‘On the subject ofrucks,’ said Grace, ‘I heard about your little disagreement after the bake sale– not at all becoming of two adults over thirty, if you ask me.’
Amy winced, wishing powerfully that Gran hadn’t brought this up.
‘I know you have your own reasons for disliking Sam,’ Grace went on, eyeing Amy in a way that made her wonder if her gran had X-ray vision, ‘but they have nothing whatsoever to do with this. Promise me you’re not going to try taking him to task or screeching him into submission. I believe him when he says he’s already doing everything he can.’
‘Fine,’ Amy said tonelessly, struggling not to launch into a rage-fuelled explanation of how she knew first-hand that what Samsaiddidn’t always have much bearing on what hedid. ‘I promise.’
Mr Bradley cleared his throat. ‘How about that tea then?’
‘Forget it, Ken,’ Grace told him, sounding suddenly exhausted. She got up from the table to grope in the old dark-wood drinks cabinet in the corner. ‘I don’t know about everyone else, but I could certainly do with something stronger.’
‘Right,’ Ken said, opening a cupboard and pulling out a series of short cut-glass tumblers.
‘Make ours doubles,’ Barbara said, tipping her head towards her husband.
‘Mine too, please,’ Amy said, nodding in sympathy– though she already knew that no amount of strong booze, even at this tender hour of the day, would wash away the bitter, fiery taste of her own anger.
Chapter 14
By the following Wednesday afternoon, Amy thought she’d done a fairly good job of simmering down. Work had been a welcome distraction from thoughts of Barbara’s devastation and Sam’s involvement in it, and it was easy to sink into her emails, submissions pile and to-do list now that she felt like she was making progress with them.
She’d already signed several authors for Howard-Knight’s new imprint, and found herself genuinely excited about publishing their stories; while all were about love in one form or another, they were far from a homogenous mass. Some were gritty, some were sad and others were funny, while several tackled issues such as racism, poverty and homophobia. In addition, the writers she’d be working with were ethnically, culturally and socially diverse– far more so than was usual for H-K.
Carolyn was thrilled with how things were shaping up, and to her own surprise Amy felt proud of what she’d accomplished. Between them, they’d decided to name the new imprint ‘Torch’– in honour of the many flaming emotions the characters in its stories would feel, but also in celebration of its mission: to publish smart, modern, illuminating women’s fiction.
According to Kit, Carolyn had made a point of shouting about Amy’s successes so far at H-K’s latest company meeting, much to the annoyance of Hugh. ‘Caro is singing your praises,’ Kit had live-texted her. ‘Hugh looks bloody LIVID– like someone just keyed his car.’
Amy had also managed to obtain several important sponsors for Torch’s launch event: a local up-and-coming gin distillery that would donate cocktails, a catering firm prepared to provide a luxury dessert cart, and a tea company that had offered hundreds of flavoured infusions for free, provided their name was on the recyclable cups it was served in.
In addition, all the new authors Amy had signed were happy to attend the party and take part in a group Q&A, and Amy was hopeful that if she could get a contract in place, Philippa Fotheringham would be willing to come on board too. There was plenty more still to organise, but it was a decent start.
Amy’s main, niggling worry was where on earth they’d hold the event– she’d had little interest from the hotels and conference centres she’d contacted, probably on account of her shoestring budget. She was going to have to raise it with Carolyn on their catch-up call tomorrow, and was already bracing herself for a dismissive ‘just get it sorted’ reaction to any plea for assistance.
As she checked her emails one last time and closed her laptop– logging off at 5.30 on the dot for a change– her phone pinged with a notification. She’d been added to a WhatsApp group: Rowton Readers. This was good timing– Amy was heading to her first book club meeting tonight, so if she needed to bring anything other than herself and a willingness to chat aboutAnd So We Meet Again, now was the time to find out what.
Nisha: Everyone, can we please welcome PUBLISHING PROFESSIONAL Amy to the group! She’ll be joining us tonight for the first time and I for one am EXCITED
Bless Nisha, she was lovely. But also, cringe.
There followed a flurry of messages from numbers Amy didn’t recognise, but which came from WhatsApp profiles that thankfully had names attached.
Megan A: Welcome Amy! x
Kenneth Bradley: Welcome Amy.
Si Smith: Really looking forward to seeing you Amy! Xx
Eek. The postman’s enthusiasm for her company made Amy nervous, but before she could dwell on it another new message arrived.
Sam: Hi.
What fresh hell was this? Sam was in the book club?
Amy racked her brain, trying to remember whether anyone had mentioned it before.
She drew a blank, then instantly began berating herself for not having asked– for not having thought of this on her own.Of courseSam would be in any local group that was dedicated to reading. Not only was he apparently on a mission to seem as involved as possible in every community initiative Rowton’s residents could think up– he was also, or at leasthadbeen, a true lover of stories.
Despite being a ‘publishing professional’, Amy had met few people in her life who seemed to adore novels, plays and poetry in the same way she did. Grudgingly, she admitted to herself that Sam was one of them.