‘Coco. I’m going to get a job. I always said I would in the New Year. You have a meeting with Angie tomorrow about your new book. We won’t be living on the spoils of prostitution for much longer.’
Monday 6th February
I left Adam this morning uploading his CV to job search sites, and took the tube over to see my literary agent Angie. She has finally finished re-modelling her house, a beautiful four-storey home in a quiet, elegant terrace in Chiswick. She opened the door wearing pyjamas, holding a cup of coffee, with a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth.
‘Hi Angie… We have got a meeting today?’
‘Course Cokes,’ she said using the free side of her mouth. ‘This is the joy of working from home: you only need to get dressed up when it’s something important.’
I wiped my feet and gave her a look.
‘Of course love, you’re important. But you’re a mate too,’ she said.
She gave me a tour of the finished house. The basement has been excavated, and she now has a home cinema, underground parking, and her own spa with a jacuzzi. We finished the tour at the swimming pool. The huge expanse of water rippled softy under a vaulted sandstone ceiling. The bottom of the pool was tiled with a mosaic of her family.
‘I didn’t bank on the rippling water making me look so fat,’ she said, as we peered down at the bizarre Disney-esque cartoon mosaic of Angie, her fifth husband Mark, and her kids.
‘Course the kids all wanted to include their fathers in the mosaic, but why would I want to go for a swim with those bastards every morning?’ Angie is a proud four-by-four-er. Four kids by four different fathers. I often wonder if it’s her skill as a literary agent that has landed her this luxurious lifestyle, or her skill at negotiating a divorce settlement.
We came up to Angie’s office via a sweeping staircase. The walls were adorned with photos of her kids, every Madonna concert she’s been to and, I was flattered to see, a big poster of my proudest triumph, ‘Chasing Diana Spencer: The Musical’, which was adapted from my novel of the same name.
Angie’s new office was lined with bookshelves containing the work of all her authors. I spied Recherche Lady Di, the best-selling French edition of Chasing Diana Spencer. It gave me a thrill to be getting back to work again after a few months away from it all. I took a squashy chair in front of her desk. Angie lit a cigarette and sat opposite. Behind her was a beautiful view of rooftops and the Thames in the distance.
‘What happened to your old assistant?’ I asked.
‘Brenda took me to a tribunal,’ said Angie.
‘That’s a shame, what happened?’
‘You know when they dug out my basement, they found that Roman settlement and the plague pit?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Brenda started taking tea down to the builders, but the daft cow didn’t wear a facemask. She caught the bubonic plague.’
‘That’s terrible.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing these days, Cokes. She had to take a course of antibiotics, and she was fine. But the cow got greedy and wanted more than statutory sick pay. I said to her, ‘Did they get statutory sick pay in 1665? No they bloody didn’t. They all died.’’
‘And what did she say?’
‘Well she repeated that at the tribunal, and it cost me a bloody fortune. So for now Chloe is working for me.’ Angie’s daughter Chloe came in with two coffees.
‘Thanks love, hold all my calls, unless of course it’s uh, Regina Battenberg.’ Chloe nodded and left us alone.
‘Regina Battenberg?’ I said.
‘Yeah. I signed her to the agency last week. She’s gonna make me a fortune, Cokes.’
‘What about her other agent?’
‘She fired him. He was mean about her dog, Pippin, said it was mangy.’
‘And that’s a good reason to fire him?’
‘She’s a multi-million selling author now Coco. She can do what she wants.’
‘I’m just shocked you signed her.’
‘What Coco? Because you hate her? Because she’s always rude to you? Because she’s fucking barking like her horrible little dog?’
‘Yes.’
‘Coco this is business. And having her business will take this agency to the next level. I’m in talks to put her on cable in the USA.’
‘On the end of a cable, a noose?’ I asked hopefully.
‘No. The FX Network want to do a wine tasting show with her. It’s going to be mega bucks. Which reminds me.’ Angie pressed a button on her desk.
‘Chloe can you bring through the book for Coco.’
Chloe came back in with a copy of Regina Battenberg’s latest bestseller, Winetime. Regina was pictured on the cover, sitting at a table in a square in Venice, drinking wine and laughing with some elderly Italian men. She was wearing her signature gold character turban and heaps of makeup. Inside she’d written:
I dedicate my millionth copy to you dear Coco Pinchard. Maybe one day you can do the same for me? I won’t hold my breth! Ha Ha! (Just joking darling) xxx
‘Has she really sold a million copies?’ I asked.
‘She signed that a couple of weeks ago, so it’s about 1.2 million now.’
‘Angie, she can’t even spell the word breath!’ I said.
‘I know she writes mainstream rubbish, but I need authors like her so I can nurture my... literary writers. Like you.’ I didn’t like the way she made quotation marks in the air when she said literary.
‘I’ve sold lots of books too,’ I said.
‘Course you have love. But I need mega-sellers. The ebook revolution is doing me no favours. Especially now any old Tom, Dick or Harry living in a bedsit can upload a word document and have a bestseller. It makes my blood boil,’ she hunted around her desk for a cigarette.
‘Chloe, where are my bloody silk cut!’ she shouted. Chloe hurried in and lit her mother a cigarette.
‘Look, let’s not get into this again,’ I said. ‘Self-published authors are here to stay, there’s room for everyone.’
There was an awkward silence.
‘Right,’ she said composing herself. ‘I’ve got a release date for Agent Fergie. Your publisher, The House of Randoms, is looking at April 16th, so we really need to start things moving.’
‘There’s just one other thing,’ I said. ‘I’m pregnant. I’m going to have a baby in August.’
‘Bloody hell!’ said Angie. She sat back and puffed on her cigarette, then as an afterthought waved the smoke away from me. ‘You know, that could be a brilliant promotion angle. Old mum.’
‘Old mum?’
‘Have you got an ultrasound?’ I started to get it out of my coat.
‘No give it to Chloe to scan. It would be good to have on record if the press need it. This is such good news Coco! We could get Heat magazine to do a folic acid themed, ‘What’s in your fridge?’ You could recommend stretch mark cream in Boots Magazine. We could pitch something to Grazia or Cosmo about female incontinence – Ulrika Johnson has paved the way with that one. It’s perfect! Your readership is women over thirty five – and of course poofters. Could we do a mum and son thing in Gaytimes? Rosencrantz topless, and you in maternity gear?’
‘Hey! Angie!’
‘What?’
‘I’ve just told you I’m pregnant.’
‘I heard you love.’
‘And what do normal people say in response?’
Angie looked confused. ‘Um. Whose is it?’
I shook my head.
‘Are you gonna to keep it?’ Then it dawned on her. ‘Shit, congratulations Cokes.’
‘Thank you.’
I showed her my scan and she became human again. She even asked if I wanted to be put in touch with her Harley Street gynaecologist.
‘He’s great,’ she said. ‘Got me into a private hospital that lets you smoke. I could choose when I had my Caesarean, and they did a bit of liposuction at the same time.’
I lied and said I’d think about it.
‘Well
when you get the next bit of your advance through you can afford it love.’
Then Angie said our time was up. She had to prepare for a conference call with Regina Battenberg’s American publicist.
‘So what’s happening with Agent Fergie?’ I asked on the way out.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ she said. I came out and walked to Chiswick high street where I found a bus direct to Marylebone. I managed to bag a seat upstairs right at the front with a super view. But my nose had been put out of joint. Now Regina Battenberg is with Angie, I am no longer her number one client.
Wednesday 8th February
I was making tea this morning, when I realised we had run out of milk. Adam was reading the newspaper so I kissed him on top of the head and nipped out to the Tesco Metro. When I returned twenty minutes later, he was gone… I tried his mobile but the call was rejected after two rings. I tried again, and again I was rejected. I then burst into tears. As I write, I can see how ridiculous this is. But pregnancy hormones don’t make you think straight. I felt hugely rejected by his call rejection. Why hadn’t he told me where he was going? Why had he excluded me? I cried into Rocco’s fur for a few minutes then I tried him again. This time he answered.
‘What?’ he said.
‘You’re not here!’
‘I’m round the corner, at Tabitha’s.’
‘Why are you there? Why are you there alone?’
‘I’m changing a lightbulb for her…’ Then I heard Tabitha cooing in the background,
‘Adam, your Lapsang Souchong is getting cold.’
‘I’ve got to go, I’ll be home soon,’ he said and hung up!
I let Adam have it when he came home an hour later. He looked shocked.
‘What’s the big problem? She’s our tenant. She needed me to screw in a light bulb.’
‘She spends all day screwing! A light bulb can’t be that hard for her!’
‘It was one of those fitted ones in the kitchen ceiling,’ he said. I asked him if he’d slept with her.
‘You’re mad. I’m not even going to give that the time of day,’ he said. Then he grabbed his workout gear and went to the gym.
Friday 10th February
Every morning I wake up vowing to be a yummy mummy, but by the time I get down to the kitchen, I’m just a distasteful bitch. In addition to my foul mood swings, I’m farting like a trooper. There are only so many times I can blame poor Rocco. I feel revolting, fat and frumpy whilst Adam radiates gorgeousness. I wish I could be a man right now. A nice muscly man. It must be so nice to walk down the street and have everything stay in the same place. My bottom seems to reach out behind me like a large pontoon. My stomach spills over my waistband, and my boobs swing pendulously.
This morning a big box of baby books arrived from Angie. Or should I say, celebrity baby books; there was Myleene Klass, Jools Oliver… Denise Van Outen. All the books have pictures of them looking fabulous and pregnant on the cover. Denise Van Outen’s book is called Bumpalicious. For some reason this made me really upset. Bumpalicious….Bumpalicious… What the hell is ‘licious’ about my bump or being pregnant? Why do we still have to be under pressure to be sexy yummy mummies?
I hurled Bumpalicious across the hall, and it hit the yucca plant by the front door, which pitched over spilling soil everywhere.
‘What was that for?’ said Adam emerging from the kitchen in just his briefs, holding a tea towel.
‘Look at you, not an ounce of fat on you, you’re gorgeous!’ I said.
‘Thanks,’ grinned Adam admiring his abs.
‘It’s not a compliment you wanker!’ I shouted. ‘Put some clothes on!’ He opened his mouth to say something and thought it wiser to retreat upstairs. Rocco padded out of the kitchen and surveyed the mess with his wise brown little eyes, then trotted upstairs after Adam. I was seriously considering having a cigarette, thinking that as Adam is so tall our baby wouldn’t be that stunted by my nicotine abuse, when I noticed a note inside the box from Angie.
Dear Cokes,
Some baby stuff for you. Last night, I had a brainwave. Why don’t we get Regina Battenberg to write a quote for the front cover of Agent Fergie? Endorsements like these always help to sell loads more copies!
Chloe has left her a message, will keep you posted. Angie x
Tuesday 14th February
I slept badly, peed all night and realised this morning I had forgotten Valentine’s Day. I was wracked with tears of guilt when Adam presented me with a beautiful card. Inside he’d written,
“Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
You’re a pregnant bitch,
But I still love you…”
Adam x
It made me laugh for the first time in days.
’Yes!’ said Adam triumphantly. ‘She can still smile!’ He handed me a squashy present. I tore off the paper. It was a pack of baby-gros.
‘Thanks,’ I said. I stared at the five little pastel-coloured baby-gros, neatly arranged in a fan under the plastic.
‘They’re neutral colours,’ said Adam.
‘They are…’ I said. I knew he was being sweet. It will make me sound like an unreasonable cow, I know, but I could have done with something for me. I shook these thoughts away and smiled.
‘Thank you. I forgot all about today being Valentine’s Day… Do you want to have sex?’ I sat up quickly and in the process farted loudly.
‘Um, maybe we shouldn’t, ’cos of the baby…’ said Adam. Rocco whined and jumped off the bed.
‘Oh lord, that really stinks.’ I said. We both started to laugh. ‘Adam. I just want to be normal, not pregnant.’
‘You will be, but for now you’re making our beautiful baby, even if the process isn’t so beautiful.’ He went and ran me a bath.
Friday 17th February
Adam has applied for thirty-three jobs, but has heard nothing back. I keep telling him it’s a quiet time of year but if I’m honest, I’m a bit scared. He’s been in contact with his old boss in the civil service and she’s promised to let him know if anything comes up.
Marika has kindly offered me some dog walking, but I’m already exhausted and I’m only fifteen weeks in! It looks like for now we’re relying on Tabitha’s rent money, and whatever it is she does to earn it. I’m terribly emotional. I keep locking myself in the bathroom to have a good cry.
Monday 20th February
Angie phoned this morning, very excited. Regina Battenberg has agreed to provide a quote for the front cover of Agent Fergie.
‘She wants us to have a meeting here, tomorrow, at eleven,’ said Angie.
‘Why do we need a meeting?’ I asked.
‘She just wants to get a feel for the book from you.’
‘Can’t she just read the book?’
‘Cokes, she wants to meet you.’
‘Why?’ There was a pause.
‘Cokes, I got the impression it’s kind of compulsory.’
‘Compulsory?’
‘Well she said ‘impulsory’…’
‘So I’m auditioning for this bloody quote? You and Regina are going to sit behind a desk and I’ll come in and, what? Sing the synopsis? I bet she’s even asked for a big red buzzer?’
‘Of course not Coco. But getting this quote will be a huge deal. And remember, she’s doing it for free.’
‘Okay. I’ll be there,’ I said, with a heavy heart.
Tuesday 21st February
I lay awake all night dreading this meeting. I left the house early, but a delay on the Piccadilly Line meant I arrived outside Angie’s house at the same time as Regina Battenberg. She hasn’t changed a great deal in the two years since we last met. She was wearing her shiny gold character turban with a floor-length black and gold cape. She had on so much powder, eye makeup and blusher that she looked like she was about to go on stage. She was holding her little dog Pippin and peering up at the row of black front doors.
‘Excuse me dear,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for Angela Lansbury’s l
iterary agency, do you know which house is hers?’
‘Hello Regina… It’s Coco Pinchard,’ I said offering my hand. Pippin growled.
‘No… Angela Lansbury.’
‘No it’s me, Coco Pinchard,’ I said. Regina took a moment.
‘Oh, hello dear, I didn’t recognise you,’ she said. ‘I left my bifocals at The Ivy last night. Had a lovely supper with Punch and Judy… I mean Richard and Judy… Richard flirted with me all night. Quite put Judy’s nose out of joint.’
Her phone rang and she thrust Pippin at me. I’m not sure what breed he is. He looks like a wisp of grey hair that’s been fished out of a plug hole. I held him gingerly as she sorted through the folds of her cape for her phone.
‘Did you find a good parking spot?’ she snapped into the phone. ‘Five roads away! Leave it there for now… I’m waiting.’
Pippin growled at me with bug eyes, and bared his yellow teeth. Regina came off the phone.
‘Right, so we’re both looking for Angela Lansbury’s house.’
I went to correct her but Angie opened her front door. She was wearing one of her Chanel power suits, full warpaint, and a pair of towering Jimmy Choos on her tiny feet.
‘Angela!’ said Regina swooping into the doorway for a hug.
‘How was your journey?’ asked Angie as she and Regina air kissed with about six feet between them.
‘Fandabidoze!’ she grinned. Her teeth were now very white compared to two years ago. ‘Juan José is just parking the Subaru… Ah, here he is.’
A pouty male model came up the path to the front door. He was wearing a dark suit and sunglasses. He took the growling Pippin from me and we all went in. Angie had barely acknowledged me.
We took the staircase up to her office, where Chloe was fussing around, arranging a buffet. There were some bottles of very expensive wine, and plates of odd looking little biscuits arranged in fan shapes on Angie’s desk. The surrounding shelves were now groaning with every possible language edition of Regina Battenberg’s books.
Coco Pinchard, the Consequences of Love and Sex Page 7