The Favour

Dominic hated industry events. Actually, he loathed them. He preferred the word loathed. The way it sounded as it rolled around his mouth, taking form. Hate was so common. So abrupt and throwaway. Harsh and sudden, revealing an ugliness. Loathe was smoother. More sinister. It sounded soft, sumptuous, seductive even, despite its meaning. It suited him. He smiled to himself. Always tinkering with words. Always spotting the most creative angle to take. He was good at this. Hence, why they had asked him to attend tonight’s event. He loved the word hence too. But it didn’t stop him loathing being here.

It was a favour, really. For Angela. His long suffering agent for, what was it, three decades now? Back when they started out together, both in their early twenties, female literary agents were rarer. He had been her big break. She had been… Well, she had been many things to him. A great fuck for one. A decent networker for another. Perhaps those two were connected, he mused to himself. She’d secured him his dream publishing house. At the time it had been everything to him: put him on the literary map. One of his later novels had even alluded to her being akin to a love of his life. Of course, now they were older, wiser, now his successes had paid off both their mortgages, put Angela’s kids through college and bought him his solitude, that time in their lives was a distant memory. Distant, but fond. He had been a legend in his youth. Literature’s Lothario, that’s what the piece in the Times had run with. Lothario. He couldn’t have thought of a better word himself.

Positioning himself by the free bar, Dominic surveyed the scene. Book launches were a lot flasher than they had been in his day. With his first novel it was twenty bodies huddled down the back of a bookstore with cheap, warm, boxed wine for the guests. This was one of the coolest restaurants on the North Shore with a mini sound stage for speeches, champagne on demand and canapes with ingredients he couldn’t even pronounce.

Getting here early was a tactic. Make eye contact with Angela, tell her she looked good, even though she was slowly moulding herself into the shape of a pudding, and dazzle a couple of the media contacts with a witty one liner. He’d be out before he had to subject himself to the self-congratulatory whining tones of the latest literary darling. Angela’s newest project. Dominic hadn’t bothered to learn her name. He was here for him, not for some aspirant writer who wouldn’t sell more than her advance and would dwindle into obscurity by next fall. Angela would no doubt turn up wearing whatever fashion victim outfit she thought kept her relevant. He, on the other hand, chose to age like a fine wine. He was classic, unobtrusive. Wearing dark Tom Ford pants. Navy shirt. A blazer that elicited a hint of irony with its leather elbow patches, a nod to visual expectations of the established novelist. He was suave. Had kept in shape, kept his form. If he had to attend this event, he was prepared to be the main attraction. Angela’s discovery would have to accept second place and the glow that she would glean from basking in his eminent light.

Onto his second glass of Veuve he noticed the room slowly filling up. Still no Angela. His roving eye caught a girl in its line. One was supposed to call them women nowadays, but to him, this fleeting pixie of a creature was a girl. For now. If she moved in these circles that meant she would be impressed by knowing who he was; she may well be promoted to this evening’s conquest. Surveying his potential catch he took her in from head to toe, trying to ascertain who she was, what she could be to him. She was young. Some would have called her green - such an old-fashioned term - and she looked thoroughly out of place in this soft, swish setting. All elbows and sharp lines; an angular face and collar bones that jutted out of the edges of her top. Short erratic movements gave the impression of a startled fawn trying to uncertainly hold its ground. Dark hair slashed in a bob suggested a look of severity, but she betrayed her nerves by constantly tucking a stray lock behind her ears. Wide, doe-like eyes flashed around the room, as if looking for danger in the crevices and folds of the space. One of Angela’s interns for sure. She was exactly the type Angela liked to mould and hone. Reaching back through the decades to find her own likeness to pluck from the modern day pool of wannabes. So predictable. But if Angela chose a mini me in the workplace, he would be very well placed to figure out if the similarities continued into the bedroom. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Another staff member, someone he vaguely recognised from Angela’s team, walked over to the young woman he held in his sights, pressing a hand on her shoulder, and whispering into her ear. Nodding, she visibly relaxed and smiled. Turning in the direction of the bar, she walked up next to where he leaned, with eyes that flicked towards him as she passed, in which he registered something. Recognition? Interest? Desire?

‘Good evening, Mr Kibblethwaite, isn’t it? Thanks so much for coming,’ she said. He liked her voice. It was husky and she spoke with a slight accent that he struggled to place. He was intrigued. Up close she was older than he’d first thought when seeing her from afar. Coupled with that enigmatic voice she suddenly seemed powerful. His heart pulsed a beat faster. There was a gravitas she held, and he felt drawn to her like a magnetic force.

‘Have we met before?’ Dom lowered his voice to the soft purr he knew women found irresistible. He was well aware they hadn’t met before, but wanted her to feel special. To feel noticed. Seeding the thread of a connection together. 

‘We have, yes, but you wouldn't remember me,’ she replied. He kept his composure. Didn’t show any surprise at her revelation. Leaning across him towards the bar top, the young woman picked up a glass of champagne, took her time drawing it up to her lips and took a sip before she chose to enlighten him. ‘I queued up to get you to sign a copy of your Booker winner for me. Way back in the day. I was just a kid.’

‘Oh,’ he tried to sound modest, be humble. Inwardly he was pleased. If she knew and admired him, that was an instant shortcut to seduction. He could imagine her, younger, impressionable, standing in the rain, waiting to catch a glimpse of him, clutching his book to her heart. She hadn’t said it had been raining, but it made for a much better picture in his mind. 

‘So are you at this awful shindig autograph hunting again?’ 

She smiled, but the expression held no joy. It struck him as peculiar. Like she knew a secret. One he realised in that moment he wanted to desperately be part of.

‘No,’ she assured him. ‘My groupie days are over. I hope.’ Another sip of champagne. He realised he was watching her lips, wanting to know them intimately. She pressed them together. Parted them slightly, as if to sound a word. Then closed them again.

‘What is it?’ he asked, leaning closer, wanting to know what she’d opted not to say. Revealing to her in his question, in his action, that he’d been watching her smallest move. Damn it, he thought. He’d wanted the upper hand. Wanted to play it cool. But he was becoming overwhelmed by his intrigue. 

She shook her head slightly, smiling. ‘Why do you think it’s awful, this ‘shindig’, as you called it?’

He smiled, confidently. Preparing to hit his stride on this well rehearsed subject. Puffing out his feathers like a peacock. His was the voice of experience, of wisdom. He chose to ignore the tone she’d used to cocoon the word shindig, one which erred on the side of mocking. ‘When you’ve been in the industry as long as I have,’ he began, using the line that had worked on so many young fans, ‘you get used to telling the wheat from the chaff. All these new books these days, they’re not hitting the mark. Lots of snowflake whinging and all focused on diversity and issues, having to crowbar in a certain type of character to tick all the right boxes. Art has lost its creative purpose, its soul, and become watered down so as not to offend anyone. Great literature has become a victim of the woke revolution.’

‘You thought that about this book in particular?’ she probed. A frown flitted across her features. ‘I didn’t really get that sense from it.’

He was caught off guard a little. But it was a book launch, he should have been prepared for someone to mention the actual book. Perhaps Angela had let her young intern be part of the project, a learning experience. She was always mentoring someone or other, trying to get more young women into the publishing business. No wonder the art form was losing its touch.

‘Well, I didn’t actually read the book -’ he began to say.

‘But you wrote a quote for the front,’ she interrupted. ‘Fierce, fresh and unapologetically brazen.’

Of course she had memorised his quote. Fans were apt to cling onto every word their idols wrote. Even the insincere ones. 

He shrugged, nonchalantly. This woman was spiky. Calculating that she would appreciate him in cheeky mode he winked. ‘Nothing gets past you, does it.’ Open with a compliment, play up to her fledgling female ego. ‘In actual fact, and this stays between you and me,’ he cooed, ‘my agent, Angela, represents the author. Her latest big find apparently. She asked me to read it and put a quote on the front and I just skimmed the synopsis and popped some bullshit words together into a text message to placate her.’

‘Smart,’ the woman said. The word suggested she was impressed. But her tone was muted, her face impassive. Playing hard to get. ‘But why do the favour if you didn’t want to?’ She pressed.

‘Apparently,’ he said, in a conspiratorial, exaggerated whisper, ‘somewhere out there a career was hanging in the balance - Angela’s words, not mine. I wouldn’t be so overly dramatic. But we’re old acquaintances and if I can help to, well, I don’t think it’s overstating to say if I could save someone, then it would be remiss for me not to.’

She nodded. Finally a joyful smile spread across her face. Was she buying it? Time to switch gears.

‘Anyway, all this talk about me, it’s embarrassing,’ he said, hoping she wouldn’t pick up on his hubris. ‘Tell me a little about yourself. What do you do for a living? You’re here tonight, so I assume you work in the industry?’

‘Yes, I do. I’m actually publishing a novel at the moment.’

‘Oh’. He could have kicked himself for the surprise sounding in his voice. She’d caught him off guard. But he was impressed. He’d underestimated her, thinking her nothing more than intern fluff. ‘Now we have something in common,’ he said, smiling. They were a they. Authors. Connected. He switched his face and tone to one of practised empathic concern. Peer to peer care. ‘How are you finding the industry so far? Navigating it ok?’

Screwing up her nose she made a face of disdain.

‘Not what you expected, huh?’ he asked, tentatively putting a comforting hand on her shoulder, registering the cool touch of her porcelain skin. A shot of longing passed through him. He needed to close this deal.

Reaching for a canape that came past on a tray, the movement shrugged his hand off in what he assumed was an accident. Taking a bite of the bright green food on a stick, she chewed with her head to one side, looking thoughtful, then swallowed and answered him. ‘It’s been a fun ride. There’s some politics I wasn’t expecting. Who to suck up to. How to play the game. I just want to write, you know.’

‘Absolutely,’ he said. He could lean into the tortured artist bit. ‘What are they making you do?’

‘Well,’ she began, eyes flicking to the left, behind where he stood, and nodding her head. Someone was trying to get her attention. He pushed against the impulse to look and kept his eyes trained on her. Awaiting her response, but not listening; too concerned with who might be trying to pull her away from him, he zoned out as she continued. ‘Nothing too bad, I guess. The interviews are a bit daunting. Public speaking tonight is giving me the jitters. My team suggested I grab a glass of bubbles to calm my nerves. Outside of the obvious…’ she trailed off. Whoever was standing in the background had commanded her attention. He was desperate to keep her talking, and picked up the last thing she said, a technique he’d honed to make it sound as if he were paying attention.

‘Outside of the obvious?’ he repeated back to her, turning it into a question with a slight inflection of his tone.

‘Mildly exploitative stuff like, my agent has this total has-been client -’ she began, looking him square in the eye.

‘I know the type well,’ he muttered, colluding with her, attentive once more. They were in cahoots. Dominic and his pixie versus the pitfalls of fame.

‘She insisted I put a quote from him on the front of the novel, to try and remind people he’s there, try to keep him relevant you know.’

‘Bit out of touch is he?’

‘Totally,’ she said, exhaling in a loud sigh, as though she were unburdened from sharing. ‘Old school, offensive, chauvinistic, misogynistic. You name it, he’s on the wrong side of the conversation. And I really don’t want my debut associated with someone that… Well, as you said, you know the type.’ Her tone shifted, subtly. Did he imagine it? ‘Probably better than most.’ Those big eyes went back to being trained beyond his shoulder and she smiled at the mystery person behind him. ‘Look, I have to go, they need me up there. It was great seeing you again.’ 

They needed her up where, he wondered. He didn’t even catch her name. She was gone in a flash, bounding towards the stage. Why the stage? Had she said something about speaking? He turned to follow her but was interrupted in his pursuit as Angela hobbled over to him on high heels she clearly couldn’t walk in. Mutton dressed as lamb. Speaking of out of touch, he thought to himself. He forced his face into a smile to greet her. Chastened as he was by his lost conquest, it didn’t pay to offend the help.

‘Darling, you look wonderful, as usual,’ he greeted her, insincerely. 

‘I see you’ve met our latest literary firebrand,’ Angela said, coming in close and air kissing in the vicinity of both his cheeks.

‘Sorry?’ he asked, uncertainty creeping in and turning his stomach slowly over.

‘My latest sign. Emily. Wonderful, wonderful writer. Reminds me of you back in the day. When you still had your edge, hey,’ she said, winking and jovially elbowing him in the ribs.

‘Emily?’ He sounded her name out slowly. Should it have meant something to him?

‘Oh dear, Dom, have you started the slow descent into madness already, or are you just too many whiskies in at -’ she checked her watch and tutted - ‘six thirty pm. Emily Anders. The novelist whose book you wrote the cover quote for. Mark my words, she is going to be big news.’

‘Fierce, fresh and unapologetically brazen,’ he murmured, realising the fake sentence he’d provided tolled the bell of his literary sentence. 

‘Exactly. Loved the words, Dom. You always were great with finding the pithy thing to say. The whole team appreciates the, er, the favour,’ she said, throwing the last part over her shoulder as she tottered from his dark corner towards the shimmering lights of the stage.