Knowing You Read online

  Knowing You

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  For Martin, the best friend anyone could have

  Chapter 1

  ‘Starting a new fashion?’ says a tall man in a cap. He’s wearing sunglasses even though it’s winter and is squashed against me on the busy train.

  I look down. This crowded space is sweltering, so I took off my coat and accidentally revealed that my jumper is on inside out. I blush but the man raises one eyebrow and makes me laugh.

  ‘Hey, it doesn’t matter, your hair is a great distraction – the curls are fantastic.’

  We both grin. Clearly he’s being polite. They are wilder than usual. Brushing them wasn’t a priority when faced with being late to work because I wanted to spend as much of Valentine’s Day as possible with Lenny.

  Humming, I emerge from the musty depths of the London underground and make my way to Thoth Publishing. Thoth was the Ancient Egyptian god of writing. It was the unusual name that had first attracted me to the company. Historical words sound so solid and reliable. I push through the rotating doors and head to the silver lift. It slides open. I enter and press number three. Moments later, I reach the editorial floor just one minute after nine o’clock. I go into the staff kitchen, fill a miniature watering can and, before anything else, revive my desk plant.

  ‘You must be desperate for your mid-week drink,’ I say to the wilting flower heads.

  ‘They can’t understand, you know,’ says my senior editor in an affectionate tone, putting two cups of tea on the desks.

  ‘For a children’s fiction editor, Irfan, you don’t half lack imagination.’

  I change out of my rain-splashed trainers and into smarter flat shoes. As a child, I used to share my secrets with a favourite cactus and Tinker the cat. I’d also chat with teddies and felt pangs of guilt when Mum eventually disposed of them at the charity shop.

  After taking off my aubergine-coloured duffle coat and my bobble hat, I sit down. The office is open plan and I’m opposite Irfan. My space is organised and neat, with a pen tidy, a tub of multi-coloured paper clips, a photo of me and Lenny, a jar of cookies and a packet of keyboard cleaner wipes. Irfan teases me for using them every night.

  I stare at the photo and think back to this morning. Lenny mumbled something about me being a great person. I teased him that he was only saying it because I cooked him egg and chips last night. He loves home comfort food. When eating out, Lenny only pretends to prefer high-end dishes. I wrapped my arms around his neck and moved in for a kiss, soaking up the intimacy that had been missing of late. In recent weeks he’s seemed so stressed, working into the night and coming in with just enough energy to brush his teeth before bed.

  It’s Wednesday, my day for tackling submissions. I feel like a Gold Rush miner with a pan in his hand. I’m so lucky to be a junior editor working alongside Irfan after being promoted from publishing assistant. Lenny is trying to push his career forwards. He’s still learning the ropes at a literary agency, and running its social media platforms has become a favourite part of his job. He’s always attending some blogger get-together or book launch. No canapés go unsnapped for Instagram. No snippet of book news swerves his Twitter feed.

  I pick a manuscript off the top of my pile. He keeps telling me to photograph our cat Flossie posed next to my authors’ books in order to raise my profile but I don’t require lots of followers or likes, because I reckon I have everything I need – although a new car that doesn’t stall quite so often would be appreciated, along with a boiler that hasn’t got a mind of its own. I have Lenny, a job I love and Flossie. Warmth radiates through my chest as I think back to this morning and how things felt like they had when we first got together. Lenny and I are celebrating Valentine’s properly tonight but a rare spontaneous thought jumps into my mind. I know he said he’d be busy today, but everyone needs to eat – at lunch I’ll pop over to his offices to surprise him.

  At midday sharp, I wrap up well again. I head downstairs and into the reception. From his curved white desk, Hugo catches my eye. A gym fanatic, he looks strong enough to flick the desk across the building. Hugo’s a people person and prides himself on knowing agents, authors and publishers on sight from memorising so many profile pictures. He shoots me his usual smile, which is warmer than his efficient one for senior editors but less flirtatious than that reserved for the young female interns.

  I hurry to the nearby Euston underground station. An icy wind cuts across my face and I hitch up my scarf to cover my mouth. The earlier rain has morphed into small flakes of snow. My body rocks from side to side as I try to keep my balance in the stuffy train.

  I climb up steps into the fresh air and spot the waffle house where we had our first date. We’d almost walked past, but a whiff of something toasty stopped my feet. Its door had creaked a welcome, which was seconded by the gurgle of a coffee machine. Soft jazz played and tangerine flames licked the top of the fireplace. Sweet and savoury smells jostled for our attention. We’d talked about our favourite authors and mutual obsession with Harry Potter. The conversation felt easy as we finished each other’s sentences.

  I’m just about to turn away when I see – is that Lenny in the window? I cross the road and push open the waffle house’s door, my anticipation rewarded by the familiar creak. Despite not having been here for a while, it hasn’t changed one bit apart from the vases of red roses for Valentine’s Day. I walk in and warmth massages my shoulders. This February is so cold I’m wearing eighty denier tights under my trousers, which was my neighbour Kath’s tip.

  Lenny is sitting opposite a woman and his whole body spells enjoyment, from his gesticulating hands to his spread-eagled thighs. She must be a size eight and wears a stylish tailored trouser suit. Her ash blonde bob has been dip-dyed in pink and—

  Oh my goodness. It’s Beatrix Bingham. I can’t believe it.

  Along with my boss Felicity, she’s one of the most respected science fiction editors in the industry. I’ve followed her career since my first internship and seen her at a couple of work functions. She edited the well-known Earth Gazer series. Felicity has never really got over missing out on that acquisition. The books charted high all over the world and the film adaptation of the second book is currently being screened. Science fiction isn’t my favourite genre, but Beatrix’s career is such an inspiration. She’s razor sharp and one of London’s publishing darlings. She’s achieved so much and only just turned thirty. My pulse quickens.

  I hold back for a second, take off my gloves and wipe my nose with a tissue. I pull off my hat and attempt to smooth down my hair. It hangs way past my shoulders but due to the curls looks much shorter. It’s strange that Lenny didn’t mention their meeting. He knows that I always read her blog. She replied to one of my comments once and I screenshot it. He’d teased me about how excite
d I was.

  Her laugh flutters across the room like a butterfly. This is a dream come true. I cross the room and squeeze his shoulder.

  Lenny looks up. ‘Violet. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I thought I’d surprise you, but should have realised you might have a lunchtime meeting.’

  His cheeks flush. ‘Yes. Sorry. I can’t just—’

  ‘Don’t worry. I needed some fresh air anyway.’Lenny must be truly surprised because he doesn’t introduce me to Beatrix. I hold out my hand. To my embarrassment, it shakes. Beatrix is such an influencer. She oozes the professional confidence I hope to acquire one day. ‘It’s fantastic to meet you. I’ve followed your career for years. Watching your progress has encouraged me no end. I’m Violet Vaughan from Thoth Publishing.’

  After pausing, Beatrix takes my fingers. Hers feel limp.

  ‘Can I just say,’ she says in a cool voice, ‘what an unusual coat. How very brave of you to wear it.’

  Is it?

  ‘Trixie – Beatrix – is heading up a new imprint called Out There Stories,’ says Lenny quickly.

  Trixie? Imagine being on such familiar terms with your professional idol.

  ‘So I hear. Congratulations. It all sounds very exciting.’ I’d registered Beatrix’s name with Google Alerts years ago. I was in awe of how quickly she was climbing the publishing ladder. Whenever a new intern starts at Thoth, I always tell them to follow her blog. She’s especially supportive of raising the profile of female authors, and frequently runs competitions for giving feedback on women writers’ work. ‘When exactly does it launch?’

  ‘In September. I’m looking for some really stand out novels to make an impact,’ she says without looking at me. She glances at Lenny instead and picks up her phone, punching at it with polished nails that look more like claws.

  I stand waiting for Lenny to say something. Why is this encounter so stilted? I still don’t understand why they’ve met up for lunch and how they know each other so well.

  He shuffles in his seat. ‘Beatrix loves Casey Wilde,’ he blurts out as if to fill the silence.

  What? Lenny’s shown an editor the manuscript he’s been most excited about in ages? Wilde is one of his agency’s new authors whose book would be perfect for Beatrix’s new imprint. But it’s not out on submission yet and Lenny could get into trouble.

  Her shoulders relax and she looks up. ‘It’s been a real honour to have a look at her work before it’s quite ready for submission. Alien Hearts is a romantic masterpiece. And feminist. It’s completely captured the emotions behind the Time’s Up movement.’

  I still can’t believe Beatrix has enjoyed a pre-submission sneak peek. Lenny and I routinely let each other look at manuscripts not yet in the public arena, but that’s just for the joy of reading and is kept strictly between us.

  ‘I was almost in tears when I read that last chapter,’ I say. ‘It’s incredibly sad when the alien is forced to kill the man she’s fallen in love with.’

  ‘I don’t know anyone who’s kept a dry eye during those final paragraphs,’ says Lenny enthusiastically. ‘Just imagine it as a film. Jennifer Lawrence would smash playing the lead.’

  ‘I cried too,’ says Beatrix. ‘Tears of joy at the money Alpaca Books and Casey Wilde are going to make.’ She looks at her watch and back at Lenny.

  ‘Well, best of luck with Out There Stories,’ I say brightly. ‘And it would be great to see you at Thoth’s twentieth birthday party in a few months. We’ve posted over one hundred invitations. I hope you received yours. It’s all rather exciting.’

  The invitations were written in scroll fashion and sent out in cardboard tubes thanks to Thoth Publishing’s name having Ancient Egyptian origins. We’d booked a boutique hotel called Anubis opposite Hyde Park. Hoping that the party would raise the company’s profile, Felicity had provided a more than decent budget.

  However, Beatrix doesn’t appear to have heard and taps on her phone again.

  ‘I’ll ring you later,’ says Lenny with an apologetic look as I turn to leave.

  Chapter 2

  ‘You’ve hardly said a word since you got back from lunch. Shall I take you to A & E?’ Irfan smiles and points to his watch. I give the thumbs up. In ten minutes, our meeting with author Gary Smith should begin. I put my jumper on the right way and focus again on my screen. Something about my encounter with Beatrix was definitely off. I’m still a little flummoxed as to why Lenny’s never mentioned meeting her.

  I decide to search on Twitter for clues, although I don’t really know what I’m looking for. I log in and visit her feed. I scroll through the tweets about new authors’ books, recently signed deals and publishing jokes. Then a couple from a few weeks ago catch my attention. Beatrix sent Lenny a humorous meme about acquiring new authors. He replied with a dancing alien gif.

  I scroll further back to find more innocuous tweets that wouldn’t merit a second glance to anyone else. What piques my interest is the occasional one that has nothing to do with work. I pick up my phone and open Instagram. I’ve only posted twenty-two photos in six months and haven’t looked at friends’ pictures since Christmas. I go to Lenny’s page. He posts at least a couple a day. I skim the images of fancy food, book covers and launches.

  I’m just about to log out when I spot a selfie of him and Beatrix. I screw up my eyes and stare at the surroundings. It’s the cafe at Waterstones Piccadilly that looks more like a restaurant and is a favourite venue for book launches. Yet this snap strikes me as so personal. Lenny’s arm is around her shoulders and they’re cheek-to-cheek as if taking part in some intimate dance.

  I take in her statement necklace, the perfect scarlet lipstick and matching nails. For the first time, I detail her appearance instead of her achievements. I take a deep breath and exit the app, observing how my nails looked stubby and cracked. Twenty minutes have passed and Gary hasn’t arrived. Irfan and I head to the side room regardless. It’s always been my dream to help writers realise theirs. When I was little, Uncle Kevin told me I could achieve whatever I wanted. I finger the silver book pendant around my neck that he gave me before he moved to New York.

  I follow Irfan through the office and my eyes stray to the huge windows on the left. Fat snowflakes tumble through the air like polystyrene loose fill, as if I’m in a snow globe turned inside out. Kath won’t be pleased. Her shoulder still isn’t right since slipping on ice last month. I’ll pop in after work to see if she’s dared to venture out.

  I push open the door and we enter the small room. I’ve already set out a selection of biscuits and the coffee is brewing. We sit down in the comfortable chairs and I slip a small circle of shortbread into my mouth. Whilst Irfan sorts through his paperwork, my thoughts are pulled back to Lenny and Beatrix.

  It’s like when I read an author’s first draft and haven’t yet pinpointed exactly what isn’t right.

  Irfan sighs and stares at the sweet treats. He pats the stomach that his doctor thinks needs to be smaller. ‘I could do with cheering up since Farah’s decided to tackle my diabetes risk and put me on a health kick.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve just the thing for you.’ I stand up and reach for a plate next to the coffee pot. ‘Gary said that he’s also under doctor’s orders to change his diet, remember?’ I put down a platter of neatly lined up vegetable sticks and dip. ‘I got these just in case he doesn’t want biscuits.’

  ‘I might say something rude if I wasn’t full of admiration – as usual – for your attention to detail.’

  I like Irfan, as well as computer consultant Farah. Sometimes she meets him after work for a meal out or theatre trip. Now and again they invite me over for dinner. She makes the best onion bhajis. They melt in the mouth. I make them laugh with my lack of faith in dishwashers and insistence that I clean the plates by hand. Sometimes after work I’ll take them for coffee. Farah and I drink ours unadulterated black while Irfan enjoys indulgent creations like hazelnut lattes. We pick her brain about computer problems. An avid read
er, Farah asks us about Thoth’s latest acquisitions.

  The two of them look like a good match as much as Lenny and I don’t. They both dress down for work in jeans, love musicals and spend holidays hiking in the wild.

  Lenny and I once had one of those indulgent conversations that new couples enjoy. He’d wanted to know what I thought of him in bed. I said his oil massages were second to none and loved the fact that he didn’t enjoy sex unless I had. Then I asked him what he liked about me. This was one year ago, just after we’d moved into the flat. Lenny said he liked the way I kissed. On a more practical note, he praised the way I made cheese and pickle rolls.

  Eventually my probe burrowed through the surface.

  ‘You’re sort of like my… keepsafe,’ he said. ‘Moving to the capital was daunting. I missed the easy, cosseted student life. You made London feel like a home and helped me focus on my career.’

  I had studied English in Durham, while Lenny went to Manchester Metropolitan. We met in The British Library almost two years ago, a few weeks after moving to the city and into tiny bedsits. We’d both been mature students, taking a gap year after the sixth form to do internships.

  I guess I’m lucky. I’ve always enjoyed that feeling of being at home as long as there’s a good book between my hands. Lenny’s revelation made me realise I’m his go-to book in a way. I make him feel safe in a world of chaos. He said he loves that about me which must be the same as saying those three magic words straight. So I’ve written them in his Valentine’s Day card. I feel like I should have reciprocated his declaration by now. We were in too much of a rush to exchange presents this morning. I can’t wait until tonight when I cook him a special Valentine’s dinner.

  Irfan looks at his watch again.

  ‘I’ll go down to reception,’ I say.

  When I arrive, all is quiet. Snow is settling outside. ‘Our author should be here by now.’

  Hugo shrugs. ‘Perhaps it’s this weather. I can’t say I’m looking forward to bracing it tonight. You must have had a large incentive to go out earlier – perhaps a romantic lunch?’ He pulls a face. ‘I’m helping Dad decorate his kitchen today. Not sure how I ended up without a date on the one day of the year a meal out is most likely to end with a shag.’