Chapter Text
I had started working at Cheshire Publishing five years ago, after a bachelor's degree in literature and two master’s degrees – one in Creative Writing and one in Publishing. I remembered being quite disappointed when, after my final interview, Minerva McGonagall, the editor in chief of Cheshire Publishing, decided to hire me for their biography and memoir department. She thought that I would make a marvellous ghost-writer, considering my academic background and the few writing prizes I had won while I was still a student. I never once considered that my first job after graduating would keep me busy for so many years. I thought I would hold it out for a year to have something to write on my resume and then leave for a job that was closer to actual literature.
I had never expected to fall in love with ghost writing. Something had always felt off when I was writing fiction pieces for university contests. Something always seemed to be missing to the stories I designed. Only now did I know that I was looking for truth. When writing someone else’s life, arranging its many twists and turns into an appealing story, I felt the same satisfaction as when reading the words based on a true story at the end of a riveting movie. Every single detail of a story, every word I chose, only took its true meaning if it served to depict a real human being. Writing Albus Dumbledore’s memoir was a true challenge in that matter. He had agreed to meet me because I was the only memoirist who wouldn’t force him to spread his entire life onto a two-thousand pages monster of a book. I let him choose who he would be for posterity.
Would this new client be my second Dumbledore? Surely not. People like him only came around once in a lifetime. But they had to be properly famous. Not a writer though, I considered with a sigh. They would not need me to write for them. It had been surprising enough that a philosopher and political figure such as Dumbledore hadn’t written his own memoir; I couldn’t hope for any other of my personal heroes to lie down on my sofa and grace me with their most personal thoughts. But maybe another note-worthy figure. I wouldn’t mind getting to know niche celebrities such as Remus Lupin. His national campaigns against animal cruelty had to be the best and most genuine I had ever seen. But Lupin was also far too humble to have a memoir written about him. That was quite the problem with my personal heroes. They were rarely the type to ask for anything to be written about them.
“Oh, no, there she is,” an annoyed voice commented as I entered the main lobby. “Yes, I’ll send her right to you. Yes, my pleasure.”
Pansy put down the receiver and looked me up and down, sceptically chewing on the gum she never seemed to let out of her mouth. Pansy Parkinson was one of the rare things that still had me doubting whether I could see myself working for Cheshire my entire life. Whenever I thought that Ron, my best friend’s brother, was a frustrating person to interact with, I could always remind myself that our receptionist was matchless in the matter.
“The boss is waiting for you,” Pansy spat out with an appalled look – she never hid how little she thought of my clothing choices. “I’d throw away that coffee if I were you,” she added when I passed her desk.
I hesitated for a moment. It wasn’t really like Pansy to give me any valuable advice. But my coffee was cold anyway and the little heart Ron had drawn alongside my name still had me cringing. Plus, Pansy was probably right. McGonagall might just lose it if she saw that I had taken the time to buy a coffee although I was already late. I dropped the half-full cup into the bin, ignoring Pansy’s I-told-you-so head tilt. As soon as I saw McGonagall’s expression, I knew that I had made the right choice.
“At last,” she sighed, still massaging her temples. “Maybe I should call you in more often, seeing as you seem to forget where our offices lie whenever I summon you again.”
I winced apologetically and sat down. I couldn’t lose my home office privileges. Even after my Dumbledore best-seller, I still wasn’t making enough money to live in the city centre. And the commute would kill me if I had to come in every day.
“I’m so sorry Mrs McGonagall …” I said guiltily. “My train was delayed, and then there weren’t any cabs left…”
McGonagall sighed but there was some gentleness in her traits now. Despite what some might think, Minerva McGonagall wasn’t a tyrannical superior. She was tough and demanding, but she also had an innate sense of justice, and she was very loyal to her clients and employees. She was a model to follow. When I felt particularly bold, I sometimes hoped that she might consider me as an assistant one day. Who knows, I might even become competent enough to fill her shoes if all stars aligned.
“I have already told you that you can call me Minerva,” McGonagall said after a moment.
“Yes, but…” I muttered. “It feels a bit awkward. Everyone is so formal around you… I only ever hear senior editors or heads of departments calling you Minerva…”
McGonagall’s – well, Minerva’s – mouth spread into one of her very rare half-smiles, and she nodded before putting her glasses back on.
“Very well, I did not mean to pressure you in any way,” she settled. “I believe you know why I asked you here today.”
“I can only guess…” I said, pulling my notepad from my satchel – it was still the same I had bought when starting my bachelor’s degree. “I imagine you have a new, very hush client that could only be discussed in person. I mean, you usually just email me when it’s about little people.”
Minerva’s smile grew a little. She seemed proud.
“You are quite right,” the editor nodded. “How much do you know about dancing, Hermione?”
I frowned, pausing as I was scribbling the date into the margin of my notebook. While my first thought was that my boss was changing subjects without any good reason, I soon realized she was still talking about our new client. I froze in mild anguish.
“Well… I’ve been to a few ballets during my studies,” I said tentatively. “Is our new client a choreographer?” I asked, pouring my last hope into this question.
“I believe she might have directed a couple of times,” Minerva considered, “but Miss Black is rather known for her dancing.”
My frown deepened. Black. It didn’t ring any bell. Which meant that she was not a famous ballet dancer, but rather one of those modernists. I was screwed.
“You’ve heard of her, of course,” Minerva continued, peering into my disgruntled face. “She is only one of the best dancers in all of Great Britain at the moment.”
I gulped and forced a confident smile onto my lips. I couldn’t let this one slip between my fingers. My last paycheck from the Dumbledore book had come in three months ago. I needed the money, and if this mystery dancer was as famous as Minerva was implying, then she probably had quite a few pounds to offer.
“Of course, I’ve heard of her!” I exclaimed – though I did so a bit too loudly. “My friend Ginny talks about her all the time. You know, she’s the sports reporter who came to our Christmas party last year.”
“I believe I remember her…” Minerva said, squinting her eyes. “Isn’t she the one who thought it well to regurgitate our lovely punch into my personal office’s bin?”
I felt the heat creeping from my neck to my cheeks in seconds. As much as I loved Ginny, she really wasn’t the perfect party guest. My only hope regarding that party had been that Minerva might never have been informed of the culprit’s identity.
“I didn’t… I thought…”
“I have read some of her columns,” Minerva continued with an indulgent smile. “She will certainly be of great help when preparing for your first meeting with Miss Black.”
I nodded gratefully, silently wondering if my boss hadn’t guessed that I actually didn’t have the slightest clue of who this Black person was. After all, Minerva’s perceptiveness was only too famous.
“I will get all the help I need to make sure that my first meeting with Miss Black goes perfectly,” I nodded. “When will she be coming in?”
“Miss Black is a very private and busy person,” Minerva said, pursing her lips ever so slightly – tell-tale sign that she was somewhat bothered by this situation. “She asked that you met her at a place of her liking.”
“Okay…” I said sceptically. “Did she say where or when?”
“She didn’t.”
I sulked again and Minerva’s expression, though still very composed, told me that she thought just as much. I always tried to come into a first meeting with a clean slate, but I couldn’t help thinking that this mysterious woman sounded awfully conceited and difficult.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude…” I said tentatively. “But how does she expect me to meet her then?”
“Miss Black asked to be given the number of the person who would write her memoir,” Minerva declared with equal perplexity. “Her manager told me that you would receive a text message as soon as she found the time for a meeting.”
“That’s…”
I paused, searching for the most appropriate word.
“Unusual?” Minerva proposed. “I thought so myself.”
“I don’t mind, though,” I quickly added, remembering my ever-shrinking bank account. “You can give her my number.”
Minerva sighed audibly and I realized only now that she had not expected me to agree to this – which only added to my suspicion. I could not help thinking that I was missing some information about this Black woman. Which was entirely plausible, given that I did not even know she existed until entering this meeting today.
“Thank you, Hermione,” Minerva said with another half-smile – which worried me even more. “I should warn you though,” she added while I closed my notebook.
“Warn me?”
“Miss Black is… well…” she hesitated. “She is known for being a rather peculiar person. I can imagine that working with her will not be easy.”
“I’ve had my fair share of difficult clients,” I defended. “I’m sure you also remember that Arabian prince who paid thousands for me to write his apologia.”
Minerva chuckled a little, though she still seemed a little worried.
“I know that you are perfectly competent, Hermione,” she acquiesced. “But I thought it wise to warn you nonetheless.”
“I appreciate that,” I smiled while rising from my chair. “Thank you for trusting me, Minerva.”
My boss’s lips stretched to an almost full smile, and we shook hands before I left her office. Luckily, Pansy was on the phone when I walked past her desk, which spared me another unpleasant conversation. As soon as I had left the building, I strode into the closest café, ordered the first thing I saw and drew my smartphone from my satchel. The moment the search engine opened, I realized my mistake. I had never asked for the woman’s first name. It would have made my ignorance quite clear though, I argued with myself. Hoping against hope, I typed Black dancer.
After a few websites about the most famous black dancers in history, the news section suggested I read a recent press article about one Bellatrix Black. I changed the search to that name. My eyes widened instantly. There was no doubt I had found the right person. My phone was suddenly flooded with pictures of the most luscious woman I had ever been given to see. No other word came to mind. Bellatrix Black was an inherently sexual woman. In the tamest pictures, her long dark hair was tied back – pictures from her shows, no doubt – but her face still screamed sin. I could not quite point out what it was. Her eyes were obviously to consider. They were impossibly dark and large, despite her hooded lids and thick lashes, and even in picture I could tell that they weren’t easy to meet.
Then came her body of course. When figuring a dancer, I had expected some elongated and slightly famished silhouette, but this woman was all curves and muscle. Her chest looked obscene even in the most conventional dresses and her hips menaced to rip through her tight clothing in any position. I didn’t even want to imagine what her rear had to look like – the first page luckily didn’t show any of that. It did show a few pictures of her with her hair down, though. Those were very different from the ones taken on stage. They were poorly lit and always featured Black with an angry frown that had my own skin crawling. I instantly guessed that they had been taken by paparazzies. Sure enough, the news section counted just as many tabloids as tales of her dancing exploits. That woman was apparently very famous for her presence in the London night life – especially the lesbian one. Most pictures featured her in a compromising position with some lithe young woman that seemed to be Black’s junior by a decade or two.
I put my phone back on the table with a sigh when my nutmeg latte arrived – which I clearly wouldn’t have requested if I had been paying any attention to my order. I stirred the brewage absent-mindedly, peering back at my phone. Could it be that Minerva had also tried to warn me about this seductive side of our client? Maybe she was fearing that Black might try something with me. Conceited much, I scoffed at myself. I looked back to the latest picture, which seemed to have been taken at a bar or a club, where Black had her curvaceous front pressed against a model’s back as they writhed on the dancefloor. The dancer clearly had a type: blonde, young, and as skinny and beautiful as they came. I wasn’t in danger of interesting her anytime soon. Though… A call to Ginny couldn’t exactly hurt, could it?
“You’re joking?” Ginny shouted once more, releasing the straw of her mojito. “You’re actually joking?”
“No,” I said pointedly. “But, like I said, you can’t tell anyone.”
“Duh,” Ginny sighed. “That woman has more than enough paparazzies on her back as it is.”
“I gathered as much…” I grimaced. “Is it true though? Is she really that much of a… well… womanizer?”
Ginny shrugged and pulled some alcohol through her straw, loudly scraping the bottom of her glass. Luckily, the deafening music of our local bar covered most of the noise.
“I wouldn’t know,” she said after a moment. “I mean, I think a friend of Luna’s has a sister who once saw her at a fancy club in the city centre. And she did leave the club with a pretty girl that evening. But that’s all I know.”
“Huh,” I considered, stirring my own drink. “Speaking of Luna,” I soon added, anxious to move away from the subject, “how did it go with that drummer she wanted to show you?”
“I completely forgot about that!” Ginny exclaimed, her face lighting up instantly. “Tonks is so great! She’s a mean drummer and she has quite a few connections! She found a venue for us next weekend. You should totally come!”
“I’ll do my best to be there,” I smiled – Ginny and Luna had been looking to replace their last drummer for ages. “And how about that interview you wanted with that rugby player?”
Ginny slapped her hand against the table with such force that our glasses nearly toppled over. I grimaced apologetically when a few clients looked over to us. Ginny didn’t seem to notice.
“Can you believe that my idiot brother never thought to mention he knew the Harry Potter?” she only shouted. “They were in the same rugby team at school. Can you believe that?”
“I… err… I suppose that’s rather surprising,” I said hesitantly.
I had never been able to match Ginny enthusiasm about sports – or any other remotely popular subject, for that matter. Ginny often considered that stance of mine to be a bit snobbish, and she was probably right about that.
“Could Ron get you that interview then?” I asked.
“Yes!” Ginny grinned. “I’m seeing Potter at his hotel bar Wednesday. Can you believe that? I’m gonna have drinks with Harry bloody Potter!”
“Well, you’ll interview him for work…”
“Who cares?” Ginny argued, still grinning. “I saw him on TV the other day. You know, he’s in that French perfume commercial. Gods… That man has a body… And those green eyes …”
I rolled my eyes at Ginny’s spent expression, but my attempt at taunting her was interrupted by a buzzing feelings against my thigh. I jumped up in fright, only to remember that I had put my phone on vibrator many hours ago in case Minerva – or worse, that Black woman – tried to contact me after today’s meeting. Sure enough, a short text from an unknown number lit up on my phone.
(22:53) To memoirist: tomorrow 10 a.m. at Sketch? – B.B.
“What is it?” Ginny asked loudly, pulling me from my reading. “Oh, is it her? Is it Black?”
I scowled again and slid my phone across the table for Ginny to read. She burst out laughing the moment she set her eyes on the screen.
“That’s just hilarious!” she jeered. “Did she have a very bad assistant write this or did she just dictate it to her phone?”
“I don’t know what would be worse…” I sighed. “What’s ‘Sketch’ though?”
“I think it’s a restaurant or something like that,” Ginny guessed while typing on my phone. “Oh my… It looks posh as fuck. I hope she’ll be paying. Your poor arse couldn’t afford that – let alone for two people!”
I rolled my eyes but still took back my phone. I gulped as I saw the four pounds sign. I usually considered I was dining at a posh place when the internet deemed it worthy of a two pounds sign already.
“What do I write back?” I yelled after a moment, pushing the phone back to Ginny. “Can’t come, too poor?”
“Ha-ha,” Ginny ironized. “Just play it cool. Just write ok or something.”
I sighed. Playing it cool always seemed to be Ginny’s best guess. To be frank, I had never seen her nervous about anything. I couldn’t even worry about her interview with that rugby player. I simply knew she would chat him up as though they had known each other since kindergarten.
“To shitty client: ok – memoirist,” I proposed jokingly, trying to match Ginny’s nonchalance. “I think she’ll get the gist.”
“To shitty client: ok – memoirist,” Ginny repeated slowly while typing on her phone.
No. While typing on my phone.
“Ginny!”
Ginny pushed me away with ease, still typing.
“Don’t you dare!”
“Too late,” the redhead grinned. “At least you’ll have something fun to talk about now.”
At last, Ginny pushed my phone back to me. I sighed audibly when I saw that the worst had been avoided. Two simple words appeared underneath Black’s message: ok – memoirist. I could live with that slightly humorous answer.
“I hate you,” I still cursed.
“No, you don’t,” Ginny grinned.
Of course, she was right.