Sarah - tall, strikingly beautiful and the first person I see every morning when I walk into the office, already at her desk, crouched over her computer screen where I fear they keep her chained over the weekend, has touchingly introduced me to one of her best friends - a man who works around the corner.
We exchanged a few emails and arranged to meet when I come back from Morocco. He suggested a bar nearby where, about ten years ago, I once arrived early to meet my now ex-husband, and found him sitting in a club chair waving around a cigarette.
Until then, I hadn't known he smoked.
I was wondering how we would recognise each other given that I apparently don't know the most basic details about men with whom I've raised children and owned goldfish, and he suggested that he would carry a copy of a book written by one of his authors, and that I should bring the White Tiger.
How Bloomsbury can you get? I can just see the ad in the London Review of Books personals.
Aspiring author seeks literary gent for mutual neuroses.
I thought it was sweet, though a tad risky, perhaps, to rely on carrying a book in this neighbourhood as a means of recognition. If you go to the Coach and Horses any lunchtime every second man has a hardback in his hand. (That sounded better in my head - vaguely obscene when you write it down.) Horrible memories of meeting the bald French photographer in the coffee shop in South Kensington came back when I turned up to discover that every man in the place was bald, and two of them had cameras, plus they were all French since I'd stupidly chosen the Institut Francais.
I shuddered inwardly as I pictured myself mincing around the bar in the high heels that vanity would dictate I wore, walking up to one man after another saying: 'Oh you must be... Ah, no - The Clothes on her Back - sorry, my mistake.'
I quickly reacquainted myself with the cover of the book by Googling it and then, once it was committed to memory - got on with my busy, busy morning. I've since realised that I could more simply have Googled the man himself. He's there. Talking, even. I should have done my research.
Mel, our intern had brought in a box of chocolates to thank us for graciously letting her work for free and do all the jobs that nobody else wanted to do, and the lovely glossy package was 'in the usual place' - ie beside the franking machine which I assure you is the only time any of the Chiefs ever go near it - I swear they think its function is in some way linked to dispensing chocolate biscuits. This, of course, meant that much of my work that morning involved weighing a great many unnecessary envelopes and walking past the postbag on numerous occasions. It was a very large box of truffles and it seemed only fair to sample all the different varieties.
Ah - if only those people with the 2:1 in English from regional universities who are so keen to work for nothing in publishing knew that the real way to ingratiate themselves was to buy confectionary. To hell with all the 'passionate about books' stuff (and while we're on the subject, do yourselves a favour with your superior 2:1 command of English literature chaps and chapettes and come up with something different because everybody says that - it's about as original as Hugh Heffner saying he loves women and no woman wants to loved simply because of her mammaries - I fear the books feel the same).
I cut through the slush pile with a letter knife - it's like a slasher film but with a stapler, sent out a couple of proof copies, gave Mel a few really important jobs to do (believe me, if I'm delegating tasks then you can only imagine the depths to which the heroic girl is sinking) when a messenger came in: a white Rasta with dreads in a tall crustie hat who flushed with annoyance when I asked him who the packages were for. He looked at the address labels and clammed up, then refused to meet my eye as he threw them at my desk. It only occurred to me later that perhaps the poor guy couldn't read. It would be tasteless to suggest that he would be ideally placed to manage the slush pile and, in my defence, just to point out that I've done lots of literacy work over the years, the slush pile not being one of them. That would be an oxymoron.
Next a rep came in for a meeting with the sales team, Penguin New Zealand were passing by later, a large delivery of boxes arrived in reception, and just as I was padding past the franking machine for the Chocolate Cappuccino Cream with Crepes (bizarre but delicious) in my stocking feet, falling out of my dress which was askew from wrestling with the recycling, my hair waving angrily all over the place like a mob of Islamic fundamentalists at a rally, another man walked into the office, handed me a parcel then backed out wearing an alarmed and bemused expression.
Fifteen minutes later - Ping - an email arrived.
It was from lovely friend and said: 'I think we’ve already met. I just handed you a package for Sarah. '
Dear Lord of Lard.
At any rate, I don't suppose I need to carry a copy of White Tiger any more. I'm guessing my hair will be enough of a distinguishing feature. If he hasn't entered the witness protection program by then.
