Lenny, the designer assigned to my book, is what someone could uncharitably call a bearded cockney prig. But I never would, because I am far too nice. He sits at a cluttered desk in a gloomy office as far from the main entrance as possible. I imagine he requested to be located here, and if he didn’t then management hastily moved him. But, as these difficult types so often are, apparently he is good at his job.
He bends over a large sheet of paper with a soft pencil, and at first I think he is sketching useful ideas. Then I see it; a man hanging by his neck, his black tongue lolling out like something I saw on Nothing Toxic. “So, do you have any ideas for the cover?” he asks indifferently.
“Yeah,” I say. “Obviously, it should be something dark and Blade Runner-like, rather than something bright and, I don’t know, The Fifth Element-esque. What do you think, have you read the book?”
He makes a strange, guttural noise, and I am vaguely concerned before he looks up and I realise he is laughing. He even snorts a couple of times.
“I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then.”
His laughter stops suddenly and he bends over the paper again, adding a crowd of bystanders at the execution. “Sorry, mate, nothing personal. But I don’t ever read the books.”
“Just the synopsis, then?” I enquire, bracing myself for a fresh outburst of laughter.
Instead, he just fixes me with a blank stare. “Not as of yet, no.”
“Well, it’s only a page, and it might help.”
“Yeeeeah,” he says absently, as though he’s humouring me. “But go on, mate, go on.”
“Right, I see a sepia-tinged image of a police cruiser, one from the near future-”
“Like in Blade Runner.”
“Well, yeah, but let’s not get too bogged down with that, it was just a reference point. And next to it, or maybe just behind it, a photograph of an agent – black trousers and shirt under a flowing brown cloak – staring back at us, a mini-gun in his hand but not pointing at us. And the photograph has been altered to look more like a drawing, or a combination of the two so we can’t tell whether it’s one or the other. And the blue and red lights of the car, the only non-sepia part of the image, kind of blur outwards and make everything kind of indistinct and foggy.”
A long silence. “Like in Blade Runner.”
I sigh and frown. “Why do I get the impression your heart’s not really in this?”
He sniggers again. “Look, I understand that it’s important to you.”
“Riiiight? Please go on.”
“Don’t take offence, but this book is not exactly a priority for me.”
“Oh. Right.” I say, stunned.
“If your wife was murdered,” he continues in a patronising tone that doesn’t fit his words, “That would be the most important event in your life at that time. But the detective working on his twenty-third murder of the year isn’t going to have any emotion invested in it personally, is he? It’s not possible. Try to understand, mate.” I just look at him, hurt. He doesn’t notice or care. “Besides, I hate this Sci-fi crap. Johnny over there usually does the fantasy bollocks.”
I turn and for the first time notice a small ugly man hiding in the shadows, colouring in a picture of an alien and a robot on a desert planet with five suns. I nod my head but he ignores me.
“That’s his speciality,” Lenny says, raising his voice in Johnny’s direction, “But they want to try him on a soppy romance, which is my forte.” He looks back at me. “I like drawing the tits.”
“Well, you better get yourself together,” I say, trying a new tact, “Because this is a top priority for Harper Collins.”
Lenny laughs again, louder and longer this time, and even Johnny joins in from his corner. “From what I hear, it might never see the light of day.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t fuck with me,” I shout, panicked. “What do you mean?”
Lenny is still smiling and doodling. “I heard you weren’t fulfilling your obligations. Heard you weren’t making the necessary changes.”
“Oh they’ll get done,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Don’t you worry. Just get cracking.” My legs feel weak and buckle into a chair.
“And what did you tell Mavis and Pauline?” Lenny asks.
“You’ve seen them?” I blurt out. “Where?”
“Well, they do work here, don’t they?”
“What did they say?”
“Sounds like you’re into some weird shit.”
“Listen, they tricked me. They demanded I tell them something weird so I made something up.”
He holds his hands up. “Nothing to do with me.”
“Haven’t they got some confidentiality clause?”
“They’re not doctors.”
I sit and seethe, ready to go to someone and complain about this bearded cockney prig.
Then he picks up the paper and holds it towards me. “How does this look?” Above the hanging is the front cover of Clear History. It is rough but beautiful. I want to buy him dinner and kiss him.
“It’s fine,” I say, and pretend to check my phone for messages.
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