The Immaculate Read Online Free PDF Page B

around. Shout if you need anything.”
    Someone arrived with a proof copy of Jack’s second novel,
Song of Flesh.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
    The girl looked a little alarmed, as if Jack had accused her of stealing. “From a secondhand bookshop in Huddersfield,” she said so quietly that he almost had to read her lips.
    Someone else, who bought three copies of
Splinter Kiss
and wanted them inscribed “To Denise/Hilary/Sharon with big sloppy kisses, Jack Stone,” (as the guy had forked out almost forty quid, Jack complied) asked, “Any chance of seeing
Consummation
or
Song of Flesh
as a film?”
    Jack shrugged. “I think
Consummation
would be hard to realise on screen.
Bleeding Hearts
has been optioned, though, so it’s fingers crossed for that one.” When the guy screwed up his face as though he’d been eating a lemon, Jack said, “That doesn’t appeal?”
    â€œNah. I thought
Bleeding Hearts
was a piece of shit. But it was only your first novel, so that’s okay.”
    At twenty past two Tamsin moved to Jack’s side, leaned over and said into his ear, “I think it would be best if we cut the queue off at the last person now. There’s still quite a lot of fans outside. What do you think?”
    Jack said, “Well, as long as everyone who’s out there gets their books signed.”
    â€œThey will, don’t worry.” She glanced at her watch. “I mean, we’re going to overrun as it is.”
    He shrugged. “Okay, if you think it’s best,” but he didn’t like the thought of people turning up at 2:25 and being turned away. Maybe some of them had left the office for lunch at two and had rushed across town to get here. The thought of being considered inaccessible or aloof dismayed him, but he was beginning to realise how some celebrities, particularly the more successful ones, could gain such a reputation.
    â€œI’ll tell the gorilla on the door,” said Tamsin. “What’s his name? Rambo?”
    â€œBrian, believe it or not. Please make sure he doesn’t start throwing his weight about, though, if people get tetchy. I don’t want them to think he’s associated with me.”
    â€œRelax,” said Tamsin. “And start thinking about yourself. You’re doing people a favour here, you know—meeting the public, signing their books.”
    â€œIf they didn’t buy the books I wouldn’t be here in the first place,” he replied.
    He signed his final book at 2:45; Pete announced with obvious delight that they’d sold sixty-two hardbacks, then he and Tamsin went for lunch at Nafees, an Indian restaurant on Denmark Street where Jack had arranged to meet Gail.
    She was not there when they arrived, though Jack had told her 2:40. He hoped she hadn’t gone off in a huff because they were late; sometimes she had a very short fuse, and Jack knew she often felt second-best to his work. He’d told her he loved her and that there was no one in the entire world he’d rather be with. But he loved his work too: writing was an obsession with him, a necessity. Success was simply a wonderfully fortuitous consequence. Even if Jack was making no money at all, still collecting rejection slip after rejection slip like in the old days, he would continue to write.
    The restaurant was colourful but tasteful: Indian fabrics and paintings on the wall, the suggestion of sitar music in the background. A soft-spoken waiter in a maroon suit and bow tie led them between affluent-looking city people to their table.
    In the three years that Tamsin had been at Cormorant, Jack liked to think they had become friends. However, beyond their professional relationship, Jack realised he knew very little about her. She sometimes mentioned a boyfriend, though Jack had never heard her call him by name. She had also mentioned visiting her parents in Ipswich, but Jack did not know if