Page 71 of The In-Laws

‘Is he cute?’

‘No!’ Melanie lied. ‘Good luck with the rehearsals.’

Melanie discreetly sprayed perfume on her wrists under the table as she saw Petrus walking past the window, and then into the restaurant. He looked really well – tanned, fit and beautifully dressed in perfectly tailored grey trousers and an expensive-looking teal shirt that matched his eyes.

She stood up to greet him, and as he kissed her cheek, she got a waft of his musky aftershave. She felt her libido spring to life.Get it together, Melanie. He’s a prospective client, not a date.But it had been a very long time since Melanie had felt any attraction to anyone. She’d assumed her libido was dead, buried under years of disuse and inattention. But right now, she had the urge to rip off Petrus’s shirt and have sex on the table. What the hell was going on? Was this what happened when your sex drive suddenly reignited?

‘So,’ Petrus said, ‘what are we drinking?’

Melanie’s normal answer would have been ‘Water. I have to go back to the office’, but she felt like breaking out and not doing what she was supposed to do. What the hell? She’d have some nice wine.

‘Let’s order some wine, shall we?’

Petrus took charge of the menu and ordered an eye-wateringly expensive bottle. Not wanting to have to deal with Nancy nagging her about the extortionate cost of the meal, Melanie decided to put the wine on her personal card and the food on the company credit card. She’d make the cost of the wine back in spades once she’d signed up Petrus.

They drank and chatted. Melanie laughed at his stories, which weren’t all that funny, but it felt good to let go and be a bit silly. He reacted to her attention, leaning in and telling her inside gossip, which she lapped up. The wine flowed, a lot more for Petrus than for her, but she was still feeling looser than normal and a little giddy. Petrus slated his old agent and his former editor and told her he wanted a makeover. He was ready to make radical changes. New agent, new publisher, new editor, and he had just started to write a ground-breaking and original novel.

Melanie danced inwardly. A new bestselling literary book, yes!

‘Can you tell me a little about the new novel?’

Petrus leant forward, taking her hand in his. Melanie felt an electric shock run through her. Petrus, his eyes glazed with alcohol, explained, ‘It’s about a woman from a tribe in the Amazon jungle who menstruates constantly and how the blood that spills from her vagina becomes known far and wide as a river of life that people come to drink from. It has healing powers that can cure all kinds of disease and deformity.’

Melanie tried to keep her face impassive, but she knew she was failing to hide her shock. Was he insane? Was he delusional? A middle-aged white man writing a book about a tribal woman who bleeds constantly and people drink her menstrual blood … Christ above! Her mind whirred, trying to find a workable angle. Perhaps if she could get him to drop that idea and do something that people would want to read and wouldn’t get him cancelled, he was still worth signing. Knowing how precious his ego was, she trod lightly.

‘Amazing, right? You’re amazed, yes.’ His smile was so self-assured.

‘I’m amazed all right and it’s certainly original but, I have to be honest, Petrus, I feel that people will not react well to a man writing this story.’

‘To hell with that bullshit. A good writer can write about anything, and a good actor can act any part. The whole point of art is that we inhabit our characters and create stories. I’m so sick of this cancel culture and appropriation bullshit. Am I only allowed to write about a fifty-year-old white South African man? If that was the case,Follow the Sunwould never have won the Booker Prize!’

‘To be fair,’ Melanie said, ‘that book was set in South Africa and it was about a white South African farmer.’

‘Yes, and I’m not a farmer, and I wrote from the point of view of the wife and the son too. I hate this new world where you can’t say what you think, you can’t write what you want and everyone has to be so “woke”. I won’t play that game. I’m going to finish this book and it’s going to be a masterpiece. Women will weep when they read it.’

Weep? They’ll have your balls for breakfast.

Melanie was beginning to get a wine hangover. Petrus’s attractiveness was suddenly waning. His book would die, that was certain. She had to get him to park the idea and come up with something that editors would want to publish and people would actually want to read.

‘So that’s one of your work-in-progress projects, but I’m curious to know if you have any other ideas on the backburner. I’d be happy to help you brainstorm. I’m not saying the book you’re writing won’t find a place in the future,’ she said, lying brazenly, ‘but right now, no publishing house will touch it. I think the follow-up toThe Path to Nowherehas to have a wider appeal and a more resonant story that readers will find immediately compelling.’

Petrus pulled away from her and folded his arms,pouting like a child. ‘When a writer is inspired and compelled to write a particular story, there is no room for any other ideas. I will not be persuaded to write anything until this masterpiece is finished. It’ll win me a second Booker.’

Maybe it was the wine headache, maybe it was the fact that her little frisson had disappeared and she was furious that he’d ruined her very welcome sexual awakening, but Melanie was angry now. She felt like a deflated balloon. She’d wanted so badly to sign him, it would have been a huge coup, but now she just wanted to throw the contents of her water glass over him and tell him to cop the hell on.

She wrapped up the lunch and paid the stupidly large bill.

Petrus, oblivious to what had just happened and still living in his ‘Petrus the genius’ bubble, put his arm around her. ‘Send me the contracts and I’ll have my lawyer look over them.’

Melanie gently removed his arm. ‘I’m sorry, Petrus, but as I said, no one will touch this book. I just don’t think you’re a match for our agency at this time. But if, down the line, you’re open to writing something else, I’d be happy to have a chat.’

She left him open-mouthed in shock and walked back to the agency feeling completely dejected. Her big star signing had fallen flat on its face.

She was staring out of the window when Frank came into her office.

‘Well?’

She shook her head. ‘His ego is bigger than his talent. The book he’s working on is a car crash. I couldn’t sell it no matter how hard I tried, and I wouldn’t want to.’

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