passing from publisher to agent to parents. Suddenly it seemed imperative to leave.
'What is it? A fan letter?' Dad asked.
'Look, I'm off.'
'But you've only just got here.'
'I'll come back.'
I drove as fast as I'd driven that first night long ago when I was on a mission to secure drugs to stop my mammy going totally doolally. I parked outside, pushed open the door, and there he was, in his white coat, bending solicitously over some old lady's hand, admiring her ringworm or something. My heart swelled with good stuff.
Then he looked up and I got the fear: it wasn't him. It was very like him but
it wasn't him
. For a mad moment I feared bodysnatchers, then I realized this must be Hopalong, the famed brother.
I stretched to have a look behind the melamine divider, hoping to see Johnny back there, filling a jar with pills or whatever he did, but Hopalong intercepted me. 'Can I help you?'
'I'm looking for Johnny.'
'He's not here.'
Something about the way he said it gave me a bad feeling. 'He hasn't, by any chance, emigrated to Australia?' It would be just my luck. And he'd probably meet his The One on the boat…
'Um, no. Well, he didn't mention it yesterday evening if he has.'
'OK.'
'Can I give him a message?'
'No, thanks. I'll call back.'
The following day I called again but, to my great dismay, Hopalong was still manning the decks. And likewise the next.
'You're sure he hasn't gone to Australia?'
'No, but if you want to see him, why don't you come in the daytime?'
'Because I have to work in the daytime. He used to work evenings.'
'Not any more. He only does one evening a week now.'
I waited patiently. Hopalong continued rearranging the packets of Hacks.
'And what evening is that?'
'Hmmm?'
'AND WHAT EVENING IS THAT?'
'Oh! Sorry. Thursday.'
' Thursday? Tomorrow is Thursday? You're sure about that?'
'Yes. Well,
nearly
sure.'
I was clambering into my car when he called after me, 'Don't forget, we close at eight now.'
'Eight o'clock? Not ten? Why?'
'Because we just do.'
Lily
Jojo set the auction date for
A Charmed Life
a week hence but, as she predicted, there were a flurry of pre-emptives. Peiham Press offered a million for three books. 'No,' I said. 'There won't be a second or third book. This is a one-off special.'
Knoxton House offered eight hundred for two. I repeated that this book was a stand-alone event. The weekend intervened, then on Monday morning, Southern Cross offered five hundred for one.
'Take it,' I told Jojo.
'No,' she said. 'I can get you more.'
Three days later, on Thursday afternoon, she sold it to B&B Haider for six hundred and fifty thousand. Giddy and giggly, she said, We have to celebrate. Come on, meet me for a drink. Don't worry, I won't keep you late, I've got a do this evening.'
We agreed on six o'clock in a wine bar in Maida Vale. When I arrived, Jojo was already there, with a bottle of champagne.
After a couple of glasses she asked me - as I had known she would — 'Why were you so insistent that you would only sign for one book? I could have got you
millions.'
I shook my head. 'I'm not going to write another book. I plan to go back full-time to copywriting. It's steady money, I quite enjoy it and no one humiliates my efforts in the Sunday newspapers.'
'You know what they say?'
'A hazelnut in every bite?'
'How to make God laugh? Tell him your plans.'
'OK,' I conceded. 'None of us know what's going to happen. But if I have anything to do with it, I won't write another.'
'What will you do with your advance money?' Jojo asked. 'Invest it?'
That made me laugh. 'Whatever I invest in is bound to go immediately to the wall. I would prefer to keep it in a biscuit tin under my bed, that feels safest, but I'll be very boring and buy somewhere to live.'
And this time, I would do it properly.
Some time later, Jojo looked at her watch. 'Seven-thirty. Gotta go. Meeting my cousin Becky. She's coming with me to the Dalkin Emery author party tonight.'
'The Dalkin Emery author party?' I put my head to one side. Wasn't I one of them once? Well, I wasn't invited to the party.'
'Guess what?' She leant in to me, laughing. 'Neither was I, until about five minutes ago. They biked me over an invite yesterday. Thanks to you and your fabulous new book, I'm back in the game.'
'How fickle of them. How rude. And you're going to go? I'd tell them to get lost!'
'I've got to go,' she said, lapsing into an unexpected dark mood.
I said nothing, but I, like everyone else, had heard the rumours. Something to do with an affair with her boss and her having to leave because he had broken up with her or some such.
Then her cousin arrived and they left.