Not Quite Perfect Read Online Free Page B
Author: Annie Lyons
read since Marquez. Do you really think we can get it?’
‘The agent is touting it hither and thither after the publisher with the most money, but I know we have more to offer.’
She looks at Emma with glassy eyes. It’s the look Ella and Emma call her ‘mirror to the past’. Ella always jokes that Emma is her protégé and it is clear that Miranda does see something of herself in Emma. At last year’s Christmas party, Miranda threw her arms around her and told her that she was like Boudicca, but they were all very drunk.
‘Ten o’clock then. We pitch our ideas, gush, enthuse and generally plump up their egos like sumptuous cushions. OK?’
‘Ok. Do you think Richard will go for it?’
‘Oh, it’s not Richard we have to worry about, darling. It’s the agent.’
The light is flashing on Emma’s phone when she gets back to her desk. It’s a text from Martin: ‘Good luck Mrs Almost-Wifey. Hope you get the book. I’m proud of you. Love M.’ She smiles but is starting to feel a bit sick and desperate to get on with it. She checks her watch: 9:34. twenty-six minutes to go. She leafs through her notes again and realises that her hands are shaking. The book is beautifully written and Emma desperately wants to be the one to publish it. She gives herself an internal pep talk: ‘You can do this. You are good at your job. You love this book and you want the world to love it too.’
The phone rings shattering the peace. Emma leaps up, knocking coffee all over her notes. ‘Fuck!’ she says involuntarily into the mouthpiece.
‘Emma?’ asks Miranda with no notable surprise at the outburst.
‘Yes? Sorry. I’m here.’
‘And so are they. Are you ready?’
Emma looks at the coffee-steeped notes and realises that she’s going to have to wing it. ‘I’ll come straight over.’
‘Fine. I’ll go and welcome them, roll out the red carpet as it were. And remember, you should be bloody nervous but it’s just another book. OK?’
‘OK,’ says Emma feeling anything but.
Miranda’s office is filled with the heavy perfume of pink lilies, mingled with the welcome aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Emma realises that she needs to pee, but daren’t leave the room now. The table is covered with a selection of Danish pastries. Her stomach groans appreciatively, but she decides against the risk of icing down her top and flaky crumbs on her upper lip. She can hear Miranda coming, jollying their guests along in a warm but business-like way. She decides that standing is the best option as sitting might seem somehow presumptuous or complacent or both.
The woman who enters first is known to Emma by fearsome reputation only: Joanna Uppington is ball-breaker number one of the publishing world. Emma is pretty sure she’s never smiled in her life. She is immaculate and tiny in her fitted, designer trouser suit. The only aspect to her that gives her any height (and which Emma suspects is the actual source of her power) is her hair with its impressive four-inch power-bouffant held in place with enough hair spray to finish off the ozone layer.
‘Joanna, this is Emma Darcy, our most talented editor.’
Joanna looks Emma up and down as if seeking to identify a new life form and thrusts out a bony hand like a poison dart. ‘And this is my most talented author, Richard Bennett,’ she retorts.
And there he is. Of course. As if God, Beelzebub and his wizards, and the spirit of Joel Riches were all conspiring as one against Emma. The man from the train.
Chapter 3
Rachel looks at the kitchen and tries to ignore the Weetabix-encrusted carnage. She presses the button on the washing machine, waiting with impatience for it to release the laundry. She can hear Alfie and Lily shouting their usual morning chorus of ‘I hate you’s’ and decides to let them resolve it for themselves, like the books tell you to. She unlocks the back door and picks her way across the dewy grass. She is just prising apart a mass of trousers and
‘The agent is touting it hither and thither after the publisher with the most money, but I know we have more to offer.’
She looks at Emma with glassy eyes. It’s the look Ella and Emma call her ‘mirror to the past’. Ella always jokes that Emma is her protégé and it is clear that Miranda does see something of herself in Emma. At last year’s Christmas party, Miranda threw her arms around her and told her that she was like Boudicca, but they were all very drunk.
‘Ten o’clock then. We pitch our ideas, gush, enthuse and generally plump up their egos like sumptuous cushions. OK?’
‘Ok. Do you think Richard will go for it?’
‘Oh, it’s not Richard we have to worry about, darling. It’s the agent.’
The light is flashing on Emma’s phone when she gets back to her desk. It’s a text from Martin: ‘Good luck Mrs Almost-Wifey. Hope you get the book. I’m proud of you. Love M.’ She smiles but is starting to feel a bit sick and desperate to get on with it. She checks her watch: 9:34. twenty-six minutes to go. She leafs through her notes again and realises that her hands are shaking. The book is beautifully written and Emma desperately wants to be the one to publish it. She gives herself an internal pep talk: ‘You can do this. You are good at your job. You love this book and you want the world to love it too.’
The phone rings shattering the peace. Emma leaps up, knocking coffee all over her notes. ‘Fuck!’ she says involuntarily into the mouthpiece.
‘Emma?’ asks Miranda with no notable surprise at the outburst.
‘Yes? Sorry. I’m here.’
‘And so are they. Are you ready?’
Emma looks at the coffee-steeped notes and realises that she’s going to have to wing it. ‘I’ll come straight over.’
‘Fine. I’ll go and welcome them, roll out the red carpet as it were. And remember, you should be bloody nervous but it’s just another book. OK?’
‘OK,’ says Emma feeling anything but.
Miranda’s office is filled with the heavy perfume of pink lilies, mingled with the welcome aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Emma realises that she needs to pee, but daren’t leave the room now. The table is covered with a selection of Danish pastries. Her stomach groans appreciatively, but she decides against the risk of icing down her top and flaky crumbs on her upper lip. She can hear Miranda coming, jollying their guests along in a warm but business-like way. She decides that standing is the best option as sitting might seem somehow presumptuous or complacent or both.
The woman who enters first is known to Emma by fearsome reputation only: Joanna Uppington is ball-breaker number one of the publishing world. Emma is pretty sure she’s never smiled in her life. She is immaculate and tiny in her fitted, designer trouser suit. The only aspect to her that gives her any height (and which Emma suspects is the actual source of her power) is her hair with its impressive four-inch power-bouffant held in place with enough hair spray to finish off the ozone layer.
‘Joanna, this is Emma Darcy, our most talented editor.’
Joanna looks Emma up and down as if seeking to identify a new life form and thrusts out a bony hand like a poison dart. ‘And this is my most talented author, Richard Bennett,’ she retorts.
And there he is. Of course. As if God, Beelzebub and his wizards, and the spirit of Joel Riches were all conspiring as one against Emma. The man from the train.
Chapter 3
Rachel looks at the kitchen and tries to ignore the Weetabix-encrusted carnage. She presses the button on the washing machine, waiting with impatience for it to release the laundry. She can hear Alfie and Lily shouting their usual morning chorus of ‘I hate you’s’ and decides to let them resolve it for themselves, like the books tell you to. She unlocks the back door and picks her way across the dewy grass. She is just prising apart a mass of trousers and
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