Fanfiction: Slushpile Romance, 1/3
Title: Slushpile Romance, Chapter One
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: R now but will end up NC-17
Word count: This part 4,300.
Summary: Modern AU. Arthur Pendragon is the golden boy literary agent at Paterson & Oriel. But then Merlin Emrys, master of the slush-pile and all around fiction wizard is recruited. Arthur is a knob. Merlin is adorable. And then feelings happen.
Disclaimer: Merlin et al are not mine. The literary agents herein are in no way based on myself or my colleagues. Although we do have an office dog.
Arthur Pendragon was having a terrible day. No, scratch that, Arthur Pendragon was having a terrible week.
It had all started the previous Monday when the head of the Agency, literary guru Peter Paterson, had poked his head round Arthur's office door. Arthur was ignoring the fact that the beautiful sunshine was pouring in through the windows of his office, illuminating the expensive artwork dotted on the walls; that his beleaguered assistant Gwen had walked the fifteen minutes to Pain Quotidien to get him the soy latte with hazelnut and whipped cream that he favoured; and that his latest fuck-buddy had sent him a rather dirty email message detailing what she wanted to do with one of his silk ties that night. Arthur was too busy concentrating on constructing the most aggressive and obnoxious email to the head of PR at Ravenswood Publishing about the shocking state of their campaign for Jaime Jones's latest book. Poor Gwen would wince over it when she checked his emails later that night, long, long after he had gone out to do unspeakable things with his silk tie to Flora Dickson-Edgley.
'Arthur?' Peter hovered in the doorway, as if he wasn't the owner of the Agency and therefore owner of the souls of his employees.
Arthur looked up from his furious rant, anger still distorting his handsome features. 'Oh, sorry, was getting rather carried away by my own rhetoric there!' He ran a hand through his golden hair and pasted on his most dazzling smile. Peter coming by his office could only mean one thing: a pay-rise. And a not undeserved pay-rise at that, given the figures Arthur had been pulling in lately. He straightened his cuffs, twisting the mother-of-pearl cufflinks he always wore into place and rearranging his Savile Row jacket, before turning towards Peter. 'Please,' Arthur gestured to a seat and Peter ducked his head to come in, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Peter folded himself onto Arthur's sofa, his knees somewhere around his chin. Peter was famed for his lankiness, and his youthful complexion. It didn't matter how much he ate, how much he drank, or how many cigars he puffed away on, he always looked the picture of lean, tanned health. Were it not for his shock of white hair and the white mustache he obsessively cultivated, he could have passed for a much younger man. His outfit was - customarily - ridiculous. He was wearing a white suit, with a white shirt, and a white tie. The only colour about him was his tan - he'd just come back from the island retreat owned by one of his clients.
'So, Arthur... done any deals today?' he twinkled, flashing white teeth in a perma-tanned face.
'Ha ha. Ha. Erm,' Arthur tugged away his collar, suddenly feeling constricted of air. Peter always had this effect on him. It didn't matter how well he was doing; Peter always managed to say something to make Arthur feel like an assistant again. Not that Arthur had ever been an assistant, you understand, but the point still stood. He made him feel ill-prepared, and sweaty, and awkward. 'I closed a 3 book deal with Acorn Press for Simon Taylor last week,' he stuttered. 'For £300K,' he added hastily. 'And I've got three other proposals out on submission this week and-'
Peter chuckled, interjecting, 'I'm only teasing, Arthur. No one here doubts your commitment to your job, or the calibre of your clients.'
Arthur sagged with relief: this must be about a pay-rise then. He smiled at Peter, confidence back in place, 'I put a lot into Paterson & Oriel. I'm glad you've noticed.'
'Yes, I have noticed,' he said, consideringly. There was an awkward silence then, during which Arthur wracked his brains desperately for something to say, cursing himself inwardly. Arthur was famed for his smalltalk. At any industry event he could - and would - instantly scent the most important people in the room and absolutely charm them within minutes.
'This isn't just a social visit, Arthur,' Peter said eventually, unphased by the silence. Peter was renowned for his ability to put up with silence. It was one of his best negotiation tools. The publisher would tell him the offer and he would let the silence stretch and stretch until they would up it just to desperately make him say something. That technique had been responsible for the £1.2 million he'd got for the diaries of Thomas Wright, the infamously womanizing former Home Secretary. The publisher had started at 600k and it was sheer awkwardness alone that made them keep upping it until his twinkling voice broke the silence with, 'You have yourself a deal.'
'I wanted to be the first to let you know we have a new colleague starting on Monday,' Peter said, evenly, looking anywhere but Arthur.
'Oh,' Arthur frowned. He didn't give a shit that they had a new assistant starting. All the assistants did was scuttle round in the background, get the post, make coffees and answer the phones and occasionally, depending on how drunk they were, let him fuck them after the Christmas party. He smiled at the memory of the foreign rights assistant, Eloise, letting him do her in the toilets of Shoreditch House the year before last. She'd been impressively bendy, and her accent was hot.
'Yes, I know it's been a while since we had a new literary agent onboard but I really want some new blood about the place and-'
'Sorry?' Arthur frowned. 'Another literary agent?'
'Yes, a new literary agent,' Peter said, evenly, as if he was unaware of the importance of this statement. 'He's a literary wunderkind. There's something, hmm, magical about the touch this boy has...'
'He?' Arthur said, his voice strangled, his collar suddenly doing its best to strangle him once more.
'Yes,' Peter said, patiently. 'His name is Merlin, which I thought was rather amusing given that you are Arthur.'
Arthur's vision started to swim, 'Merlin Emrys?' he asked, as if Merlin was a common enough name that there could possibly be two literary agents called Merlin working at any one time in London.
'Oh you've heard of him then?' Peter smiled. 'He's been making quite the impression. Comes from a rather humble background and started out as publicity assistant of all things at Abinger's Sons before working his way up to commissioning editor. Left it all to be an assistant to Claire Charterhouse at Charterhouse Wick and was soon making his presence felt. She promoted him within the year. I started wining and dining him a year ago now.' He chuckled, 'The boy certainly is loyal, but money speaks, Arthur, as you well know, and a big payrise, a few perks and a long heart-to-heart with Claire and here he will be from Monday.'
'But... I don't... I'm not quite...' Arthur's famous charm deserted him once more, reduced to stumbling over sentences. He could see Gwen at her desk outside his office, frowning at him, obviously wondering why he was doing such a marvellous impression of a goldfish. 'Has my work not been good enough?' Arthur settled on, finally, getting up from behind his desk and starting to pace.
'Oh Arthur, that's not it at all,' Peter sighed, patting the sofa beside him.
'Because I brought in £175k in commission in 2010 and I'm projected to make over £200k this year too,' he said, clinging on to the figures like a drowning man to a raft.
'I know you did, and Oleander and I couldn't be more impressed. Truly, you're already a phenomenal agent at 30 - imagine where you will be in a few years.'
'Then why-'
'Why bring in another agent?' Peter asked, stroking his mustache thoughtfully. 'We have good reasons. You are very good at what you do, Arthur, very good indeed. Your non-fiction list goes from strength to strength each year but we need to diversify. Fiction is where the big money is and that doesn't seem to be where your strengths lie.'
'But fiction is so much slower,' Arthur blurted out. 'Sifting through the slushpile, making editorial notes, line-editing, sweating for months over a manuscript and then nine times out ten you don't sell it, or you sell it for an absolute pittance. Non-fiction is quicker, and more lucrative.'
'Oh sure,' Peter waved a dismissive hand, 'it's quicker. But more lucrative? Not if you get it right. Look at the Booker long-listed titles this year - two of them have TCMed over 600k apiece in the past six months. And the Orange Prize winner has sold two million. Those big brand name authors clock up huge advances and they get those books out there like clockwork. One a year, every year, big big six figure advances. And non-fiction? You can get a one-off success, do some big TV tie-ins sure, but it doesn't have the longevity. Good non-fiction takes years to research, you can't have that quick fiction turnaround.'
'Well my non-fiction brings the agency in a lot,' Arthur sniffed, put out.
'It certainly does, Arthur,' Peter agreed, patting his hand soothingly. 'And we all appreciate it. But we do need to grow our fiction list. You don't have the time to do it, that's for sure, which is where Merlin will come in. He's bringing his stable of fiction authors with him, and he'll be looking for those slushpile gems that you don't have the time to bring on.'
'Hmm,' Arthur allowed himself to be mollified slightly.
'I do hope you'll make him feel welcome, Arthur,' Peter said softly, although there was a steeliness behind his tone.
'Of course,' Arthur said, firmly. Whilst thinking 'I'll show that jumped-up little upstart who's boss.'
Peter shook his hand, 'Good lad.'
There was a knock on the door then. Camilla, Peter's assistant, poked her blonde head around the door. 'Your taxi's here Peter, come on, chop chop!'
Peter rolled his eyes at Arthur, 'I'm coming, I'm coming,' he said, making no move to leave.
Camilla physically entered the room then and grabbed him by his lapels, towing him behind her as he laughed. 'You know you've got a four o'clock with Roman Maubon at The Wolseley. And then you've got a five o'clock at Sharpwell's with their MD and you've already made me rearrange it three times so you really, really, cannot be late.' She thrust a folder at him, 'I've got your things and I'll call to check up on you,' she said sternly.
'What would I do without her?' Peter said to Arthur.
'Ha ha. Ha,' Arthur said. He hated Camilla. She was incredibly bossy and she never let him spy on Peter's diary, or give him gossipy titbits whenever he leaned over her desk trying to bully her into letting something slip.
Once the door was closed and Peter had gone Arthur felt like absolute shit. He was the bright young agent at Paterson & Oriel. He was the youngest agent they'd ever had and the only male agent besides Peter. Certainly the only young and good-looking male agent. He didn't want some ex-publicity assistant swanning in and charming everyone, flirting with the receptionist and bullying the assistants, abusing his expenses, taking his conquests to Soho House and lunching every young and good-looking female editor in London. Those were all his activities. He was the golden boy and he felt impossibly threatened. He vaguely remembered meeting Merlin at the RNA Awards last year. Arthur had gone, not because he represented any Romantic Novelists but because everyone knew that chick-lit authors were easy lays. Merlin had, he vaguely remembered, represented some awkward-looking middle-aged writer who had won the RNA New Writers' Scheme.
He had hazy memories of a dark-haired young-looking guy with bright blue eyes and the most ludicrous ears he'd ever seen.
There was only one thing to do when his mood was so bad, Arthur thought. He picked up his phone, dialled 115, 'Gwen?' he barked, after one ring when she picked up, never mind the fact that it would have been all of two paces for him to go and get her. 'Get in here, I want to go through your to-do list.'
'Let me grab my pad and I'll be right in,' Gwen said, in the same calm, even tones she always used. It just made him angrier; determined to see her break her cool for once.
'Get in here, NOW!' and he slammed the phone down, turning to stare out of the window, missing Gwen rolling her eyes at the other assistants, two of whom - Charlotte and Sadie - made the universal hand gesture for 'wanker'.
***
A week later and Arthur's mood had not improved one jot. The minute the lift pinged each morning and he strode out, impeccably turned out in his Gieves & Hawkes suit, their receptionist would ping an email round all of the assistants: 'The dickhead has landed.'
Genevieve, the receptionist, had slept with Arthur once, at the Summer party two years ago. He had never acknowledged that it had happened. This was foolish, considering Gen was in charge of the Agency switchboard and post. He often found his calls were 'dropped' and on one memorable occasion he had discovered urgent contracts for Chile languishing by her bin, when she had sworn blind they'd been Fed-Exed across right away.
'Good morning Arthur,' she sang out this Monday morning, flicking her auburn hair over her shoulder and giving him her glossiest smile. Everyone knew he was proper sore over Merlin joining which made her feel like rubbing it in. He was a selfish fuck, and an absolute shitbag to the lovely Gwen. 'Merlin's already arrived this morning. Bit of a looker if you ask me,' she winked.
'I didn't,' Arthur snapped, storming past her and into his office. 'Coffee!' he barked at Gwen.
'Good morning to you too,' she muttered under her breath before hurrying in to his office with her pad and pen. 'The staff meeting is starting early today. Everyone is gathering in the boardroom now,' she told him.
'And you didn't tell me this earlier, why?' he gritted out.
'Because we only just got told, Arthur,' she pointed out, reasonably.
'Coffee!' he yelled again, grabbing his moleskine notebook and fountain pen. 'And switch my computer on! And check my voicemails!'
He strode towards the boardroom, tripping over Morgana's cat in the process. 'For fuck's sake, Morgana!' he yelled.
Morgana, one of their actors' agents, appeared un-fussed, picking her white cat up unhurriedly and turning her supercilious smirk onto him. 'Bit put out about Merlin, are we?'
'No,' Arthur snarled.
'Ha,' she said, rubbing her chin over her cat's head. 'Well you certainly sound even-tempered and happy as ever and not at all like a spoiled little brat.'
Arthur had a love-hate relationship with Morgana. He'd known her since he was a little boy and they always seemed to end up doing the same things. They'd both gone to Oxford together, and then they'd both gone into agenting. He'd been horrified when she turned up at Paterson & Oriel with her cat Morgause in tow, a host of impossibly glamorous outfits, and an ability to make him constantly feel like he'd put his shirt on inside out. She also got on famously with Gwen, and watching them giggle together in the kitchen always made him extra mean. Last time he'd seen Morgana and Gwen come back from lunch together he'd sent Gwen out on a fool's errand to collect a non-existant confidentiality agreement from a publisher all the way in West London. He'd then sworn at her for an hour when she couldn't find it.
Gwen had spat in his tea every day for a month after that, but he wasn't to know.
'You coming in to meet Merlin then?' Morgana's fake-sweet smile turned his insides. 'I hear he's a bit of a looker.'
'Oh fuck off,' Arthur said.
'Witty as ever, Pendragon.'
'You two, stop bickering and get in here,' it was Oleander Oriel (real name 'Sarah Martin'), the other owner of the agency. She was all of five foot tall, her hair a shade of red never found in nature and had had so much plastic surgery done there was no way of knowing her real age. Her assistant, Charlotte, loitered behind her, carrying Puff the pug, a latte, Oleander's glasses, and two notepads.
'Come on Charlotte, stop straggling,' Oleander barked.
'I'll take that for you,' Morgana kindly intervened, relieving her of the latte and glasses.
'Thanks,' the long-suffering Charlotte smiled at her.
Gwen made it in just before Peter called the meeting to order, passing Arthur his coffee, a napkin, his schedule for the day and a spare pen in case the nib of his broke when he pressed down too hard in a rage.
Merlin, Arthur could see, was sat just behind Peter and Oleander. He definitely had met him before, Arthur thought. Not just at the RNA Awards but he couldn't quite place him... The sticking out ears were familiar, and his chinos and open-necked shirt were a world away from Arthur's sharp suits. No other agents dressed as smartly as Arthur, but he knew it made him stand out, he thought, perfecting his handkerchief in his pocket and straightening his lapels.
'Let's get to the most exciting news first,' Peter said, flashing everyone a grin. Today his suit was red corduroy with a yellow neckerchief. Just looking at him hurt Arthur's eyes. 'Merlin comes to us from Charterhouse Wick, where he has groomed countless slushpile authors into bestsellers and prizewinners. We're counting on him to make our fiction list one to be reckoned with, and to breathe some fresh air into our stuffy office!'
Morgana smiled lazily at Arthur, stroking her white cat in a manner reminiscent of Blofeld.
'And so I hope you will join with me and welcome our newest staff member to the agency. Merlin Emrys - I am sure we will see great things from you!'
Everyone in the staff meeting smiled and clapped. Arthur did too. But grudgingly.
The rest of the meeting was over quickly. The company website was being overhauled, there was some general chat about Frankfurt Book Fair, and the office manager Phil made some dull comment about not using as much headed paper. Merlin chanced a grin at Arthur halfway through. Arthur glowered back and rushed out of the meeting as soon as it ended, not bothering to hang around and make small-talk.
He quickly went through his emails - Gwen having flagged all of the important ones before filing the rest - and fired off two smutty notes to two of his conquests before forwarding some contract negotiations for Gwen to deal with. Arthur liked the fun of the deal, but always left the finer points to Gwen. Who gave a shit about boilerplates, or high discounts, or options on next works, when you could better spend your time taking long lunches and flattering away authors from their existing agents? Arthur was very good at his job. There was no doubt about that. He was charming, incredibly smart, ludicrously well-connected and with an unerring ability to always call whether an idea had legs or not. He hadn't got to where he was now without some hard graft. But now he had big-name clients, a relationship with some major TV production companies to do tie-ins for their slates, and a whole host of flattering Bookseller pieces about him, he knew that he had the luxury of kicking back for a bit.
There was a knock on his door then and Gwen poked her head around the door. She looked uncharacteristically nervous.
'Yes?' he said, determinedly not putting her at her ease.
'Um, I wondered if you'd read that manuscript I gave you?' she asked, twining one curl around her finger. She looked pretty today, Arthur noticed, then wondered where that thought had come from.
'Which one?' he said, knowing exactly which one, and knowing that it was still - four weeks on - sitting at the bottom of his drawers.
'The literary-commercial crossover set in Iowa in the 1940s,' she persisted.
'Don't remember it,' he shrugged.
'You do,' she said.
He turned back to his computer, 'Get me another coffee.'
'Seriously, Arthur, I have only ever given you four full manuscripts to read in the two years I've worked for you and all of them have ended up getting other agents,' she continued, a steely note in her voice that he ignored.
'Haven't read it, probably won't,' he said. 'Coffee.'
She strode over to his desk and rifled through the bottom drawer, locating the manuscript, pristine as it had been when she printed it a month ago. It was under some old filing and a box of condoms. She was so angry she could scream. She yanked it out, 'If you don't want it, I'll find someone else who does.'
She stalked out, slamming the door behind her and he raised his eyebrows at his computer screen. 'Women,' he muttered.
No one bothered him for the next few hours (apart from Gwen with his coffee. Which she had spat in. Again.). He went through the new book proposal from one of his TV historian clients, marking up changes, then spent twenty minutes on the phone, sweet-talking the non-fiction publishing director of Abinger's Sons into fast-tracking Ursula May's new cookbook to acquisitions the next week instead of waiting til the viewing figures came through for her latest TV show.
It was gone 12 o'clock when there was a knock on his office door again. 'Come in!' he bellowed, not bothering to look up. It was probably only Gwen again and he didn't want to see her reproachful face. It had made him feel a little guilty this morning, truth be told. He had meant to read the book. He knew she had good taste, but he also knew that if he let on how good she was he'd lose the best assistant he ever had and have to start over with someone new, whilst she got promoted. He couldn't let that happen.
'Hey,' it was Merlin. He sat himself down in Arthur's armchair - without invitation, Arthur noted - and smiled at him. His smile wasn't dazzling like Arthur's was, but something in it tugged at Arthur's chest, made him want to smile too. He didn't.
'Hi there,' Arthur said, stiffly, not really looking up from his screen. He knew he was being rude and petulant but he couldn't seem to stop.
'Thought I'd come and introduce myself. I've gone round the office saying hi to all the agents, and had a chat with all of the assistants...'
'Why?' Arthur blurted out, unable to help himself.
'Why what?' Merlin blinked his long-lashed eyes.
'Why did you chat to all the assistants?' Arthur couldn't fathom it.
'Because they're my colleagues,' Merlin looked quizzically at him. 'I want to get to know everyone.'
'Ah,' Arthur said, settling back in his chair, steepling his fingers on his chest, his signet ring glinting on his little finger. 'Aaaaah,' he started to smile.
Merlin just carried on looking quizzically at him, his head on one side.
'Well,' Arthur laughed, 'I can tell you not to bother with Gwen or Sadie or Camilla. They're completely frigid. Eloise and Gen are pretty fit though, Janey and Louisa are unknown quantities, and I reckon Charlotte would if you got her away from Oleander.'
'Sorry, I don't follow?' Merlin's eyes shut down, cold suddenly.
'Ah, just, y'know, thought you meant who was fun to flirt with,' Arthur toned it down suddenly, realising he'd read the situation all wrong.
'No,' Merlin said, shortly. 'I just meant I like to be friendly with everyone, no matter what their level is.' He looked away, as if he had been confronted with something deeply unpleasant. He sighed, shook his head, and Arthur felt a little sick at himself then, before forcing the feeling down. 'Gwen's great,' Merlin started again. 'She gave me a manuscript already. I've got to tell you - it's phenomenal.'
'My assistant has given you a manuscript?' Arthur asked, jolted.
'Yes,' Merlin shrugged. 'She said we only had it on exclusive for another three days and you said you were too busy for it. She asked me to take a look. Absolutely brilliant stuff - I'm goosebumping all over.'
Arthur may have said that he was too busy, but it didn't give Gwen the right to go behind his back and give it to Merlin.
'Well, good luck with it,' he said, nastily. 'But please do remember that Gwen is my assistant.'
'Oh of course,' Merlin said easily. 'Mine starts next Monday - she's coming with me from Charterhouse Wick. I've told Gwen what a good eye she has, though. The smile on her face when I said that. It's almost as if no one ever tells her how smart she is.' His tone was innocent. 'Everyone at CW has heard of Gwen, I heard Claire say a few times that she'd have an automatic job there if ever she went for one. Her contract negotiation skills are feared by publishers everywhere.'
Arthur's hands reached automatically for his stress-ball which he began kneading, taking calming deep breaths and looking around his bookshelves at all of his bestsellers to stop him telling Merlin to fuck off out of his office and to take his insinuations with him.
'Yes, well, she has learned from the best,' Arthur smiled, through gritted teeth.
'Sure,' Merlin said. 'You're one of the literary stars of the future, aren't you? You'll probably take over this Agency one day.'
'Probably,' Arthur agreed.
'I'm not a threat to you,' Merlin said, then, oddly. 'I'm here to help the Agency. We're both on the same team, you know? You do what you do best and I'll sort my way through the slush pile, bring on my fiction authors. We don't have to tread on each other's toes, yeah?'
'Yeah,' Arthur agreed. 'Fine.'
Merlin held out his hand. Arthur noticed his long fingers, the knobbly wrists poking out of his cuffs, the soft pale skin on the underside of his arms. He suddenly remembered where he'd seen Merlin before and felt breathless. He held his hand gingerly, shook it and sagged with relief when he turned and left.
It had been 18 months ago. Arthur had done far too many lines of coke in the toilets at a friend's party. He'd ended up in G-A-Y Late at 2am, looking hideously out of place in his trench-coat and bespoke suit, in his £500 shoes. He'd ogled the topless barmen and had done shot after shot of something hideously sugary. He wasn't gay. He wasn't. He liked women far too much for that. But sometimes he had urges for something harder, less complicated. Urges he would never admit to when sober.
He'd ended up pulling some stunning guy with dark hair and designer stubble, with huge arms and huge thighs. But the guy had got too pushy too soon and he'd lost interest and then the guy wouldn't leave him alone. A skinny black-haired guy with too-large ears had intervened, pushed the guy away, whispered something in his ear to make him shrug and put his hands up.
'You alright?' the guy had said, his long fingers stroking Arthur's wrist, his big blue eyes a picture of concern. He was as fucked as Arthur was, he could tell from his dilated pupils and his fast, shallow breaths.
'Yeah, thanks,' Arthur had said, and he distinctly remembered wanting to kiss that guy. To lick his cheekbones. To cover his mouth with his own and suck his tongue. But then he'd realised that he was going to vomit and shoved his way out the door, was sick in a doorway metres away. And he rolled into a cab still smelling of sick, gave the taxi driver more than he should have to shut him up, and slept til 4pm the next day.
He hadn't thought of that guy for weeks, months. Until now. Of all the people in publishing to find out Arthur's little secret, did it really have to be Merlin?
CHAPTER TWO
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: R now but will end up NC-17
Word count: This part 4,300.
Summary: Modern AU. Arthur Pendragon is the golden boy literary agent at Paterson & Oriel. But then Merlin Emrys, master of the slush-pile and all around fiction wizard is recruited. Arthur is a knob. Merlin is adorable. And then feelings happen.
Disclaimer: Merlin et al are not mine. The literary agents herein are in no way based on myself or my colleagues. Although we do have an office dog.
Arthur Pendragon was having a terrible day. No, scratch that, Arthur Pendragon was having a terrible week.
It had all started the previous Monday when the head of the Agency, literary guru Peter Paterson, had poked his head round Arthur's office door. Arthur was ignoring the fact that the beautiful sunshine was pouring in through the windows of his office, illuminating the expensive artwork dotted on the walls; that his beleaguered assistant Gwen had walked the fifteen minutes to Pain Quotidien to get him the soy latte with hazelnut and whipped cream that he favoured; and that his latest fuck-buddy had sent him a rather dirty email message detailing what she wanted to do with one of his silk ties that night. Arthur was too busy concentrating on constructing the most aggressive and obnoxious email to the head of PR at Ravenswood Publishing about the shocking state of their campaign for Jaime Jones's latest book. Poor Gwen would wince over it when she checked his emails later that night, long, long after he had gone out to do unspeakable things with his silk tie to Flora Dickson-Edgley.
'Arthur?' Peter hovered in the doorway, as if he wasn't the owner of the Agency and therefore owner of the souls of his employees.
Arthur looked up from his furious rant, anger still distorting his handsome features. 'Oh, sorry, was getting rather carried away by my own rhetoric there!' He ran a hand through his golden hair and pasted on his most dazzling smile. Peter coming by his office could only mean one thing: a pay-rise. And a not undeserved pay-rise at that, given the figures Arthur had been pulling in lately. He straightened his cuffs, twisting the mother-of-pearl cufflinks he always wore into place and rearranging his Savile Row jacket, before turning towards Peter. 'Please,' Arthur gestured to a seat and Peter ducked his head to come in, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Peter folded himself onto Arthur's sofa, his knees somewhere around his chin. Peter was famed for his lankiness, and his youthful complexion. It didn't matter how much he ate, how much he drank, or how many cigars he puffed away on, he always looked the picture of lean, tanned health. Were it not for his shock of white hair and the white mustache he obsessively cultivated, he could have passed for a much younger man. His outfit was - customarily - ridiculous. He was wearing a white suit, with a white shirt, and a white tie. The only colour about him was his tan - he'd just come back from the island retreat owned by one of his clients.
'So, Arthur... done any deals today?' he twinkled, flashing white teeth in a perma-tanned face.
'Ha ha. Ha. Erm,' Arthur tugged away his collar, suddenly feeling constricted of air. Peter always had this effect on him. It didn't matter how well he was doing; Peter always managed to say something to make Arthur feel like an assistant again. Not that Arthur had ever been an assistant, you understand, but the point still stood. He made him feel ill-prepared, and sweaty, and awkward. 'I closed a 3 book deal with Acorn Press for Simon Taylor last week,' he stuttered. 'For £300K,' he added hastily. 'And I've got three other proposals out on submission this week and-'
Peter chuckled, interjecting, 'I'm only teasing, Arthur. No one here doubts your commitment to your job, or the calibre of your clients.'
Arthur sagged with relief: this must be about a pay-rise then. He smiled at Peter, confidence back in place, 'I put a lot into Paterson & Oriel. I'm glad you've noticed.'
'Yes, I have noticed,' he said, consideringly. There was an awkward silence then, during which Arthur wracked his brains desperately for something to say, cursing himself inwardly. Arthur was famed for his smalltalk. At any industry event he could - and would - instantly scent the most important people in the room and absolutely charm them within minutes.
'This isn't just a social visit, Arthur,' Peter said eventually, unphased by the silence. Peter was renowned for his ability to put up with silence. It was one of his best negotiation tools. The publisher would tell him the offer and he would let the silence stretch and stretch until they would up it just to desperately make him say something. That technique had been responsible for the £1.2 million he'd got for the diaries of Thomas Wright, the infamously womanizing former Home Secretary. The publisher had started at 600k and it was sheer awkwardness alone that made them keep upping it until his twinkling voice broke the silence with, 'You have yourself a deal.'
'I wanted to be the first to let you know we have a new colleague starting on Monday,' Peter said, evenly, looking anywhere but Arthur.
'Oh,' Arthur frowned. He didn't give a shit that they had a new assistant starting. All the assistants did was scuttle round in the background, get the post, make coffees and answer the phones and occasionally, depending on how drunk they were, let him fuck them after the Christmas party. He smiled at the memory of the foreign rights assistant, Eloise, letting him do her in the toilets of Shoreditch House the year before last. She'd been impressively bendy, and her accent was hot.
'Yes, I know it's been a while since we had a new literary agent onboard but I really want some new blood about the place and-'
'Sorry?' Arthur frowned. 'Another literary agent?'
'Yes, a new literary agent,' Peter said, evenly, as if he was unaware of the importance of this statement. 'He's a literary wunderkind. There's something, hmm, magical about the touch this boy has...'
'He?' Arthur said, his voice strangled, his collar suddenly doing its best to strangle him once more.
'Yes,' Peter said, patiently. 'His name is Merlin, which I thought was rather amusing given that you are Arthur.'
Arthur's vision started to swim, 'Merlin Emrys?' he asked, as if Merlin was a common enough name that there could possibly be two literary agents called Merlin working at any one time in London.
'Oh you've heard of him then?' Peter smiled. 'He's been making quite the impression. Comes from a rather humble background and started out as publicity assistant of all things at Abinger's Sons before working his way up to commissioning editor. Left it all to be an assistant to Claire Charterhouse at Charterhouse Wick and was soon making his presence felt. She promoted him within the year. I started wining and dining him a year ago now.' He chuckled, 'The boy certainly is loyal, but money speaks, Arthur, as you well know, and a big payrise, a few perks and a long heart-to-heart with Claire and here he will be from Monday.'
'But... I don't... I'm not quite...' Arthur's famous charm deserted him once more, reduced to stumbling over sentences. He could see Gwen at her desk outside his office, frowning at him, obviously wondering why he was doing such a marvellous impression of a goldfish. 'Has my work not been good enough?' Arthur settled on, finally, getting up from behind his desk and starting to pace.
'Oh Arthur, that's not it at all,' Peter sighed, patting the sofa beside him.
'Because I brought in £175k in commission in 2010 and I'm projected to make over £200k this year too,' he said, clinging on to the figures like a drowning man to a raft.
'I know you did, and Oleander and I couldn't be more impressed. Truly, you're already a phenomenal agent at 30 - imagine where you will be in a few years.'
'Then why-'
'Why bring in another agent?' Peter asked, stroking his mustache thoughtfully. 'We have good reasons. You are very good at what you do, Arthur, very good indeed. Your non-fiction list goes from strength to strength each year but we need to diversify. Fiction is where the big money is and that doesn't seem to be where your strengths lie.'
'But fiction is so much slower,' Arthur blurted out. 'Sifting through the slushpile, making editorial notes, line-editing, sweating for months over a manuscript and then nine times out ten you don't sell it, or you sell it for an absolute pittance. Non-fiction is quicker, and more lucrative.'
'Oh sure,' Peter waved a dismissive hand, 'it's quicker. But more lucrative? Not if you get it right. Look at the Booker long-listed titles this year - two of them have TCMed over 600k apiece in the past six months. And the Orange Prize winner has sold two million. Those big brand name authors clock up huge advances and they get those books out there like clockwork. One a year, every year, big big six figure advances. And non-fiction? You can get a one-off success, do some big TV tie-ins sure, but it doesn't have the longevity. Good non-fiction takes years to research, you can't have that quick fiction turnaround.'
'Well my non-fiction brings the agency in a lot,' Arthur sniffed, put out.
'It certainly does, Arthur,' Peter agreed, patting his hand soothingly. 'And we all appreciate it. But we do need to grow our fiction list. You don't have the time to do it, that's for sure, which is where Merlin will come in. He's bringing his stable of fiction authors with him, and he'll be looking for those slushpile gems that you don't have the time to bring on.'
'Hmm,' Arthur allowed himself to be mollified slightly.
'I do hope you'll make him feel welcome, Arthur,' Peter said softly, although there was a steeliness behind his tone.
'Of course,' Arthur said, firmly. Whilst thinking 'I'll show that jumped-up little upstart who's boss.'
Peter shook his hand, 'Good lad.'
There was a knock on the door then. Camilla, Peter's assistant, poked her blonde head around the door. 'Your taxi's here Peter, come on, chop chop!'
Peter rolled his eyes at Arthur, 'I'm coming, I'm coming,' he said, making no move to leave.
Camilla physically entered the room then and grabbed him by his lapels, towing him behind her as he laughed. 'You know you've got a four o'clock with Roman Maubon at The Wolseley. And then you've got a five o'clock at Sharpwell's with their MD and you've already made me rearrange it three times so you really, really, cannot be late.' She thrust a folder at him, 'I've got your things and I'll call to check up on you,' she said sternly.
'What would I do without her?' Peter said to Arthur.
'Ha ha. Ha,' Arthur said. He hated Camilla. She was incredibly bossy and she never let him spy on Peter's diary, or give him gossipy titbits whenever he leaned over her desk trying to bully her into letting something slip.
Once the door was closed and Peter had gone Arthur felt like absolute shit. He was the bright young agent at Paterson & Oriel. He was the youngest agent they'd ever had and the only male agent besides Peter. Certainly the only young and good-looking male agent. He didn't want some ex-publicity assistant swanning in and charming everyone, flirting with the receptionist and bullying the assistants, abusing his expenses, taking his conquests to Soho House and lunching every young and good-looking female editor in London. Those were all his activities. He was the golden boy and he felt impossibly threatened. He vaguely remembered meeting Merlin at the RNA Awards last year. Arthur had gone, not because he represented any Romantic Novelists but because everyone knew that chick-lit authors were easy lays. Merlin had, he vaguely remembered, represented some awkward-looking middle-aged writer who had won the RNA New Writers' Scheme.
He had hazy memories of a dark-haired young-looking guy with bright blue eyes and the most ludicrous ears he'd ever seen.
There was only one thing to do when his mood was so bad, Arthur thought. He picked up his phone, dialled 115, 'Gwen?' he barked, after one ring when she picked up, never mind the fact that it would have been all of two paces for him to go and get her. 'Get in here, I want to go through your to-do list.'
'Let me grab my pad and I'll be right in,' Gwen said, in the same calm, even tones she always used. It just made him angrier; determined to see her break her cool for once.
'Get in here, NOW!' and he slammed the phone down, turning to stare out of the window, missing Gwen rolling her eyes at the other assistants, two of whom - Charlotte and Sadie - made the universal hand gesture for 'wanker'.
***
A week later and Arthur's mood had not improved one jot. The minute the lift pinged each morning and he strode out, impeccably turned out in his Gieves & Hawkes suit, their receptionist would ping an email round all of the assistants: 'The dickhead has landed.'
Genevieve, the receptionist, had slept with Arthur once, at the Summer party two years ago. He had never acknowledged that it had happened. This was foolish, considering Gen was in charge of the Agency switchboard and post. He often found his calls were 'dropped' and on one memorable occasion he had discovered urgent contracts for Chile languishing by her bin, when she had sworn blind they'd been Fed-Exed across right away.
'Good morning Arthur,' she sang out this Monday morning, flicking her auburn hair over her shoulder and giving him her glossiest smile. Everyone knew he was proper sore over Merlin joining which made her feel like rubbing it in. He was a selfish fuck, and an absolute shitbag to the lovely Gwen. 'Merlin's already arrived this morning. Bit of a looker if you ask me,' she winked.
'I didn't,' Arthur snapped, storming past her and into his office. 'Coffee!' he barked at Gwen.
'Good morning to you too,' she muttered under her breath before hurrying in to his office with her pad and pen. 'The staff meeting is starting early today. Everyone is gathering in the boardroom now,' she told him.
'And you didn't tell me this earlier, why?' he gritted out.
'Because we only just got told, Arthur,' she pointed out, reasonably.
'Coffee!' he yelled again, grabbing his moleskine notebook and fountain pen. 'And switch my computer on! And check my voicemails!'
He strode towards the boardroom, tripping over Morgana's cat in the process. 'For fuck's sake, Morgana!' he yelled.
Morgana, one of their actors' agents, appeared un-fussed, picking her white cat up unhurriedly and turning her supercilious smirk onto him. 'Bit put out about Merlin, are we?'
'No,' Arthur snarled.
'Ha,' she said, rubbing her chin over her cat's head. 'Well you certainly sound even-tempered and happy as ever and not at all like a spoiled little brat.'
Arthur had a love-hate relationship with Morgana. He'd known her since he was a little boy and they always seemed to end up doing the same things. They'd both gone to Oxford together, and then they'd both gone into agenting. He'd been horrified when she turned up at Paterson & Oriel with her cat Morgause in tow, a host of impossibly glamorous outfits, and an ability to make him constantly feel like he'd put his shirt on inside out. She also got on famously with Gwen, and watching them giggle together in the kitchen always made him extra mean. Last time he'd seen Morgana and Gwen come back from lunch together he'd sent Gwen out on a fool's errand to collect a non-existant confidentiality agreement from a publisher all the way in West London. He'd then sworn at her for an hour when she couldn't find it.
Gwen had spat in his tea every day for a month after that, but he wasn't to know.
'You coming in to meet Merlin then?' Morgana's fake-sweet smile turned his insides. 'I hear he's a bit of a looker.'
'Oh fuck off,' Arthur said.
'Witty as ever, Pendragon.'
'You two, stop bickering and get in here,' it was Oleander Oriel (real name 'Sarah Martin'), the other owner of the agency. She was all of five foot tall, her hair a shade of red never found in nature and had had so much plastic surgery done there was no way of knowing her real age. Her assistant, Charlotte, loitered behind her, carrying Puff the pug, a latte, Oleander's glasses, and two notepads.
'Come on Charlotte, stop straggling,' Oleander barked.
'I'll take that for you,' Morgana kindly intervened, relieving her of the latte and glasses.
'Thanks,' the long-suffering Charlotte smiled at her.
Gwen made it in just before Peter called the meeting to order, passing Arthur his coffee, a napkin, his schedule for the day and a spare pen in case the nib of his broke when he pressed down too hard in a rage.
Merlin, Arthur could see, was sat just behind Peter and Oleander. He definitely had met him before, Arthur thought. Not just at the RNA Awards but he couldn't quite place him... The sticking out ears were familiar, and his chinos and open-necked shirt were a world away from Arthur's sharp suits. No other agents dressed as smartly as Arthur, but he knew it made him stand out, he thought, perfecting his handkerchief in his pocket and straightening his lapels.
'Let's get to the most exciting news first,' Peter said, flashing everyone a grin. Today his suit was red corduroy with a yellow neckerchief. Just looking at him hurt Arthur's eyes. 'Merlin comes to us from Charterhouse Wick, where he has groomed countless slushpile authors into bestsellers and prizewinners. We're counting on him to make our fiction list one to be reckoned with, and to breathe some fresh air into our stuffy office!'
Morgana smiled lazily at Arthur, stroking her white cat in a manner reminiscent of Blofeld.
'And so I hope you will join with me and welcome our newest staff member to the agency. Merlin Emrys - I am sure we will see great things from you!'
Everyone in the staff meeting smiled and clapped. Arthur did too. But grudgingly.
The rest of the meeting was over quickly. The company website was being overhauled, there was some general chat about Frankfurt Book Fair, and the office manager Phil made some dull comment about not using as much headed paper. Merlin chanced a grin at Arthur halfway through. Arthur glowered back and rushed out of the meeting as soon as it ended, not bothering to hang around and make small-talk.
He quickly went through his emails - Gwen having flagged all of the important ones before filing the rest - and fired off two smutty notes to two of his conquests before forwarding some contract negotiations for Gwen to deal with. Arthur liked the fun of the deal, but always left the finer points to Gwen. Who gave a shit about boilerplates, or high discounts, or options on next works, when you could better spend your time taking long lunches and flattering away authors from their existing agents? Arthur was very good at his job. There was no doubt about that. He was charming, incredibly smart, ludicrously well-connected and with an unerring ability to always call whether an idea had legs or not. He hadn't got to where he was now without some hard graft. But now he had big-name clients, a relationship with some major TV production companies to do tie-ins for their slates, and a whole host of flattering Bookseller pieces about him, he knew that he had the luxury of kicking back for a bit.
There was a knock on his door then and Gwen poked her head around the door. She looked uncharacteristically nervous.
'Yes?' he said, determinedly not putting her at her ease.
'Um, I wondered if you'd read that manuscript I gave you?' she asked, twining one curl around her finger. She looked pretty today, Arthur noticed, then wondered where that thought had come from.
'Which one?' he said, knowing exactly which one, and knowing that it was still - four weeks on - sitting at the bottom of his drawers.
'The literary-commercial crossover set in Iowa in the 1940s,' she persisted.
'Don't remember it,' he shrugged.
'You do,' she said.
He turned back to his computer, 'Get me another coffee.'
'Seriously, Arthur, I have only ever given you four full manuscripts to read in the two years I've worked for you and all of them have ended up getting other agents,' she continued, a steely note in her voice that he ignored.
'Haven't read it, probably won't,' he said. 'Coffee.'
She strode over to his desk and rifled through the bottom drawer, locating the manuscript, pristine as it had been when she printed it a month ago. It was under some old filing and a box of condoms. She was so angry she could scream. She yanked it out, 'If you don't want it, I'll find someone else who does.'
She stalked out, slamming the door behind her and he raised his eyebrows at his computer screen. 'Women,' he muttered.
No one bothered him for the next few hours (apart from Gwen with his coffee. Which she had spat in. Again.). He went through the new book proposal from one of his TV historian clients, marking up changes, then spent twenty minutes on the phone, sweet-talking the non-fiction publishing director of Abinger's Sons into fast-tracking Ursula May's new cookbook to acquisitions the next week instead of waiting til the viewing figures came through for her latest TV show.
It was gone 12 o'clock when there was a knock on his office door again. 'Come in!' he bellowed, not bothering to look up. It was probably only Gwen again and he didn't want to see her reproachful face. It had made him feel a little guilty this morning, truth be told. He had meant to read the book. He knew she had good taste, but he also knew that if he let on how good she was he'd lose the best assistant he ever had and have to start over with someone new, whilst she got promoted. He couldn't let that happen.
'Hey,' it was Merlin. He sat himself down in Arthur's armchair - without invitation, Arthur noted - and smiled at him. His smile wasn't dazzling like Arthur's was, but something in it tugged at Arthur's chest, made him want to smile too. He didn't.
'Hi there,' Arthur said, stiffly, not really looking up from his screen. He knew he was being rude and petulant but he couldn't seem to stop.
'Thought I'd come and introduce myself. I've gone round the office saying hi to all the agents, and had a chat with all of the assistants...'
'Why?' Arthur blurted out, unable to help himself.
'Why what?' Merlin blinked his long-lashed eyes.
'Why did you chat to all the assistants?' Arthur couldn't fathom it.
'Because they're my colleagues,' Merlin looked quizzically at him. 'I want to get to know everyone.'
'Ah,' Arthur said, settling back in his chair, steepling his fingers on his chest, his signet ring glinting on his little finger. 'Aaaaah,' he started to smile.
Merlin just carried on looking quizzically at him, his head on one side.
'Well,' Arthur laughed, 'I can tell you not to bother with Gwen or Sadie or Camilla. They're completely frigid. Eloise and Gen are pretty fit though, Janey and Louisa are unknown quantities, and I reckon Charlotte would if you got her away from Oleander.'
'Sorry, I don't follow?' Merlin's eyes shut down, cold suddenly.
'Ah, just, y'know, thought you meant who was fun to flirt with,' Arthur toned it down suddenly, realising he'd read the situation all wrong.
'No,' Merlin said, shortly. 'I just meant I like to be friendly with everyone, no matter what their level is.' He looked away, as if he had been confronted with something deeply unpleasant. He sighed, shook his head, and Arthur felt a little sick at himself then, before forcing the feeling down. 'Gwen's great,' Merlin started again. 'She gave me a manuscript already. I've got to tell you - it's phenomenal.'
'My assistant has given you a manuscript?' Arthur asked, jolted.
'Yes,' Merlin shrugged. 'She said we only had it on exclusive for another three days and you said you were too busy for it. She asked me to take a look. Absolutely brilliant stuff - I'm goosebumping all over.'
Arthur may have said that he was too busy, but it didn't give Gwen the right to go behind his back and give it to Merlin.
'Well, good luck with it,' he said, nastily. 'But please do remember that Gwen is my assistant.'
'Oh of course,' Merlin said easily. 'Mine starts next Monday - she's coming with me from Charterhouse Wick. I've told Gwen what a good eye she has, though. The smile on her face when I said that. It's almost as if no one ever tells her how smart she is.' His tone was innocent. 'Everyone at CW has heard of Gwen, I heard Claire say a few times that she'd have an automatic job there if ever she went for one. Her contract negotiation skills are feared by publishers everywhere.'
Arthur's hands reached automatically for his stress-ball which he began kneading, taking calming deep breaths and looking around his bookshelves at all of his bestsellers to stop him telling Merlin to fuck off out of his office and to take his insinuations with him.
'Yes, well, she has learned from the best,' Arthur smiled, through gritted teeth.
'Sure,' Merlin said. 'You're one of the literary stars of the future, aren't you? You'll probably take over this Agency one day.'
'Probably,' Arthur agreed.
'I'm not a threat to you,' Merlin said, then, oddly. 'I'm here to help the Agency. We're both on the same team, you know? You do what you do best and I'll sort my way through the slush pile, bring on my fiction authors. We don't have to tread on each other's toes, yeah?'
'Yeah,' Arthur agreed. 'Fine.'
Merlin held out his hand. Arthur noticed his long fingers, the knobbly wrists poking out of his cuffs, the soft pale skin on the underside of his arms. He suddenly remembered where he'd seen Merlin before and felt breathless. He held his hand gingerly, shook it and sagged with relief when he turned and left.
It had been 18 months ago. Arthur had done far too many lines of coke in the toilets at a friend's party. He'd ended up in G-A-Y Late at 2am, looking hideously out of place in his trench-coat and bespoke suit, in his £500 shoes. He'd ogled the topless barmen and had done shot after shot of something hideously sugary. He wasn't gay. He wasn't. He liked women far too much for that. But sometimes he had urges for something harder, less complicated. Urges he would never admit to when sober.
He'd ended up pulling some stunning guy with dark hair and designer stubble, with huge arms and huge thighs. But the guy had got too pushy too soon and he'd lost interest and then the guy wouldn't leave him alone. A skinny black-haired guy with too-large ears had intervened, pushed the guy away, whispered something in his ear to make him shrug and put his hands up.
'You alright?' the guy had said, his long fingers stroking Arthur's wrist, his big blue eyes a picture of concern. He was as fucked as Arthur was, he could tell from his dilated pupils and his fast, shallow breaths.
'Yeah, thanks,' Arthur had said, and he distinctly remembered wanting to kiss that guy. To lick his cheekbones. To cover his mouth with his own and suck his tongue. But then he'd realised that he was going to vomit and shoved his way out the door, was sick in a doorway metres away. And he rolled into a cab still smelling of sick, gave the taxi driver more than he should have to shut him up, and slept til 4pm the next day.
He hadn't thought of that guy for weeks, months. Until now. Of all the people in publishing to find out Arthur's little secret, did it really have to be Merlin?
CHAPTER TWO