Authors: Tony Drury
“You are sure? Well, thank you, doctor.”
Lucy smiled inwardly. “Mr Henderson. I don’t want you to worry if it doesn’t improve immediately. It should clear up after a few days. Please come and see me in ten days’ time. Tell the receptionist that I want to see you myself.”
“I made my appointment myself on your computer system. I’ll book in on my laptop. Thanks, doctor.”
Computer booking system? Lucy was behind the times.
Her third patient came to hear the results of his cholesterol test.
Lucy looked at the screen and studied the series of readings under ‘Blood fats’. Cholesterol 4.8, Triglycerides 1.14, HDL Cholesterol 1.20, LDL (Calculation) 5.40, HDL/Cholesterol Ratio .36 and Cholesterol/HDL Ratio 6.31.
“Mr Surrinder, I’d like to weigh you please,” she said.
The Ealing businessman removed his jacket and stood on the scales. They showed a reading of 98.2 kilos.
He dressed, sat down and smiled at the doctor.
“You’re a little heavier than I would wish, Mr Surrinder, but your main cholesterol reading is good. You registered 4.8 against 5.3 last time. Your LDL reading is a bit on the high side but we will watch that.”
“Thank you, doctor,” the patient said, as he rose from the chair.
“Mr Surrinder, please sit down.” As he did as she asked, Lucy studied the screen on her computer. “You saw Doctor Phillips last time. Doctor Phillips asked for a full blood test. There are some results here under ‘liver and enzyme tests’. The readings are concerning me. Total protein is 96 and your gamma GT is 79. Mr Surrinder, you have lost eight kilos in the last year telling me you’re being careful with your diet, although you do have more to lose.”
Awal Surrinder smiled. He liked praise.
“Mr Surrinder, do you drink alcohol?”
“I came here about my cholesterol. I am well. Thank you.”
“Mr Surrinder. I can smell the alcohol on your breath. Please, have you had a drink this morning?”
“I was nervous.”
“The evidence I have, Mr Surrinder, shows that you are damaging your liver. We can do something about that. The liver recovers well but I must understand the underlying cause.”
“I want to see a male doctor. You women don’t know what you’re talking about!” he shouted.
“Of course, Mr Surrinder. I’ll arrange for you to see one of my colleagues. But I would like to know why you are drinking alcohol so early in the day.”
The businessman stood up and tugged at his jacket. He paused and sat down again. He looked deflated.
“Panatha. My wife. She abuses me,” he said quietly.
“How does she abuse you, Mr Surrinder?”
“We have four children, two boys and two girls. She wraps them around her. I work long hours and my business has been under pressure from the bank. When I get home all she wants to do is tell me about the children. Then she makes nasty comments about me to them.”
“Have you tried to talk to her?”
“Panatha is an intelligent person. I feel I have lost her respect.”
“Do you have, shall we say, relations, Mr Surrinder?”
“We have four children, doctor. We have had some good times. But in the last two years, she turns her back.”
Time was pressing and Lucy asked Mr Surrinder to return to the surgery in two months’ time for a further blood test.
As he left her room, Mr Surrinder turned back and looked at the doctor.
He spoke softly.
“I have lost the respect of my wife, doctor. That is why I drink.”
Lucy watched as he left the surgery. A few minutes later the phone rang. She had forgotten to press the ‘next patient’ button.
Sara and Alex had exchanged some sharp words. Secretly she liked the comparison with Lisbeth Salander but she rejected the suggestion of having a ring through her lip and she most certainly was not going to pierce her nose. While she accepted that she had her wilder side she did not see herself as a social misfit. She most certainly was not going to wear Doc Marten boots.
No, it was the professional qualities that Sara wanted to emulate. She re-read the passages about how Lisbeth prepared her reports for Milton Security. Her use of footnotes, quotations and source references. Her IT research skills and her ability to ferret. That is what she wanted to apply to the task at hand.
The one thing that she was certain about was that the chief executive of Agnew Capital didn’t want a report specifically on the publishing industry. She would produce one anyway, but she suspected that her task required some lateral thinking.
She felt boosted by the change in her circumstances. From being a parliamentary researcher she had managed to set up on her own. The meeting with Andrew Agnew and the awarding of a commission impressed and pleased Sara and she was not easily impressed by anything.
She pulled the bed covers over her naked body. She’d remained in bed all day Tuesday after arriving back at Paddington Station late on Monday evening. She had spent the bank holiday weekend visiting her mother, who was in a Bristol care home. She had cleaned the room, removed fresh linen from the stores, persuaded the cook to prepare some soft foods for her mother, cut her nails, cleaned and dressed a bed sore, phoned the doctor and made her drink some fluids. By the time she left, her mother’s kidneys were working again. She could not challenge the staff because she knew her mother would suffer. She thought about contacting her sister in Exeter, but she was busy changing husbands and didn’t really care. She so missed her father. He had educated her, loved her, made her laugh and visited her many times at Manchester. When he had his stroke no one knew that his finances were in such a mess, least of all her mother.
She reached once more for the email attachment which Andrew had sent her on the Saturday, before she’d left for the West Country. She’d read the project specification several times. Her verdict was that it was crap. He could obtain any amount of material on publishing that he wanted. She’d started by reading the annual report of Bloomsbury Publishing, where JK Rowling had ignited revenues. The chairman Nigel Newton’s statement to shareholders was a valuable commentary on the publishing industry. He was enthused by technology and electronic publishing, though she noticed he was cautious about future sales revenues.
“Perhaps Harry Potter should establish the Hogwarts school of mystic publishing: principal Lord Voldemort!” she’d laughed.
She had used the journey to Bristol and back to read
A Long Winter
on her Kindle. It was an intense love story involving two City professionals, their desires and their destruction. It was typical of the newer publications from City Fiction. It was written by a lawyer who was using his own libidinous activities as his source material.
The notes about the author said that he’d been a corporate solicitor for nearly twenty years before he met Alistair Wavering and asked him to read his draft document. He was now on his third title, which had already been sold to a television drama production company.
Now back at home she reached over to the bedside table and poured herself a glass of wine. She sat up and let the covers fall away.
“You have doubts, Mr Agnew,” she said to herself.
Sara went through a mental checklist: the company, the finances, the chief executive, the senior team, the books, the sales operation. Perhaps his concerns were integral to his company. She realised that if the money wasn’t raised Agnew Capital would have invested its cash and resources for little or even no return.
She made her checklist. She would initially meet Alistair Wavering and Oliver Chatham.
From her university studies she’d become aware of the difficulties many authors had finding a publisher. John Masters – and she had read nearly all his books – was turned away many times before finding success. And even JK Rowling said she had received many rejections before securing a backer.
She needed to turn the question around. What are the special qualities of a publisher which allow him or her to discover a bestseller? Is it a numbers game? The more you publish the better the odds? Sara’s brain was now buzzing and she found that sleep evaded her.
She realised that niche publishers are a different proposition. It is so much easier to define the target market.
Luxury Holidays in the Far East
is simply a marketing exercise.
City Fiction had now changed into a generalist publisher looking for the bestseller. The book that would change its fortunes. She was aware that publishers receive hundreds of manuscripts every year, which is why securing an agent is the optimum route for the unpublished writer to take.
Agents themselves are always looking for their own winners, a Jack Higgins, a Gerald Seymour or a Frederick Forsythe... City Fiction had already published over ninety books and had a number of successes. But it was obvious they were searching for their one big winner.
“Can they find it? Is that the question Andrew is asking of me?” she mused.
Amanda wrapped her fingers around the stem of the wine glass.
Oliver had booked the table for two at one of his favourite restaurants, One Lombard, opposite Bank tube station, and was enjoying seeing the foreign rights editor again.
“Alistair is so sorry, Oliver,” she said. “He’s delayed in Amsterdam. He was due back this morning but another opportunity came up.” She put the glass down and smiled. “Will I do?”
June had started with some Mediterranean sunshine and was becoming warmer by the day. Amanda was wearing a thin white dress. Several diners had turned to look at her when she walked in.
They decided to share a starter of cold meats and olives. Amanda selected the salmon and Oliver, having been shown the cuts of meats, went for a fillet steak. He ordered sparkling water and a French cabernet sauvignon.
“Business first and then let’s talk about you, Oliver,” Amanda said. “Alistair was hoping to receive your contract by today.”
“It’s on its way. I think we are agreed. But the boss wants one more document.”
“Anything we can help with?”
“He’s having a report on the publishing industry prepared.”
“But there’s nothing that Alistair doesn’t know about publishing. How strange.”
“Regulations, Amanda. The rules are that our files must demonstrate that we have undertaken stringent checks before we can offer the shares to investors. We have to do it. I sometimes think that what the regulatory authorities want is a risk market without risk for the investors.”
“Do we represent risk?”
“All investments are risky. The greater the potential reward the higher the risk.”
“I don’t really understand that, but we trust you. Alistair is convinced you’ll get us the money.” She raised her glass and smiled. She then waited while their plates were cleared.
He coughed politely. “So do you live on... with... er... do you share?”
“I live on my own. I have a flat in St. John’s Wood. I can see the corner of the cricket ground from my living room window.”
“You have a partner?”
“A cat called Jingles,” she said. “He actually belongs to the people in the flat above me but he’s adopted my balcony as his second home.” She paused, looking at Oliver with a smile playing about her lips. “Why, would it make any difference if I did have somebody?”
“Er, no, nothing to do with me,” he stuttered. “I was just wondering if... er… well...”
“You were so confident in our first meeting,” she said. “Why are you dithering now?”
“I’m not... er… oh... dithering as you put it,” he retorted. “Dithering,” he repeated. “I’ve never been accused of that before.”
“But perhaps you’ve never been with somebody like me before?”
The waiter cleared their plates and served the main courses. He then refilled their glasses with some sparkling water.
“I’ve actually just finished with my boyfriend, Zach,” said Amanda. She paused because she was surprised she had revealed this detail. She glanced at Oliver. She couldn’t help noticing that he was very handsome.
“Zach?”
“Ten months together.”
“So what did Zach do wrong?”
“Hey, he might have ditched me.”
“Highly unlikely.” Oliver immediately regretted his words.
She raised her eyebrows and her glass of wine.
“He was a lovely man and I’m missing him dreadfully.”
Oliver cut up more of his steak and indicated to the waiter that he would like their wine glasses refilled.
“Zach was the closest thing I’ve found to the man I might choose to spend my life with,” she continued. “But there was something I couldn’t rationalise… I don’t know.”
He dared not speak. What had Zach, the idiot, done to lose this woman? Was he fucking mad?
Suddenly she brightened and smiled.
“What really frustrates me, Oliver, is that being together was so good.”
At that moment his mobile phone rang.
“Sorry,” he mouthed as he listened to the voice of his chief executive.
“Oliver. Get back to the office now. The FSA are here. Fast as you can.”
Lucy’s first day free of medical duties was on Friday.
She started cleaning the house at five in the morning, prepared breakfast with a smile on her face and took the girls to school. Charles was pre-occupied with reading business papers and left early. Lucy collected the girls in the afternoon and Scarlett noticed a difference when they arrived home. She sniffed the air in the house and asked her younger sister what smell she could detect. “Peaches,” said Lily.
Lucy sent text messages to Charles on three occasions and received one reply.
He arrived home at six thirty in the evening. When he entered their bedroom he found that some casual clothing was laid out on the bed. There was also a wrapped present. The label read: “Darling Daddy/Charles. We love you lots. Scarlett, Lily, Tabitha and Lucy xxx.”
He opened it and found a book inside.
For Those in Peril
by Wilbur Smith. His favourite author. He would never forget reading
When the Lions Feed
, his first masterpiece. Thirty books later they kept coming. It was signed inside. “Fondest love. Lucy. 3 June 2011.”
Charles went downstairs and initially could not find anybody. As he reached the patio doors he smelt the barbecue. Scarlett was cooking the meats, Lily stood behind the salad bowl with some plastic forks and spoons and Tabitha was holding a jug of fresh cordial.