Sam: Great. Goodnight x
An electronic kiss? God. There was a time when she’d have dined out on that for weeks, clung to it like a talisman. Now, given that she so frequently felt she might genuinely hate Sam, it just confused her.
Goodnight,she wrote in reply, sinking back onto her bed and sighing in irritation.And then, unable to prevent herself:
Amy: x
Chapter 15
Amy awoke sweaty and unsettled, having dreamt she was lost in a haunted house that looked a lot like the forgotten corners of Rowton Hall. In it, she’d sprinted from room to room, growing ever more distressed as she searched for someone who may or may not have been Sam.
Bleurrrgh. She shoved the already dimming memory of the dream aside, then sat up in bed to sip from the glass of water on her bedside table. She felt anxious in an ill-defined sort of way– maybe a result of weekday wine drinking, she told herself, which she didn’t do very often.Amy threw back her covers and eased herself out of bed. She hoped a hot shower would sort her out– she needed to get up and steel herself for this morning’s call with Carolyn.
She was going to have to admit there was still no venue for this ill-considered party her boss wanted to throw,andtry and prevent Carolyn from railroading her into saying she’d plough on with the search for a location alone. If this event was going to happen before the summer was out, they were rapidly running out of time to get it organised– and a little help from Carolyn, whose force of personality varied only between ‘irresistible’ and ‘hurricane strength’, would be worth weeks of dedicated effort from lesser mortals.
An hour later Amy was washed, dressed, lightly made-up and waiting for Carolyn to dial in to their Zoom. As she sipped her coffee, trying to decide how to broach the subject of needing more support with the launch event for Torch, she decided to send Kit a Slack message.
Amy: Have you seen Carolyn today? I need her to help me with something … What sort of mood is she in? *Prays*
He replied within seconds.
Kit: Unclear. I’ve just seen her arguing with Hugh through his office window but that’s standard– they’re basically in a blood feud at this point. Working here’s like being in the mafia now, just with books. Everyone’s been sucked into a family, his or hers.
Before she could reply to him Amy’s computer pinged, notifying her that Carolyn had joined the meeting.
‘Yes, yes,fine. But I’m afraid I have to go,’ Carolyn said, presumably to whoever she was speaking to on her mobile. ‘We’ll catch up later. I’m on another call now. Ciao.’She put her phone on her desk, then looked into her webcam.
‘Amy!’ she said, wriggling her shoulders slightly as though to try and shake off the irritation her previous conversation had inspired. ‘So. Tell me how things are going.’
It was always this way with Carolyn: no ‘how are you’ preamble, no questions about her day so far or chit-chat about her personal life. Amy proceeded to provide a rundown of everything she’d achieved since their last meeting, relieved that it gave a good account of how hard she was working.
Having deliberately left any mention of the party until last, Amy finally took a breath and said, ‘Now, on the subject of the launch event– I’d be really grateful if we could discuss a couple of things—’
‘I’m going to stop you there, Amy,’ Carolyn said, holding up a hand. ‘I’ve been meaning to grab you for a chat about this since last week.’
Oh, shit. Was Carolyn already aware somehow of how much more was still to be done? Amy wondered if she should brace herself for a bollocking.Then a wild hope seized her. What if Carolyn could see how much Amy already had on her plate, and had decided not to bother with an event that, quite simply, was going to be an absolute ball-ache to arrange? Amy’s heart swelled at the prospect of a reprieve.
‘Torch needs to make a real splash when it launches– garner the sort of publicity that it, and your hard work building it, really deserves,’ Carolyn ploughed on. ‘We need to think big, then thinkbigger.’
Just like that, Amy’s optimism shrivelled like a punctured party balloon. As she arranged her face into an impassive rictus grin, she asked herself what she could possibly have done to deserve this. Far from reducing the stress that the public launch of Torch was causing her, it was evident Carolyn’s intervention was about to make matters worse.
‘I had a lovely dinner with Philippa shortly after you and she met,’ Carolyn continued. ‘She was thoroughly impressed with you, but just as importantlyveryinterested in the idea of a book event that focuses on romance. It fired us up– made me think we could possibly do more than just crow about ourselves. If we widen the focus, we could really make our mark within the genre– establish Torch as a brand that’s blazing the trail for popular, unapologetic fiction that’s funny, sexy, historical, topical and satisfying.’
‘Right,’ Amy said, nodding blankly. ‘So what does this … mean, exactly? In practical terms.’
Carolyn frowned briefly, frustrated that Amy hadn’t yet caught on.
‘The original launch event idea is toast,’ Carolyn said brusquely. ‘Forgotten. Finito. Instead, we’re looking at a festival. Imagine it, Amy: an outdoor extravaganza during the August Bank Holiday weekend. Authors, publishers and readers all coming together to proclaim theirloveof love stories.’
Amy’s mouth had gone dry. She gulped from her mug of now lukewarm coffee, asking herself if it were possible that Carolyn had taken some mood-altering drug before work this morning.
‘I … I wasn’t aware you were such a fan of the genre,’ Amy said weakly.
‘Oh lord, Amy, I love a bodice-ripper as much as the next person– but this isbusiness,’ Carolyn said, rolling her eyes. ‘This is a commercial opportunity: a chance for us to own this growing trend– this idea of romance reading as almost rebellious. We want to nourish the developing notion that picking up a romance novel can be afeminist act, a reclaiming of joy.’
‘I see …’ Amy said for the sake of buying time, well aware that she needed to come up with a response that at leastimpliedshe understood what the hell Carolyn was talking about. ‘It’s … I suppose it’s like Charles Dickens, isn’t it?’
‘What is?’ Carolyn asked, her eyebrows knitting.
