Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. by Anne R. Allen Page B

at the Lincoln Book Fair, and interviews with Radio Lincolnshire, BBC Yorkshire, and perhaps something on Radio Four. Plus the Swynsby Sentinel is sending somebody over.”
    A book tour. Publicity. It was really happening. He’d clicked the restart button on my life.
    “Oh, one more thing.” He unearthed some documents from the pile on his desk. “You’ll need to sign your contract. Can’t do much without that, can we?”
    I flipped through the pages of small print. My agent had always taken care of this sort of thing. I had no idea what to look for.
    “I…I’d better sit down and read this.” I thought about Gordon Trask. I wish I knew why he’d taken off in such a hurry. Was there something awful in the contract?
    Peter stood by the small wardrobe at the back of the office. He pulled out an elegant charcoal suit with a Hugo Boss label still attached.
    “Whatever you like, lass, but it’s a standard British book contract. It protects you as much as it protects us.” He cut off the tags and pulled a red tie from a drawer. “I’m going to shower and get a bit more camera-ready. The Sentinel people will be here soon.”
    Tiny print and words like “electronic rights” and “returns” swam before my eyes as I registered what he’d said.
    “The newspaper people are coming over now?”
    He looked at his watch. “In half an hour. You might want to change in to that smashing Burberry thing you wore yesterday.” He gave me one of his twinkly smiles. “Why don’t you sign that, so we’ll be all legal? I’ll write you a check for your advance in the morning, right after I transfer the funds into the account.”
    He handed me a pen. I could feel his impatience as I stared at the blurring words. The disaster with my mortgage had left me leery of signing papers. But I had to keep a number of things in mind—
    1) I’d already trusted Peter with my well-being—far more important than a book
    2) It wasn’t as if anybody else wanted it.
    3) I desperately needed the two thousand dollar advance.
    So I scribbled my name on both copies, and handed him back his pen.
    He looked relieved. “You’ll be happy you signed with us. I promise.”
    I gave him a smile and stuffed my copy in my laptop case, trying to believe him.
    Peter grabbed a shirt and left me alone to scramble into my suit.
    As I dressed, I studied Tom’s painting again, looking for meaning in the abstracted whorls that drew the eye to the darkness at its center. Hollow inside. That’s what Peter said. The Major Oak was hollow inside.
    I hoped Peter’s promises weren’t the same.

Chapter 15—Full English
     
     
    The interview with the Swynsby Sentinel seemed to go all right, although the woman sent to write the article hadn’t heard about the demise of “The Manners Doctor” column—in fact, I suspected she’d never heard of me at all. She mostly asked how I was enjoying Lincolnshire. Although I didn’t have much to offer but praise for the meat pies and beer, this seemed to suffice. The photographer with her took my picture at the front entrance to the Maidenette Building. In the daylight, the old brick edifice looked ponderous with Victorian respectability.
    Peter came across with gravitas, too. Smoking an elegant briar pipe, he talked about the company’s plans for an international publishing center and how they would soon be hiring more local workers for the printing, dispatch, and editorial departments.
    Not a word was said about whips and chains. By the time the interview was over, all the weirdness of the night before had vanished. Sherwood, Ltd. was obviously well regarded in the community.
    Even though they mostly published books about people having bad sex in clothing that featured black Pleather and grommets, I had to admit nothing really scary seemed to be going on. Time to stop worrying.
    I was ravenous by the time the newspaper people left. As if reading my mind, Peter gave me a grin and said he was going to treat me to a