didn't slam cans into place. Long before he'd finished, the whole of him was as hot as the girls had made his face, not to mention as prickly as the pear Tamara had accused him of resembling. It took him most of an hour to restore the shelves to their earlier state. He stood back at last and closed his eyes, and thought he'd done so for at most a few moments when Justin said 'Do you know what you're doing now?'
Hugh opened his eyes to find he didn't know which side of the aisle he had been working. The discordant colours of the tins seemed to clamour in his head. He felt as if his stomach had given way, or the ground beneath him had. Perhaps his confusion was evident, unless Justin lost all patience. 'Clear this,' he said, snatching a can of spaghetti off a shelf behind Hugh and planting it on the floor, 'and bring everything round from the back.'
That couldn't go wrong, Hugh vowed, and set about emptying the shelf. He didn't notice when he was left alone, perhaps because he still felt watched. Surely that was only a symptom of his fear of making another mistake. The girls had confused him, and then Ellen had distracted him – some aspect of her call had. He mustn't think about that now; he had to concentrate on his task. All that mattered was not to forget which shelves he was turning back to front. There was no room for anything else, especially imagination, in his mind. Just now the job was his life.
NINE
As the doors of the lift drew shut a hand stayed them. It was Glen's. 'More coming,' he said as he stepped in. 'Make room.'
He wasn't speaking to Charlotte. He seemed not to have noticed her at the back. She would have thought the lift was full, despite the notice claiming that it held twelve people. Two secretaries dutifully retreated, backing her into a corner, and a pair of editors joined the crowd. The lift was unquestionably packed now; what was it waiting for? If it was overloaded she wouldn't mind taking the next one. Then the doors lumbered together, so sluggishly that they could have been admitting someone else.
Of course they hadn't. There were just eleven people – no, twelve including Charlotte. It cost her some seconds to count the immobile backs of heads and the equally inexpressive profiles beside her, but apparently that wasn't long enough to stir the lift. Was it stuck? Should she ask, since everybody else seemed to be ignoring its paralysis? No, it was sinking at last, and in a few seconds – more precisely, twenty or so – she would be out of the windowless cage, out of the surreptitious light as grey as the walls. Meanwhile she was reduced to watching the secretive heads, which she could have fancied were determined to overlook some intruder, staring resolutely forwards while he wormed across the floor. The notion was so grotesque that she refused to look down, to establish that no face was grimacing up at her. Nobody was there, either in the lift or under it – nobody was dragging it downwards so lethargically that the air befogged by the light would be used up before they ever reached the basement. Her companions hadn't stopped moving because they were unable to breathe; they weren't about to topple against her, pinning her in the corner. They were swaying only because the lift had shuddered to a halt, although the doors weren't opening. Was it between the floors? Charlotte took a shallow effortful breath so as to wonder aloud, and then the doors crept apart, revealing the underground corridor. The foremost rank of passengers stepped forwards, and as she succeeded in drawing more breath the people in front of her gave her some room. By the time they reached the doors she was almost treading on their heels.
She had never been so conscious of how much the lockers narrowed the corridor. Even the extensive office felt pressed smaller by the ceiling, and once she was seated the partitions that surrounded the desks took away more spaciousness. She was trying to concentrate on opening the day's envelopes and packages as she saw Glen return to his compartment. 'Morning, Glen,' she said and turned her wave into fanning herself. When he looked at best puzzled she said 'Too many of us in a box.'
'Everyone's important here. We all have to get to work. I don't believe anyone else had a problem.'
'I won't again,' Charlotte promised herself more than him. 'I wouldn't mind a bit more elbow room on our way upstairs, though.'
'Not much chance we'll be alone in there,' he said and wheeled his chair over. 'We'd better talk now.' As she turned her chair towards him in the flimsy alcove he murmured 'I'd have called you if I had your number.'
'Shall I give it to you now?'
'You can if you like,' he said and rested a hand on her arm, but only for a moment. 'You may not want to. Let me tell you first of all you've got a knack for pitching projects.'
'Well, thank you.'
'I've seen you do it upstairs but I guess I never appreciated just how good you were.'
'Thank you twice.'
'But I've been thinking over the weekend, I don't believe even you can sell your cousin's book upstairs by yourself.'
'Then it's a good job I won't be trying, yes?'
'You won't.' This was close to a question, and so was 'You've decided to wait till she sends us some rewrites.'
'No, I mean I'm glad I'll have your support up there today.'
Glen inched his chair towards Charlotte. 'What did you say to her?' he said in a low voice. 'You didn't tell her it's bought.'
'I wouldn't before it is.' Charlotte was starting to feel penned in. 'I might have implied that with both of us behind it we shouldn't have much of a problem,' she admitted.
'Yeah, well, that could be one.'
'I don't think I follow.'
Glen clamped his hands to his thighs and leaned so close that Charlotte smelled harsh coffee on his breath. 'Are you trying to make this as hard as you can?'
She didn't retreat, not least since there was very little room. 'No, I'm trying to be pleasant,' she said.
'Hey, me too. OK, let's be professional as well.'
'I thought I was.'
'Maybe I wasn't on Friday, so I apologise.'
'Glen, you've nothing to apologise for. I had a good time and I hope you did.'
'Sure, but remind me never to talk terms after an evening like that. Like I said, you're great at firing people up, but I've had the weekend to think it over. Call me unprofessional, only maybe you were too if you told your cousin she could expect a contract ahead of the pitch.'
'I already said I didn't say that. What are you saying I should have said?'
'You're going to need to tell her to show us some rewrites before we can make a decision.'
'We agreed that wasn't necessary. You can't have changed your mind that much.' Charlotte's voice had begun to sound as boxed in as she felt. 'Is this about Friday night?' she said so quietly that she almost didn't hear herself.
'What about it?'
'Wasn't I as friendly as you wanted? I really did have work to finish. You were saying that's the attitude we need to have. If you think supporting Ellen's book is doing me a favour –'
However she might have continued, Glen cut her off. 'I won't be,' he said. 'That's all that matters here.'
'I won't ask you, then. I'll see if I'm as good at pitching as you say.'
'Let me tell you as a friend, that's not a good idea.'
'Why isn't it?'
'Because if you try I'll block you. I have to look out for my imprint, and that book isn't ready for us.'
'Suppose I can persuade everyone?'
'You won't persuade me, and I'll kill it.' Glen laid one hand on her desk and waved the other beside her, hemming her in. 'Listen, nobody can afford too many failed pitches round here any more. I'm thinking of you. Don't risk your job.'
Just now it was answering him that Charlotte didn't dare to risk. He steered the chair away and glanced at his watch. 'Time we were moving,' he said. 'Let's not be the last to take our seats.'
She had another first novel to propose, by an author who felt fiction ought to help her readers help
