"Death and the Lit Chick" - читать интересную книгу автора (Malliet G M)

VIII

In a beautiful flat high above the Thames, Magretta Sincock stared at the screen of her own computer with none of the complacency of Lord Easterbrook, just across the water in his counting house. She reread the e-mail several times, blinking in disbelief. Perhaps it was spam, a cruel hoax? But the return e-mail address indicated clearly enough it was from Ludwig's, her American publisher. And the body of the e-mail said clearly enough that regrettably, they would not be picking up the American rights to her next manuscript. But they wished her well in her future endeavors.

Well, that at least was something, after thirty bloody years, thought Magretta. That well wishing certainly made all the difference.

They were dropping her by e-mail. Not in person, saving someone the airfare to London. Not even with the minor expense of letterhead and airmail postage. They were dropping her. Her.

After a very long while, Magretta got up from her desk and walked to the French doors of her aerie. Barely feeling the blast of cold, she stood looking down at the brown river, churning up a whitish foam as it eternally snaked its way through London. Anyone looking up from the ships below would have thought they were seeing a large tropical bird perched on the balcony, bedecked in an array of green plumage. Magretta's large red crest of hair would have added to the illusion.

The conference in Edinburgh, to which she had so been looking forward, she now viewed with dread. They would all know, all her fellow scribes, everyone connected with this wretched industry. Probably knew before she herself was sent that miserable e-mail, bad news traveling faster in the publishing world than in any other. She'd have to call her agent.

But he should have called me. Jay must have known this was coming. This was all his fault. If he'd kept his mind on his job…

Still, she had to go show the flag, since Lord Easterbrook had invited her. She at least could still count on her British publisher.

Couldn't she?