Original Sin. Tasmina Perry
Читать онлайн книгу.
Kelly. Her latest book, Chocolate Kisses, was only one hundred and fifty pages long – and what there was of it was bloated and poorly written. It had still sold to the loyal fans, but it was obvious that their star writer’s heart wasn’t in it any more. She had earned millions of dollars in royalties from the books alone, and last Christmas the Disney adaptation of her second book, Butterfly Heart, had broken all box-office records. Just thirty years old, she had a villa in Provence, an apartment in Manhattan, and a small manor house in Ireland. The truth was, Jennifer just couldn’t be bothered. ‘Can’t we get a ghost to churn something out?’ asked commissioning editor Debs Asquith, Brooke’s best friend at Yellow Door and one of the few people with enough balls to speak out in front of Mimi.
‘We don’t churn out any books on my list,’ said Mimi witheringly. ‘But yes, I have gently discussed the possibility of Jennifer working with a ghostwriter to get it done, but – understandably – she was a little upset. And anyway, the trade press would have a field day if they found out. Jennifer is a big star. We want to keep her that way, not jeopardize her career and reputation.’
Edward raised a hand.
‘Mimi. We can take up this issue separately. In the meantime, I don’t need to tell anyone that Jennifer’s potential failure to deliver leaves a gaping hole in the October schedule, one that might well be financially punitive for the company,’ he added, looking directly at Mimi. ‘So. Has anyone got any ideas about how we can fill it? Joel, how about getting Pete Coles to write something?’
Joel Hamilton was a well-regarded publishing director who edited Pete Coles, a former US Army Marine who wrote Bourne Identity-style thrillers aimed at teenage boys.
Joel pulled a face. ‘Sorry, no. He’s training for a North Pole expedition and doesn’t think he has to deliver anything until Christmas. Anyway, it’s April, so we can forget about anything that isn’t completely done. It would be touch and go even to turn a re-release around at the moment. For an October launch we should really have sold into the retailers already.’
‘Debs?’ said Edward hopefully. ‘You were out with William Morris and Trident last week. Anyone got anything interesting?’
Debs shook her head sadly, her long red curls swishing behind her. ‘Nothing guaranteed to fill a two-million-dollar hole in the P&L, boss.’
‘Brooke,’ said Mimi, smiling thinly. ‘You must have a young celebrity girlfriend we can work with. Miley Cyrus? What about that Bush twin who teaches kindergarten?’
‘I don’t know Miley actually,’ said Brooke, feeling her cheeks flush. Brooke knew she had the most unimpressive roster of authors of anyone in the room, certainly in terms of financial return. Brooke’s speciality was commissioning beautifully illustrated books and sweet stories aimed at the 7–11 age group. To even her own surprise, one of her books had just won the Carnegie Medal at the Bologna Fair, but, in terms of sales, which was all that counted in this cut-throat climate, they were all strictly mid-list. The really big hitters of children’s publishing – J. K. Rowling, Stephanie Meyer – were the ones that had crossover appeal with the adult market.
Then suddenly Brooke thought of a female magician. Of course – the amazing manuscript she had rescued from the slush pile. She had taken what she had Belcourt and read it on the afternoon of the party to distract herself from the circus that was going on around her. It had been even better than she had hoped.
‘Actually,’ she said, tapping her pencil against her lip, ‘I have seen a manuscript that I think has real potential.’
‘Really?’ said Mimi sarcastically. It was no secret that Mimi didn’t think Brooke should be attending these meetings. ‘So give me the elevator pitch.’
Brooke always felt as if she was being interviewed whenever she spoke to Mimi. ‘It’s about a teenage female magician.’
‘Uggh,’ groaned Mimi, rolling her eyes. ‘Not another Harry Potter wannabe.’
‘Not at all,’ replied Brooke. ‘It’s more of a mystery novel. She solves an assortment of crimes over a trilogy of books.’
‘Who’s the author?’ asked Edward more graciously.
‘Eileen Dunne.’
‘Never heard of her,’ snapped Mimi.
‘No, she’s a first-time author,’ said Brooke hesitantly.
‘So who’s representing her?’
‘No one yet. Actually, it’s a slush-pile script.’
‘Enough said,’ said Mimi, holding up one manicured hand. ‘Now has anybody got anything else that might be of genuine interest?’
You are such an old witch, thought Brooke, feeling suddenly protective of the magician book.
‘It’s actually really very good,’ she said, interrupting Mimi. ‘Dark and funny, a young adult book that adults will buy as well.’
She turned and met Mimi’s glare. ‘I think we should give it a chance. The manuscript is completed; even better, it’s a trilogy, and the author has the second book almost finished too.’
‘We like trilogies,’ smiled Edward. He turned to his left. ‘Mimi, I think you should take a look at it.’
Her sigh was audible.
‘Very well. I suppose if it’s bearable we can pick it up for peanuts. She’ll think all her Christmases have come at once.’
Let’s hope mine have too, thought Brooke.
The Eton Manor School, on a quiet corner of East Ninety-Third Street, was a beautiful mansion with a quaint courtyard and functioning bell tower that had once been a Greek Orthodox church. Although the school was only twenty-five years, old, it had quietly become one of the most exclusive schools in Manhattan, challenging the old guard like Brearley, Chapin and Collegiate. Eton Manor did not pretend to have links to the great British boarding school, but with an austere British head teacher, it was the school of choice for the rich and fashionable who wanted a coed school where they could channel their inner Englishness.
As Paula pulled up in her Porsche, it was exactly eight fifteen a.m., right in the middle of the prime fifteen-minute window for the school drop-off. Paula ignored the bickering in the back seat of her two children, Casey and Amelia, for a moment, pausing to scout out the area, checking for anyone else in the school zone. Across the street she recognized the black Escalade belonging to Nicole Nixon, the wife of one of New York’s most successful record producers. A plume of exhaust fumes showed its engine was still running, and three giggling children were ejected onto the pavement. Noticing it was the Nixons’ nanny, not Nicole Nixon herself driving, Paula’s gaze moved on. Just to the side, Robyn Steel, who had a son in Casey and Amelia’s class, was parking her convertible Mercedes, the boy squashed in the back, her miniature schnauzer on the front seat, but otherwise it was fairly uneventful people-watching. It seemed today, more than ever, was a day for nannies to do the drop-offs: a harassed-looking Australian, English, and Filipino girls pushing Silver Cross buggies. Paula unloaded the children from the car and strode into the school’s courtyard, clutching the girls’ hands tightly.
‘It’s so great you’re taking us to school today, Mummy,’ said Casey, her eldest twin, looking up at her mother and smiling.
‘You know how busy Mummy gets in the morning,’ she said, squeezing her daughter’s fingers.
‘Why are you going to see Miss Beaumont?’ asked Amelia, always the more suspicious, guarded child. ‘Are you sure we’re not in trouble?’
‘Absolutely sure,’ smiled Paula.
Paula paused in the courtyard, positioning herself just below the head teacher’s office window so that anyone inside could