‘Yes, I just spoke to them, that’s why I called again. Your editor wants a conversation ASAP. They’re sick of waiting around. They need this resolved.’
I feel bad then. It’s all very well putting myself first and prioritising my happiness, but it doesn’t mean I can just ignore anything I don’t like the sound of. I’ve been a child. ‘Sorry,’ I mumble again, and I really do mean it this time. ‘Yes, I can do this afternoon. I just need to shower.’
‘Good.’
We make the arrangements, and I dash home to get washed and dressed. I have just enough time to throw on some lipstick before rushing immediately back out the door to catch my train.
As I walk through the grand glass doors at the publisher’s, I try not to think about how much has changed since the last time I was here. For that meeting I was arriving as a renowned TV relationship therapist with a boyfriend and my own therapy collective business, about to sign the paperwork on a halfway decent book deal. I was fussed over, I was lauded. There was fanfare and excitement in the air. There were assistants handing round glasses of champagne! There werecupcakes.
And today… well, things are certainly different, but maybe they’re not so bad. My life is moving forward in a new way. I still have my Sam, and I also have this new volunteer gig.
But I can’t say it feels amazing to be potentially leaving today with a cancelled contract, a massive bill to re-pay, and an indelible black mark against my name in the publishing industry.
I spot Fabian waiting in reception and he greets me coolly.
‘Liv,’ he says, offering only the merest hints of a double air kiss. I am massively in the bad books if he’s calling me by my actual name. Which is fair enough, given what a nightmare client I’ve been in recent months. Or maybe this is just what you get from your agent when you’re out of favour with the world and everyone on the internet hates you. Fifteen per cent of zero earnings doesn’t amount to a whole lot of commission.
The editor, Jenny, comes down to greet us personally, hesitating in the lobby. For a moment I think we will have the whole meeting right here and now, in the middle of reception – with the added humiliation of the security team watching on with pitying eyes. Quick and painful. But thankfully, she turns to usher us through the turnstiles, where we take a lift up to a glass-walled meeting room. One side is lined with book posters; another features a display of recent publications. I recognise a handful and fight the urge to ask for some freebies. Now is most definitely not the time.
We sit down and there is a strange silence.
‘How are things?’ the editor begins, and I clear my throat. I’m fighting irritation again. Did I really have to come all the way here for this? To be dumped like this? I sneak a glance around on the off chance there is a cake stand with tiramisu.
‘Fine,’ I answer simply, swallowing down the resentment as best I can.
‘Great, great,’ she says, her eyes darting left to right. I almost feel sorry for her. This would be a horrible conversation to endure. Especially with someone who is literallyinfamous for throwing huge strops. ‘So, look.’ She leans forward across the table. ‘I’ll get straight to the point. This hopefully won’t be too much of a problem… but we’re hoping you haven’t got too far with the writing ofOrange Flagsyet.’ She grimaces, and I stare down at the table. I shake my head.
‘No,’ I admit, preparing myself for what’s coming.
‘Oh, that’s good.’ She sounds relieved. ‘Phew! Because we actually think a slightly new direction might work better.’
I look up. I feel Fabian sitting up straighter beside me, too.
The editor is nodding, excitedly. ‘We’ve been discussing it here – the team and I – and we actually think a more personal, memoir-style book might be more interesting and more exciting for readers.’ She beams. ‘We think you’re fantastic, Liv, and we want more ofyouin this book.Orange Flagssounded fun and instructional, but we want more of the Liv flavour injected. After everything you’ve been through personally in the last few months, we love the idea of a therapist, writing about her journey, realising she still needs to work on herself.’ She pauses. ‘You’ve been in therapy recently yourself, haven’t you? That’s whatMorning Teasaid in their press release?’ I nod, struck silent as she continues, ‘Honestly, it’s a better hook than yet another self-help book about toxic relationships anyway!’ She laughs. ‘It’s more universal and more authentic. I mean,god, who among us hasn’t felt like we know everything, only to realise we still have so much to learn?’ She points to herself. ‘My friends all say I’m the best at giving advice, but when it comes to my own life, I’ma hopeless case who knows nothing and makes some of the worst choices known to man.’ She beams across the desk at me. ‘Yours is a real and relatable story, Liv, and we’d love you to write about it.’ She stops, suddenly looking a bit nervous again. ‘What do you think?’
What do I think? I’m struggling to take it in. I came here to get dumped – again. I hadn’t even considered any of this as a possibility.
Fabian leans in. ‘I love it!’ he declares, waving his hand flamboyantly. ‘It’s genius. I would read the shit out of that book.’ He elbows me. ‘Liv, honey bear, you love it, too, right, babe?’
I’mbabeagain. I frown. ‘Actually, yeah, I do love it,’ I say at last, meaning it. ‘I think it could be really interesting.’ I look her in the eyes. ‘I’m about to start doing some work with a domestic abuse charity. I’d like to write about that too, once I’ve found my feet a little more. It would obviously involve very careful handling, and the charity’s sign-off on everything, with client confidentiality, but would that be something I could include in this memoir?’
She considers this. ‘Yes,’ she replies slowly, the smile getting wider. ‘I love that. I think that’s a great angle and feels like it would give more weight to the subject matter, too. Go for it!’
My grin matches hers as Fabian claps joyfully. He reaches around my shoulder to give me a quick, happy squeeze.
‘I’m so glad you’re up for this,’ the editor beams. ‘It’s always a bit awkward having these conversations, hoping awriter isn’t going to be offended at the change in direction!’ She laughs a relieved laugh, and I wonder at the egos she has to deal with. She continues, ‘And for the record, I thinkMorning Teawere absolute idiots to get rid of you!’ She laughs again casually. ‘You were so wonderful with the viewers, your advice was always spot on and everyone loved you. The guy they’ve replaced you with is so awkward and cold. I can’t believe they’ve given him the role full-time now!’ She pauses. ‘And what’s up with his orange eyebrows? That make-up team clearly hates him.’
I wince painfully at the mention of Edward. I also feel something else – some other emotion – and give myself one of those full body scans. I feel… defensive. Poor Edward and his resting bitch face and energy. He may be awkward but he’snotcold. Not really. Not underneath those three-piece suits and the serious expressions. He’s not cold at all.
I give myself a shake. Let’s not get sucked back into warm Edward thoughts.
Best wishes for the future. Remember?
The editor is still gushing. ‘Honestly, I can’t believe they’re not begging you to come back, especially now you’ve had this – what would you call it? – internet redemption?’ She giggles again and I regard her quizzically. Those words are familiar. I search my memory banks, and it clicks at last. There it is. Justin. That phone call we had. As we hung up, he’d said something like that. I didn’t understand it then and I don’t understand it now.
‘I’m sorry,’ I interrupt as she tries to move the conversationonto deadlines and marketing spend. ‘What do you meaninternet redemption? What are you talking about?’
She stares at me, blinking hard. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t seen it? You’ve gone viral!’
