Chapter 4
The scariest moment is always just before you start.
Stephen King
An agent and her best client becoming lovers is probably a literary cliché, but it was impossible not to fall in love with Charles Miller. He was kind and thoughtful, clever and sympathetic, as well as being the sexiest man alive. I was astonished that he was still single, although I knew, because I'd quizzed him, that he'd had a couple of longer-term relationships in the past. However, none had become serious enough for him to live with the women involved. My questions about his love life were entirely professional – at least that's what I told myself – because I was trying to find interesting personal anecdotes that could be used for publicity.
The first time he came back to my apartment was after the Saxby-Brown and Xerxes teams had celebrated his Booker nomination in traditional fashion with champagne and cocktails at a trendy new Soho bar, and he was full of praise for me and all I'd done for him.
‘You're my client,' I told him as I handed him the coffee I'd invited him in for (with the purest of motives, honestly; he'd muttered about needing to sober up before going back to his hotel). ‘Of course I've done all I can for you.'
‘I might be a client to you, but you're more than an agent to me.' His voice was huskier than ever. ‘I mean it, Ariel. I . . . well . . . honestly, I don't know how I'd manage without you.'
And then we were in each other's arms and the coffee was forgotten as we stumbled to the bedroom and had hot, steamy sex with the curtains open and the lights of London cheering us on in the background.
It was as though a dam had burst. We couldn't keep our hands off each other. Charles was still living in Dublin, but he came to London every second weekend. We had sex in every room of my apartment, in the Saxby-Brown offices (late one evening, when the staff had gone home) and in the various hotels we took off to around the country. We were mad for each other, and it was the best time of my life.
We managed to keep our relationship under wraps for longer than I expected, but were eventually outed when another agent and his wife stayed at the same hotel as us one weekend. By then, though, I didn't care who knew. I was proud to be Charles's agent and equally proud to be his lover.
After that, when we were out together, we were the ultimate literary couple. I loved turning up to events with him, knowing I looked good, felt great and was well respected. I glowed from the inside out. My skin was dewy. And because I went to the gym every morning before work, my body was firm and lean.
I said all this, except for my body self-praise, one morning as we lay in bed together, exhausted from the publishing party we'd been to the night before and the great sex we'd had when we woke up.
‘You make it sound as though we're a commercial arrangement.' He frowned.
‘I've also just said I love you,' I told him. ‘That's hardly commercial.'
‘But you said it as though you were telling me to take an offer, not as though you really meant it.'
‘After what we've just done, you think I don't mean it?' I raised an eyebrow and then burrowed under the light summer duvet, where I began to kiss him slowly.
‘I . . .' He wasn't able to say anything else.
I'm even better at sex than at being an agent. After all, if a job's worth doing, it's worth doing well. One of my maternal granny's favourite clichés and one that I actually live by.
When we'd both regained our breath, he propped himself up on one arm.
‘Move back to Dublin with me.'
I automatically glanced towards the full-length window, where I could see the Thames, busy with boats. I always considered the river to be the spine of the city, a proper working waterway, unlike Dublin's Liffey, which was under-utilised by comparison.
‘I came to London to build my career,' I reminded him as I turned to face him again. ‘Dublin's far too small a pond for me to fish in.'
‘And yet you found me.'
‘You found me.' I smiled.
‘We found each other,' he amended. ‘And I don't want to lose you. But we can't go on like this, commuting back and forth, seeing each other so infrequently.'
‘We see each other twice a month But perhaps I could come to Dublin the other weekends,' I suggested.
‘It's still a peripatetic lifestyle, isn't it?'
‘I wonder how many people use that word in actual day-to-day living,' I murmured. ‘We travel back and forth because we want to.'
‘What if I don't want to any more?'
He hauled himself out of bed and put on his shorts and a T-shirt. Then he opened the patio door and leaned over the glass balcony, staring into the distance.
I was worried now. He said he didn't want to lose me, but he didn't want things to go on like this either. We weren't exactly a long-distance relationship, but there were definitely stresses involved. I thought about this for a while longer before joining him and standing behind him. I slid my arms beneath his T-shirt, my fingers pushing through the hairs on his chest. He was the single most wonderful thing that had happened to me. I didn't want to lose him. But would I if I didn't go to Dublin with him?
I could see why he'd suggested it. After all, I'm a Dubliner by birth, although I moved to London after leaving college and rarely went back. There was no need. My parents sold the family home and retired to the island of Mallorca shortly after I landed my first job, thus instantly providing me with an excellent holiday location whenever I needed it. I don't have any close family in Ireland. So there was nothing to draw me back, although from time to time I missed the lilt of the accent and the easy wit and good humour of the city.
‘I'm a London girl now,' I said as I rested my head against his back. ‘Why don't you move here? It's surely a way more exciting place for a writer to be.'
‘I don't need excitement,' he said. ‘I don't write exciting books.'
‘The literati are always very excited about your books,' I reminded him. ‘Xerxes has made an excellent offer for the next one.'
‘An entirely different thing,' he pointed out. ‘As you should know.'
‘I do. What,' I asked, ‘would you expect me to do in Dublin? The company I work for is here.'
‘There are publishers in Ireland,' he said. ‘Agents too.'
‘Not a lot,' I remarked.
‘Of which?'
‘Either, I guess.' I thought about it for a minute, the idea suddenly taking hold and bubbling up inside me. My long-term ambition had always been to have my own agency. I'd assumed it would be in London. But there was no reason I couldn't work from Dublin. It was a short flight, after all. Besides, communications were improving all the time. My heart began to beat faster. I could do it, if I wanted. And perhaps there'd be more space for me in Dublin, fewer other agents pitching to authors. Fewer authors too, of course.
‘It's not like you have to be physically here,' said Charles, echoing my thoughts. ‘You can Skype and conference-call just as easily as rushing off to someone's office. In fact, the way technology is going, I bet in a few years everyone will be working from out-of-office locations. Working from home has its advantages.'
‘It's easy for you,' I said. ‘Writers don't exactly need to be in an office environment. But for me it's important to have face-to-face contact. I had to actually meet Graham Weston to interest him in your book, remember.'
‘You could base yourself in Dublin and come to London every few weeks,' said Charles. ‘Press the flesh and enjoy the social side of things. It's eminently doable.'
The more I thought about it, the more I thought he was right. And I loved the sound of the Ariel Barrett Agency – ABA. I'd picked the name years before. I accept it's not exactly original, but it has impact.
‘Besides . . .' he turned around to look at me, ‘I'd like the woman I love to share the amazing new house I've bought.'
I knew he'd been looking at property as a way to invest his earnings from Winter's Heartbreak, and he'd shown me images of some of the houses he was interested in. But I hadn't realised he was looking for a place to live. He always said he was happy in his rented apartment.
‘I can't believe you've bought a house and you want me to live in it with you.' I couldn't keep the surprise out of my voice.
‘You say it as though it's a bad thing.'
‘Not at all. But it would be a big move for me. And . . . well . . . it'd be your house, not ours.'
‘In the end I had to move quickly on the purchase,' he said. ‘I didn't have time to talk it over with you. There was a lot of interest because it's in a lovely neighbourhood, so I just went for it.'
‘Where is it?'
‘Terenure.'
I nodded. I was probably more familiar with the area than him, having grown up in Ballyboden, a mere 4 kilometres away, whereas his family home was in Waterford, which is about 160 kilometres from Dublin.
‘You'll love it. Period. Detached. Double-fronted. Five bedrooms. Two reception. Lovely dining room. Massive kitchen.'
‘You sound like an estate agent.'
‘I'm trying to sell it to you,' he said. ‘I do feel a bit bad about not bringing you to see it first.'
‘You don't have to consult me about everything,' I told him. ‘I'm your agent, not your wife.'
He walked back into the apartment. I followed him. He reached into the pocket of the jacket he'd slung over a chair the night before and took out a distinctive blue box, which he handed to me.
I opened it and looked at the Tiffany's solitaire inside.
‘Ariel Barrett,' he said. ‘I know you're a free-spirited, independent, successful woman who doesn't need a man in her life to be happy. But I'd be honoured if you'd become my wife.'
I was all those things. I was also a woman who hadn't planned on getting married at all.
But I was in love with Charles, and that changed everything.
So I said yes.
Our engagement was mentioned in the trade papers and briefly in the national media too. Everyone loved the romance of it, the unknown agent who'd turned an unknown author into a mega success and who'd fallen in love in the process. However, when I revealed that I planned to move to Ireland with Charles and open my own agency in Dublin, my closest friends worried that I was sounding the death knell of my career. Over drinks with Ekene, another Saxby-Brown agent, and Maya, one of my favourite book publicists, they outlined their concerns about the plan. But despite my initial reservations, I was excited. I told them times were changing and I didn't need to be tethered to a desk in London to do the best for my authors. I outlined my plans for the ABA and told Maya that I'd need someone to do PR work for me in London and that I hoped she'd be on board.
‘We're all strong, confident women,' I said. ‘We should support each other. Even if we might end up competing with each other sometimes.' I turned to Ekene.
‘You're right,' she said. ‘It doesn't matter that we're working for different agencies, we'll always be friends. Thankfully the book world isn't as awful as some other industries when it comes to friendships. If I hear of authors that might suit you better than me, I'll let you know.'
‘And vice versa,' I promised her.
So Charles and I got married, I left Saxby-Brown, and I pitched ABA as a home for authors who wrote strong contemporary fiction, romantic fiction and thrillers. I guess I was basically covering almost all types of fiction except sci-fi, horror and erotica, though that didn't stop them arriving in my inbox anyway.
Some of my Saxby-Brown novelists came with me, others stayed safe in the arms of the bigger company. I understood and I didn't mind. In a relatively short period of time, ABA had secured a list of excellent writers who hoped I'd work the same magic for them as I had for Charles Miller. I didn't manage to get an author shortlisted for the Booker, but two of my new clients quickly established themselves as strong sellers. I'd deliberately chosen them because I thought they'd do well commercially. Janice Jermyn wrote cosy crime (a misnomer if ever there was one – anyone who's been a victim of a crime knows it's never cosy) and Lucy Conway was the author of glamorous romantic fiction that I reckoned would sell by the shelfload.
I was right in both cases. The high-body-count murders of Janice's books, which she now produces at the rate of two a year, always make the bestseller lists. And Lucy's exotic blockbusters are the mainstay of airport bookshops everywhere. I love both women, as much for their friendship as for their brilliant writing and their excellent contribution to the agency's bottom line. But back then they were only starting out, and my main income was from Charles's royalties as well as the massive advance I'd managed to secure for his next novel, even though he hadn't a clue what he was going to write yet.
Charles brought me to visit the Dublin house and I immediately saw why he'd bought it and why it would be perfect for us. Additionally, I thought as we walked around the garden, the mews at the back would make an ideal office for me.
Before I could lay claim to it, however, it became our temporary home, because wonderful though the main house was, it needed a lot of work to make it habitable. The builders had estimated five months for the renovations. It took double that, and as I said to Charles afterwards, the fact that we didn't kill each other during that time was a miracle. Working and living in the same space together while also trying to oversee the house makeover was harder than I'd anticipated. Charles has a habit of speaking his dialogue out loud, and it didn't matter to him that I might be on the phone trying to put together a deal as he wandered around the mews loudly quoting from his work in progress. When I'd first met him at Saxby-Brown, I'd thought he was one of the most practical writers I'd ever met, but his practicality extended only to the business part of it, not the actual writing, where his process was chaotic. He would often interrupt me, wanting my opinion on a particularly tricky paragraph, completely oblivious to what I might be doing at the time, arguing with me if I did come up with a suggestion and then arguing with himself about the merits of the entire book.
We were both getting tetchy by the time he decided to take himself off to a tiny cottage on the west coast of Ireland because he needed somewhere away from the sound of jackhammers and cement mixers to write. I was relieved, although it meant that Charles's interruptions were replaced by even more interruptions from the builders, with their daily questions about knocking down walls and plastering ceilings. However, the builders were easier to deal with than Charles, and as he was getting more writing done at the cottage, it was ultimately a win-win situation overall.
The cottage actually belonged to Charles's family, having been passed down by his great-grandmother, and the Millers shared time there among themselves. Although I was grateful for his absence during the week, I visited him at weekends, when we'd talk about his book, swim in the Atlantic Ocean and picnic in the cottage garden with its stunning view over Clew Bay. It was almost like our original courtship, when he'd travelled to London every fortnight to see me. Most of our time there was idyllic, the sex was fantastic, and the only fly in the ointment was the occasional weekend when Charles's mother, Pamela, joined us.
Pamela and I had, as the Irish expression goes, somewhat ‘taken agin' each other when Charles had first introduced us. Initially I'd thought we might get on, as he'd told me that she was an avid reader and loved books. Also, she was as unlike the traditional trope of a doting Irish mammy as it was possible to be. She was stylish and businesslike, and very much used to getting her own way. I admired her and wasn't overawed by the force of her personality, which she seemed to take as a personal insult. I was also a little too London for her, too sassy, too metropolitan elite. She actually did use the words ‘metropolitan elite' when we met. Over the years she would throw in ‘woke' too, possibly because the agency supports a charity that champions ethnic voices in publishing. She also liked to tell me how I should run my business and how I should promote Charles's work. At first I gritted my teeth and nodded, but over time I began to point out, probably too sharply, that I knew how to do my own job.
The thing is, Pamela was, and still is, a very successful woman in her own right, and she believed she always had something useful to bring to the table. She was the one who added a proper restaurant to the family pub's more basic food offering, and when her husband died and Charles's brother, Nick, took it over, she further augmented the Miller business empire by opening a café a few doors down from it. After Charles's success with Winter's Heartbreak, she restyled the café as a literary hang-out, with framed posters of famous Irish authors on the walls. Charles is in pride of place, along with Yeats, Joyce and Beckett. So far, Edna O'Brien is the only female author deemed good enough for Pamela's gallery. She chairs a book club that regularly meets there, and has been quoted several times in the papers talking about the arts. She's also been a guest speaker at a number of businesswomen's functions as well as some literary events. She's a powerhouse, and not only for her age (she's nearly eighty). It's a shame we didn't hit it off.
Maybe that would have made all the difference.
Despite the chaos of the building work going on around me back in Dublin, my productivity soared and I felt confident about the growth of the agency, even if, as I said jokingly to Ekene, I was working out of a derelict house at the back of another derelict house. She was very encouraging and told me that ABA was becoming more and more respected for the calibre of the authors who had joined me. When I rang Charles to tell him this, he told me that it was exactly what I deserved because I was a human dynamo.
I've always liked the idea of being a human dynamo.
When the work on the house was eventually finished, I was very excited to move into the newly named Riverside Lodge. Given that I'd had a lot of input into the renovation and the decoration, it felt very much like my home, even though I hadn't been part of the purchasing process.
‘At least it won't take as long to do up the mews,' I said as Charles and I looked down the garden from the window of the room he'd designated as his writing sanctuary in the main house. ‘It's not a huge space and won't need much to bring it up to spec.'
‘D'you know, I think it's fine the way it is,' he remarked. ‘Haven't we been living there for nearly a year with no problems? I really don't want to be distracted by more building work. I'll need quiet time for my editing.'
I wasn't going to let him divert me from the renovation of the mews by talk of his book. I told him I couldn't possibly work out of a shed and that I needed a proper office. Charles kept suggesting different rooms in the house, while I continued to make the case for the mews, reminding him that it had always been earmarked for me.
‘It's just . . . I was thinking . . . the mews might make a nice granny flat for Mum,' he said.
‘You're not serious?' I looked at him in horror. ‘You want her to live here? I thought she was happy with her café and book club. And isn't she close to your brother and his wife in Waterford?'
‘I wasn't thinking about it for right now,' he said. ‘But who knows what the future might bring.'
‘Charles, I can't work in the same house as you, even a house this size,' I said. ‘The mews was always supposed to be mine. If your mother eventually needs more care, we can have a family discussion about it then. Perhaps we should—'
‘Please let me decide what's best for my own mother,' he said.
‘Of course.' I backed off. ‘But the mews—'
‘I can't talk about this now,' he said. ‘I'm supposed to be writing.' And he stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him. I stayed where I was, my heart thumping and hardly able to control my breathing. There was so much going on in that conversation, in Charles's unexpected and unwanted suggestion, that I couldn't even process it.
An hour later, as I was sitting in the upstairs room of the mews, the one I'd thought would be a great place to keep my authors' published books and their manuscripts, Charles tapped on the door and came in.
‘I'm sorry,' he said.
‘What about?'
‘Springing a change of plan on you.'
‘The plan has been changed then?'
‘No,' he said. ‘It hasn't. It's just that when we were in Mayo, Mum talked about growing older and how she'd manage, and she mentioned the mews and . . .' He shrugged helplessly.
‘You told her she could live here?'
‘I'm not that daft.' He gave me a sudden smile. ‘I told her it was falling down and we couldn't afford to do it up yet.'
‘You don't want to renovate so she can't stay here? Or you don't want to renovate it as an office so she can?'
‘I'm being silly,' he said. ‘She put me under a bit of pressure and . . . You're right about this, Ariel. When the times comes, we should all sit down and talk about it.'
‘But in the meantime, we have to pretend we can't do up the mews?'
‘No,' he said. ‘It was meant to be your office and that's what it'll be.'
‘And when she visits and sees it?'
‘We'll tell her it was cheaper to do it up as an office than a granny flat.'
‘I do love you, you know,' I said. ‘Even if you're a bit mad sometimes.'
‘I love you too,' said Charles.
I pulled his polo shirt over his head and he unbuttoned my blouse, and we made love on the space where my office desk is now.
I sometimes relive that moment when I'm sitting here looking at my Agent of the Year awards (I've won twice) and my lovely shelves packed with my authors' books.
Despite everything, the memory still makes me smile.
An intense squall of rain hitting the patio window startles me. I look out at skies that are even greyer and more laden with clouds than before. The east-facing mews is lovely in the summer, when it gets the morning sun and stays warm all day, but can be miserable in winter, when the days are short and the skies leaden. I forward a few emails to my part-time assistant, Shelley, who mostly works from her home in Greystones, a seaside town not far from Dublin. She's super-efficient, and the fact that we only meet in person once or twice a month doesn't impact on the excellent personal and professional relationship we have.
The sleet has turned to snow. I shiver violently and envy Shelley's more benign working conditions. I've an appointment with a potential client in an hour and originally told her to come to the office, but the lack of heating and the weather outside means that it's less than inviting. I don't want Francesca Clooney thinking my business isn't doing well enough to heat the place. I want my office to radiate confidence and success, and sitting here freezing our buns off certainly won't do that.
I pick up my phone and send her a text telling her I have an electrical problem at the office and suggesting we meet in the Shelbourne instead. Seeing your prospective agent in the elegant surroundings of one of Dublin's best-loved hotels is what every aspiring author dreams of, so hopefully she'll feel excited about that. Of course, it's not always elegant surroundings and exciting meetings, but at least it's a good start.
I pull on my red parka and leave the freezing office, locking the door behind me while glancing towards the red-brick house at the far end of the garden. Despite its undoubted grandeur, it looks forlorn in the winter gloom. The only light is from the upstairs landing, glowing gently through a frosted window. One of the bathrooms, I know. With lovely underfloor heating.
I shiver again, then turn away and unlock my car, an electric Mini, perfect for around town. I love it, and I think it reflects the more creative side of my work, even though when I walk into a meeting I always want to appear as polished and professional as possible. Which is why I keep a bag full of make-up and serums in the glove compartment, and why I plan to change from my lovely warm boots and toasty parka into fashionable heels and my Prada jacket as soon as I get to the hotel.
I arrive early, assuming Francesca will be early too and wanting to have time to fix my face as well as change my shoes. I spend ten minutes in the Ladies' trying to make myself look as great as I did fifteen years ago (and obviously failing, though things could be worse; at least I haven't sweated all the make-up off), and am sitting at a table in the bar with a glass of sparkling water and my iPad open in front of me when my prospective client arrives. My heart sinks when I see she's accompanied by an older man, who, judging by their likeness, is probably her father. Francesca is in her mid twenties, and it's my experience that people of her age seem to rely a lot more on their parents than I did in my twenties. My father wouldn't have dreamed of coming to a business meeting with me. I wouldn't have dreamed of asking him.
I stand up and give a small wave to attract their attention.
She walks over to me and smiles, a wide, attractive smile that I think will look good on jacket covers, then introduces the man as her dad, Raymond.
‘Nice to meet you, Mr Clooney.' I extend my hand and he takes it, gripping it too firmly and shaking it too hard. ‘Can I get you anything?'
‘A soda water for me, as I'm driving the soon-to-be bestselling author today. But Francesca will have a glass of champagne. To celebrate.'
There's nothing to celebrate yet, but I order the water and the champagne anyway. I'm really keen to sign Francesca, who has a lot of raw talent and who's written a very readable historical police procedural set in Ireland during the Second World War (a time known somewhat prosaically in Ireland as the Emergency, the title Francesca has chosen for her novel). It has all the classic tropes – a hunky police officer whose wife has left him, a superior officer more interested in the politics of his position than catching culprits, a feisty secretary who's secretly in love with the handsome hero, and a clever plot with a couple of unexpected twists.
I know I can sell this book. And I'm confident that it could be successful.
‘So.' Raymond Clooney takes an old-fashioned Filofax and a heavy ballpoint pen from the briefcase he's set down beside him. ‘Let's get down to business. How much will my little girl make from this venture?'
‘Before we talk about money, we need to talk about what I'll do to make sure your book has the best publisher possible.' I speak directly to Francesca.
‘Any publisher would be lucky to get her,' Raymond Clooney says before she has a chance to open her mouth. ‘It's a brilliant read.'
‘Absolutely.' I nod in agreement and then tell him that it's never a smooth road to publication and that even the most amazing authors have been rejected more than once. ‘Stephen King got thirty rejections for Carrie,' I add for emphasis. ‘But he's a legend now.'
Raymond is having none of it. He insists that Francesca is a literary genius and it will be entirely my fault if she's not recognised as such from the get-go.
‘I will do my absolute utmost to ensure that she gets the right publisher for her lovely book,' I assure him.
‘That's not good enough,' he tells me. ‘We want guarantees. Guarantees of a bestselling book and guarantees of the amount she'll make.'
If only there were guarantees in publishing. But there aren't. I try to explain this, but it's like talking to a brick wall.
‘I looked you up.' Raymond Clooney smooths down the page in his Filofax while Francesca shoots me an embarrassed look. ‘You're rather succeeding downwards, aren't you?'
‘Excuse me?'
‘Well, you've got that Charles Miller bloke. I never rated him. Saw him on the Late Late blabbering on about his novel years ago. Tried reading it. Absolute tripe.'
‘Charles Miller won the Booker prize,' I remind him. ‘And—'
‘And I heard he was suffering from writer's block and hasn't written a book in more than five years.' Raymond goes on to tell me the many ways in which my best client has failed and how I'm responsible.
‘What do you do yourself?' I ask, instead of trying to argue with him.
‘Sales and marketing,' he replies. ‘So I'll be a great asset to Frannie. I'll be able to run a campaign for her.'
Oh God. He truly does think he's an expert.
I turn to Francesca. ‘And what do you want from an agent?' I ask.
‘Whatever's best for my book.'
She's lovely. She really is. I'd like her as a client if it didn't seem to be a package deal with her dad.
‘Do you trust me to deliver that for you?'
‘I . . .' She looks hesitantly at Raymond.
‘Come to us with a list,' he says. ‘Tell us who's interested. We'll choose and you get eight per cent.'
I take my standard agency contract out of my bag and put it on the table.
‘Any agreement is between me and the author,' I say. ‘And as you can see here, the author is Francesca. And my fee is fifteen per cent.'
‘Eight and a half.'
‘I'm sorry, but—'
‘It's clear you know nothing about business and nothing about negotiating and you won't get the best deal for Frannie.'
I'm on the verge of losing my temper, something I've never done with a prospective client before, when he stands up and says he's wasted enough time with me.
‘But Dad . . .' Francesca looks doubtful.
‘You know I'm the only one who'll do their best for you,' he tells her. ‘You can trust me, not her.'
Francesca looks at me apologetically before following her father out of the bar. She hasn't touched her champagne.
I take the glass, decant the golden liquid into my own, swallow it in a single gulp and remind myself that it's always important to take the rough with the smooth.
Nonetheless, from start to finish this has been a shitty day.