Not Quite Perfect Read Online Free Page A

buy.’
    ‘Good luck. Don’t be nervous. Mind you, I would be. Digby’s relying on this one.’
    ‘Tosser,’ mutters Emma under her breath as she makes her way into the open-plan office. Ella has left a small bunch of butter-yellow freesias on her desk with a card that says, ‘I know you can do it.’ Emma is touched, but at the same time feels a little inadequate as she doesn’t know if she would have been so thoughtful herself. Behind the lovingly placed flowers is a less lovingly placed Post-It note slapped onto her computer’s blank face. It’s from Miranda and it simply says, ‘Emma – please pop in at 9. Digby wants a word.’
    Emma feels as if she might regurgitate her breakfast. It’s not that she’s afraid of Digby: He’s a pussy cat compared with the bottom-line obsessed powers that now run the company. But he is one of Miranda’s oldest friends and was a traditional, independent, gentlemen publisher, who launched a whole host of seminal works, as well as being the founding member of the day-long publishing lunch. Emma takes a deep breath and knocks on Miranda’s closed door with what she hopes is an air of quiet authority. There is no answer, so Emma inclines her ear towards the door, just as it is flung open by the literary powerhouse that is Miranda Winter.
    ‘Ah, Emma. I thought I heard something. Morning. Morning. And how is my brightest and best on this exquisite day? Come, my child, don’t be shy. Digby won’t eat you. He’s had his breakfast.’
    Miranda’s office is a shrine to the great and good of publishing, books and reading. Her walls are adorned with photographs, sketches and mementos from her forty-odd years as the matriarchal founding editor of Chandler and now Allen Chandler. The world of books and publishing may have changed, but Miranda Winter is not a woman to be trifled with and the newer suits at Allen Chandler simply wouldn’t dare. They’re terrified of her and she makes them far too much money. The photographs of Miranda with everyone from John Gielgud to John Updike read like a history of cultural movers and shakers from the post-war years. Emma is particularly impressed by the rumours that Miranda has slept with most of the men photographed here, even the gay ones. They are like the photographic equivalent of notches on her bedpost.
    As Emma enters the room, Digby is perched on the edge of Miranda’s dark oak monster of a desk, a pudgy hand pawing at one of his many chins. Although publishing today is a very different world to that of fifty or even twenty years ago, when lunch neatly segued into afternoon tea, cocktails and dinner, no one seems to have told Digby and he remains the very picture of old-school corpulence. He is suited by a little man in Saville Row and his Oxford brogues are always shiny. He prefers a dickey bow to maintain the air of an eccentric publisher and today his pink shirt looks fit to burst as his belly extends over his blue pinstriped trousers.
    ‘Ah Ella,’ he begins, raising his fat hands in a sort of waving gesture.
    ‘It’s Emma.’ She corrects him. ‘Ella’s the other one.’
    Digby snorts with amusement as if having two people with vaguely similar names is the funniest thing he’s ever heard.
    ‘Sorry, so sorry. Now, Emma, I know I don’t need to tell you how much our hopes are resting on you today. And I just wanted to say good luck. I know you can do it.’
    Emma tries to speak but only manages a squeak of agreement.
    Miranda leaps to her rescue. ‘Well, Emma and I will do our darndest to bring home the bacon, eh Emma?’
    Emma nods vigorously, deciding that it is probably best to remain mute for now.
    ‘Quite so, quite so,’ says Digby with customary vagueness. ‘Well, the very best to you both. I look forward to hearing good news!’ And away he shuffles.
    ‘So tell me how you’re really feeling’ says Miranda when he is gone.
    ‘Honestly? I’m bloody terrified. I mean, this is this most exciting book I’ve