Work Text:
Jemma Simmons was nervous. After some years enjoying modest success as an author, she’d at last hit the literary big time. Her latest novel, Maveth, despite firmly deserving its place in the sci-fi genre, had been nominated for the Man Booker and her entire body of work was consequently enjoying an enthusiastic revival. The necessary new runs of old titles had made her the darling of her boutique publishing house and, for the first time ever, she’d been granted the rare privilege of having some actual input into her own cover art.
Until now, Jemma had been able to keep her face out of the press. A second, and up until recently, more profitable career as a model had made her wary about having her photograph associated with her books. A relatively unknown author would appear churlish in refusing to be drawn on a topic of such public interest as a novelist with a modeling career but, now that she’d made it, she felt more confident that she could brush off those inevitable dull questions about beauty secrets and change the conversation.
A man took the train seat opposite her and immediately pulled out a well-worn copy of one of her earlier titles, Maybe There Is. Perhaps puffed up by her recent success, she couldn’t help but at least make small talk. Besides, on second glance, her seat-mate was undeniably attractive.
“Heading to the literature festival?” she asked pleasantly.
“Mmm hmm,” murmured the man, not looking up from his reading.
“Big Jemma Simmons fan then?” She couldn’t quite fathom why she felt she must persist in the face of apparent disinterest.
He raised his eyes at the sound of her name. “She’s my all-time favourite author,” he said, with a face-transforming grin. “You?”
Worth it. Jemma smiled. “Yeah, I’m pretty invested in her work.”
“Have you read Maveth yet?” he asked curiously, then, as an after-thought, stuck out his hand. “I’m Fitz, by the way.”
She shook his hand, smiling warmly. “Jessica,” she lied.
“Like the main character?!”
“Mmm, and yes, I’ve read it. What did you think of it?”
He put his hand sincerely over his heart. “I loved it. I have never been more thrilled to find a book nominated for anything. Maveth is so deserving!”
“Critics seem to like it but not all the fans were that impressed,” she observed.
“It’s Len Fallon,” Fitz sighed. “No one seems to get him.”
“And you get him?” she asked, both amused and intrigued to hear his response.
“I think so,” he said earnestly. “I mean, I think, on a basic level, lots of readers found him a frustrating character. Was he weak or just desperate? People can’t seem to understand how he forgave Jessica, how he settled into a life with her after all that had happened to her on Maveth.”
“But you don’t feel the same?” she asked.
Fitz shook his head. “I think Simmons made his character truly good, and maybe we’ve been ruined for good guys these days but, to me, Fallon is the real hero. He may not be the guy who you’d pick as the one to save the day, but, through sheer grit and determination, he’s gonna damn well get there somehow.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “Especially where Jessica’s involved.”
Jemma found herself warmed by this stranger’s assessment of her favourite creation to date.
“So do you think he settled then? For Jessica?” she asked tentatively, almost frightened to hear it all come crashing down.
“No!” he replied vehemently. “It’s when Fallon says to her, remember, when she’s back but there’s still that unanswered question about Wes? He says ‘I’m furious, but not at you! ‘Cause we’re cursed. The bloody cosmos wants us to be apart.’”
Jemma couldn’t help but smile at the thrill of a reader (an attractive, articulate reader) perfectly quoting back dialogue she had slaved over.
“That’s when we know that he’s not settling. He just loves her, he always has, and he knows her. He knows she would never just give up on him. He knows that only despair could break her spirit like that.” Fitz rubbed self-consciously at the back of his neck. “Sorry, I got a bit carried away there, didn’t I?”
Jemma eyed him suspiciously. “Fitz, do you live with your mum?”
“Err, no,” he said blinking. “I have a flat on the Royal Mile in Edinburgh.”
“A wife? A girlfriend?”
“No.”
Her eyes narrowed. “How come you’re on the tube heading to a writer’s festival in the middle of the week? Don’t you have a job?”
He grinned. “This is work for me. And this isn’t just any writer’s festival! This is the London Literature Festival! The biggest names in the business are going to be here!”
“You’re an author?” She knew the rapid-fire interrogation approach was hardly regarded to be a turn-on, but she’d met too many high-maintenance man-children in her time to hold herself back.
Fitz shook his head. "A critic. Sort of. I write a column for The Scotsman.”
Jemma’s jaw dropped as the pieces came together. “You’re Leopold Fitz! You’re Lit Lover!”
He grinned and scratched at the back of his neck again.
“I love your columns!”
“You do?”
She nodded vigorously. “I do!“
“Nice of you to say.” He took a sudden gulp of air then charged on. "Hey, umm, Jessica, Jemma Simmons’ Meet the Author session doesn’t start for an hour or so,” he added, going slightly pink. “I don’t suppose you’d want to maybe, um, get a drink… err, with me?”
The hopefulness in his very blue eyes was irresistible but she’d mostly decided on her plan all the way back at his gratifying appreciation of Len Fallon. Usually she steered clear of dating her readers, but this wasn’t just any old reader, this was Lit Lover! Surely, just once she could break the rules?
“Tell you what,” she said, pulling out a scrap of paper and a pen. “I have to be somewhere just now but could I give you my number and maybe you could call me after the Simmons thing? I’d love someone to debrief with.”
Fitz nodded, seeming pleased. “I’m desperate to lure her to the Edinburgh International Book Festival,” he confessed. “The organiser’s placed all her faith in me to get her there.” He patted his well-loved leather satchel. “I’ve brought all seven of Simmons’ titles with me. In fact,” he added, leaning forward with the air of a confession, “I’ve brought brand new copies of all seven of her titles just for the perfect new cover art.”
Jemma smiled indulgently.
“Hopefully her signing all of them will give me time to ask her. Do you think she’s even heard of my column?”
Jemma nodded. “I’m sure she has. Authors like her love critics like you. Your enthusiasm for the works you write about practically leaps off the page and throttles you!”
He chuckled. “I think that’s my new favourite review.”
Jemma got to her feet as the train trundled into the station. “Nice to be able to return the favour,” she murmured.
Looking down at him as he gazed up at her from his seat, Jemma found herself overwhelmed by her need for this not to be the last moment she spent with Leo Fitz.
“You will call me, won’t you, Fitz?” she said. “After the Meet the Author?”
Fitz patted his breast pocket where she had watched him tuck her number.
“Trust me,” he breathed, eyes wide. “This is the first time a stunningly beautiful woman has ever given me her number. And we can talk about books. You’ll be hearing from me.”
“Great,” she replied, and after leaning down to press a quick kiss to his stubbly cheek and enjoying his swallowed gasp of surprise, she hurried out of the carriage.
…
Leo Fitz was half-an-hour early to the venue for Meet the Author with Jemma Simmons. He’d planned to be an hour early but an incident on the train had left him so flustered he’d almost entirely forgotten to disembark. He’d had to call his friends, Daisy and Trip, for a breathless debrief in the tube station before he could once more resume his calm and professional persona.
Melinda May, the terrifying but impressively effective organiser of the Edinburgh International Book Festival, motioned to him from the third row of the enormous buzzing lecture hall where she had saved him a seat. He shuffled through the crowd and collapsed into it gratefully, rifling through his satchel for his notebook.
“I have a good feeling about this, Melinda,” he said, straightening in his seat. “Something tells me luck is on my side today. We’re going to get Jemma Simmons if it kills me.”
“Oh?” replied Melinda, with a cock of one eyebrow that seemed to function like a key to his brain. “Did you meet a girl or something?”
The Killers’ All These Things That I’ve Done suddenly blasted through the sound system just at the break where the song repeats “I’ve got soul but I’m not a soldier”, building into a triumphant crescendo.
Lance Hunter, the lucky tosser who got the plum job of interviewing Fitz’s idol, jogged out onto stage with the sleeves of his sports jacket rolled up. Wanker, thought Fitz affectionately. One couldn’t help but find Lance Hunter loveable.
Behind him, to the rapturous applause of the crowd strode… No… Why was Jessica on stage?
Fitz felt his mouth wordlessly opening and closing as if his jaw had disconnected itself from the rest of his nervous system.
Hunter motioned Jessica into one of the stylish-looking cushy armchairs that had been faux-haphazardly placed in the centre of the stage under the spotlights.
“Welcome, Man-Booker nominee, Jemma Simmons!” shouted Hunter.
For some reason, his new friend (more than that?), Jessica, ducked her head and smiled shyly at the roaring applause.
“Now Jemma, before we can get started, you’ve been pleading with me backstage for a chance to get something off your chest.”
She nodded. “Thanks, Lance. I have.” She shielded her eyes from the spotlights and looked out into the crowd. “I just have to say something to my favourite critic who I stumbled across on the tube this morning.”
The crowd laughed.
Fitz forgot to breathe.
“Sorry. I lied to you. My name’s not Jessica but I suppose you’ve established that by now. I’d love to come to your festival, just make sure you still remember to call me. Perhaps we can go to dinner. Somewhere nice, okay?”
“Okay,” Fitz whispered back, before he quite realised what he was doing.
May eyed him suspiciously.
“Told you, May,” Fitz shrugged, grinning. “Luck is definitely on my side!"