my door, I called, ‘When you’ve got your coffee, will you come in?’
Five minutes later, she was with me. Miranda’s coffee cup always made me smile. As far as I know, no one in publishing has ever bought a mug. There were a bunch of mugs in the kitchen of every publishing office, which just materialised over time, everything from mugs advertising books that had long been remaindered, to novelty mugs (World’s Best Mum, I Love London/Paris/Some-Other-Damn-Place-I-Don’t-Really-Even-Like-Much-Less-Love), to cheap ’n’ cheerful bog-standard supermarket ranges. The unspoken system was that you grabbed one, and then kept grabbing the same one until one day, magically, it became yours, no matter how ugly it was. Miranda’s mug was not only not ugly, it wasn’t a mug. Instead she had a cup and saucer, both demurely sprinkled with little pink rosebuds. That it was a cup and saucer was in itself different, the rosebuds even more so. But that it was Miranda’s was whatmade it noteworthy. Miranda might have been the very last Goth in the country, and every single item of clothing she owned was black. Apart from green-and-blue dyed strands of hair, and a series of dayglo feathers in her various piercings, I suspected a coloured item had not touched her skin since primary school. For variety, she layered her black jumpers and tights with more black jumpers, and sometimes a second pair of black tights. Her nail polish was black. As was her eyeliner. Her Doc Martens didn’t even have coloured stitching. And she had a pink rosebud cup. I loved Miranda.
This was background affection and admiration. When she sat down I just said, ‘We need to look at some editorial work for you to take on,’ and watched her beam before she scudded back to her desk to collect some papers.
When she returned, she said, ‘I was going to talk to you about that. I had a letter from personnel confirming my job change, but it’s not very clear.’
She handed it to me and I skimmed through it. It looked clear enough to me, so I just waited for her to go on.
She started and stopped a couple of times, and finally said, as though exasperated, ‘Are you still my boss? For the new part of the job?’
I looked at the letter again. ‘I see what you mean. I assumed I was, but it doesn’t actually say that, does it?’ It didn’t. She was, according to the letter of agreement, my assistant for two-thirds of her time; for the rest, she was a junior editor, acquiring new books and authors ‘under supervision’. But who the supervisor was had been left unstated.
‘Do you want to do books for someone else?’ As longas she had the time, I couldn’t see that it mattered.
‘Wanting to is over,’ she said crossly. ‘I already am. Both David and Ben have told me that they’d like me to take on a couple of their books.’
‘Have they, by God?’ I was sour, and surprised at myself for being sour. Ten seconds before, I had thought that it didn’t matter. Now that it had happened, I found that I thought exactly the opposite. ‘Are they books you want to take on? And how many is a couple? Did they ask you if you have time?’ I thought about the two men and revised. ‘I assume they didn’t ask you, they told you.’
David Snaith is my boss, and the company’s editor-in-chief. He was, therefore, entitled to tell Miranda, not to ask her, and without speaking to me first. It wasn’t polite, but he was entitled. Ben, however, was not. He was a colleague on the same rung as I was, and unless Miranda had been made a group junior editor – I looked at the letter from personnel again – she didn’t work for him, or at least she didn’t without the work being siphoned through me.
She flushed. ‘Yes, they told me. And yes, they’re interesting books. Ben’s more so than David’s.’
‘What does Ben want you to do?’ I tried to keep the acid out of my voice, but Ben and I were not, shall we say, soulmates, and I think my tone when I mention
Five minutes later, she was with me. Miranda’s coffee cup always made me smile. As far as I know, no one in publishing has ever bought a mug. There were a bunch of mugs in the kitchen of every publishing office, which just materialised over time, everything from mugs advertising books that had long been remaindered, to novelty mugs (World’s Best Mum, I Love London/Paris/Some-Other-Damn-Place-I-Don’t-Really-Even-Like-Much-Less-Love), to cheap ’n’ cheerful bog-standard supermarket ranges. The unspoken system was that you grabbed one, and then kept grabbing the same one until one day, magically, it became yours, no matter how ugly it was. Miranda’s mug was not only not ugly, it wasn’t a mug. Instead she had a cup and saucer, both demurely sprinkled with little pink rosebuds. That it was a cup and saucer was in itself different, the rosebuds even more so. But that it was Miranda’s was whatmade it noteworthy. Miranda might have been the very last Goth in the country, and every single item of clothing she owned was black. Apart from green-and-blue dyed strands of hair, and a series of dayglo feathers in her various piercings, I suspected a coloured item had not touched her skin since primary school. For variety, she layered her black jumpers and tights with more black jumpers, and sometimes a second pair of black tights. Her nail polish was black. As was her eyeliner. Her Doc Martens didn’t even have coloured stitching. And she had a pink rosebud cup. I loved Miranda.
This was background affection and admiration. When she sat down I just said, ‘We need to look at some editorial work for you to take on,’ and watched her beam before she scudded back to her desk to collect some papers.
When she returned, she said, ‘I was going to talk to you about that. I had a letter from personnel confirming my job change, but it’s not very clear.’
She handed it to me and I skimmed through it. It looked clear enough to me, so I just waited for her to go on.
She started and stopped a couple of times, and finally said, as though exasperated, ‘Are you still my boss? For the new part of the job?’
I looked at the letter again. ‘I see what you mean. I assumed I was, but it doesn’t actually say that, does it?’ It didn’t. She was, according to the letter of agreement, my assistant for two-thirds of her time; for the rest, she was a junior editor, acquiring new books and authors ‘under supervision’. But who the supervisor was had been left unstated.
‘Do you want to do books for someone else?’ As longas she had the time, I couldn’t see that it mattered.
‘Wanting to is over,’ she said crossly. ‘I already am. Both David and Ben have told me that they’d like me to take on a couple of their books.’
‘Have they, by God?’ I was sour, and surprised at myself for being sour. Ten seconds before, I had thought that it didn’t matter. Now that it had happened, I found that I thought exactly the opposite. ‘Are they books you want to take on? And how many is a couple? Did they ask you if you have time?’ I thought about the two men and revised. ‘I assume they didn’t ask you, they told you.’
David Snaith is my boss, and the company’s editor-in-chief. He was, therefore, entitled to tell Miranda, not to ask her, and without speaking to me first. It wasn’t polite, but he was entitled. Ben, however, was not. He was a colleague on the same rung as I was, and unless Miranda had been made a group junior editor – I looked at the letter from personnel again – she didn’t work for him, or at least she didn’t without the work being siphoned through me.
She flushed. ‘Yes, they told me. And yes, they’re interesting books. Ben’s more so than David’s.’
‘What does Ben want you to do?’ I tried to keep the acid out of my voice, but Ben and I were not, shall we say, soulmates, and I think my tone when I mention
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