John Davis - Unofficial and Deniable

And within ten minutes he knew that his decision, this whole thing, was an even bigger crying tragedy. Because this book was going to be brilliant.

Harker went to the kitchen and got himself another beer. Christ, it was good. He had only speed-read thirty pages in ten minutes but if the next two hundred were as good it was going to be a bestseller. Oh, it needed editing, she was a slash-and-burn writer who wrote wrote wrote, letting it all hang out, repeating herself shamelessly, flying off on descriptive tangents that left the reader both breathless and impatient. But it was brilliant. Harker returned to the sofa with his bottle of beer. He stared out of the bay window at the pretty little courtyard.

What was he going to say to her about this? How could he tell her that her book didn’t have promise?

He took a tasteless swig of his beer.

You tell her it’s got loads of promise but you don’t consider it’s suitable for Harvest House because Harvest doesn’t publish political works, you solemnly advise her to take her brilliant book to Random House when it’s finished, or Doubleday or one of the other big guns who throw money around like confetti hyping up books.

He sighed. Just the book Harvest needed to really put itself fair and square at the upper part of the publishing totem pole. But worse than that, much, much worse, was that not only did he have to tell her it wasn’t worth Harvest’s while publishing, he also had to watch this beautiful, talented woman walk off into the morning, freeze her out, tell his secretary to make excuses that he wasn’t in, not return her calls. Whereas all he wanted to do was walk back into that bedroom and take her glorious body in his arms.

Harker took a deep breath, and reverted to her typescript.

It was called Outrage. It showed an astonishing grasp of the causes of the great South African historical drama: in the first forty pages Josephine Valentine transported the reader through the Frontier Wars of the eastern Cape, through the Great Trek that followed, the turbulent opening up of the Cape Colony’s northern frontier by the Dutch wagoneers rebelliously moving away from the recent British occupation of the Cape of Good Hope and their Abolition of Slavery Act. Then came the horrors of the Mfecane, Shaka’s crushing, the battles with Mzilikazi’s Matabeles and Dingaan’s Zulus, the establishment of the independent Voortrekker republics, the discovery of gold and the bitter Boer War that brought them back into the British Empire, through the horrors of two World Wars where the defeated Boers fought for their British victors against their German soulmates. It was a gripping piece of storytelling. Somehow, through these opening rampant pages, Josephine Valentine had managed to weave in her principal characters, American clipper-ship captains who traded, lived and loved amongst these rough tough Boers until the reader leapt a hundred years to 1948 when the Boers triumphed in the elections, won their beloved South Africa back from the British and immediately instituted their policy of apartheid to contain the Black Peril.

Harker stared through the window at the dark courtyard. The book showed a professorial understanding of the background to the modern curse of apartheid, its roots in the battles of not so long ago. All this Josephine had squeezed digestibly into forty bounding pages, making it high adventure: it showed remarkable narrative talent. How could he tell the author differently? Harvest House should jump for joy and shout Hallelujah for stumbling upon this book which should make any publisher a lot of money.

He gave a sigh, took a swig of his beer and read on.

The next thirty pages encapsulated the oppressive doctrine of apartheid in a speech in parliament by the descendant of the American traders which tore the doomed policy to tatters, heaping shame upon its creators, proving its folly, its cruelty, its repressiveness, evoking pity for its black victims. It was a brilliant speech made poignant by the vivid character who articulated it – everything anybody would want to allege against apartheid, logical argument unfolding irresistibly, yet all in narrative form.

Christ, this woman can write.

Harker got up off the sofa and walked back to the kitchen. He reached for a bottle of whisky and poured a big dash. He stood at the sink, staring out of the back window.

It squeezed his heart to turn down a book like this. And it broke his heart to walk away from this woman.

But he had to do both. If he did not, Dupont would get his hooks into her, Harker would either have to betray her or lie to Dupont – either way led to a treacherous, duplicitous life. No – he had to be cruel to be honourable, cruellest of all to himself – because all he wanted to do right now was walk back into that bedroom and enfold that beautiful, talented, captivating woman, and then wake up beside her at midday and take her to brunch and drink wine while he looked into her big earnest eyes and told her how great she was, how Harvest House was behind her all the way, what a talented person she was, how captivating, how she was stealing his heart … He walked back towards the living room and abruptly halted in the doorway.

The most beautiful, most talented, most captivating woman in the world stood before him, fully dressed, her book clasped to her breast, her hair awry.

‘I’m going home now,’ she announced. ‘I’m afraid this has all been a mistake. Forgive me.’ She stared at him from under her eyebrows.

Harker was astonished. ‘What’s a mistake?’

She waved a hand. ‘Mixing business and pleasure. You’re supposed to be my goddam publisher – I mean, that’s what I hoped you are. And here I am falling into bed with you like a goddam Hollywood starlet flinging herself on the casting couch.’

Harker closed his eyes. Oh, this was being made easy for him. He heard himself say, ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘I’ve already been ridiculous!’ she hissed softly. ‘Not you – no man’s got any sense when it comes to willing womanflesh!’ She glared at him from under her dark eyebrows, then said, ‘Believe me, Jack, that as a totally liberated woman I consider myself fully entitled to as much sexual freedom as you guys. And I’ve been around, in plenty of tighter corners than this. But this book –’ she thumped it against her bosom – ‘is the most important thing in my life right now and I was a fool to give you – my potential publisher – the impression that I’ll whore for it, that I’m a brainless fuck-the-boss bimbo. So I’m going home, to spare you the embarrassment of dropping a panting wannabe author and to spare me the embarrassment of being dropped.’ She pointed at him across the sofa: ‘But I want you to know, Jack Harker, that I did not jump into bed with you in the hopes that thereby you would be persuaded to publish my pathetic book – I did so because, in my inflamed, intoxicated state I wanted to do so. And before I disappear out that door, never to darken it again, I want you to know that I do not, repeat not , expect you to publish my book. Goodnight and sorry I was such a pest.’ She flashed him a brittle smile and turned for the door.

‘Josie? It’s not a pathetic book. It’s brilliant.’

She stopped. She turned slowly and looked back at him. ‘You’re just saying that to protect my feelings.’ She turned for the door again.

‘Josie,’ he said, ‘it’s brilliant. If the rest is as good as the pages I’ve read it deserves to be a bestseller.’

She had stopped again, her hand on the doorknob. He thought, Why am I saying this? He continued, to assuage his guilt, ‘And please don’t feel bad about last night. These things happen.’

‘You mean your female authors are always hopping into bed with you?’