To Illustrate The Point

How could Bonnie make her editor understand that she had no intention of working with anyone else?

BONNIE ground her teeth involuntarily as she took in the words of the e-mail. I know it’s short notice, but Eddie’s great fun.

You’ll love working with him.

Samantha had signed off the e-mail not with the usual Sam, but with the full Samantha Symington, Commissioning Editor, as if to remind Bonnie who was actually in charge.

Bonnie had been working with Sam for 15 years.

She’d been Sam’s first signing, when the Potato Pie imprint of Turner Books had taken her on as a junior editor.

Samantha had loved the text Bonnie had submitted about a little talking cat called Wendy Whiskers.

She had appreciated the wit Bonnie brought to the story, instead of assuming that four-year-olds didn’t yet have a sense of humour.

And she loved how the words flowed effortlessly, so a parent could happily read the story aloud, time after time.

Sam had wanted to change barely a comma of Bonnie’s original text.

She was more concerned with how they were going to launch the finished book for maximum effect, and to clock up as many sales as possible.

The hook, Sam had believed, was to secure the services of the perfect illustrator.

This was a picture book, after all. Not that this in any way devalued Bonnie as author, she insisted – quite the opposite.

Such a wonderful tale deserved equally wonderful artwork.

“I’ve never done this before, so I’m happy to be guided by you,” Bonnie had said all those years ago.

The truth was that Sam hadn’t done anything quite like this before, either, she admitted to Bonnie later.

She’d spent a couple of years as a children’s bookseller in a big London store straight after uni, and suspected she’d oversold her skills at the interview for the Potato Pie job.

All the same, she’d been brilliant to Bonnie, securing her an advance from her bosses and a three-book deal for a trio of picture books about Wendy Whiskers.

But the best thing Sam had done for Bonnie, and the thing for which Bonnie would be forever grateful, was finding her that perfect illustrator in the form of Mandy Miller.

Within a year, Wendy Whiskers was a favourite with the under-fives up and down the country.

Within two, it had been read aloud by a famous actress on a children’s television programme.

Within five, by which time there had been no fewer than six titles published in the series, plus a new book featuring a police dog, Bonnie Bigelow and Mandy Miller were, as Sam put it, “a premium brand”.

Bonnie had prints of Mandy’s illustrations all round her study walls, and Mandy’s watercolours elsewhere in her home.

The first time Mandy suggested an idea for a new Wendy Whiskers adventure, Bonnie had felt a little uncomfortable.

The written story came first, as far as she was concerned, and the pictures second.

“Except that it’s actually a really good idea,” Sam had pointed out when Bonnie had confided her discomfort.

“Yes, but it’s not my really good idea,” Bonnie carped. “You’d still be the writer.” Since Bonnie didn’t have a fresh idea of her own for the next book, she decided not to make a fuss.

And, within hours of sitting down at her desk to try to produce the text, she found she enjoyed the work just as much as ever.

From that point on, the partnership flourished even better than before.

Bonnie and Mandy spoke on the phone or pinged e-mails back and forth almost every day.

They collected awards together, spoke at book festivals and were invited to judge a story competition

on “Blue Peter”.

Thirty books in, and they were best friends as well as colleagues.

And then Mandy died. So Eddie Sellers was “great fun”, was he?

Bonnie wasn’t sure she liked people who were described as being “fun”.

Give her someone who was intelligent or generous or original.

Sam had set up their lunch meeting.

“You’ll be able to break the ice.”

But Bonnie didn’t want to break the ice with a new illustrator.

In fact, there was no point. Since Mandy had died, Bonnie had barely written a line.

She had absolutely no ideas for a new book, never mind the whole new series that Sam had urged her to dream up.

“You have an army of fans out there,” Sam had insisted.

“Then let them read the old books – there are plenty available to get them from nursery to school.

“What makes you think people even want more from me? They’re probably sick of me by now.”

Sam had put on her stern face.

“Stop wallowing, Bonnie. This isn’t just about you.

“You know perfectly well that the huge sales of your books mean Potato Pie has the capital to back new, emerging writers.

“You were in their shoes once upon a time, so now it’s your turn to step up and be magnanimous.”

“I might just retire.” “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re much too young.”

“I’m forty-one. And I don’t feel young.”

“Then the best medicine is to re-connect with your inner child by writing a new book!”

So here Bonnie sat, at a very good table in the Constantine, checking her watch and raging at the fact that her proposed new illustrator was already 15 minutes late.

“Would you like some olives while you wait?” a handsome waiter enquired.

Bonnie declined, but asked for a glass of Chablis.

When it came it was crisp and icy cold, which was pleasant.

Bonnie was very much in favour of the practice of chilling wine glasses, even though she never bothered at home.

Now a man was coming towards her.

He was rumpling his long brown hair and carrying a cycling helmet under his arm.

Bonnie had very deliberately asked Sam nothing whatsoever about Eddie

Sellers, to underline the principle that she had absolutely zero interest in working with him.

The news that he was “great fun” had been unsolicited.

Right now, though, this man had the advantage of her.

He might recognise her as Bonnie Bigelow, but she had no idea what this Eddie person looked like.

She wriggled uncomfortably in her seat, looked away and then back again to see what he was doing.

“Miss Bigelow?” Rather formal – a kind of affectation? Duly noted.

“Yes,” she replied. “I take it you’re Eddie.”

“I am, but you can call me Mr Sellers.”

Bonnie’s face fell. “Sorry! That was meant to be a joke. Nerves.”

Nerves? Oh, he wasn’t going to be some tiresome, highly strung type, was he?

Bonnie took a longer look at the man. He didn’t appear nervous.

On the contrary, he looked happily dishevelled from his bike ride and supremely unconcerned that he’d kept her waiting

Bonnie wasn’t sure she liked people who were described as being “fun”

for – what?

She made a point of looking at her watch – a good 20 minutes.

“May I?” Eddie asked, nodding at the chair opposite her.

Bonnie angled her head wordlessly, in a gesture of acquiescence.

Eddie pushed up his sleeves and reached for the menu.

“I see you do wear a watch,” Bonnie observed. Eddie glanced at his wrist.

“This. Yeah. She’s a beauty.

“Doesn’t keep time, though.”

“Your watch doesn’t work? Why on earth do you continue to wear it?”

“Well, it’s a collectors’ item, isn’t it?

“Just look at that face. Pure class.”

He must have noticed the expression of derision that came over Bonnie’s demeanour.

“Hey, I’m not the only one – it’s a thing, old watches,” Eddie told her. “People can check the time on their phones with incomparable accuracy.

“But they still like to wear something beautiful on their arm. It doesn’t matter if it’s done ticking.”

Bonnie didn’t know what to say.

Eddie looked back at the menu.

“I fancy the duck with figs – how about you?”

Eddie had chosen the dish Bonnie was planning to order, but now she found that she didn’t want it after all.

“I thought the brie and walnut quiche sounded good.”

Eddie grinned and leaned back in his chair, giving Bonnie an opportunity to note that he had wonderful cheekbones.

“I might as well tell you from the start,” she said. “I have no interest in working with you.”

Lunch was on the Potato Pie account, but Eddie tipped the waiting staff before they even ordered their food. Generously.

“What did you do that for?” Bonnie hissed.

“Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it?” Eddie replied. “What’s the point in making them like you when you’re walking out the door?

“They can’t do much for you then.”

For a moment, this seemed to make sense. But only for a moment.

“Hang on, the purpose of a tip is to reward good service, not to make people like you!” Bonnie objected.

“Are you sure about that? Aren’t they more likely to give you good service if they like you?”

Bonnie scowled. Was this kind of nonsense Samantha’s idea of “great fun”?

“You do a wonderful frowny face,” Eddie continued, and pulled out a notebook and pen from his bag.

“Are you drawing me?” Bonnie snapped. “If you dare, I will leave right now!” Eddie looked appalled. “Sorry. Most people like me to do my thing.

“I didn’t mean to rile you. You don’t want to work with me, and now you don’t even want to sit with me.

“Have I made such a terrible first impression?”

He looked so genuinely contrite, that Bonnie felt a bit bad.

“Look, Eddie, I think you’ve been somewhat misled.

“This meeting was Samantha Symington’s idea, not mine.

“As she may have told you, my illustrator died a while ago.

“We’d worked closely together on over thirty books, and I just don’t feel the desire to start all over again with someone else,” Bonnie explained.

“You’re saying it’s not you, it’s me. I’ve heard that line quite a few times in my life, but never at work.”

“I’m sure you’re very good at what you do, but the problem is that you’re just not Mandy – no-one is, and no-one can replace her.”

“I understand. But we can still enjoy lunch, can’t we?”

By this time, Bonnie’s stomach was rumbling.

“All right. But it’s just lunch.”

To give him credit, Eddie didn’t mention work for the next hour, as they ate an excellent meal and lingered over coffee.

He talked about his travels and asked Bonnie about hers.

Eddie had cycled round half of Europe and been broken-hearted when someone stole his faithful old bike from a railway station.

“The insurance paid up and I got a new one, but it isn’t the same – she hasn’t been where I’ve been, you know?”

Bonnie nodded. She did know.

Eddie was pleasant company, she had to admit.

He laughed gratifyingly at her stories and had plenty of his own.

Eventually, Bonnie let her guard down an inch and asked him about his involvement with Potato Pie.

“I ran into Sam at a party,” he explained. “We got talking and she told me about her job in kids’ publishing.

“I showed her some of my work on my phone.”

“So you haven’t actually had a career in illustration?” Bonnie asked.

“Not for books. I design toys.”

“Now that does sound interesting.”

“It is. Ever heard of Pippa Penguin?”

Bonnie nodded.

“Yes! I bought one for my niece. Was that you?”

“Yep. Also Lindy Hop – the Swinging Schnauzer.”

“You are kidding – I got that one for my goddaughter’s birthday.

“They are wonderful creations!”

“Thank you. There’s talk of a TV tie-in with Lindy Hop, so that’s pretty exciting.”

“Wendy Whiskers was optioned years ago, but nothing’s actually happened,” Bonnie replied. “I don’t know now if it ever will.”

“But I bet you have something new up your sleeve.”

Bonnie sighed.

“I think I might have writer’s block since Mandy died.”

“I’m sorry. It must have been a devastating loss.”

“Thank you. Most people seem to think that because Mandy was in her eighties, I shouldn’t have been shocked.

“But I was, and I still am. To me, she was ageless.”

“Of course.” Eddie nodded. “She leaves a considerable legacy in the books you made together.”

“Oh, yes. And Mandy had a huge back catalogue before we ever met. She’ll be remembered by several generations of children.”

“That’s nice. I’d love to get my name on even one book. Nobody knows I designed Pippa Penguin or Lindy Hop.

“I don’t get a credit on the box.”

Possibly because he spoke so kindly about Mandy, Bonnie found herself asking Eddie if she could see some of the artwork he had shown Sam on his phone.

“But I thought . . .” he began.

“There’s no harm in just looking.”

Eddie brought out his phone, tapped it a couple of times and handed it to her.

The first image was a full-colour picture of a small, vulnerable-looking bear in a Brownies uniform.

The character was miles more interesting than simply cute and cuddly.

You just knew there was more to her.

A second image showed the same bear in a school uniform, with a huge backpack on her back.

Her expression was a mixture of pride and terror.

How did Eddie manage to put that feeling across so successfully?

“These are great,” Bonnie murmured. “What’s her name?”

“She doesn’t have one. I’m not any good at that sort of thing. I’m open to suggestions,” he added.

Bonnie scrolled and found a third image of the same bear, this time in a nurse’s uniform, standing to attention.

The creature was so pleased with herself that Bonnie burst out laughing.

“She really has something,” Bonnie said.

“Thank you. From someone of your accomplishments, that’s praise indeed.”

Bonnie looked at her watch.

“I’d better go.” “Sorry, I’ve kept you for too long.”

“Not at all. I’ve enjoyed myself.”

Bonnie half-expected Eddie to make some final appeal for her to work with him. But he didn’t.

He simply offered to get her a taxi home, and, five minutes later, she was on her way.

Bonnie couldn’t sleep. It was most unlike her.

She looked at the clock on her bedside radio for the umpteenth time.

It was two o’clock in the morning.

What was wrong with her?

Bonnie studiously observed what everyone now seemed to call “good sleep hygiene”.

She stopped eating three hours before bed, switched off her screens two hours before going upstairs, wound down with a warm, milky drink and kept her bedroom tidy, calm and work-free.

All of these measures usually combined to do the trick.

But not this time. Instead of lying down with a pleasantly empty head, her thoughts were filled with images of that little bear of Eddie’s.

His illustrations were masterful. Somehow he managed to show his creation as much more nuanced than a lot of children’s characters.

The bear was both weak and strong, Bonnie felt, both bold and wary.

She was sure this cub had moments of behaving most nobly and others of succumbing to terrible greed or selfishness.

They were nothing like Mandy’s pictures. Mandy’s style was her very own mix of tradition and whimsy.

It was instantly recognisable and everyone loved it, Bonnie very much included.

Eddie, though, brought a different style. It was something very emotional.

His bear cub wore her heart on her sleeve and Bonnie liked that a lot.

When it became clear that she wasn’t going to get to sleep any time soon, Bonnie reached for the notebook and pencil that she always kept on her bedside locker in case of late-night inspiration.

She propped herself up against her pillows and tapped the pencil point against the pad.

First, that bear cub needed a name.

In the third book of the new series, “Eddie And Bonnie Get Married”, Eddie’s bear cub, Grizzelda Brown, has the thrill of her life when she gets to dress up as a flower-girl.

In real life, Bonnie had two flower-girls – her little niece and her god-daughter.

Everything went like clockwork, as Bonnie had bought Eddie a functioning wristwatch to get him to the church on time.

Sam was the matron of honour.

“I introduced them, you know,” she would tell anyone who would listen. “I just knew they would work wonderfully well together – you see, they’re both such great fun!”