bonafide [will]

bloomsbury // thursday, 15 april 2004

Edith glanced down at herself, shifting her hands--plate in one, glass in the other--to get a better look. She must have been making things up, thinking she had spilled her drink (water) down her front. But her crisp white button up was still crisp and white, tucked neatly into her trousers, and even her belt buckle was still centered (which shouldn’t have been surprising, considering she hadn’t moved too much for the better part of an hour). She looked nice; hair brushed, almost styled, plum blazer borrowed from her dad; or, Fergie had said she looked nice anyway, when she had met him for a pint before this (because she wasn’t drinking at this party but she wasn’t about to forego it altogether).

But it was nerves that kept her standing there, more or less rooted to the spot. Her book was due out on the fourth of May (which would effectively ruin Star Wars Day for her, for forever). That was in nineteen days. And then somehow her publisher had managed to secure a spot on the Prophet’s first page on the second of May, which was in seventeen days. (And while she was thinking about numbers, she reminded herself she was turning twenty-five tomorrow.)

She had managed to avoid going to any publishing-related events for this long, but she had since run out of excuses, just in time for her publisher to be sick and stay home, sending Edith to the party alone. (There was a very small part of her that realized she needed to learn how to mingle with these people without being jumpy or getting anxiety hiccups, but it was a very small part.)

Setting her plate on top of her glass, Edith freed up her hand to eat another bacon-wrapped prawn, casually glancing around as she chewed, hoping that Cordy would appear; she really should have asked beforehand if she would be there, but she had just assumed she would be, considering this was her publishing house. But so far, no such luck. She discarded her toothpick on her plate, only briefly wondering if she should hide the mounting pile of evidence that she had eaten all the prawns. But there wasn’t much point in doing that; she had been loitering by the buffet long enough that it should have been obvious it was her.

It was as if she had manifested it, thinking about the prawns and how she had eaten more than her fair share (though what was a fair share of prawns, really?); a man in glasses (smaller than hers) looked from the empty platter on the table, to the neatly printed bacon-wrapped prawns sign sitting next to it. It was almost enough to convince her to move, go mingle somewhere else, but the promise of more prawns soon was enough to keep her there, offer some sort of explanation: “She said they’d be back with more prawns.” The cater waiter, she meant. “Someone keeps eating them all,” she added, remembering to smile (albeit a small one) after another second.

@William Dasher

"That's great, thank you. I'll be in touch," Will announced with a friendly smile and a firm handshake before he gave a cheery wave. He was good at networking - or lying - whichever way one looked at it. Generally speaking, he was honest but he didn't quite have the heart to tell the man that he didn't think a full history of Muggle electrical wiring would sell well. Besides, Will had already seen the DIY books. Most people used that Internet thing now, anyway.

Politely, he slipped the business card into the back pocket of his suit trousers. He had every intention of letting them down gently. He'd even use the fancy stationery.

Will was happy to circulate, mingling, stopping and starting as he made the rounds. It was a fairly subdued party, the type he liked to attend himself, if he was ever invited out...which was almost never lately. He liked opening up the space for a couple of reasons. One, it was free and two, he was proud of the little Georgian house he called his workspace. It was warm and cosy, with soft leather armchairs and mismatched paintings. If people wanted space, there were three floors. He was a great party host - or so he hoped.

Hit with a wave of hunger, Will stepped aside and made a beeline to the food, only for his face to fall. "Oh no," he lamented, looking and sounding distraught to discover all of the prawns had been scoffed. "It's always the way," he heaved a melodramatic sigh. Was it the end of the world? No. Did he really fancy some seafood? Absolutely.

"I never make it on time," he offered a wry smile. Will was the type of guy who was too busy having a conversation at a wedding that he continually missed the call when the buffet was open and all he was left with was a couple of pork pies and burned chicken tikka. "If you see the waiter, point them out," he joked - kind of. He really was serious about those prawns.

He didn't recognise her but Will did like her blazer; the colour suited her. "Are you having a nice time?" He asked, slightly fearful of the response. While he wouldn't be offended if she said no (not everyone liked books), he would be surprised that she'd turned up, if that was the case. "Oh look!" He exclaimed, pointing across the room at one of the waiters before he frowned in realisation. "Bruschetta," he sighed in defeat.

Oh, he looked truly pained about it, didn’t he? Edith smiled a little sheepishly and glanced down at her plate, trying to figure out the best way to hide the fact that she had taken the last prawns (and many before that); her head snapped back up as she suppressed a little laugh at his it’s always the way. They’re just prawns, mate. Good prawns, but prawns nonetheless.

“It happens,” she offered, trying to be sympathetic, not mentioning that he needed to be about twenty minutes earlier to have any hope. “I will.” Edith glanced away and down the hall she had last seen the waiter, toward the kitchen she assumed; maybe it would be wiser to stake out the hall, intercept the waiter on their way back, rather than loiter at the buffet and risk the tray of prawns being picked through as it passed through the crowd. Hmm.

Maybe she should mingle, a little voice reminded her, though it was little enough to ignore.

“Oh, er--” She looked back at him, wondering if this could count as mingling. Probably? (Her publisher really shouldn’t have encouraged her to go alone; it was a curious thing that she kept wishing she had been afforded a plus one.) “Yeah,” she said, unconvincingly. She offered him a small smile, as if to prove her point. Was she obviously uncomfortable? Possibly, though she was trying not to be. Kind of.

She turned as he pointed, her smile a bit more genuine before it fell at the prospect of bruschetta. “That’s unfortunate.” Edith offered a little grimace as she met his eye again, holding eye contact for a couple seconds before she blinked and took a sip of her water. “You, er--” She wasn’t sure how to initiate a conversation with these people--she should be congratulated for recognizing she should initiate--and she floundered for a second. “I’m not sure what this book is even about,” she said, referring to the book being launched with their party.

Oh good. He had an accomplice on the prawn raiding front. Will nodded in solidarity as his dark eyes scanned the room. He knew a few people here and he raised a hand in greeting at a smartly dressed man who nodded imperceptibly in response. Will wasn't perturbed. Max Winter, the man in the green suit, was from a rival publishing house. Write Hand Press invited him whenever they successfully launched a book to rub it in his face and Max always accepted, despite his hate for being here. It was a cute little game they played. Max was such a tease.

She smiled and Will returned it. He couldn't really blame her. Publishing parties were very particular - there was a lot of mingling, polite conversation and fake laughter. He could see why she might not be living it up. To an outsider, it did look rather...odd.

"Ah," Will nodded at her comment, feeling happy to chat. After all, it was mostly his job. "That man," he announced, pointing in the direction of a stout gentleman who was surrounded by people. "Hobert Wattle," Will added. "He's the author. He was very successful a while back," Will explained as he ate some of his sandwich.

"He's treating this as his triumphant return," he went on, offering Edith a tired smile. Hobert wasn't quite a diva but he had seemed to forget that he didn't hold the sway he once had. "It's a murder mystery novel and it's set in a theatre," Will continued. "Funny thing is, Hobert used to be a playwright back in his heyday. They say write about what you know," he added with a wry smile.

"The main character is called Cobert Tattle." Will let her catch up with the fact that all Hobert had done was change one letter of each of his names to form the one for his hero. Will snorted. "I shouldn't laugh," he paused, feeling guilty. "He promises that it's not autobiographical," he explained. Will knew damn well it wasn't. How many middle aged men in three piece suits did people see swinging from the plush velvet curtains to catch a killer during the interval?

"I'm Will," he finally introduced himself, forgetting his manners as he extended his free hand for her to shake. "You should probably stay out of Hobert's way," he warned her playfully. "They say he takes inspiration from people he meets. You might end up as his new heroine." And Hobert did like to put his female leads in scanty clothing, much to Will's chagrin.

Hobert Wattle, he said, and Edith tried not to laugh, doing her best to commit the name to memory. Because that was part of all of this, wasn’t it? Learn who was who in the publishing world, as much as it pained her to do so. He was an author, he was successful, and he was being social; Edith thought she would be willing to give up her book being successful if it meant she didn’t need to be social.

But this attempt at being social didn’t seem too terrible. “Right,” she said, as if she knew about the triumphant return. The book sounded alright at first blush--it seemed like something her dad might enjoy reading, a theatre murder mytsery--but the man went on, mentioning Hobert was a playwright. Write what you know. Edith laughed, awkwardly; Edith wrote what she knew-- was she not supposed to? (Never mind her book wouldn’t be half a memoir, otherwise.)

She laughed a bit more genuinely at Cobert Tattle, however. “That’s bold.” She laughed at his snort, too, shrugging when he said he shouldn’t laugh. “Ah.” Not autobiographical; Edith sipped her water, still unsure if autobiography was bad in this situation. Maybe it just didn’t have as much literary merit, or some snobby shit like that. This seemed like the wrong time to ask.

Edith balanced her plate on her glass again, reaching to shake Will’s hand. “Edith,” she said, nodding as he told her to stay out of Wattle’s way. She didn’t think there would be any issue there-- again, he looked far more social than Edith was willing to subject herself to. But Will’s reason why was much worse. “Oh.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Gross.” Edith wrote about people but… not like that. She made a face.

“You’re not a writer, too, are you?” Not because she didn’t think he was, but because she didn’t want to be in his novel, either.

"Extremely," Will agreed with her and nodded. "There is a certain something about him, though," he admitted with a thoughtful frown. Hobert was eccentric. From his snazzy suits and half moon spectacles, to his penchant for cravats and obscure jazz, he was mysterious and interesting. Hobert was the very definition of the word luvvie. Will didn't know if he was a genius or clinically insane and he didn't know which one was worse. "He's fascinating to talk to but he is as mad as a box of frogs," he trailed off fondly.

As she shook his hand, Will smiled. "Edith," he repeated, making an effort to remember the name. He liked it. It was old fashioned but in a charming way, it suited her. "Nice to meet you." He picked up on an accent that was three hundred miles north of the capital and he chuckled. Poor Edith looked uncomfortable and he couldn't blame her. He'd done this for eons but it never got any easier.

Gross, indeed. "He got in trouble over it a few years back," Will went on, his voice dropping to a stage whisper as though he was letting Edith in on a big secret. "He named a character after a friend's wife and the character was rather --" he trailed off, nose wrinkled, as he struggled for the word. "Promiscuous," he settled on. "There were details about the character that had striking similarities between her and his friend's wife," he continued, his dark eyes wide. "Bra size, favourite food, what her morning routine was like. Turns out, the wife was just as licentious as the character and how did he get the inspiration?"

Will popped a mini cheese and onion tartlet into her mouth and chewed, letting the tension build. "Hobert and the wife were having an affair. It caused a big hoo-hah. His friends got divorced not long after the book came out. Messy business," he concluded with a sad shake of his head, as though he didn't love the drama.

Sipping his drink, he smiled. "Many moons ago," Will commented, making it sound like he was a pensioner. "Turns out that there isn't a huge demand for poetry," except for Arkadiy's anthology, which was still selling like hot cakes. Last he heard, he and his wife were expecting a baby. "I took over the family business and I'm a publisher by trade now. I still dabble in it sometimes but nothing serious. What about yourself?" Will asked. "You're an author? Would I have read anything of yours in the past?"

“You, too,” she said, taking her hand back into her own space and having another drink of water.

She had thought the Hobert Wattle talk was over, but alas. Edith raised her eyebrows as she listened, leaning in a little bit to hear him better. But that was a mistake, because it must have looked like she was interested in hearing about the friend’s wife again. Her eyes went wide at the word promiscuous, standing up straight again. He mentioned her bra size--the friend’s wife, not Edith, though she still pulled on her blazer to cover herself more--and she wondered what it was about her that suggested she wanted to hear about another woman’s bra.

Dear mother of god, this was her punishment for eating all the prawns, wasn’t it? She did not want to hear about this random man’s affair with his friend’s wife. Or her bra size.

Edith interjected, asking (and making sure) that he wasn’t a writer, too. But he was. Poetry, apparently. (Why did it seem like everyone was into poetry these days?) But he took over the family business--thank Christ she wasn’t doing that, too--and he was a publisher. Shit. Should she have known that? She was really failing at this ‘mingling’ aspect of the party; where was her publisher to help her wade through it all?

Her eyes went a little wide as he asked after her. How did he know she was an author? Did she give off a Hobert Wattle vibe? God. “Er, yeah.” She grimaced softly. “I mean, I’m an author. Not that you’ve read anything, I dunno.” She shrugged. “I did a column in The Prophet--” she paused for a second before mentioning the magazine-- “and The Quibbler.” She set her plate on top of her glass again, freeing up her hand to scratch the side of her nose. “Department of Miseries,” she said, not rolling her eyes at how cheesy it sounded because this was a fancy literary party and she was ivery serious about her work.

She glanced down at her hands before she met his eye again. “Book’s due out in a couple weeks, though.” That sounded more like she belonged at the party, anyway. If he recognized her column, he could make an educated guess at what her book was about.