Original Sin

‘This morning I had a long conversation with Jennifer Kelly and at this point it seems unlikely that she’s going to deliver in time for an October launch.’

She delivered the news casually but, sitting next to her, Edward Walker, the division’s affable English-born managing director, went pale. Jennifer was currently Yellow Door’s biggest author. Rumour had it she accounted for 15 per cent of the company’s annual profits with her whimsical love stories based in rural Ireland. A huge hit with Midwest teenagers, her first three books had topped the New York Times best-seller list for weeks. She had been one of Mimi’s discoveries; she’d bought world rights for a five-book deal for fifty thousand dollars, which was precisely why her present reign of fear was tolerated.

‘But, Mimi, a couple of weeks ago you told me she had delivered,’ spluttered Edward. ‘It’s April, Mimi. April! The book should be in.’ Even from the other end of the table, Brooke could see the panic in his eyes. Mimi turned her head and looked at Edward contemptuously. It was no secret that Mimi was waiting for Edward to retire, move on, or be moved on.

‘You clearly misunderstood me, Edward. I said Jennifer was about to deliver, but unfortunately she’s pregnant and so she can’t meet the deadline.’

‘She’s pregnant?’ said Edward disbelievingly. ‘When I last met a pregnant woman I think she was still capable of sitting at her laptop.’ Edward was by nature a polite and calm man, and this was the first time that Brooke had ever seen him rattled. ‘And if she was about to deliver, then she can’t be that far off finishing the manuscript.’

‘I need not remind you that we have to keep her on side,’ said Mimi, still casual. ‘Once Jennifer delivers this book, she’s out of contract. We both know that every publishing company in town has got their chequebook out ready to win her over. Even though she owes her entire career to me, loyalty means crap in this town. In other words, the kid gloves have to go on whether we like it or not.’

Everyone around the table knew what was really going on with Jennifer 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.

11 (#ulink_8a8ced1a-6fc1-58ef-8fef-6f7e34e3f3b2)

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 see. Then she crouched down eye to eye with her girls and embraced them tightly. She watched them go, their blonde ponytails swinging from side to side under their felt berets, then straightened her Chanel jacket. She was ready to go to war.

‘Mrs Asgill, so good to see you again.’

Miss Fenella Beaumont, Eton Manor’s headmistress, extended a plump hand across the large walnut desk that dominated her office and settled back into her chair, smoothing down the heavy black robe she always wore over her blouse and skirt. She was a formidable-looking woman: tall with ash-blonde hair set on her head like a helmet, and a powerful speaking voice honed at the Oxford Union, Miss Beaumont having studied Classics at the university in the early 1970s. Paula was well aware that the school’s pupils and many of their parents wilted under her fierce gaze, but she had no intention of letting a pompous English spinster get in her way.

‘Thank you for making the time to see me,’ said Paula, giving the headmistress her sweetest smile. She was careful to conceal her true feelings here, but Paula had been absolutely furious when it had taken her a week to get an appointment with Miss Beaumont. They were paying ten thousand dollars a term each Casey and Amelia to attend Eton Manor. That was sixty thousand dollars a year, not including the hiked-up lunch fees, ballet classes, French tutorials, music lessons, and sundry ‘donations’ they paid on top. For that money, Paula had expected to see Miss Beaumont immediately. The teacher nodded graciously.

‘What can I do for you today?’ she asked.

‘It’s the girls,’ said Paula plainly, waving away the offer of tea.

Miss Beaumont glanced down at a sheet of paper in front of them.