Wishful Thinking by Jemma Harvey Page B

in the situation occurred to me. At least I could spend more time with Russell Crowe.

Chapter 3
    The Moving Finger writes, and having writ
    Moves on, nor all thy Piety nor Wit
    Can call it back to cancel half a Line
    Nor all thy tears wash out a Word of It.
    EDWARD FITZGERALD: The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
    Tout pour un, un pour tout. (All for one, one for all.)
    DUMAS: The Three Musketeers
    When troubles come, they come not single spies, as someone once said. Probably Hamlet, because it usually is. I was Nigelless, boyfriendless, fat and unloved and likely to remain so. It was February, going on March, and spring seemed a long way off, in every sense. My sister rang and asked after Nigel, so I had to tell her we’d broken up, and she expressed her commiseration with just enough real pity in her voice to make me long to kill her. Sophie is ten years older, and slim, with a husband, two children, and three dogs, and she lives her life in a welter of love and laundry. She is frequently sorry for me, and I know it, and I could forgive her everything except that.
    To cap it all, at the beginning of March Alistair Garnett (the Publishing Director) summoned me to his office. ‘You’re doing well,’ he told me. ‘You handled the Mallory woman brilliantly: she thinks you’re a star. Natural tact, obviously.’
    A cold trickle ran down my spine. When your boss praises your tact, you know it’s a preliminary to being asked to do something utterly horrendous.
    â€˜And you got Todd to cut the title: I can’t believe that. He’s generally about as flexible as the Rock of Gibraltar.’
    â€˜He didn’t like it,’ I ventured.
    â€˜Who cares? Keeping the author happy is, as we both know, a myth that we propound only to – well, the authors. Personally, I dream of the day when all books are written by computers.’
    â€˜They’d only develop a temperament,’ I pointed out. ‘And then you’d get one trying to destroy the world in a fit of pique after a couple of bad reviews.’
    â€˜There’s always one,’ Alistair sighed, presumably in agreement. ‘Where were we? Todd Jarman. I’ve got the manuscript of his new book here. I’ve roughed out a few suggestions as to plot and so on – nothing major, but I think we could do with another body; it gets a bit slack towards the end. Oh, and it’ll need line-editing afterwards. I haven’t the time for that. You’ve hit it off so well with him I thought you could finish it off. You’ll have to go round to his place and go through it with him: he prefers having editorial sessions at home. You won’t mind that.’
    â€˜He hates me,’ I said baldly, blank with horror. ‘He said I was arrogant and ignorant and—’
    â€˜Nonsense. Just striking sparks off each other. The best kind of creative partnership.’
    â€˜ He hates me. ’
    â€˜I told you you’d be working on his stuff.’
    â€˜Yes, but – with him ?’
    Alistair fixed me with his sternest glare. ‘There’s no place for cowardice in this business, Cookie,’ he said. ‘We’re in the front line here. We have to face the critics, we have to face the writers – we’re the ones who must publish and be damned. The enemies of free speech may issue fatwas and plant bombs in our offices—’
    â€˜ Have they ever?’
    â€˜Shut up: I’m holding forth. Our enemies may threaten, and bully, and intimidate, but we do not flinch. We point our Mont Blanc pens and say: “Come on, make my day.”’ (‘Speak for yourself,’ I muttered. I had a felt-tip.) ‘We stiffen our sinews and march on in the cause of Literature. Arm yourself with commas, with colons, with little squiggles in the margin. As it says in the Bible, the Word is God, and we deal in words.’
    I had no intention of listening to any more of this. He was starting