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I can tell you exactly when I fell in love. The exact place. Theexact minute. The London Book Fair. Here. Now. Let me quickly check my watch so that I will remember it forever -- 3.45 P.M. Ihave no idea who he is -- yet -- nor that he's about to turn my lifeupside down, but already I'm bitten, smitten. He looks at meagain and smiles, and my insides flood with a tingling warmththat I haven't felt for a very long time. I also have pins and needlesin my feet, but that's more to do with uncomfortable shoesand the first glimmer of a bunion than Cupid's deadly aim.
"We need someone gorgeous," he tells me, and I realize thatI'm staring.
He has an American accent that I can't place. East Coast, WestCoast -- I'm hopeless, they all sound the same to me. Drawly andsexy. And they all make me go weak at the knees.
"It'll take about five minutes. No more," the All-Americanman is saying to me now. "Can you spare the time?"
I want to tell him that if he asked me nicely I could probablyspare the rest of my life, but only manage to stammer out,"Y -- Yes."
Reaching out, he takes my elbow and guides me toward him.I gape round -- having failed in the mouth-closing area -- lookingfor approval from Nigel, the manager of the book stand whereI'm supposed to be helping out. But he is busy talking numbersto a bookshop owner in a corduroy jacket and no one else is theslightest bit interested in what I'm doing.
What I am doing is some temporary work for BindlattersBooks, publishers of a highly dubious range of Technicolor horrorbooks for the youth market that seem to involve more blood than your average abattoir sees in a week and lots of heads beingripped off.
Working for a book publisher may sound interesting -- I can justhear myself dropping it into the conversation at dinner parties -- but what I'm actually doing is wearing a red polyester uniformand attempting to give out leaflets to people who don't want totake them.
"Publisher?" my American asks as he eases me through acrush of people.
Would that I could claim such a lofty position. I could pretend,but what would that achieve? But maybe I don't need to admitthat my knowledge of books extends to buying the batteredcopies that have done the rounds of charity shops to fill my longand lonely nights. I am an aficionada of dog-eared Danielle Steel."No." How can I make this sound riveting? I have no idea. I'mnot that inventive -- at least not at short notice. "I'm Chief LeafletGiver-Outer."
He tries to look impressed, as if I've just told him I'm chancellorof the exchequer.
"It's a temporary position." Oh dear. I sound dreadfully bitter.
The London Book Fair is held in Olympia and it takes me foreverto get here every morning -- as I live in Battersea on thewrong side of the river. But it's only for a week. I have to keepreminding myself of that fact. However, what happens at the endof the week could well be worse. A big fat nothing is currentlylooming large on the horizon of my life.
I glance at my inadequate official badge. It doesn't bear myname -- Sadie Nelson -- or any of the other details that singleme out from A. N. Other. Just the name of my stand. I guessthe people who generally perform this thankless task don'thang around long enough to warrant having a printed namebadge.
"I'm Gil," this gorgeous American says over his shoulder. "GilMcGann."
"Publisher?"
"No." He gives a dismissive shake of his head and takes a firmer grip of my arm as we thread our way through the oncomingthrong. "I'm a Hollywood film producer."
Yes, and I'm Halle Berry.
"I've just bought a great book," he continues. "The One That GotAway. A romantic comedy -- funny as hell."
"I'm here to do smiley things with the author."
Oh good. So let me just get this clear: I'm standing here in ared polyester uniform, which is designed specifically to fit someoneshorter, fatter and forty years older than me, talking to a gorgeousHollywood film producer about his latest movieacquisition. On the plus side, I'm having a good hair day. And,despite not asking my name, he told me I was gorgeous. Anyminute now, my alarm clock is going to go off and I'm not goingto be able to decide whether this was a dream or a nightmare.
Currently, it could go either way.
We squeeze through the crowd and onto another exhibitionstand which is a hundred times bigger and swankier than BindlattersBooks' one. It is hung with huge posters of trendy books,some of which I've even heard of, but haven't read because theyhaven't hit the Skid Row of the charity shops yet. There is agroup of people drinking champagne in the corner and laughingloudly. A stainless-steel table with a smear-free glass top has beenarranged at one side and there is a crackle of anticipation in thefew people, looking decidedly like fellow minions, who aremilling around.
Gil stands next to me but doesn't let go of my arm. I'm notcomplaining. I have goose pimples all over me and yet I'm notthe slightest bit cold. In fact, you could probably grill hamburgerson my cheeks.
"I hope you don't think this is too much of an imposition?"
"Not at all." My hormones are nudging me to do my mostwinning smile. I can't -- my feet are hurting too much fromstanding in one spot all day in high heels. My lips stretch tightlyacross my teeth and from somewhere in the depths of my reserves,I send a tired smile back at him. "Though you haven't actuallytold me what you want me to do."
The Sweetest Taboo. Copyright © by Carole Matthews. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
Excerpted from The Sweetest Taboo by Carole Matthews
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
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