Page 14 of People Skills

‘Hi Grady,’ I say, finally looking up.

‘I didn’t recognise you. The hair.’

‘I changed it.’ When I knew Grady, my hair was light brown, very long and always pulled back in a ponytail. Now it’s out, falling to just below my shoulders, and blonde.

‘You look different,’ he adds.

I meet his gaze. I hope he can read my expression well enough to see that I am not open to comments about my appearance from him. My editor uniform was black pants, a black shirt and loafers, and mascara if I thought of it. I gave myself a small makeover when I started working for Hillary because I sensed she wanted to employ someone who wore colour occasionally, and because I wanted to shed Melbourne Charlotte and become Beach Charlotte. Blonde, bright, busy, competent. Stylish Charlotte. No longer a word person. A people person.

Grady, oblivious to my distaste, keeps talking. ‘What brings you here?’ he asks me.

‘Charlotte is my assistant,’ Hillary says.

‘Oh! Oh.’

I see his brain processing, rearranging things. This is where she landed, he’s thinking. She’s gone from being an editor at Jones & Peterson to a sad, lowly PA.

‘Well, I’m glad to see you back in the world of books again. An assistant role is the perfect fit for you,’ he says.

I can feel rage tremble through every cell, every molecule, of my body. Rage, and the old feelings underneath—doubt and panic and uncertainty. No. Don’t let his voice back in your head. I have rebuilt myself from the ground up but I’m not infallible. It could all come tumbling down again. I wish more than anything that Hillary wasn’t here for this conversation. I am terrified of what else Grady might say. He has all the cards in this moment, all the power, but I don’t think he realises it. Yet.

I square my shoulders and smile, trying to squash down any reaction.

‘It is a good fit,’ I say, glancing at Hillary. She smiles. I smile. I will not be ashamed of my job just because this man cannot fathom the idea of being in service to someone else. My hands, though, are trembling.

‘How do you two know each other?’ Hillary asks. I can tell, from her tone and the way her eyes occasionally slide away to look over Grady’s shoulder, that she’s not especially interested in the answer to this question, that she’s asking out of politeness. But, still, my stomach twists and my palms feel clammy. She might not be interested now, but if she senses anything amiss, that there’s a story here, that will change.

‘We worked together when I was at Jones & Peterson,’ I say, quickly, before Grady can say anything. I need to control this narrative.

‘Oh, of course,’ Hillary says.

‘Charlotte was actually the editor who came up with the title of my last novel,’ Grady says. ‘Unfortunately, it’s been my least successful book.’ He laughs like he’s made a hilarious joke, and Hillary smiles awkwardly.

I try to smile, but it feels like I’m just stretching my lips. I press my thumbnail into the side of my finger, trying to give my brain something to focus on other than panic.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Hillary says.

‘Well, if the state of the media is bad, the state of book publishing is even worse. You were sensible to get out, Charlotte,’ he says.

Our eyes meet. I hate him. Does he know how much I hate him? Or is he completely oblivious?

He seems to be waiting for me to respond.

I clear my throat. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I guess I was.’

He turns back to Hillary. ‘You know, I’ve lost three editors in as many years. Caleb, my most recent, brilliant guy, left to work for some publishing start up in New York. He—’

‘Excuse me,’ I say.

The mention of Caleb is where I draw the line. Or my body does. His name gives me a sick, physical jolt, like someone has just grabbed the back of my neck and squeezed. I need to get away from Grady immediately. I’m terrified I might cry, or scream, or say something I’ll regret.

I hurry away, pushing through the crowd. It’s too hot in here. And I might be hallucinating, but I’m sure I can smell the dead possum again. I walk outside, onto the footpath in front of the town hall. I look around for a seat, and I see Xavier sitting on a patch of grass, leaning against the brick wall of the building. He catches my eye and it feels too rude to turn anywhere else now, so I walk over and sit beside him.

‘I saw you talking to Grady Anderson,’ he says.

‘Mmmm,’ I say, because I can’t bring myself to form words at this moment.

‘I can’t stand that guy,’ Xavier says, which feels like a little kindness he’s offering me, and I’ll take it.