On the Same Page, page 10
Jack and I walk home arm in arm. ‘Even if he only wants me for my legal mind,’ Jack says, ‘at least I have an excuse to see him again. Drink to celebrate?’
‘Sorry, Jack. I’m terribly behind with Cupid’s Chariot. I promised I’d get more pages to Maurice by Sunday night. We have another meeting on Tuesday.’
‘Iconic is still hassling you?’
‘Adam is a terrier on steroids.’
‘Lars?’
‘He’s due back any day.’
Chapter 15
Maurice lives in Haberfield, a fifteen-minute bus trip from my office. Iconic sends him hard copies of Emma’s backlist novels and he does a structural edit, where he gives suggestions about things like plotting and point of view. Then he does a copyedit, for consistency, accuracy, grammar and punctuation. This is the fourth time I’ve come to his house.
I’m pretty sure he worked out I was Emma the first time we met, when he spotted the physical resemblance between Cupid’s Trap’s Victoria and me. And he’s given a few little hints of it since. I don’t think Maurice would ever give me away, and he seems to be perfectly comfortable, like I am, speaking about Emma in the third person.
‘I haven’t read such precise phraseology as Emma’s in probably, goodness me, over thirty years,’ he said to me last week.
‘Thirty years!’
‘Yes. When I was an assistant editor on your father’s first novel.’
Maurice and his wife, April, have been married for forty-nine years. She’s in the early stages of dementia and forgetful, which is why she calls me Victoria. The first time she did it I was shocked—because of the Cupid’s Trap connection—but then Maurice showed me a photo of a wide-eyed, dark-haired girl and explained that I remind April of a cousin she was close to as a young woman, whose name was Victoria.
April welcomes me into the lounge room, which is brimming with books, ornaments and other reminders of her and Maurice’s life together, and then she settles me on the sofa. Maurice perches on a dining chair opposite, with Cupid’s Revenge on the coffee table between us. He indicates the notes he’s made for Chapter 15.
‘Emma doesn’t let the reader into Annabelle’s mind very often,’ he says. ‘Which may make it difficult for them to understand why she acts as she does. In some respects, she is attracted to Edward. So why does she refuse to think about him? Why does she push him away? Even run away on occasion?’
‘I think Annabelle likes some things about him. The way he looks, for example.’
Maurice laughs. ‘I believe there’s more to it than that. Which is why the reader could perhaps be shown what motivates Annabelle a little earlier. So that by the end of the novel one can see how Annabelle’s character has developed. That she has gained the ability to apply the same clear lens to her own conduct, that she applies to the conduct of others.’
After an hour of discussion, Maurice gets to his feet and tells me he’ll put the kettle on.
‘Would you like me to read a chapter of Cupid’s Revenge?’ I ask April.
‘That would be lovely, Victoria.’
April heard me read a passage from Cupid’s Arrow on my first visit and asked me to keep going. Now Maurice reads Emma’s novels to April every night, and I read a chapter when Maurice makes the tea. I’m reading Chapter 28 today, where Edward’s debauchery excites Annabelle’s innocence. As Edward undoes the ribbons of Annabelle’s petticoat I hear the doorbell, but I keep reading until the end of the chapter.
April smiles when I’ve finished and pats my arm. ‘Edward is a rogue! Thank you, dear, that was lovely.’
Maurice speaks from behind me. ‘April, dear. And Miles. We have a visitor.’
When I turn around, my smile slips away. It’s not the little boy from next door who brought brownies last week, or the man who helps with the garden. Lars leans over April and kisses her cheek. He nods in my direction. He has fine stubble on his face; he mustn’t have shaved for a couple of days. A triangle of white T-shirt peeps out of the V-neck of his thin grey sweater.
As the manuscript falls out of my hands and slips from my lap, the bulldog clip holding it together pops off, scattering the pages on the floor at my feet. As Lars walks to me and goes down on one knee, I scramble to the edge of the sofa and reach for the pages. Our heads crash together.
‘Christ!’ His eyes water. He slowly opens and shuts his mouth and massages his jaw.
I rub my forehead. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘That’s what you said last time.’
‘What?’
The hint of a smile skirts across his lips. ‘You headbutted me when we met on the street.’
Maurice puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘You didn’t hit your eye, dear, did you?’
‘Has Victoria hit her eye?’ April asks.
Lars frowns. ‘Victoria?’
‘It’s April’s name for Miles,’ Maurice says.
‘I can’t abide these modern names,’ April says. ‘Miles? Fancy that! For a pretty girl like Victoria.’
‘Come along now, April,’ Maurice says. ‘Miles is unharmed and Lars has had worse on the rugby field.’ He smiles at Lars and me as he takes April’s hand. ‘We’ll make the tea.’
The only sound in the lounge room is the shuffling of papers as Lars collates Cupid’s Revenge, tapping the pages on the table to line up the edges and clipping them together.
I collect my bag and stand. ‘You knew I was here, didn’t you?’
He stands too. ‘I called Maurice from the airport.’
‘I’m going now.’
‘I would like to speak with you.’
‘What about?’
He puts his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and raises his brows. ‘Emma’s contractual obligations may be a good starting point. All we have is the photographic representation from the carriage ride.’
He doesn’t look me up and down like he did in the park, but I’m still uneasy. And increasingly hot. ‘Yes.’ The word is a croak.
‘Neither Adam nor Lucinda have met her yet.’ His jaw firms. ‘I want to know why.’
‘She’s a private person.’
‘Stop making excuses.’
‘It’s a fact, not an excuse. Anyway, she tells me you haven’t performed the contractual variations yet.’
‘The first one has been satisfied,’ he says, crossing his arms defensively over his chest. ‘And the second, the horses and carriage.’
‘But you haven’t provided feedback on the novels.’
‘I am ill-equipped to—’
‘Suit yourself.’ I walk to the lounge room door.
‘They’ll be disappointed if you leave.’
I turn and face him. ‘You should have thought of that before you arrived.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Maurice and April are elderly and April hasn’t been well. It’s inconsiderate of you to ambush me here.’
He lowers his voice. ‘I am merely paying them a visit.’
‘Like hell you are!’
‘Miles dear, excuse me.’ I look over my shoulder and see Maurice carrying the tea tray. There’s a large blue-and-white teapot on it, with five teabag tags dangling down the side and four cups and saucers.
Lars reaches me in two long strides. I step left. He steps right. And then, muttering something under his breath, he reaches behind me and takes the tray from Maurice. He puts it on the coffee table, nudging the manuscript to the floor again.
‘Have you had a nice chat with our favourite godson?’ Maurice asks.
I watch Lars, with a perfectly steady hand, sort the cups and pour the tea. My face on fire all over again, I walk to the window and look outside. A neat box hedge surrounds the rectangle of lawn.
‘I understood I was your only godson,’ Lars says. ‘Would you like milk, Miles?’
My voice is croaky. ‘No, thank you.’
‘Sugar?’
I shake my head.
‘Miles is sweet enough,’ Maurice says.
‘Dear?’ April calls from the kitchen. ‘I can’t find the biscuits.’
‘Coming,’ Maurice says.
I look over my shoulder and meet Lars’s gaze. He raises his brows.
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ I ask.
He walks to the window and stands next to me. ‘The subject didn’t arise.’
I close my eyes. ‘It could have.’
‘To be honest, I thought Maurice might not want you to know of our connection. Now that I’m Iconic’s CEO, he’s concerned his freelance work may be perceived as nepotism.’
‘That’s ridiculous. Iconic is lucky to have him. He’s been wonderful.’
‘Has he?’
‘To Emma.’
We’ve both been staring straight ahead, out of the window. When he turns to look at me, I see him from the corner of my eye.
‘Why are you here, Miles?’ he says.
I focus on Gordon, the porcelain gnome who fishes under the frangipani tree near the letterbox.
‘Maurice isn’t very good with email, and doesn’t like to leave April by herself. He and Emma decided it would be best if he gave his editorial feedback through me.’
‘He spoke with Emma?’
‘I arranged everything.’
He’s still staring at me, but I don’t turn my head.
April and Maurice return a moment later, sitting in their usual chairs, and Lars sits next to me on the sofa. It’s a small two-seater and I’m conscious of his leg next to mine. The tea is lukewarm and much too strong. I wince each time I swallow and so does Lars.
‘Perhaps you can join us for dinner one evening?’ Maurice says to Lars. ‘You came to Sydney via Melbourne, did you not? Your mother called last night. A trifle upset, to be frank. She is immensely fond of Cassandra and was looking forward to the marriage.’
Lars nods stiffly. ‘It would have been unfair to Cassandra to keep things as they were.’
‘Quite so. How is she holding up?’
‘Creditably.’
I feel like I’m holding a glass to a wall, shamelessly eavesdropping on a private conversation. Lars is no longer engaged? I should change the subject but can’t think of anything to say.
‘Cassandra is a lovely young woman and bound to find a man more suited,’ Maurice says. He smiles. ‘Things might be more challenging for you, dear boy, leaving her at the altar like that.’
‘The wedding was a year away.’
‘Did you fall out of love?’ The words are out before I can smother them. ‘I mean …’
‘What?’
‘It’s none of my business.’
‘We’d known each other for a long time,’ he says quietly. ‘We grew apart.’
‘You loved her once?’ Our eyes lock.
He blinks. ‘You conceded this was none of your business.’
I take a glug of tea. ‘Will you be in Sydney for long?’
He looks at me through narrowed eyes. ‘I fly to Tokyo tomorrow.’
‘Japan again?’’ Maurice says.
Lars carefully returns his cup to its saucer. ‘Iconic’s Australian and Asian regions are problematic.’
‘And that’s why you’re taking on romance writers?’ I say.
‘One romance writer,’ Lars corrects.
‘Iconic Australia isn’t Emma’s problem.’
‘As a matter of fact, it is.’
‘Now, now,’ April says firmly. ‘No quarrelling.’
I reach for my bag. ‘I’m sorry, April.’
‘It’s Miles’s eyes,’ Lars says, taking a biscuit.
‘What about my eyes?’
‘They’re hazel.’
‘So?’
He opens his mouth and shuts it again. Then, ‘Thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes.’
Maurice chuckles. ‘Mercutio’s speech from Romeo and Juliet. Act 3, Scene 1. Keep going, dear boy.’
Lars’s eyes are fixed on mine. ‘What eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel? Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat. And yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling.’
‘Are you suggesting I argue for the sake of it?’
Lars nods emphatically. ‘I am also suggesting that half of what you say just doesn’t add up.’
I clatter my teacup into the saucer. I stand. ‘I see.’
April’s hands flutter when I kiss her. ‘Goodbye, Victoria.’
‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have encouraged Lars after all,’ Maurice says, taking my hand in both of his.
‘Finish your tea, Maurice,’ Lars says. ‘I’ll walk Miles to the door.’
Lars is on the first step of the porch and I’m on the doorstep when he turns to say goodbye, so our height differential is less than it would usually be. He’s no longer engaged. I blink and hold out my hand.
‘Goodbye, then.’
He takes my hand but doesn’t shake it. Our palms press together. Our wrists line up. A wave of lust, shimmering bright, shoots from my head to my toes.
‘When will I see you again?’ he says.
‘I…’ A bus rumbles along the road. ‘I’m very busy at present.’ Reclaiming my hand, I push past him to the path, flagging the bus as I pass through the gate. Immediately the driver pulls into the kerb and opens the door, I run up the steps.
‘You’re a lifesaver,’ I tell him as I fumble for my card.
He grunts. ‘Part of the service.’
I’m puffing like I’ve been running for an hour, not a minute, as I slump into the seat. And I’m determined not to look around as the bus pulls into the road, but … Lars is standing at the gate, his hands shoved into his pockets. What is he thinking?
In Chapter 31 of Cupid’s Chariot, Rupert chases Evangeline through the overgrown gardens of her uncle’s house and, in order to escape, she climbs a giant maple. The lower branches are spindly and unable to hold Rupert’s weight, so he stands next to the tree and vows that he won’t leave his post until she climbs down. Then he informs her he’s purchased the house she’s lived in all her life, and will take possession of it within the month. She’s certain he’ll give her an ultimatum after that: marry me or I shall evict you and your sisters. Evangeline is isolated, trapped and afraid.
And I’m beginning to understand exactly how she feels. Has Lars figured out that I’m Emma?
Chapter 16
When I google Lars, I find a wealth of information on his business career but only one personal item—an interview recorded not long after he was appointed to Iconic. In it he said he favoured American novelists including postmodernists like Johnathan Franzen, David Foster Wallace and John Updike. Would his reading preferences preclude him from finishing Emma’s novels? This may not prevent Iconic from publishing the books, but it will make it more difficult to sue Emma for refusing to market them.
I bring a cup of tea to bed, and get back to Cupid’s Chariot.
Evangeline perched in the fork of the giant maple. Her legs were wrapped around one sturdy bough and her hands held tightly to another. It was early evening and the mists blanketed the moor in a shroud of eerie white. Her toes were cold, her lips were blue …
An email beep from Emma’s inbox interrupts me. I click on the icon, choking on a chocolate-coated almond when I see it’s from Lars.
Emma,
Miles has told me that in order to enhance our relationship as author and publisher, I am required to read your novels and provide feedback on each. This is, I understand, a prerequisite to your full cooperation in the marketing campaign. I agreed with Miles that I would abide by this condition, even though I’m uncertain as to its legal enforceability (I suspect Miles shares my doubts).
I have read your third novel, Cupid’s Revenge, and comment below. Please note that my feedback is likely to be limited in usefulness because of the following circumstances:
1. I was employed as the CEO of Iconic largely due to my background in banking, finance and corporate restructures. I am unfamiliar with the historical (and more specifically Regency period) romance genre.
2. I developed an intense dislike for the character, Edward.
3. The scenes set in Cornwall were, in a personal sense, problematic. I would have been married there next year.
4. By Chapter 49, Edward’s passion for Annabelle appeared to be all-consuming—to the extent that it significantly compromised his ability to act and think rationally. This level of devotion was incomprehensible to me.
As a romance, the novel is of necessity character-driven, but the early-nineteenth-century portrayal of London, in particular, was extremely well done. I appreciated the historical references to gaming halls, trout fishing, and the social and political aftermath of the Napoleonic Wars.
Your portrayal of the shrewish mother is amusing. Annabelle is tolerable, with a distinctive yet eerily familiar voice. Edward is a fuckwit. Annabelle and Edward’s interactions at the inn in Chapter 45 were highly imaginative.
I will start reading Cupid’s Arrow shortly.
Lars
Firstly, just to get it out of the way, I reconsider the fact that Lars is no longer engaged. From what was said at Maurice’s house, it was obvious that Lars was the one who broke it off. And I can’t help thinking that Cassandra is better off without him. If Lars can’t relate his own experiences to Edward’s grand passion for Annabelle, he can’t really have been in love in the first place.
Secondly, and far more importantly, what are the implications of the email for Emma? It’s going to be almost impossible to keep Iconic at arm’s length if Lars gives feedback on all four novels. I’d have to rely on the white horse with brown spots to argue breach of contract, but there wouldn’t be enough in that argument to stall them for long.
And Lars satisfying the contract variations isn’t my only problem. What did he mean by saying that Annabelle had an eerily familiar voice? Calling Edward a fuckwit worries me too. Lars is circumspect and his email was sent directly to Emma’s address—would he write ‘fuckwit’ when corresponding with someone he’s never met in person?
