On the Same Page, page 2
Emma’s books are perfectly well written, but I don’t think they’ll attract the vote of the poet. The second judge is a professor from Tasmania with a postmodernist bent. He’s bound to dislike Emma’s sentence structure and careful punctuation. I don’t think the literary editor from The New Yorker will be a supporter either. And the head librarian at the National Library wouldn’t dream of putting Emma on her shelves. Lars Kristensen is the fifth judge and he won’t rate Emma; Iconic’s list is equal to Faraday Publishing for literary fiction.
The Miles Franklin Literary Award is probably Australia’s most prestigious award. The Stapleton Prize runs a close second. Five of the shortlisted authors want to win the Stapleton and are eminently qualified to do so. Emma doesn’t want to win and, unless thousands of five-star ratings on Amazon and Goodreads count as critical acclaim, she may not even qualify. I tell myself I have nothing, absolutely nothing, to worry about. When I join Pippy in reception, she’s applying lip gloss.
‘We’re going to be late,’ I say.
She puts her bag over her shoulder. ‘I thought nominating Emma might be the sort of surprise you’d be happy about after it had happened.’
‘Unfortunately, it isn’t.’ I tug on her sleeve. ‘Come on. We’d better walk quickly or we’ll miss the bus.’
Chapter 2
Newsletter of the Historical Romance Readers’ Association (June edition)
Heroines, heroes, bodices, breeches, love and sex. Delightful characters, thought-provoking plots, evocative settings and highly imaginative love scenes. Emma Browning’s bestselling Cupid series of novels provides the modern romance reader with everything they could possibly want … except for an author. Who is Emma Browning?
The elusive Ms Browning has written three novels, all set in the Regency period in England. She is by choice self-published and her novels are only available as ebooks or print on demand. Ms Browning doesn’t blog, tweet, or do signings. She doesn’t have a Facebook page or a website, she doesn’t advertise or appear at conferences. Ms Browning does nothing, in fact, that generates publicity. It’s by word of mouth alone that her stories are so phenomenally popular. Her heroines are highly unconventional. In Cupid’s Trap, the first in the series, the strong-willed Victoria blackmails Dominic in order to protect the orphaned children of London. Violet from Cupid’s Arrow is the leader of a band of smugglers (until Sebastian shoots her in self-defence). Cupid’s Revenge features Edward, a notorious rake who always gets what he wants, and clever, capable Annabelle who’s impossible to catch. We’re told the eagerly anticipated fourth novel, Cupid’s Chariot, will present Ms Browning’s most resourceful heroine yet, the fiercely independent Evangeline. And who knows what characters we’ll fall in love with in the rumoured fifth novel of the series.
Is it any wonder that, like romance readers worldwide, we can’t help wondering … who is Emma Browning?
***
Pippy and I sit side by side on the bus, which stops at every stop. There’s no question we’ll be late to the meeting at the Publishers’ Association.
‘It would’ve been much quicker to catch the train,’ Pippy says.
‘I prefer the bus,’ I say, gripping onto the handrail as we turn right off City Road down Broadway.
Pippy and I met on a train. I was huddled in the corner of the carriage while girls from school went through my bag. They did it most mornings. Pippy saw what was happening from the other side of the carriage. She shoulder-charged the biggest girl and grabbed the ponytail of another one to pull her away. Then she tugged my books out of their hands and grasped my arm.
‘Let’s go!’ she said.
We reached the carriage doors just as they opened and Pippy pulled me after her as she leaped out of the train. My legs were shaking and I was struggling to draw breath as we ran along the platform and up the stairs, but we didn’t stop until we reached the pavement near the crossing. She had to turn left to walk to her public school two kilometres away, and I had to turn right down the laneway and cross the lawns that bordered my private school.
Pippy gave me my books and I bundled them into my bag. ‘Thank you,’ I said.
She shrugged. ‘That’s okay. Do you want to catch the train with me tomorrow?’
‘Yes, if you want to.’
She was much smaller than I was then and she squinted into the sun as her eyes met mine. ‘Can I try your hat on?’ she said.
My hat was white with a tartan hatband and blue piping around the broad brim. ‘Sure,’ I said, handing it to her. When Pippy put it on it covered her eyes, so she tipped it to the back of her head.
‘You look like Pippi Longstocking,’ I said.
‘I am Pippi Longstocking,’ she said.
‘My name is Miles Franklin.’ We shook hands. It must have been Pippy who put her hand out first. Looking back on it, two schoolgirls shaking hands seems like a very odd thing to have happened.
For the rest of the term, Pippy and I caught the train together and I let her wear my hat. The other girls laughed at her, but she didn’t care. Pippy never cares about things like that.
The following year, Pippy went to live with her foster mother, Grandma Myrtle, in Wagga Wagga, and I asked Mum and Dad if I could become a boarder at school. This was an expensive way to avoid bullies on the train, but it suited all of us—Mum was about to leave Sydney for a six-month stint as a visiting poet in Melbourne, and Dad was hardly ever at home.
I wrote and emailed Pippy often, but she was, at best, an intermittent correspondent and she rarely had phone credit. I hadn’t seen her for a while when, three years ago, she applied for the PA position at my practice. She’d grown from cute, to pretty, to really quite beautiful.
‘I’m not qualified as a PA,’ she said when I interviewed her.
‘Right …’
She looked around my office. ‘But I can answer your phone and mind your law books when you go out.’
Pippy’s been working for me ever since—she’s a terrible PA, but all my clients love her.
She elbows me when the bus pulls up in Elizabeth Street. ‘Quick, Miles. We have to get off.’
We’re already half an hour late. And by the time we walk into the building, I’m hot and sticky. I tidy my hair in the lift and straighten my jacket. The president of the Publishers’ Association is waiting for us in reception.
‘Delighted to see you, Miles,’ he says, taking my hand. ‘How is your mother? And Raymond, of course.’
‘Mum and Dad are fine, thanks.’
I’ve known the president since I was a child. He used to be the head of Faraday, Dad’s publisher, before he retired and took up the presidential post. He’s a publishing snob and coughed behind his hand when I introduced him to one of my romance authors at a writing festival once.
I introduce him to Pippy and she confirms that Emma is out of sorts, but would have been very happy to meet him if she wasn’t.
‘Not to worry,’ he replies. ‘I’m sure we’ll meet her soon. Come through, ladies. Iconic’s here already.’
We follow the president into a conference room. There are two men there, both standing and looking out of the window. When the tall, dark-haired one turns around, my breath gets caught in my throat. Before he’d turned serious on the pedestrian crossing, he’d smiled. There’s no hint of a smile now. He moves around the table and extends his hand.
‘Lars Kristensen,’ he says. ‘Iconic.’
Was he on his way back from my office when we collided? I had no idea he’d be this young. I should have googled him as well as the other judges.
‘I’m Miles Franklin,’ I say, shaking his hand. His fingers are cool, like they were when he handed me my briefcase.
He speaks quietly so only I can hear him. ‘Did you know who I was?’
‘No. Did you know who I was?’
‘If I had, I would have accompanied you back to your office.’ He narrows his eyes. ‘We had an appointment.’
‘I was held up.’
He frowns. ‘Where is Emma Browning?’
‘She can’t make it.’
‘Your PA has been telling me that, not particularly convincingly, all week.’
The other Iconic man is short and middle-aged, with thinning light-brown hair. He looks from Lars to me and back again, then bustles around the table and holds out his hand.
‘Adam Anders,’ he says. ‘Head of marketing at Iconic Australia.’
Pippy shakes the men’s hands too. She gives Lars a bright smile. ‘Hello, Lars,’ she says. ‘Welcome to Australia. You write very long emails. Have you been to the Opera House yet?’
Lars is still frowning. ‘My mother lives in Melbourne. I’ve been to Sydney and the Opera House a number of times.’
Pippy and I sit on one side of the table. Lars is opposite me and Adam is opposite Pippy. The president takes a seat at the head. There are seven spare seats. Pippy looks at me, opens her eyes wide and writes ‘hot!’ on her pad. When I frown she draws an arrow pointing in Lars’s direction.
The president blabs about how honoured Emma must be to have been shortlisted. Adam details Iconic’s obligations to bankroll the release of the winner’s backlist and their next novel, and Lars joins in, saying something about Iconic’s expansion plans in the US and Asia.
What is it with the way Lars speaks? I keep listening, not to what he’s saying, but to the way he’s saying it. Then he says ‘peculiar’ and I realise what’s going on. It’s not his accent I’m listening to because he doesn’t really have one. It’s his diction—it’s superb. He enunciates all his words clearly. His pronunciation is crisp and sharp.
Pippy nudges me. ‘Miles,’ she whispers, ‘stop staring at his mouth.’
‘I’m not,’ I hiss.
‘Yes, you are. And he’s looking at your eyes staring at his mouth.’
I reach for Pippy’s pad, rifling through it as if I’m looking for something. She’s written ‘hot’ on five different pages.
‘Miles?’ the president says. ‘Do you have any questions?’
Now that I know about the constitution of the judging panel, I’m less worried than I was, but there’s still something bothering me. How did Emma get through to the shortlist? Was an objective criteria used? And if that was the case, how relevant would these factors be in choosing the winner?
‘How was the shortlist determined?’ I ask.
‘Huh,’ the president says. It’s clear he’s not happy about Emma’s nomination. She’s the only genre writer on the shortlist.
‘The deliberations of the judging panel are confidential,’ Lars says.
‘Can you tell me whether sales and reader feedback are taken into account?’
‘They may be,’ the president says, ‘but they’re not determinative. There are other elements.’
‘What other elements? Do the judges select their favourite novels and convince the rest of the panel they’re worthy? Do some judges have more say than others?’
Lars runs his fingers through his hair. ‘I repeat, the decision-making process is confidential.’ He hands me a document. ‘Which is set out perfectly clearly on the application, above your signature as Emma’s representative.’
I flick through the pages and see that Pippy has forged my signature and initials extremely competently. I’m blushing and my breathing has quickened. What I want is for Lars and the president to dismiss Emma’s chances of winning. It would be insulting to Emma, but this isn’t the time to fight ignorance and prejudice.
‘What about selecting the winner?’ I ask. ‘Is that process confidential too?’
‘How the judges vote is confidential, but the voting procedure is tightly regulated,’ the president says. ‘Seven points are allocated to the author each judge names as their first preference, four points for second preference and one point for third.’
There were over a hundred nominations for the Stapleton. Did one of the judges actively support Emma? Could she have got through to the shortlist if that hadn’t been the case? And if she did have support, would that judge automatically give her seven points? I’m too hot to think properly. Lars is staring at me again.
I stand. ‘I have to make a call. Excuse me.’
The president’s assistant, lining up cups and saucers at the reception desk, directs me to the bathroom. There’s no one else there, so I lean over the sink, breathe deeply, and splash water on my face to cool it down. I dry off with a sheet of paper towel. Pippy said Lars was staring at my eyes. My eyes are large and I have long dark lashes. When I wear blue, like today, my eyes are blueish-green brown. But when I wear green, they’re greenish-blue brown. When I wear cream, they’re light brown with murky gold flecks. My hazel eyes are by far the most interesting feature of my face. What did Lars see in them two minutes ago? Consternation? Panic? Even though it’s extremely unlikely that Emma will win the Stapleton, it’s too risky to let her nomination stand. What if four judges suffer from a tummy bug on voting day and Emma’s supporter is the only one left?
By the time I get back to the conference room, Pippy is carrying around the milk jug. The president lifts his water glass with one hand and waves her away with the other. Lars is drinking his coffee black, so she ignores him and makes her way to Adam.
I wrap my hands around the cup of tea in front of me. ‘I’ve just called Emma. She’s asked me to withdraw her nomination for the Stapleton Prize.’
I thought Lars was sitting up straight already, but he grows four centimetres in an instant. ‘What the hell is she playing at?’
‘Emma has cold feet. She’s decided winning the Stapleton would result in unwanted publicity, and she doesn’t want a publishing contract.’
‘I assume you’ve informed her of the binding nature of her contracts with Iconic and the Publishers’ Association?’ Lars says.
The president is alarmed. ‘Let’s not be hasty. If Emma withdraws, the Publishers’ Association may be prepared to release her.’
The Publishers’ Association would be delighted to see the back of Emma. They’ll be dealing with the backlash from her shortlisting from the moment they announce it.
‘They can’t release her without Iconic’s consent,’ Lars says. ‘Which they don’t have.’
The president purses his lips. ‘Surely, Iconic doesn’t want an author who doesn’t want to publish with them?’
‘Adam,’ Lars says, ‘perhaps you can elaborate.’
Adam nods and puts on his glasses. He explains that if Emma wins, Iconic’s Australian office will use the publicity the prize generates to market her as part of a new Iconic division.
‘Emma needs a separate division?’ I say. ‘She’s not good enough to be treated like Iconic’s other authors?’
Adam looks sheepish. ‘It’s not that she’s not good enough. She’s just … different.’
I turn to Lars. ‘You’ll quarantine Emma so she doesn’t infect your other writers?’
‘If she wins the Stapleton, Iconic will publish her backlist and her new novel. That is all that you need to know.’
‘You’ll pay her the minimal royalties stipulated in the conditional contract?’
‘Those royalties are broadly consistent with those paid in her genre. So, yes.’
‘And use profits derived from the sale of her novels to subsidise Iconic’s other writers?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’ll pimp her?’
There’s a pulse at the base of Lars’s jaw. It’s throbbing. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘A pimp is a person who profits through the exploitation of another.’
‘I know what a pimp is.’
‘So you can answer my question.’
‘I will sell Emma’s books to anyone foolish enough to pay for them.’
I stand and pack my briefcase. ‘I’ll bear that comment in mind when I have another look at the contract. Particularly the sections providing that Iconic act reasonably when dealing with the shortlisted authors.’
‘Are you suggesting that Iconic is failing to act reasonably?’
‘I’m stating that’s the case, not suggesting it. Iconic’s conduct is unprofessional and intimidatory.’ Tempting though it is to leave her behind, I take Pippy’s arm and pull her up from her chair.
Lars stands and walks around the table. ‘I find your comment offensive, Ms Franklin.’
Adam shuffles his feet. The president clears his throat. Pippy stacks our cups and saucers.
I’d like to respond to Lars with an erudite comment, but all I can come up with is, ‘Well, bad luck.’ I nod to the president and Adam, then spin on my heel and walk out. Pippy takes ages to join me at the lifts.
‘Whoops,’ she says.
‘Is that all you have to say for yourself?’ I jab at the lift button. ‘You do realise that if Emma wins this stupid prize, we’ll lose her.’
We’ve barely stepped out of the lift when I call Jack. ‘I need a drink.’ My voice is high-pitched. ‘Meet me at the Spanish wine bar at seven?’
Chapter 3
‘Slow down, sweets,’ Jack says, tapping my hand. ‘You haven’t stopped blathering in over an hour.’
If you don’t count Mr Witherspoon, the psychologist I saw as an adolescent, and maybe the hypnotherapist he referred me to when the panic attacks started, my best friend, Jack Ford, is the only person who knows I write as Emma. We’re sitting in a burgundy-cushioned booth at a wine bar on Broadway, eating tapas and drinking sangria. He criticised the fruit and called it a girly drink when I ordered it; sixty minutes later I’m still on my first glass and he’s on his fourth.
Jack and I met at law school. He was a couple of years older than me, tall and slender with dark-amber eyes, brown hair and a sexy smile. I’d been admiring him for months. He stopped at the end of a row of seats at the back of the lecture theatre where I was sitting and sidestepped towards me. I busied myself with my notebook so he wouldn’t see me blushing, and I only met his gaze after I accidentally tripped him and he hit his head on the wall speaker. Even then I was too shy to say anything much. I simply held my I’m a Brontë Sister, Too book bag against his bleeding forehead and nodded or shook my head when he asked me questions. He must have worked out I lived in a residential college on campus though, because at two the following morning there was a tap on my door. When I opened it there he was, looking at me through his fringe—his hair was much longer then.
The Miles Franklin Literary Award is probably Australia’s most prestigious award. The Stapleton Prize runs a close second. Five of the shortlisted authors want to win the Stapleton and are eminently qualified to do so. Emma doesn’t want to win and, unless thousands of five-star ratings on Amazon and Goodreads count as critical acclaim, she may not even qualify. I tell myself I have nothing, absolutely nothing, to worry about. When I join Pippy in reception, she’s applying lip gloss.
‘We’re going to be late,’ I say.
She puts her bag over her shoulder. ‘I thought nominating Emma might be the sort of surprise you’d be happy about after it had happened.’
‘Unfortunately, it isn’t.’ I tug on her sleeve. ‘Come on. We’d better walk quickly or we’ll miss the bus.’
Chapter 2
Newsletter of the Historical Romance Readers’ Association (June edition)
Heroines, heroes, bodices, breeches, love and sex. Delightful characters, thought-provoking plots, evocative settings and highly imaginative love scenes. Emma Browning’s bestselling Cupid series of novels provides the modern romance reader with everything they could possibly want … except for an author. Who is Emma Browning?
The elusive Ms Browning has written three novels, all set in the Regency period in England. She is by choice self-published and her novels are only available as ebooks or print on demand. Ms Browning doesn’t blog, tweet, or do signings. She doesn’t have a Facebook page or a website, she doesn’t advertise or appear at conferences. Ms Browning does nothing, in fact, that generates publicity. It’s by word of mouth alone that her stories are so phenomenally popular. Her heroines are highly unconventional. In Cupid’s Trap, the first in the series, the strong-willed Victoria blackmails Dominic in order to protect the orphaned children of London. Violet from Cupid’s Arrow is the leader of a band of smugglers (until Sebastian shoots her in self-defence). Cupid’s Revenge features Edward, a notorious rake who always gets what he wants, and clever, capable Annabelle who’s impossible to catch. We’re told the eagerly anticipated fourth novel, Cupid’s Chariot, will present Ms Browning’s most resourceful heroine yet, the fiercely independent Evangeline. And who knows what characters we’ll fall in love with in the rumoured fifth novel of the series.
Is it any wonder that, like romance readers worldwide, we can’t help wondering … who is Emma Browning?
***
Pippy and I sit side by side on the bus, which stops at every stop. There’s no question we’ll be late to the meeting at the Publishers’ Association.
‘It would’ve been much quicker to catch the train,’ Pippy says.
‘I prefer the bus,’ I say, gripping onto the handrail as we turn right off City Road down Broadway.
Pippy and I met on a train. I was huddled in the corner of the carriage while girls from school went through my bag. They did it most mornings. Pippy saw what was happening from the other side of the carriage. She shoulder-charged the biggest girl and grabbed the ponytail of another one to pull her away. Then she tugged my books out of their hands and grasped my arm.
‘Let’s go!’ she said.
We reached the carriage doors just as they opened and Pippy pulled me after her as she leaped out of the train. My legs were shaking and I was struggling to draw breath as we ran along the platform and up the stairs, but we didn’t stop until we reached the pavement near the crossing. She had to turn left to walk to her public school two kilometres away, and I had to turn right down the laneway and cross the lawns that bordered my private school.
Pippy gave me my books and I bundled them into my bag. ‘Thank you,’ I said.
She shrugged. ‘That’s okay. Do you want to catch the train with me tomorrow?’
‘Yes, if you want to.’
She was much smaller than I was then and she squinted into the sun as her eyes met mine. ‘Can I try your hat on?’ she said.
My hat was white with a tartan hatband and blue piping around the broad brim. ‘Sure,’ I said, handing it to her. When Pippy put it on it covered her eyes, so she tipped it to the back of her head.
‘You look like Pippi Longstocking,’ I said.
‘I am Pippi Longstocking,’ she said.
‘My name is Miles Franklin.’ We shook hands. It must have been Pippy who put her hand out first. Looking back on it, two schoolgirls shaking hands seems like a very odd thing to have happened.
For the rest of the term, Pippy and I caught the train together and I let her wear my hat. The other girls laughed at her, but she didn’t care. Pippy never cares about things like that.
The following year, Pippy went to live with her foster mother, Grandma Myrtle, in Wagga Wagga, and I asked Mum and Dad if I could become a boarder at school. This was an expensive way to avoid bullies on the train, but it suited all of us—Mum was about to leave Sydney for a six-month stint as a visiting poet in Melbourne, and Dad was hardly ever at home.
I wrote and emailed Pippy often, but she was, at best, an intermittent correspondent and she rarely had phone credit. I hadn’t seen her for a while when, three years ago, she applied for the PA position at my practice. She’d grown from cute, to pretty, to really quite beautiful.
‘I’m not qualified as a PA,’ she said when I interviewed her.
‘Right …’
She looked around my office. ‘But I can answer your phone and mind your law books when you go out.’
Pippy’s been working for me ever since—she’s a terrible PA, but all my clients love her.
She elbows me when the bus pulls up in Elizabeth Street. ‘Quick, Miles. We have to get off.’
We’re already half an hour late. And by the time we walk into the building, I’m hot and sticky. I tidy my hair in the lift and straighten my jacket. The president of the Publishers’ Association is waiting for us in reception.
‘Delighted to see you, Miles,’ he says, taking my hand. ‘How is your mother? And Raymond, of course.’
‘Mum and Dad are fine, thanks.’
I’ve known the president since I was a child. He used to be the head of Faraday, Dad’s publisher, before he retired and took up the presidential post. He’s a publishing snob and coughed behind his hand when I introduced him to one of my romance authors at a writing festival once.
I introduce him to Pippy and she confirms that Emma is out of sorts, but would have been very happy to meet him if she wasn’t.
‘Not to worry,’ he replies. ‘I’m sure we’ll meet her soon. Come through, ladies. Iconic’s here already.’
We follow the president into a conference room. There are two men there, both standing and looking out of the window. When the tall, dark-haired one turns around, my breath gets caught in my throat. Before he’d turned serious on the pedestrian crossing, he’d smiled. There’s no hint of a smile now. He moves around the table and extends his hand.
‘Lars Kristensen,’ he says. ‘Iconic.’
Was he on his way back from my office when we collided? I had no idea he’d be this young. I should have googled him as well as the other judges.
‘I’m Miles Franklin,’ I say, shaking his hand. His fingers are cool, like they were when he handed me my briefcase.
He speaks quietly so only I can hear him. ‘Did you know who I was?’
‘No. Did you know who I was?’
‘If I had, I would have accompanied you back to your office.’ He narrows his eyes. ‘We had an appointment.’
‘I was held up.’
He frowns. ‘Where is Emma Browning?’
‘She can’t make it.’
‘Your PA has been telling me that, not particularly convincingly, all week.’
The other Iconic man is short and middle-aged, with thinning light-brown hair. He looks from Lars to me and back again, then bustles around the table and holds out his hand.
‘Adam Anders,’ he says. ‘Head of marketing at Iconic Australia.’
Pippy shakes the men’s hands too. She gives Lars a bright smile. ‘Hello, Lars,’ she says. ‘Welcome to Australia. You write very long emails. Have you been to the Opera House yet?’
Lars is still frowning. ‘My mother lives in Melbourne. I’ve been to Sydney and the Opera House a number of times.’
Pippy and I sit on one side of the table. Lars is opposite me and Adam is opposite Pippy. The president takes a seat at the head. There are seven spare seats. Pippy looks at me, opens her eyes wide and writes ‘hot!’ on her pad. When I frown she draws an arrow pointing in Lars’s direction.
The president blabs about how honoured Emma must be to have been shortlisted. Adam details Iconic’s obligations to bankroll the release of the winner’s backlist and their next novel, and Lars joins in, saying something about Iconic’s expansion plans in the US and Asia.
What is it with the way Lars speaks? I keep listening, not to what he’s saying, but to the way he’s saying it. Then he says ‘peculiar’ and I realise what’s going on. It’s not his accent I’m listening to because he doesn’t really have one. It’s his diction—it’s superb. He enunciates all his words clearly. His pronunciation is crisp and sharp.
Pippy nudges me. ‘Miles,’ she whispers, ‘stop staring at his mouth.’
‘I’m not,’ I hiss.
‘Yes, you are. And he’s looking at your eyes staring at his mouth.’
I reach for Pippy’s pad, rifling through it as if I’m looking for something. She’s written ‘hot’ on five different pages.
‘Miles?’ the president says. ‘Do you have any questions?’
Now that I know about the constitution of the judging panel, I’m less worried than I was, but there’s still something bothering me. How did Emma get through to the shortlist? Was an objective criteria used? And if that was the case, how relevant would these factors be in choosing the winner?
‘How was the shortlist determined?’ I ask.
‘Huh,’ the president says. It’s clear he’s not happy about Emma’s nomination. She’s the only genre writer on the shortlist.
‘The deliberations of the judging panel are confidential,’ Lars says.
‘Can you tell me whether sales and reader feedback are taken into account?’
‘They may be,’ the president says, ‘but they’re not determinative. There are other elements.’
‘What other elements? Do the judges select their favourite novels and convince the rest of the panel they’re worthy? Do some judges have more say than others?’
Lars runs his fingers through his hair. ‘I repeat, the decision-making process is confidential.’ He hands me a document. ‘Which is set out perfectly clearly on the application, above your signature as Emma’s representative.’
I flick through the pages and see that Pippy has forged my signature and initials extremely competently. I’m blushing and my breathing has quickened. What I want is for Lars and the president to dismiss Emma’s chances of winning. It would be insulting to Emma, but this isn’t the time to fight ignorance and prejudice.
‘What about selecting the winner?’ I ask. ‘Is that process confidential too?’
‘How the judges vote is confidential, but the voting procedure is tightly regulated,’ the president says. ‘Seven points are allocated to the author each judge names as their first preference, four points for second preference and one point for third.’
There were over a hundred nominations for the Stapleton. Did one of the judges actively support Emma? Could she have got through to the shortlist if that hadn’t been the case? And if she did have support, would that judge automatically give her seven points? I’m too hot to think properly. Lars is staring at me again.
I stand. ‘I have to make a call. Excuse me.’
The president’s assistant, lining up cups and saucers at the reception desk, directs me to the bathroom. There’s no one else there, so I lean over the sink, breathe deeply, and splash water on my face to cool it down. I dry off with a sheet of paper towel. Pippy said Lars was staring at my eyes. My eyes are large and I have long dark lashes. When I wear blue, like today, my eyes are blueish-green brown. But when I wear green, they’re greenish-blue brown. When I wear cream, they’re light brown with murky gold flecks. My hazel eyes are by far the most interesting feature of my face. What did Lars see in them two minutes ago? Consternation? Panic? Even though it’s extremely unlikely that Emma will win the Stapleton, it’s too risky to let her nomination stand. What if four judges suffer from a tummy bug on voting day and Emma’s supporter is the only one left?
By the time I get back to the conference room, Pippy is carrying around the milk jug. The president lifts his water glass with one hand and waves her away with the other. Lars is drinking his coffee black, so she ignores him and makes her way to Adam.
I wrap my hands around the cup of tea in front of me. ‘I’ve just called Emma. She’s asked me to withdraw her nomination for the Stapleton Prize.’
I thought Lars was sitting up straight already, but he grows four centimetres in an instant. ‘What the hell is she playing at?’
‘Emma has cold feet. She’s decided winning the Stapleton would result in unwanted publicity, and she doesn’t want a publishing contract.’
‘I assume you’ve informed her of the binding nature of her contracts with Iconic and the Publishers’ Association?’ Lars says.
The president is alarmed. ‘Let’s not be hasty. If Emma withdraws, the Publishers’ Association may be prepared to release her.’
The Publishers’ Association would be delighted to see the back of Emma. They’ll be dealing with the backlash from her shortlisting from the moment they announce it.
‘They can’t release her without Iconic’s consent,’ Lars says. ‘Which they don’t have.’
The president purses his lips. ‘Surely, Iconic doesn’t want an author who doesn’t want to publish with them?’
‘Adam,’ Lars says, ‘perhaps you can elaborate.’
Adam nods and puts on his glasses. He explains that if Emma wins, Iconic’s Australian office will use the publicity the prize generates to market her as part of a new Iconic division.
‘Emma needs a separate division?’ I say. ‘She’s not good enough to be treated like Iconic’s other authors?’
Adam looks sheepish. ‘It’s not that she’s not good enough. She’s just … different.’
I turn to Lars. ‘You’ll quarantine Emma so she doesn’t infect your other writers?’
‘If she wins the Stapleton, Iconic will publish her backlist and her new novel. That is all that you need to know.’
‘You’ll pay her the minimal royalties stipulated in the conditional contract?’
‘Those royalties are broadly consistent with those paid in her genre. So, yes.’
‘And use profits derived from the sale of her novels to subsidise Iconic’s other writers?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’ll pimp her?’
There’s a pulse at the base of Lars’s jaw. It’s throbbing. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘A pimp is a person who profits through the exploitation of another.’
‘I know what a pimp is.’
‘So you can answer my question.’
‘I will sell Emma’s books to anyone foolish enough to pay for them.’
I stand and pack my briefcase. ‘I’ll bear that comment in mind when I have another look at the contract. Particularly the sections providing that Iconic act reasonably when dealing with the shortlisted authors.’
‘Are you suggesting that Iconic is failing to act reasonably?’
‘I’m stating that’s the case, not suggesting it. Iconic’s conduct is unprofessional and intimidatory.’ Tempting though it is to leave her behind, I take Pippy’s arm and pull her up from her chair.
Lars stands and walks around the table. ‘I find your comment offensive, Ms Franklin.’
Adam shuffles his feet. The president clears his throat. Pippy stacks our cups and saucers.
I’d like to respond to Lars with an erudite comment, but all I can come up with is, ‘Well, bad luck.’ I nod to the president and Adam, then spin on my heel and walk out. Pippy takes ages to join me at the lifts.
‘Whoops,’ she says.
‘Is that all you have to say for yourself?’ I jab at the lift button. ‘You do realise that if Emma wins this stupid prize, we’ll lose her.’
We’ve barely stepped out of the lift when I call Jack. ‘I need a drink.’ My voice is high-pitched. ‘Meet me at the Spanish wine bar at seven?’
Chapter 3
‘Slow down, sweets,’ Jack says, tapping my hand. ‘You haven’t stopped blathering in over an hour.’
If you don’t count Mr Witherspoon, the psychologist I saw as an adolescent, and maybe the hypnotherapist he referred me to when the panic attacks started, my best friend, Jack Ford, is the only person who knows I write as Emma. We’re sitting in a burgundy-cushioned booth at a wine bar on Broadway, eating tapas and drinking sangria. He criticised the fruit and called it a girly drink when I ordered it; sixty minutes later I’m still on my first glass and he’s on his fourth.
Jack and I met at law school. He was a couple of years older than me, tall and slender with dark-amber eyes, brown hair and a sexy smile. I’d been admiring him for months. He stopped at the end of a row of seats at the back of the lecture theatre where I was sitting and sidestepped towards me. I busied myself with my notebook so he wouldn’t see me blushing, and I only met his gaze after I accidentally tripped him and he hit his head on the wall speaker. Even then I was too shy to say anything much. I simply held my I’m a Brontë Sister, Too book bag against his bleeding forehead and nodded or shook my head when he asked me questions. He must have worked out I lived in a residential college on campus though, because at two the following morning there was a tap on my door. When I opened it there he was, looking at me through his fringe—his hair was much longer then.
