Free Blowing It by Kate Aaron

knocked twice and entered.
    “Owen! Do you have it?”
    I pulled the pen drive from my pocket and waved it
triumphantly, a grin spreading across my face in response to Max’s almost
childish delight. He took the drive, cradling it as some people held newborns. I
could almost forget he’d already read most of it more than once over the course
of it being written.
    “I’ll get someone on it immediately,” he promised,
opening a drawer in his desk and removing a small lockbox, into which he placed
the drive. “We should have it over to Squire by next week.”
    I raised my eyebrows. “You’re confident.”
    “If it isn’t ready now, it never will be,” Max
said. “Besides, I want to beat the deadline if we can. It makes us look more
efficient.”
    Squire’s deadline was for the end of the month, meaning
we still had three weeks in which to polish the manuscript until it shone, but
I deferred to Max’s decision. I didn’t get involved in the politics if I could
help it.
    “I can still start the third book, right?” The
story had been building in my mind, buzzing through my head until I had to
fight it off in order to get the second finished. I knew better than to ignore
the urge to write when it struck, and had every intention of diving straight
into the outline for the new manuscript. Asking Max was only a formality.
    “Yes, of course.” Max seemed distracted. “Can you
sit for a moment, Owen?”
    I sank into the plush chair before his desk,
suddenly apprehensive. “What is it? Does Squire want to renegotiate the
contract? Can they do that?” I could only think it was some threat to our
income which had put the serious expression on Max’s face.
    “No, nothing like that. Not yet.”
    “What do you mean, ‘not yet’? What’s happened? I
told you, I never called that woman from Bloomsbury back—”
    “It’s nothing to do with that.” Max rested his
elbows on his desk, steepling his fingers. “Have you seen your Twitter account
recently?”
    I pulled a face. “I don’t have a Twitter
account. You made me delete it, remember?” Along with every other social media
presence I had. Apparently the photos my friends posted didn’t pass the
children’s author litmus test.
    Max made an exasperated sound. “Yes, you do. The
official one Katy set up.”
    “I never look at that.” I frowned. “Was I supposed
to? I thought it was only for promo.”
    “It is, but we still have somebody monitor it. People
try to contact you on there.”
    “I know how Twitter works, Max.”
    “Then you know people can post photos. Even tag you
in them.”
    A dark cloud of foreboding gathered over his desk.
    “Where were you on Friday night, Owen?”
    “I, I was out with my friends.”
    “Friends, plural, or one person in particular?”
    I bristled. “Okay, I had a date. Is that such a big
deal?”
    “Yes!” Max thumped the table. “You were seen .”
    “I’m not the invisible man,” I said sulkily.
“People see me all the time.”
    “Not like this.” He pushed his computer monitor
around. My Twitter account was on the screen, open to the notifications page. I
glanced quickly through a series of inane tweets about how much people loved my
books, those who’d been to a reading or sat in a studio audience and wanted to
know if I’d noticed them, parents asking for a release date for the second book
to appease their children. Then there was the tweet Max was bitching about. Sent
from somebody with a decidedly un-child-friendly handle, crowing that he was
having a drink in the same bar as me.
    The picture had been taken in The George and showed
me and Magnus walking through the busy pub, I suspected on our way out. Snapped
quickly on a cameraphone without using the flash, it was dark and grainy, but the
picture was unmistakably me, the neckline of my top slipped to expose my upper
chest, drainpipe jeans leaving nothing to the imagination. I was looking at
Magnus, a smile on my face, my makeup still pristine.