Improper English Read online

  I thought about our near kiss the other night and heaved a sad sigh. It was just a shame he wasn’t interested in helping me research a love scene. It was a damned shame. It was more than a damned shame, it was positively heartrendingly tragic…I frowned at a pair of cotton shorts I was in the act of pulling on. How did I know he wouldn’t like a little fling? Isabella said he wouldn’t, but what did she know? She wasn’t here when he was sucking my finger! Maybe she was projecting her own possessive feelings about him. Why did I assume she knew what Alex was thinking?

  “Give me one good reason why I should listen to her!” I demanded of my flat.

  Nothing answered me back. That’s the problem with living alone without even a plant to talk to, you feel like a nutter when you talk to inanimate objects like chaises and books.

  “I feel like an idiot talking to nothing. I really need to get a plant or a goldfish or something,” I said, then paused as I reached for my shoes.

  “I had a plant,” I informed the sandals. They looked surprised at that information. “But someone took it. Why, I think I’ll just go get my plant back from Mr. Friendly Policeman.”

  My right shoe thought it was an excellent plan, but the left shoe pointed out that the last time I saw Alex I had not only sworn at him, I had also struck him in the chest.

  “You’re right,” I told the shoe. “You’re abso-bloodylutely right. I owe him an apology, don’t I? So maybe I should whip up a dinner for two as an apology? A romantic dinner that could also serve to see if he’s interested in furthering Anglo-American relations with a bit of how’s your father?”

  It sounded good to me, and an examination of the sole cookbook in Stephanie’s bookcase provided me with a chicken and olives dish that looked possible to make in the tiny kitchen, so I sat down to write Alex an invitation to dinner. I started off to stick the note in his door, but decided halfway up the stairs that my apology demanded a grand gesture. I ran down to a flower shop a few blocks away and asked for a small bouquet.

  “What kind of arrangement would you like?” the woman in the shop asked.

  “Something manly,” I said, looking at a pretty offering in purple and blues.

  “Manly?”

  I smiled at the note of uncertainty in her voice. “If you were a man, what sort of flowers would convey an apology to you?”

  “Oh.” She gave me a sympathetic smile. “Roses are always nice. Very romantic, too.”

  We agreed that white was more masculine than red, so I had her wrap up a dozen white roses, and took them home. I left them in front of Alex’s door with my invitation to dinner tucked inside, and then went back downstairs to look over my story.

  Two hours later I trotted off to a local cyber café with my manuscript on disk. When Isabella had asked earlier during lunch if I had an agent, it occurred to me that I was now living in a veritable hotbed of agents, and it would be idiotic to ignore such a fabulous resource right at my doorstep. A couple of hours spent online resulted in a list of London-based agents; a little more time in front of a photocopier, and I had five copies of the first three chapters of my epic tome in my hot little hands. I started calling agents the minute I got back to my flat.

  “North Mills Literary Agency.”

  “Hi, my name is Alix Freemar, and I’ve got a story I think would really sell.”

  “Send us a query letter and an SAE,” a bored, adenoidal voice said, and then hung up.

  “Well! Screw North Mills,” I muttered to myself and crossed out their name. I picked up the phone and tried the next number.

  “Madelyn Gregory Associates.”

  It can’t be said that I don’t learn from my mistakes.

  “Hi! I was wondering what the procedure is to submit a book to an agent.”

  “Genre?” The person on the other end of the phone didn’t sound too interested, but at least she didn’t tell me to send in a query letter and hang up on me.

  “Genre? Oh, it’s a historical romance.”

  “Margaret Hendricks is taking romance and women’s fiction clients. You may address your query to her.”

  “Oh. You mean query as in a query letter?”

  “Yes.” The voice was getting a bit snippier now. Don’t people have any patience these days?

  “Isn’t there some way that I can just meet with Ms. Hendricks and tell her about my story? I’m here in London, staying for a few months while I research the book.” Yes, yes, I was stretching for Brownie points, but it couldn’t hurt to point out just how dedicated a writer I was. “I’m from Seattle.”

  “Mrs. Hendricks only meets with clients by appointment.”

  “But—”

  “Be sure to include an SAE if you want a response. Goodbye.” Click.

  “Fine,” I snarled at the phone, and pushed up the sleeves of my thin cotton blouse. “You wanna play hardball, I’ll play hardball.”

  An hour later I was the proud possessor of two appointments—the first for that afternoon (never let it be said that moss grows under my feet) the second three weeks away. I was a bit surprised I managed an appointment for that very day, but I wasn’t about to question my luck. Instead, I perused my wardrobe to find an outfit that shouted AUTHOR, but alas, I didn’t have a tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbow, so I settled for a pair of ivory linen pants, a garnet-colored blouse, and to show I was of an artistic bent, a colorful scarf knotted around my waist as a belt.

  I even splurged on a taxi, since I didn’t want to arrive at the Tully Literary Agency and Editorial Service sweaty from walking the half mile from the nearest tube stop. I was early as usual, and ended up sitting in the waiting area watching a dark-haired woman type industriously for a half hour before I was ushered in to the office of Maureen Tully, Literary Agent.

  “Alexandra Freemar?”

  “Hi,” I said, covertly wiping the palm of my right hand on my thigh. There’s nothing quite so off-putting as a damp, humid handshake.

  The small, light-haired woman behind a huge desk rose and came around the side to shake my hand. She was short, coming up to my armpit, and had eyes an odd, washed-out shade of blue. Her stature was the only thing about her that was unimpressive, however—she waved me into a wooden chair and started pelting me with rapid-fire questions in a forceful and no-nonsense voice.

  “How long have you been writing?”

  “Me? Oh, well, that’s kind of hard to say. I started writing stories as a kid—”

  “Is your story complete?”

  I blinked at the interruption. “Um…not quite.”

  She tightened her lips and returned to the plush chair behind the behemoth desk, looking a lot like a kid sitting in her daddy’s office—until she pinned me back with the steely force in those pale eyes. “How much do you have done?”

  “Oh…um…it’s at about ninety pages, but I have—”

  “What’s the storyline?”

  I fought the urge to tell her to give me a frigging chance to speak. “It’s about a woman and the two men she’s in love—”

  “It would never sell,” Maureen said, lighting up a cigarette and quickly batting the blue smoke away. “What other stories do you have?”

  I coughed a delicate little cough into my shoulder. Smoke brings out my asthma, and I could already feel my bronchial tubes swelling up and slamming shut. “That’s it, I don’t have any—”

  She leaned forward and peered at the envelope on my lap. “Do you have sample chapters with you?”

  I coughed again. She waved at the smoke but didn’t bother to open a window.

  “Yes, I have three,” I said quickly, determined to get a whole sentence out before my eyes started streaming and I began to wheeze like an elderly pug.

  She held out her hand. “Good, let me see them.”

  I handed them over and took a moment to cough into my shoulder again. The room was thick with stale smoke, and I could feel it soaking into my clothes as I watched her read the first couple of pages, reaching blindly for a red pen
as she read. I made a mental note to haul the clothes I was wearing to the cleaners as soon as I got home, and gave myself up to watching the expression on the agent’s face as she perused my literary masterpiece. My delight soon turned to horror as she slashed and hacked her way through the rest of the first chapter. With a final grunt, she made a notation, then set the pages down and leaned back to give me narroweyed consideration.

  “It’s not bad,” she said at last, surprising me out of my stupor. I immediately stopped vindictively picturing what her lungs must look like and brightened at the praise. “It shows promise, but needs work, quite a bit of work. Many authors are afraid of revision—are you one of them, or can you take an edit and turn your book into a best-seller?”

  I clutched the empty envelope to keep from doing a victory dance right there. It wasn’t bad! It had promise! It could be a best-seller! “Oh, I am happy to revise. I know it’s not perfect, and I’m more than willing to make whatever changes you think are—”

  “Good.” She stubbed out her cigarette and riffled through an open drawer. “Sign all three pages. The top copy is yours.”

  “Um…” I looked at the papers she shoved across the desk at me. “What’s this?”

  “Standard contract,” she said, and rustled around in another drawer, then pulled out a receipt book. “You pay the edit fee in advance. Three hundred pounds.”

  I dropped the contract and stared at her. I had a horrible suspicion my mouth hung open at her words. “Three hundred pounds? Edit fee? I don’t understand, I thought agents take their fees out of the money the book makes.”

  She lit another cigarette and nodded. “That’s right. Fifteen percent. That doesn’t include the editing fee. Your book needs editing—you’d pay more if you went to an editing service. I make my editing expertise available to my clients, so they save money. It takes up a good deal of my time, but I believe in supporting my clients, not using them as a mean to an ends.”

  I was ashamed of my parsimonious ways and my plebeian suspicions. “Sure, I can understand that, I just wasn’t expecting…”

  She gave me a gimlet-eyed look and took a long drag on her cancer stick, but didn’t say anything when my voice trailed away helplessly.

  I glanced at the contract. I tried to think of everything I had read about finding an agent. I thought about the stories I’d heard about how hard it was to find an agent. What was I doing acting squeamish about paying to have my work edited, if it meant I’d have an agent going to bat for me? It wasn’t as if I was paying for nothing, after all—I would be getting something in return.

  “OK, so, if I pay you the three hundred pounds, you’ll edit my book and then try to sell it?”

  “I will sell it,” she promised, stabbing at the air with her red pen. “My success rate is very high, even with unknown authors.” She leaned forward in her chair again. I uncrossed my legs and shifted uncomfortably in my chair, hoping she wouldn’t notice I’d moved back when she waved the cigarette toward me. “I like you, so I’ll be honest with you. I don’t take on many new clients, I’m too busy with the ones I have. But your voice struck a chord with me instantly, and I pride myself on my snap judgments. I’ll sign you, edit your book, and sell it for you, but I expect you to have confidence in me and the job I do.”

  I hesitated for a few seconds—£300 was a lot of money, and ate significantly into my budget. I gnawed on my lip as I debated waiting until I saw the second agent three weeks hence, and then gave myself a mental shake. I was being an idiot! I was throwing away my big chance to have an agent! To hell with caution, my sister Cait always said; success comes to those who take the bull by the balls. I snatched the pen out of Maureen’s fingers and signed all three contracts.

  “I’ve got the confidence in you if you have it in me,” I said, reaching for the travel neck pouch hidden under my blouse. She smiled and sat back, watching me, a strange light in her pale blue eyes.

  “Are traveler’s checks OK?”

  I couldn’t wait to tell someone, anyone, about my good fortune, and as luck would have it, when I toddled back home the first person I told wasn’t Isabella, or Alex, or even Ray or Philippe. As I was unlocking my door, I could hear the phone ringing inside. I thought it might be Alex, too shy to accept my offer of dinner face to face, so I flung myself across the room, grabbing the phone as I went down on one knee, acquiring a doozy of a rug burn in the process.

  “ ’Lo,” I said, sitting on the floor and rubbing the injury gingerly.

  “Alix? I’m glad you answered, I was about to hang up. This is Karl.”

  I looked at my leg critically. Knees aren’t the prettiest of spots to begin with, but mine had definitely taken a turn for the worse with the rug burn, and it stung like the dickens.

  “Hi, Karl. What can I do for you?”

  “It’s more along the lines of what I can do for you. I was wondering if you’d like to go to Windsor on Saturday. We could make a day of it, if you’d like, and see Hampton Court as well. I think you’ll find I’m a rather good tour guide—I read history before I decided to become a dentist.”

  O-o-oh, touristy things! Karl may leave me feeling a bit cold sexually speaking, but I wasn’t one to turn down a chance to go sightseeing, especially with a man who had an interest in history. I accepted with alacrity, assured him I was over the trauma of losing several inches of hair, and managed to steer the conversation in the direction I wanted.

  “How is your writing going?” he asked politely. I knew he probably wasn’t really interested—he certainly hadn’t expressed any interest in it during the ill-fated dinner—but I was bubbling over with glee about my agent coup and couldn’t resist sharing my news.

  “It’s going very well, thank you. As a matter of fact,” I said, “I just signed with an agent today.”

  “An agent? You must be very pleased.”

  I tried to tone the smug factor in my voice down to a tolerable level. “Oh, it’s just an agent, you know, not a big deal at all. I still have to finish the book. She has high hopes for it, though.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do fine. Shall we say nine, then?”

  We agreed on the place and time, and I hung up feeling very happy. Everything was falling into place for me at last! England was turning out to be the promised land: I had an agent who was going to whip my story into shape, I had a tour guide who promised me he knew all of the fabulous historical spots around the town of Windsor, and I had formulated an intricate plan for the seduction of Alex. An agent, sightseeing, and sex—what more could a girl want?

  I was still mulling over my good fortune when I answered a knock at my door.

  “Alex!” I said with delight when I saw who was standing there. My welcoming smile quickly evaporated under the grim green-eyed stare he leveled at me. He thrust a familiar-looking bouquet of roses into my hands. I stared at them stupidly, then looked up when he spoke.

  “I’m not in the habit of accepting flowers,” he said frostily. I glanced down at his feet to see if the ice cubes dripping off each word were piled up there. “I am unable to accept your invitation to dinner as well. Thank you. Good night.”

  He turned around to leave when my brain finally kicked into gear.

  “Alex, wait!” I grabbed his arm and held on as he tried to walk away. He looked down at my hand like it was something offensive. “If you can’t make it tomorrow night, we can do it Sunday. Or another night, I’m easy.”

  His gaze touched mine for just a second, but the fury in it was enough to send me reeling backwards a few steps.

  “You know, you’re not being very polite,” I said as he walked toward the stairs.

  “On the contrary, I believe I’m being quite polite.” He didn’t even turn around when he said it, he just kept going up the stairs.

  “Oh, really? Where I come from it’s not considered nice to turn down someone’s apology.”

  He stopped at that, and half turned toward me, a pale shadow blending in to the dark of the landing behind
him. I couldn’t help but wonder how he could stand to wear a suit in this warm weather.

  “The flowers.” I waved them at his silent figure. “They were my way of apologizing for calling you a bastard. I thought you were going at it with Isabella, you see. I didn’t know you weren’t.”

  He turned a fraction more toward me. “Going at it with Isabella?”

  I took a little step toward him, certain that if I moved too quickly he’d dart away like a startled deer. “Yeah, I thought you two were…uh…intimately acquainted.”

  He didn’t move a muscle, didn’t even blink. I took another step forward and slowly held out the flowers. “That’s why I said what I did—I thought you were flirting with me right under Isabella’s nose. So would you please accept the flowers? And my apology for what I said?”

  He turned to face me briefly, then suddenly shook his head and started back up the stairs. “I accept your apology, but not the flowers.”

  Damn the man! Why was he making it so bloody hard? He obviously had his knickers in a twist over the whole stupid event. Fine, if he wanted to have his ego massaged, I’d massage it.

  “It’s just flowers, Alex, not a proposal of marriage!” I yelled as I marched up the stairs after him. He stopped in mid flight and frowned down at me. I continued to move up toward him.

  “I don’t like flowers.” If his words were any more frigid, I could keep a side of beef in the stairwell.

  “God, you are the single most obstinate man I’ve ever met,” I said loudly, shaking the roses at him. Several petals fell, but we both ignored that to glare at each other. “Take the damn things, will you? I feel like an idiot chasing you down, begging you to take them. They’re yours, I bought them for you!”

  “I don’t want them,” he snapped and started back up the stairs. I grabbed the tail of his suit coat and held on.

  “You’re taking them, you pigheaded boob!” I shook the flowers at him again and tried to shove them into his hands. Petals scattered like snowflakes. “Put them in water, sprinkle them in your bed, make a stew out of them, I really don’t care what the hell you do with them, but you’re taking them!”