Page 3 of One Last Thing
Oh dear. Michael really isn’t getting anywhere, and we need to move on. Our main courses will be here any minute and I’d rather get the hairy bits out of the way before we eat.
‘Michael, darling,’ I cut in, bringing him to an abrupt halt mid-sentence, ‘I think you’re absolutely charming, but do get to the point. What is it that you’re trying to say?’
He stares at me wide-eyed, his cheeks flushing pink. Brandon suppresses a smile.
‘Yes, sorry, I’m rambling, I’m always . . .’ Michael pauses, licking his lips. ‘WhatamI trying to say? Right. To the point.’
‘You’re not sure about the book,’ I assume, offering him an encouraging smile.
‘The book?’ He looks confused, his eyebrows knitted together before something clicks. ‘Oh, your book! Yes, well, it’s . . . uh . . . you see, with your books, there’s a . . . formula.’
‘A formula,’ I repeat slowly, now my turn to be confused.
‘You know, the same things, same old story.’ He hesitates, panicking. ‘That came out wrong. I didn’t mean that so flippantly. Your work is not . . . you know, it’sgreat. And there’s nothing necessarily wrong with the same formula over and over. Some readers like that. What worksworks, am I right?’
He looks between us hopefully. We blink back at him, both as perplexed as the other.
‘Michael, I think things are getting a little convoluted,’ Brandon notes, doing an admirable job of masking his amusement with seriousness.
‘Tell me plainly, Michael.’
‘Got it. Of course. Sorry.’ Michael clears his throat. Twice. He takes a deep breath. ‘All right. As I mentioned, it’s the shift in market trends and . . . we, as in, not mepersonally, but the company as a whole . . . uh.’ He closes his eyes in despair before they flash open again and he blurts the rest out in a hurry:‘Okay, there’s no easy way to say this, but we feel it no longer aligns with your . . . style.’
I tilt my head at him. ‘Sorry, what is it that no longer aligns with my style?’
‘The . . . market shift.’
‘I see. You mean, mybookdoesn’t align with this so-called . . . shift.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You mean this book, this particular book. Your choice of the word “style” made it sound broader, as though the issue goes further than this manuscript.’
He hesitates. ‘Yes.’
‘Yes, you mean “book”, or yes you mean “style”?’
‘I . . . uh . . . I mean . . .’
‘Dawn,’ Brandon says slowly, sitting up straight now.
‘I’ll be honest with you, Michael, darling, I wasn’t entirely . . .inspiredwhen I wrote this book,’ I say with a dismissive flick of my hand before I pick up my glass and swirl the wine around inside of it. ‘And to be frank, the pressure from the publisher wasn’t exactly helpful. There’s nothing like a pressing deadline to dull creativity.’
‘We did . . . give you a few years,’ Michael mutters.
‘I think there’s potential in the characters.Perhaps we move the location. What do you think?’ I ask him, before I take a gulp of my drink and place it down.
He stares at me bewildered before his eyes drop to his lap.
‘I’m sorry, Dawn, I haven’t done a very good job at making myself clear,’ he mumbles quietly, ‘but we as a publisher don’t feel like we’re the right fit for you anymore. We won’t be publishing your next book. Whether it’s this one or another one.’
Oh.
The table falls silent. Brandon’s jaw is clenched so tight a muscle in it twitches.
I don’t feel angry. Not straight away. I feel worse: I feel stupid. The shame of my stupidity engulfs me completely and wipes out any hope of a reasonable, brilliant or cutting response forming in my brain.
Instead, I sit still and wordless.
