Thieving Fear

'I couldn't say.'

'Anything I should know about? Anything connected with us?'

She hoped he meant the pronoun to stand for the publishers. The sooner she satisfied him, the sooner he might leave her to feel a little less boxed in. 'Family matters,' she said.

'They can be the worst. I get the feeling maybe these aren't, no?'

'More like a problem in communication. Families have those.'

'You bet. Remind me to tell you about a bunch of mine sometime. So you don't think it's anything to put our author off her work for us.'

'I was just saying she's shaping up to be a professional.'

'That's what I like to hear. I guess she must have too.'

'I imagine she might, but I wasn't talking to her. It was another of my creative cousins.'

'Sounds like my kind of family. Who's this one?'

'He's an artist.'

'Professional? Can we use him?'

It was partly Charlotte's sense of being trapped in the meagre space behind her desk, not to mention underground and under observation, that made her retort 'I don't think he'd be your sort of professional.'

'Hey, don't be so sure you know what I'm about.'

Charlotte glanced over the top of the box that contained her desk, but none of their colleagues appeared to be listening. Perhaps they were too intent on keeping their jobs under the new regime, unless eavesdropping on a disagreement might help. 'Forgive me,' she murmured, 'I didn't mean –'

'It's OK, I'm not blaming you.' Glen pushed a heap of bound American proofs towards Charlotte, clearing a corner of her desk to sit on. 'Just because I have to focus on what our bosses want,' he said low and aimed it down at her, 'all that means is leaving other stuff at home. It doesn't mean I stop appreciating what else matters.'

Above his head the aura of concentrated light around a fluorescent tube exhibited how low the concrete ceiling was – had always been. 'So who's your artist?' Glen said. 'What's his claim to fame?'

'Rory Lucas. I won't be offended if you haven't heard of him.'

'Wasn't he the guy who made the slide show of a bunch of famous paintings that you had to watch with all the random noises and bits of music?'

'Extra Sense,' Charlotte said, doing her best to hide her surprise. 'You heard about it, then.'

'More than heard. Went to see it when it was at the Tottenham Gallery. I liked the way the soundtrack changed how the pictures felt to you. And then I hung around to watch other people reacting. That was fun too.'

'I'm sorry I didn't see you. I went a few times.'

'Yeah, well, I was there. We missed each other.'

Charlotte hadn't intended to suggest otherwise, but before she could say so Glen said 'Anyway, I'm with you about him.'

'Well, good. I'm glad.'

Glen frowned for the duration of a blink. 'I'm saying I believe you're right, he's not for us. He wouldn't sell.'

Did he suspect her of doubting he'd visited the exhibition? Would the truth have made any difference? He was already saying 'OK, let's try and nail your other cousin down.'

'Have you had a chance to read her chapters yet?'

'Read them a couple of times. Once with dinner and once in bed.' He paused as if inviting a response before adding 'I think they work pretty well.'

'Well enough for us to make an offer?'

'Once you've worked your magic on them. And listen, don't let anyone tell you editing can't be just as creative as writing a book.'

'So we'll make an offer when . . .'

'Have we had her proposal for the next book?'

'She's working on it. She's found a setting for it.'

'Anywhere famous?'

'Maybe it will be by the time we're finished with it,' Charlotte said and couldn't understand why she was wary of saying 'Thurstaston.'

'Where's that? Why did she pick it, do you know?'

'It's on the coast looking out to the Irish Sea past Wales. We spent a night there with our other cousins the last time we camped out.'

'There'll need to be more to it. You're making it sound like a book for kids and a pretty old-fashioned one too.'

'I'm sure Ellen will invent something. She's done a lot of that already, after all.'

'Better make sure. No time like now.'

Even once he headed for his desk and she had room to move the heap of proofs aside, Charlotte still felt shut in. She had to glance behind her to check that the wall wasn't as close as the sense she had of a presence looming at her back. The darkness in the corner to her left was a shadow, not soil seeping through the plaster. It was absurd to delay speaking to Ellen, and she lifted her desk phone. As she began to wonder if the ringing wouldn't end until it snagged Ellen's automatic message, Ellen said 'Charlotte.'

'Just me. Not a reason to sound like that, I hope.'

'If you say so.' With no discernible lessening of nervousness Ellen said 'Had we better talk about Rory?'

'Why, what's the matter with him?'

'Nothing if you say not.'

'I don't know why I'd say anything was.'

'I thought he'd been, I suppose we'd have to call it interfering a bit over my book. I hope he didn't annoy you. I didn't tell him to, say anything, I mean.'

'He was just being Rory. We all know how he can be. He didn't do any harm. Your book's just between us,' Charlotte said, then had to append 'And the publishers, of course.'

'All right, no more Rory.' After at least a second's silence, which Charlotte found close to ritualistic, Ellen said in her original tone 'What about them?'

'We just need a little more from you.'

'I can send some more chapters over the weekend. That's all I'm doing now, the work you asked me to.'

'Well, I hope that's not your entire life.' Charlotte had the oppressive notion that in order to live her image of a writer Ellen had become a literary hermit locked away with her book. Another silence made her add 'We're waiting for an outline of your next one, and we think . . .'

'Go on. Whatever it is, you'll help me deal with it, won't you?'

Ellen's voice dwindled as Charlotte glanced over her shoulder again. Of course the slanting mass of shadow in the corner hadn't grown, and it was even less likely to have become more solid. It was certainly incapable of concealing a watcher. Nobody was spying on her from where the corner met the floor, and she needn't glare at the dark niche to convince herself. Once she began to feel she was putting off answering Ellen she turned back to the phone in a rage at her irrationality. 'All it is,' she said, 'the place you told me you wanted to use, we'd like there to be a reason for using it.'

'Thurstaston.'

Why did people keep saying the name? It was beginning to resemble some kind of invocation. 'I know you chose it because we were all there,' Charlotte said, 'but that won't be enough for your book.'

'I'd like to talk to you about that night.'

'Not now.' As she hastened to say this Charlotte had to wonder which of them was more on edge. She wasn't going to look behind her, but the view ahead was bad enough. She'd never realised how much the office brought to mind an underground bunker or an air-raid shelter that might collapse with a direct hit, the walls caving in beneath the weight of countless tons of earth. She tried to fend off these fancies by adding 'Unless it's for your book.'

'I don't know if it is.'

'Better leave it for now, then.' Charlotte wished it felt like more of a relief to ask 'Have you thought of anything that could be?'

'Hugh may have.'

'Sorry, what's this to do with him?'

'He wants to help. Between ourselves I think he's a bit sweet on me. Mind you, he hasn't seen me since we all met, and I'm sure –' Ellen trailed off or interrupted herself with a surge of determination. 'I do appreciate you all rallying around my book,' she said.