In The Name of Art

Harriet was walking fast toward Tottenham Court Road station in an effort to waste as little time as possible travelling. Although she had not volunteered herself for this task she was getting quite excited at the prospect of meeting him in person and hadn't argued at sacrificing her lunch break for the endeavour.

In truth it was the first errand she'd been given that actually seemed like a step towards publishing. Being the intern, she was mostly in the business of photocopying, making drinks, and taking notes. Being given the important task of collecting Daniel Weather's new manuscript directly from him felt like a real honour. If only she had known. It transpired that Daniel still lived in a modest flat in Lewisham. He owned the property, of course, but nonetheless Harriet thought it strange that the author of an international bestseller should live in an area which she considered rough. But she was new to London, so perhaps she misunderstood.

Harriet had by now perfected the mandatory card tap-in gesture on the tube with enough nonchalant gloom to pass as a native, but she still had to casually check the map on her phone if venturing off her usual routes. Before moving to the capital, she hadn't seen the need for a smartphone, but after a week of being treated like an unwelcome guest, she had succumbed to the 21st century must-have. Harriet hadn't a clue how she would pay for the bill but saw that as a mere formality. What was important was fitting in. She would take just two stops to Charing Cross and take the overground from there. Sorted.

Daniel Weather. What was he like in the flesh? She would soon find out and that was amazing. Of course she had read his first book, Falling Angels. In fact she had read it twice. It had been the book which had drawn her into being a writer herself. The way Daniel wrote was so honest. He told people what the world was really like and lifted the veil on reality. That was what one of the reviews on the back had said, at any rate, and Harriet had to agree.

Travelling out of the city, gazing up to the majestic buildings of commerce as she journeyed on, Harriet began to miss home. When she had left the small Suffolk town she grew up in missing it had been the last emotional response she had expected but, for all the ill feeling, the regret, the rejection; at least she could see the sea. And at least she could see her future.

Her phone's GPS took her to the address she had been given. Despite the overwhelming feeling that this meeting was written in the stars, she was not above thinking that it was an office prank, so she approached with some trepidation. Harriet pressed for the intercom.

"Hello?"

"Hello. Mr. Weather?"

"Yes. Well... who is it?"

"I'm Harriet... I'm from Axim. I've come to collect your manuscript."

"Right, well. I suppose you should come up."

She was in. Oh, the elation. How best to describe his voice? Difficult through the intercom, but gentle might work best she thought.

Climbing the stairs to Daniel's flat she tried to imagine what he looked like. She had seen pictures and watched interviews, and even queued outside Waterstone's to see him, but that was the public him. The suited booted made-up him. Today she would have the chance—however brief— to see the real him. The casual him, the private, homely him. Despite herself, she knew not to be too pushy or overbearing. After all, any bad moves could result in a complaint and that could lead to losing her job. Although the small wage wasn't enough to live on, she was lucky to have been selected and other companies made interns work for nothing at all, so she had to be thankful for something.

No. She wouldn't be pushy but she would take any chance to pick his brain and dig a little deeper.

At the top of the stairs she came to an open door. It was a panelled door painted chalky grey with a small brass plaque reading, 'Beware of the Damned.' She laughed. How witty, she thought, though in time she would see the joke as a little distasteful.

"Do come in," Daniel implored, all boyish and sweet.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Weather. May I take a seat?"

Daniel shot her the briefest of smiles before gesturing through the narrow hall to a large duel aspect room flooded with light and festooned with cushions and beanbags in a generically ethnic print.

"You may sit down," Daniel assured. "Can I make you some tea? or coffee? I have Fairtrade Ethiopian."

"I shouldn't trouble you too long. I'm due back with your book this afternoon."

"Now, they've been waiting months for this book, I'm sure another hour won't hurt."

Harriet laughed. "A coffee then, milk, no sugar."

She knew that what he had said wasn't true. The last deadline had passed weeks ago. Harriet remembered taking minutes for the meeting; they were furious with him. In truth, she suspected this business of having someone come out to collect it rather than using cloud sharing or the post like all the other authors was a ploy to gain yet more time. Little did Daniel know that the company kept low-paid interns on for just such eventualities. Could it be that this writer really only had one novel in him? Was it possible that said novel could be critically acclaimed; internationally popular; perhaps one of the best things written this century; and yet he had nothing left to say? Oh, she hoped not. With all of her being she hoped not. As a fan of his writing, she craved more. As an intern desperate to make it in the publishing industry, she needed this meeting to go well. As a writer herself, she needed to believe that someone could write what he had written and still have more in reserve. Otherwise what was the point of all this? She could have stayed in sleepy, coastal, backward Britain, worked in a supermarket, got a house, a husband, had kids. But she had rejected all of that—or maybe it rejected her—on the basis that her dreams were possible. People like Daniel, young, talented, successful people, had made her believe that was so. Yet suddenly it felt like the veneer was about to crack, that she had given up her previous life for a lie. A lie which could see her out of a job, out of a home, out of London and perennially out of touch.

Daniel came back through with two cups.

"Have you read my last book?"

"Yes. I couldn't get enough. I've high hopes for the next one."

Daniel smiled. Harriet smiled. Neither of them were happy.