TEN

Dani

I'm a quick reader. Yet with three manuscripts to read and four authors to badger, I know I have to get ahead of the game.

Toby has agreed to stay at my place with Mae overnight and wait until Clara arrives for my father, and so I've crept out in the early hours of the morning to Lonely Fox Books, with my manuscripts printed and a red pen at the ready.

From five am, I sit at my new desk in an empty office with nothing but the company of some well-written words.

Until seven am rolls in, and the door to the main offices swings open.

Even as I look up, I'm not surprised to see him.

He does look surprised to see me though, his eyebrows raised ever so slightly – a quirk really, nothing more. “You’re here early,” Samwell King says.

“As are you,” I reply, and then immediately regret it.

It’s his company, why wouldn’t he come in early?

As if to echo my thoughts, he says: “It’s my company, I like to get ahead of the day. You know you won’t get paid for coming in so early? We only pay overtime when we offer it.”

“I know, but the sooner I get familiar with my authors’ works, the better. Plus, then I can start accepting new submissions and building up my list.”

Samwell nods, and I notice his eyes fall upon the pile of sheets I’ve already read, the crammed, little red notes filling the margins. “How long have you been here for?” he asks.

I shrug. “Since five.”

For a moment, it seems as though he doesn’t register my answer, his gaze remains fixed on my pile of manuscripts. Then, without looking at me, he says. “Put in for the overtime, I’ll approve it.”

I sit up a little straighter, “But you just said–”

His eyes meet mine, and the words immediately disintegrate on my tongue. Is it normal for a man’s eyes to be so… pretty?

“Put in for the overtime,” he repeats.

I can do little else but nod.

Then he walks away, and I can’t help but follow his footsteps with my eyes. I watch as he passes all the other desks, and I watch as he enters his own office.

And I watch him leave the door wide open.

The rest of the morning moves along well enough. I’ve almost finished reading the first of the three manuscripts I have. It’s a solid enough fantasy revolving around an elf who has lost his memories and has been abandoned in the mortal world and their quest to discover who they are. It has a good blend of modern world-building mixed with mythology, and it has a nice dollop of humor in there too - I’m relatively confident that with a couple more rounds of edits, it would be a great standalone for any avid fantasy reader. By the end of the day, I’ll send the author my feedback, and then it will be a case of waiting for them to make the changes.

I still have two other manuscripts to read through though, one vampire novel that will act as the second in an ongoing trilogy and one historical fantasy which reimagines the suffragettes as a group of witches – I’m looking forward to that one.

I’m not too concerned about the manuscripts waiting for me, but I am concerned about the one I haven’t yet received. Out of the four authors who have been passed over to me, only one of them is well-established in the industry. Yet he’s the only one who hasn’t replied to my introductory email, and he’s the only one who does not have a manuscript for me to proof.

Already, I’m getting that tingling feeling at the base of my spine – the one that warns me when someone is going to be trouble.

I’m just about to start typing another email when a shadow appears in front of me, and a cup of coffee is placed on my desk.

“You need to get up and take a break,” a voice says.

When I look up, I see Christine smiling over me. “You haven’t moved for four hours, and while impressive, I know you got in here early,” she nods her head toward the door. “Take a walk with me.”

Stifling a yawn, I pick up the coffee and make to get away from the desk. I follow Christine out into the hallway and down the stairs.

“It’s probably good to get familiar with the building… on the ground floor, as you know, there’s a coffee bar and a canteen. First floor is some sort of fancy gaming start-up that I can’t even pretend to understand anything about. Second floor is a group of women who I think produce a feminist podcast and magazine? Third floor is a graphic design and illustration company called BlocColour – we’ve started using them for some book covers, so it’s worth getting on good terms with them.” Christine pauses, as if waiting for me to ask a question, when I don’t, she continues. “Fourth floor… I still have no clue what they do. But they look very smart. Accountants maybe? Fifth floor is empty. Six is us, obviously. Seven and eight both belong to a development firm, they mostly flip houses, I think. Nine has literally just been filled by a music label – I don’t know its name - and the rest of the office blocks are still empty. I think that’s it.”

I swallow. It’s a lot of information to swallow, and I’m not sure I need all of it. “Is the building quite new then?”

Christine takes a swig of coffee. “Relatively, but it’s pricey. If you rent or buy the office-space, you have to already be doing well. Sam wants to eventually buy the fifth floor when we expand. But there’s a good chance it’ll be filled before we have the chance to. So, in two-three years’ time, we may have to find somewhere completely new.”

I nod, thoughtfully. I wonder if I’ll still be at Lonely Fox in two years’ time. I hope so – I’d hated being forced out of Magpie. Why is it so hard to grow roots into a place?

As if reading my mind, Christine asks: “So, how are you finding it here?”

“I’m still finding my feet,” I reply. “This is only my second day, but already I’m anxious to be building my own list.”

“Come on, you’ve done this before. You know it takes time.”

I sigh, “I know. And it’s not like I’m not used to authors pushing back deadlines. But they always have the decency to respond to my emails and be upfront about it.”

Christine laughs. “Are you talking about Clive Owens?”

I nod.

“Ahhh, he’s notoriously difficult to deal with. Never hands anything in on time, goes radio silent for months at a time and then suddenly demands all attention the moment he’s ready. Melody was eager to get rid of him.”

I scoff. “I did wonder why an editor would pass him over to me. How does he get away with it?”

Christine shrugs. “He’s one of the top three profit-earners in the company. He knows he can get away with it.”

“I just don’t have the time to molly-coddle an established author when I’m supposed to be cultivating new ones,” I say, rather bluntly.

Christine shrugs. “I don’t know what your style of editing is like. I’ve always been a bit of a hand holder, maybe you’ll find a different way to deal with him.”

I groan and drain the last of my cup. The two of us slowly make our way up the steps back toward Lonely Fox. When we arrive back inside, the familiar sound of keys typing and pens scratching greets us. I glance around the room and see that Samwell King is still sat studiously at his desk – the door still half-open.

“Uhm, Christine, can I ask a random question?”

“Shoot.”

I motion subtly to the other side of the office. “Why does Mr. King always leave his door open?”

Christine grins. “Oh, that. I’m not entirely sure. He’s mentioned before being in favour of open-door policies. He likes people to be able to go to him if they need. But he’s so… intimidating. He can leave that door open as wide as he likes, and there’s no risk of anyone walking through it.”

We both laugh and make our way back to our desks.

It’s only a little later in the day that I have a thought – that still doesn’t explain why he left the door ajar for my interview.