Page 21 of People Skills

‘Tell me,’ she says. She’s never looked so interested in my life before. ‘It wasn’t Grady Anderson, was it?’ She says his name with distaste.

‘No, no, not him,’ I say, my heart rate picking up a little at the mention of his name. I need to move us along quickly from any mention of Grady. ‘When I was an editorial assistant, I was part of a team that helped Judith Burrow—do you know Judith Burrow?’

‘The children’s book author? Not personally, but I know her work.’

‘Right, well, confidentially, she got stuck on the third book in her Dragon Wing series, and I worked with her to help her finish.’ This is true, in the most basic sense. Judith was halfway through the final book in her popular middle-grade fantasy series when she got stuck. She was totally stuck, a mental block, and she simply couldn’t write another word, she told her editor. She was brought into the office and four of us sat with her in a meeting room for hours and tried to work through it. It was an afternoon of intensive therapy, except no one was a qualified therapist. We ran through a lot of ideas. Write a more detailed outline. Use post-it notes. Use Scrivener. Handwrite it. Change the font on your manuscript. Visualise yourself finishing the book. Find a new place to write. Go on a writers’ retreat. Delete everything and start again. Go for a long walk. Hell, go for a three-day hike! Reverse psychology, tell yourself you’re not allowed to write. Spend a day on another project. Draw your characters. Paint them. Let’s act out the scene where you got stuck.

Her editor told her that if she didn’t deliver in the next month, they wouldn’t be able to stick to the publishing schedule, and the book’s release would have to be bumped a full year, because they needed the Christmas sales, and I think, to be honest, this proved to be the most motivating factor. A whole year, Judith had whispered and her editor nodded solemnly.

But. I was there, in the room, making suggestions along with everyone else. And Judith delivered her manuscript three weeks later. For all I know, it was one of my ideas that helped her. ‘Write a letter to your main character and tell them exactly how they’re pissing you off,’ I remember I said at one point, a little carried away with the therapy angle, forgetting the main character was a sweet ten-year-old orphan.

‘What kinds of things did you do to get her writing again?’ Hillary asks.

‘We had a really intensive session where we gave her lots of ideas, tips and tricks she could use, and then she went away and worked through it all.’

‘So a sort of writer’s-block program?’ Hillary is looking excited.

‘Well, I wouldn’t say program exactly,’ I say, but when Hillary’s face falls a little, I change tack. ‘More like a syllabus?’

‘A syllabus. That’s what he needs. All those tips and tricks, put into a schedule he can work through. He needs structure, he always did well with structure. A good old-fashioned spreadsheet.’

Hillary loves a good old-fashioned spreadsheet.

‘I can certainly try,’ I say, nodding, nodding, nodding, as if this is a wonderful idea.

‘I have some ideas too,’ Hillary says. ‘But he won’t listen to me. I’ll email you my thoughts, you could integrate them into the syllabus.’

‘Oh great, the more ideas the better,’ I say weakly. The reality of what I’m promising is dawning on me and I feel a little bit sick.

‘The other thing I want to work on with Xavier,’ she says, now in full flight, ‘is getting him back with Lana.’

She must see my face, the panicked look I am trying to conceal, because I cannot take on his love-life as well as creative problems—there are limits to what kind of superhuman even I will pretend to be. Hillary quickly backtracks.

‘Well. One problem at a time. You focus on his writing. Leave Lana to me.’ She sighs. ‘I know you must think I am completely over the top, but, honestly, I don’t usually like to meddle.’

I work hard to keep my face blank.

‘Sometimes it’s a necessary evil,’ I say.

‘It is. See, you get it. Anyway,’ she says, ‘this is good. I think this will be really good for him.’

‘I think you’re overstating my influence.’

‘Never. Look at what you’ve done for me,’ she says. ‘I don’t know how I survived without you. You’ve worked wonders, Charlotte, and you’ll do the same for him. Now, while I have you, let’s go over where we’re at with the festival program.’

‘Oh. Okay. Ah. Did we need to talk about…?’ I trail off. I don’t know whether I should remind her about the probation meeting or not. Maybe it’s better if we just sail right on by.

Hillary blinks at me and then seems to remember the original purpose of our meeting.

‘Oh, your probationary period! Yes. It ends on, um…’ She frowns at her computer screen.

‘This Friday,’ I say.

‘Right, this Friday. And I’m pleased to say, you’ve passed, Charlotte. Honestly, you’re the best assistant I’ve ever had. The girl before you, my god, she was a disaster. She used to say she couldn’t make phone calls because it made her too anxious. And once I asked to her to carry a box and she said she couldn’t until her nails were dry. She painted them in the office. In the middle of the day. And she claimed Aggie barked at her. Can you imagine? Aggie would never. She doesn’t have an aggressive bone in her body. That girl must have done something to her. Anyway. Moving on. You, my dear, are stuck with me now. Not just me, but apparently, my family too,’ she says, smiling in an almost-threatening way.

I try not to look too interested as I absorb this litany of gossip about my predecessor, some of which Kat had already hinted at, but, still, it means more to hear it directly from Hillary. I wait, in case there is feedback she wants to give me about me, specific details about what I’ve done well, the wonders I have worked. The boxes I have carried with unpainted fingernails, the many phone calls I’ve made. The way I let Aggie lick my face.

‘Now, the program,’ Hillary says, picking up her reading glasses. ‘We’ve got Jessica Wayfarer locked for the Saturday afternoon slot in the town hall. It will be her first event for her new book, so that will be a sell-out. Let’s hope the book is good, I’m always nervous when memoirists move to novels.’