I knew that book. It had been a viral phenomenon. Too much sex to be mainstream, not enough to be considered outright pornographic, tittered about in enough salons and high teas to have sold well into the millions. If the established writers hated me, they’d surely despise Erica Mathison. The book had taken off on TikTok, which was both a social media app and the sound people like Royce must hear when new writers find new audiences in new mediums. The one I hadn’t met, hair twisted up in a silver beehive, was showing off her signed copy (To V!) with gold-bangles-jangling glee. It had the logo for Gemini Publishing on the spine and a sticker on the front from a Darwin bookshop—I knew the logo because I’d gone in there to shuffle my books to the front of the shelves, only to find none.
McTavish drew my attention with a thump of his cane. He slid off the seat and propped himself into a standing position. “Right! Off ter bed with this one.” He thumbed at his own chest as he called across the bar to Cynthia. A guest took the opportunity to dart up and cut him off, a copy of The Night Comes folded open, pen at the ready. I thought Brooke might follow suit, but Jasper was next to join the mini-queue. He didn’t have a book on him, so when it was his turn he stuck out a hand too early and then had to walk several steps with it out like a ship’s rudder until it landed awkwardly in front of McTavish’s belt.
“Jasper,” Jasper said.
McTavish gave him a murmured hello, but Jasper’s hand remained unshook.
Jasper coughed lightly. “Jasper Murdoch.”
“Yeah. All right. Hang on,” McTavish said. He fished a pen from his coat pocket and then took a cardboard beer coaster from the bar, scribbled on it and handed it to Jasper. “There you go.”
Jasper stood there a second, flipping the coaster over in his hand, then made his way back to his table and handed the coaster to his wife as he took a seat and a long sip of his drink. He looked like someone who’s just crossed the schoolyard to ask out a crush and depleted all their reserves of shame and energy simultaneously.
“To Jasper Murdoch,” Harriet read out from the coaster, then put it in her handbag. “Wow. That’s a keeper.”
McTavish ambled down the corridor toward the restaurant and his cabin further up the train, the heavy thump of his cane carrying through the thin floor with each step.
“Okay,” Simone said, after McTavish was out of sight and the rhythmic clunk of his cane was fading away. She spoke firmly, with a hiss, but in more of an I’m going to tell you something you need to hear tone than an admonishment. “Just so you know, we’re a partnership. You don’t get to tell me what to do. We’re supposed to trust each other.”
“I was just—”
She held up a finger. “I’m not finished. I know you’re upset. I get it. But I don’t need you involving yourself with McTavish, okay? I heard there’s a bit of tension between Wyatt and Henry. They’ve been in business directly for a long time—Wyatt snapped him up before any agent even got a sniff, and he still doesn’t have one. So friction between a certain author and a certain publisher might lead to opportunities for someone like me to work with someone like our Scottish friend. No offense, but I don’t come on a trip like this to watch the panels. If I get Henry on board, it increases the profile of my business. It increases your profile, by virtue of being a part of my business, like it does all my authors. And that’s when backs get scratched, and how someone like you might wind up with a blurb.”
“You’re trying to sign McTavish?” I thought aloud. “And of course Wyatt would hate that, because he’s probably got the Morbund books tied to a shit deal for McTavish. Or you could threaten to take him somewhere else, I suppose.”
She shushed me, scanning the bar to see if anyone had heard. “Could you be a bit more discreet about it? Jesus.”
“So you don’t want to make a scene about McTavish’s reviews because, what, it will ruin your chances of signing him if it gets back around? And I’m supposed to think that’s you doing me a favor?”
“No. I’m doing it for me. Of course I’m doing it for me. Ever heard of capitalism?” She looked at me like I was a moron. “But I’m saying it might benefit you as well. Long term.”
“Jeez, does everybody just steal everyone else these days?”
“Not from me they don’t. Don’t get any ideas.”
A thought struck me. “Who publishes Wolfgang?”
“Ah.” She ran through her mental Rolodex. “Brett Davis. At HarperCollins. Why?”
“Wyatt’s trying to buy him.”
“Really?” She snorted. “Didn’t think that was his style. Humph. Trying to add a bit of class to his list, I suppose. Balance out that crap.” She nodded to the book club table behind us, whose occupants were discussing Erica Mathison’s book with unbridled glee. I raised my voice to speak over them.
“Another thing: you said McTavish didn’t blurb.” I put a defensive hand out. “This bit isn’t about me, I swear. It’s just interesting.”
“He doesn’t,” Simone said. “I was just as surprised by that as you were. Either Lisa or her publisher has got some serious dirt on him, or he did it just for the look on Royce’s face.”
“Worth it,” I said cruelly. This was rewarded with a wry smile from Simone, which I took as a standing ovation.
The discussion of the soft-porn book had started to bleed over to our chairs.
“It’s . . . honestly, it’s . . . genius!” Silver Beehive said.
“There are so many layers,” her friend agreed. “Just true vision.”
The third kissed her fingers. “It’s a revelation!”
“Excuse me.” Simone leaned over the back of her chair to interrupt. “You’re not talking about that book, are you? The Erica Mathison?”
“Perhaps.” Beehive wriggled her neck, preening and offended. “Have you read it?”
“I haven’t,” Simone said, in a way that meant I wouldn’t.
“Well, it’s people like you who could learn a lot from this book,” Beehive said, to a chorus of sniggering from her friends.
Simone gave a tight smile. “Thanks for the recommendation.”
“Come on, ladies, I think we should finish our drinks on the smoking deck,” Beehive said, deliberately loud enough for Simone to hear. She stood and the rest followed suit, clutching their precious books. It was less of a dramatic exit than planned, given they had to gather their bags, books and beverages, but Silver Beehive still made the pretense of striding out of the carriage.
“Gee, the word genius is worn to threadbare these days,” Simone said when they were gone. “Veronica should know better.”
“Veronica? You know that woman? Is she another publisher?”
Simone gave me one of those I don’t know why I bother looks. “Blythe? Chief books critic for the Herald?”
I stared back blankly.
“She wouldn’t have reviewed you. Up a level—or so I thought. I wonder who she was with just now. Not critics.”