THIRTEEN

Dani

I'm not a hand-holder. I never have been.

Maybe it's a side-effect of growing up in the orphanage, maybe it's simply who I am as a person. Either way, it takes exactly one night to decide how to deal with my Clive problem.

After an exciting evening recounting Mae’s visit from our favourite coffee-stained hag, I knuckle down to reading the author’s contract and send out an email first thing in the morning.

I'm feeling quite smug when, at exactly midday, a shiny new email pings into my inbox.

I'm still feeling quite smug when one of the other editors slams a hand onto my desk.

“Are you insane?” Melody half-shrieks. “You threatened Clive and told him we’d stop representing him?!”

I lean back in my seat and regard Melody carefully. Melody hasn’t bothered to introduce herself to me properly and hasn’t seemed all too interested in office chit-chat. I don’t mind ambivalence – this however, I mind.

“Yes, I did do that,” I say serenely. “I also attached a screenshot of the relevant section of the contract which highlights deadlines and communication. You know, just for fun.”

Melody’s nose flares. “He is one of our top-selling authors! Yet somehow you don’t seem to care!”

I roll my shoulders in a languid impression of a shrug. “Unless he’s paying my wages personally or compensating me for wasting my time, then no, I don’t care.”

Melody’s mouth tightens. “You’ve been here three days and you’re pissing off one of our top authors! Are you some kind of plant, I mean I can’t believe – “

“–Is there a problem here?” a voice interrupts.

Melody and I both turn our heads to the side where Samwell King is standing – or rather leaning – over us, coffee in hand and scowl on face.

“Ask the new girl,” Melody says – the venom noticeably drained from her voice.

Samwell turns and fixes his eyes on me. “So, is there?”

I take a deep breath, trying my best to meet Samwell’s gaze in a way that’s calm, professional, and steely – the opposite of flustered, agitated, and incompetent.

“There’s no problem,” I say. “In fact, in the space of three days, I managed to get Clive Owens to send over the manuscript he’s been sitting on for two months.”

Melody’s mouth drops open, “He… he actually sent it to you?”

I nod. “Yes. At 12 o’clock, round about the same time I imagine he sent an email complaining about me to you,” I glance at Melody.

Melody glances from me to Samwell and back again. “Well, I’m glad you’ve received it. I only hope you take good care of it.”

I smile sweetly as Melody marches back to her desk. Yet Samwell continues to regard me carefully.

“Come with me for a moment.”

It isn’t a question, and within a few seconds, I’m standing in Samwell’s office, me by the half-open door and facing him as he sits behind the desk, coffee still in hand.

“Can I close the door?” I ask, all too aware of just how far my voice can travel and of how many ears are listening in the other room.

“No,” he says.

No further elaboration.

No change in expression.

Nothing.

A beat more of silence.

“Are you in the habit of delivering threats to authors, Ms. Pierce?”

I stare down at him for a blink or two. Trying to read his expression, yet it’s the same impassive mask of calm that he interviewed me with.

“No. I’m in the habit of making sure my authors actually deliver me a story.”

There’s a flash of something across his face. Anger, maybe? Interest? I can’t be sure.

“You are not in a position to make that kind of threat to Owens,” he says.

“It wasn’t a threat, I merely reminded him of a fact,” I reply, as calmly and as softly as I can. “And who should remind him of deadlines, if not his editor?”

He seems to swallow my words, wincing slightly as though they’re not quite to his taste.

“You made a rash decision,” his words are as slow as my words are soft – deliberate and forced as though dragged through treacle. “It could have seriously damaged your relationship with him. You should have consulted someone.”

I turn his words over in my mind, all the while all too aware of his gaze never leaving my face.

“I agree, I should have consulted with you or Christine beforehand and for that alone, I apologize,” I say. “However, I am in the business of making books and I cannot do that without a story. I take my job seriously and I will handle his manuscript as though it is a precious treasure. However, I am not his handler, and he is not a child. He is a professional who signed a contract. It is not wise, Mr. King, to put ultimatums in place if you are not willing to follow them through when needed.”

“Ms. Pierce!”

His voice is loud, deep, authoritative, and I know without looking that if the office hadn’t been listening in on their conversation before, then they most certainly are now.

Samwell continues to stare at me, eyes blazing. Burning.

“Would you like me to hand Mr. Owens back over to Melody?” I ask, when I can no longer hold the fire of his gaze.

He bites his lip, it’s a thoughtful gesture, slow and deliberate. I turn my gaze away.

“He sent you the manuscript?”

I nod.

“Get your edits to him by the end of the week and CC me in on all your emails to him.”

I nod again, then turn on my heel and leave, making sure to leave his office door wide open behind me.