This post is a continuation of Cobalt Blue, the first part of which you can read by clicking on the link at the bottom of this post.
Tall Mark of the previous evening had an ordinary head, an ordinary face, and ordinary shoulders. Zuhrah had wondered if on Twitter he might be a troll, but let the thought slide, as these things are often impossible to divine in real life on early acquaintance.
Yesterday evening, Zuhrah had unguardedly stated to the arriving guests, in the course of exchanging niceties, that she was writing a book about the experience of race in Cornwall. The idea had occurred to her on the road, initially as a fancy, and had not really been a serious one. Now, having been for a run, having struck out along the coast, up a hill, and around via a circular route - a route satisfyingly mapped out digitally on a wristwatch that fully evidenced her position on this earth, tracked and verified by a satellite which circles its heavenly orb whirring music of the spheres, and defines the bounds of her philosophy - she felt she would, despite, or perhaps because of, that smirk from Mark, test out the idea with her editor, Peter, of the nice flat in Marylebone.
“Yes, yes, I see,” said Peter, mentally doing the division arithmetic on market segments.
“Look, it’s not something I’ve developed far at the moment. I feel there’s a need to look at regional aspects of race, especially when it comes to the experiences of minorities at the edges of the country, outside the urban milieu”.
“You’re so right, there’s probably a lot here. How are you finding Cove House? Amanda really loved it.”
“It’s amazing, the house is completely picturesque. Everywhere looks like a painting. As an old fisherman’s cottage, it’s really got me thinking about locality, history, and belonging in a more grounded way. But it’s amazing!” she repeated.
Peter paused, “We do have something coming out which covers perhaps overlapping terrain of minorities, gay and non-binary experiences of holidays in the UK with a strong focus on Cornwall - a bit of a side-swipe at heteronormative vacation practices. We will need to consider how it fits in, as it’s a niche focus area, and, of course, Americans haven’t heard of Cornwall either.” Peter almost sighed from the innermost halls of the London office at the ever-enduring impenetrability of the US market on a wide array of subjects. Peter continued, more unguardedly, “There’s this hilarious opening that talks about the entire peninsula being shaped like a penis. It’s quite fun!”
Zuhrah paused, “I’m not sure this is overlapping terrain,” she said, measuring her words.
“No, no, yes, yes,” said Peter, almost blushing in a pudgy, late middle-aged sort of way, and, shifting on his swivel chair, reached for a ghostly cup of tea that failed to materialize in real life.
“I’ll see if I can put a proposition together.”
“Excellent, send it over, and I’ll take it to Anna V. and the team.”
“Lovely, and say hi to Amanda and tell her how much I love it here!”
A brief interlude then saw the arrival of Mark, tall and a little wooden, within her vicinity, and holding a physically substantial mug of tea.
“Mind if I join you?” he spoke, sitting down at the garden bench and table overlooking the cove, without waiting for her polite assenting answer that came moments later.
“I’ve just been for a run,” she said, explaining her sweating brow, although the communication was entirely superfluous, given her expensive and well-fitting accouterments, which, together with her demeanor, clearly evidenced a recent run. Moreover, the tacit apology for her sweatiness served as a clear direction of conversation toward the more heroic achievements of the morning and away from the less than satisfying conversation with her editor in London.
“How’s the book brewing?” remarked Mark, dandling his mug.
“Fine,” she said briefly, then, “It was a 10K and I’m lucky not to have sprained an ankle on these paths, it’s perilous. The brambles are evil itself.” Mark looked down at her study feet and then out to sea without reply.
At that moment, Anne emerged, mermaid-like from the water, trickles of which glistened longingly on her hair and skin.
Mark’s eyes rested on the feminine vision for a moment and then turned outwards and upwards towards the cobalt horizon, where the sea and sky appear to touch - an illusion - but glide on in everlasting, unquantifiable distance of water and air. Zuhrah wondered what Mark was thinking and watched him take a long, almost slurp from his stoneware mug of tea.
Irritated, and feeling uncharacteristically uncharitable, she asked, “What’s your creative mission?”
“It’s stewing,” he said, stretching out at this point the tea motif beyond anything justifiable by wit or reason.
He then smiled broadly and directly at her, which made her instantly forgive the instinctive female jealousy she had felt when he had looked at Anne.
Back in London, Peter brushed off the erroneous conversation in his mind and felt a regretful pang that, having been absorbed in his youth in everything from Marlowe’s blank verse to F. Scott Fitzgerald and Aldous Huxley, he was now editing crude passages on the phallic shapes of the counties of England and making ill-judged remarks, all the while silently gnawed from the inside by the steady decline in yearly sales and dearth of anything over the horizon that might forestall the inevitable downfall of the publishing industry. To personally oversee the decline and fall of civilisation seemed a thankless burden spiritually, although still kept body and soul together materially, and undeniably quite generously for himself and others in his position, standing, and generation. His younger colleagues, however, seemed to him ephemeral apparitions, like ghosts, whose lightness of manner and easy pleasability may very well puff into nothingness in a moment, should the publishing company and others like it finally meet their inevitable demise.
He reflected. Zuhrah’s last book had done excellently, and she did have a strong media presence. She wrote energetic, full prose and well-researched books. On the other hand, he was unable to pin at this point much positive aspiration on a book about race in Cornwall, but he wouldn’t write it off just now without consideration. Furthermore, it would give Camilla, a delicate new hire, something to do while she settled in and was occupying that anxious period of straining everyone’s efforts to find her something to do that requires minimal supervision and consequent annoyance to themselves.
He quickly composed an email to Camilla to the effect that she was to research the market for a book on race in Cornwall and to conduct an analysis of current books on similar/adjacent topics. Pleased with the slightly paternalistic and yet professional tone he struck, and by the sense that Camilla would be eager to please, he pressed ‘send’ and felt satisfied that he had made a significant and dynamic start to his day.
This is a continuation of Cobalt Blue, the first part of which you can read by clicking here: