He tapped away at the keyboard, lifting one hand to wave away my concerns.
‘You’re always so busy with school, the last things you want to concern yourself with are guest lists and catering and marquee rentals,’ he replied. ‘All you need to worry about is enjoying yourself.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m worried about,’ I said. ‘Also, marquee rentals?’
‘Maybe not quite a marquee but a tent.’ Dad’s eyes glittered. ‘A very big tent.’
‘He’s lost his bloody mind,’ declared Mum. ‘It started out as a nice afternoon barbecue with the family until him and Mal got together and suddenly it was an entire long weekend affair, then that dreadful bloody Gregory Brent got involved somehow and they might as well have hired PT Barnum as a party planner. He won’t even tell me half of what he’s got planned.’
So William hadn’t been joking. This weekendwasgoing to be a circus.
‘Gregory Brent is coming?’ I enquired lightly and my mother rolled her eyes. Depending on the day, Gregory was either my dad’s best friend or worst enemy.
‘He’s coming,’ Dad confirmed. ‘I imagine to try to poach another of my authors.’
It was a story we knew all too well. 1998. Dad and Gregory were both senior editors at Anaphora. Dad’s favourite author, Nelson Allen, was looking for a new publisher for his next book and while my dad was at lunch with Nelson, passionately expressing his love for his work, Gregory took his top-secret manuscript to Herringbone, their biggest rival, negotiated himself an enormous pay rise and a promotion, then offered Nelson’s agent double the Anaphora advance. Nelson took it.
Not that my dad still held a grudge or anything.
‘I doubt he’ll poach so much as an egg at your birthday party, darling,’ Mum pointed out. ‘But I did tell you not to invite him. I don’t want you skulking around after him all weekend. It’s supposed to be fun.’
‘It will be fun,’ Dad replied, suddenly gleeful. ‘Especially when he finds out we’ve signed Genevieve Salinger to a three-book deal.’
‘Isn’t that the Peruvian author who wrote the book about the man trapped in the body of a llama?’ I asked with a wrinkled nose.
A reverent sigh of confirmation slipped from my mother’s lips. ‘Llama Glama. A masterpiece. Made me see the world through completely new eyes.’
‘Right,’ I agreed. ‘The eyes of a llama.’
‘A thrilling treatise on the human condition,The Metamorphosisfor the twenty-first century,’ Dad added. ‘Gen is the new Kafka. Mark my words, they’re going to change the world with their writing.’
‘As long as they don’t turn me into a llama, we’re all good,’ I assured him.
It wasn’t that I thoughtLlama Glamawas a bad book, I actually thought it was a lot of fun, but even though it was lauded by the critics, including my mother, it hadn’t found a home with readers. The writing was dense and weirdly accusatory, like it was somehow the reader’s fault the main character had woken up inside the body of its pet llama, and strangely enough, most people popping into their local bookshop for a sweet summer read weren’t super into that. When I thought what Dad must’ve paid to secure a three-book deal, my chicken nuggets threatened to come back up again.
‘Gen is coming to the party on Saturday,’ Dad said. ‘I hope it won’t be too upsetting for Gregory.’
The expression on his face did not match the words coming out of his mouth.
‘So, if the big party is on Saturday night, what are we doing tomorrow and the rest of the weekend?’ I asked, keen to move the conversation on.
Mum clucked dismissively. ‘It’s the school holidays, what else would you be doing?’
‘Literally anything?’ William suggested as he walked in, phone still in hand. ‘Just because she isn’t in school doesn’t mean Soph isn’t busy.’
‘Right,’ I agreed, raising my eyebrows hopefully at him, only for my whole face to crumple when he shook his head again. ‘I’m very busy. Doing. Stuff.’
‘How eloquent. So glad we spent all that money on your education,’ Mum said with disapproval as she snatched Dad’s laptop and scanned the party planning spreadsheet. ‘Right, Friday. Your Aunt Carole and Uncle Bryan should be here in the morning and we’re expecting Gregory around – what time did he say, Hugh?’
‘He’s taken the day off work, so he said around lunch,’ Dad replied darkly. ‘So anywhere between seven a.m. and midnight.’
‘Perfect.’ Mum carried on scrolling without looking up. ‘Your father has now decided to throw a barbecue tomorrow evening for family and a few close friends, because hosting a hundred people on Saturday night isn’t enough work. I’d appreciate your help getting all that ready if you don’t mind?’
It was presented as a request but we both knew it wasn’t really.
‘Saturday, we thought it might be fun to take the visitors out and about, show them the sights,’ she added. ‘There’s a summer fête in town, that should be fun for your aunt and uncle and the Londoners.’
‘She must know different Londoners to me,’ William muttered, sitting down on the arm of a sofa.
