The editor’s on the third floor. His editor’s on the seventh floor, and the scheduler is on the eighth floor, but in the other wing of the building. I have to see the scheduler to arrange for the editor to read my manuscript, but first I have to visit his editor (that’s the one on the seventh floor) to find out when he has “capacity.” Then the scheduler will contact my editor to work out when he can check my last draft, and when he needs the next one. She can’t contact the editor’s editor because that’s the job of her scheduler, who’s been pinched by the marketing team in order to arrange for the bookmarks to come out in advance of the book. She’s still grouchy about it and HR don’t have time to get a replacement as they’re understaffed. She’s doing me a favour in even seeing me.
“Baskin has time on July the third, 2022”—That’s 18 months away. What am I going to do until then?—“but we need to lock it in with him now.” I keep my voice neutral, there’s no point in getting her back up.
“I don’t have time in July,” she says.
“That’s okay, it’s only me he needs to see. And I’m free.”
She sighs. “As per company memo dated…” She taps at her computer. She ignores the ringing phone. She ignores me. “…17 June 2020: ‘the scheduler may decide that their presence is required at author-editor meetings to ensure scheduled meetings are for the purpose for which they were scheduled.’”
“But what else what I be scheduling it for?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “But what are you going to be doing until then?”
“I don’t know.” I think. “Working,” I say.
She gives me a look. “I can do September,” she says.
“I asked about other dates while I was there. He told me July was the only window. Look, I can record the meeting for you. I just want to get my book out. It’s been—“
“We all want to get your book out, Mr Harlowe. That’s why we need to make sure everything is locked in. You’re hardly earning your advance running from one office to another. F_____ Publishing is carrying you and has been for quite some time. I can assure you we are most keen to see some return on our investment.”
“What if I helped out as an assistant? Between writing.”
“Oh, nice try,” she says. “Don’t think I haven’t heard that before.” Her mood is restored. “Now run back to Mr Baskin and ask again about September. If not 2021, then perhaps 2022.”
“2022?”
“Or 2023. Really, you’re wasting time. Hurry before the window closes.”
I walk back to Mr Baskin to find out if he will have time to see me in two-and-a-half years, so we can start editing my manuscript. The sun is hazy in the walkway between the two wings of F_____ Publishing. It’s cold outside and people scurry past on the street. It must be Christmas soon, and I allow myself to imagine that they’re all rushing back from the bookstore, eager to open the book they just bought. It’s got my name on it. An idle fantasy to cheer myself up. F_____ Publishing is still quite some way away from that. In the meantime, I help edit other manuscripts. Anything to help the editors get through the slush pile. And the scheduler is right. I’m not earning my money back. At least I’m helping out. Since the advance disappeared, I live in one of the dormitories where the authors live. I give myself a shake and keep walking. I’m glad I’m not outside, anyway. It looks cold, though I can’t remember what cold air on skin feels like. My reflection in the glass has grey in its hair.
