Written Off

by Paul Carroll

  As the leader of the opposition stood to give some stick to the honourable member opposite, Reardon’s distemper increased. ‘Don’t let them off the hook, you twat. Is that all you…’ His mobile rang. His agent calling him at lunchtime? No doubt trying to impress him. He turned the TV volume down and answered the call.

  ‘Hello, Hugo. Thought you’d normally be studying the wine list at The Ivy about now?’

  ‘Very good, Reardon. If only.’

  ‘You’re not watching the budget are you? These bloody cretins need stringing up.’

  Grimacing at his bad timing in continuing the cutback theme, Hugo went for it. ‘Listen, Reardon. Bad news I’m afraid. No easy way of saying this, but Franklin & Pope have dropped their option on Original Motion. We’re going to have to take it elsewhere.’

  The members of the Cabinet rocked with merriment on the front benches and slapped each other on the back as if they’d just heard the best joke ever in the history of the whole wide world, delivered by the love child of Dawn French and Max Miller. No sound was needed, because Reardon was receiving their message loud and clear – he knew they were laughing at him. The bastards.

  Suzie was armed with just the one folder today – the red one. She and Chapman were discussing budgets too. The diligent PA was an expert at managing costs and knocking suppliers down on price – without her, Chapman’s cash cow wouldn’t fill quite as many pails. Chapman’s financial outlook tended to focus on the yield – he was mainly interested in the figure at the base of the columns, the one that indicated the net profit.

  ‘No biscuits?’ Chapman was feeling peckish. Suzie gave him a maternal look – odd, as he was five years older than her – to signify that not only were there no biscuits, there would be none forthcoming either. A slightly disappointed Chapman began the meeting. ‘Give me the headlines, then.’

  ‘It’s looking very good. The best news is that I’ve got a fifteen per cent discount on conference facilities and rooms at Lancaster – double last year.’

  ‘You’re a marvel – how did you do that?’

  ‘I told them you were thinking of moving the conference to Coventry this year – they were so desperate not to lose us they were throwing offers at me.’

  ‘And we’d budgeted for a ten per cent discount so that should make the bottom line look very sweet,’ Chapman laughed, impressed at his right-hand woman’s resourcefulness.

  ‘Plus, in the original budget, I’d worked on last year’s fee levels, so with the increases you want I’ve adjusted those figure upwards as well, and that’s only based on matching last year’s attendance, not beating it.’

  ‘Which we will do.’

  ‘Even in this recession?’

  ‘Listen, Suze. Forget recession and austerity. I’ve not met one unpublished writer who wouldn’t trade their soul to get a publishing deal. What’s that collective noun I came up with for wannabe writers? A “despondency”, that’s it. They’d renounce God, serve up their first born on toast at a vegetarian banquet and tell the Gestapo Anne Frank was upstairs in the attic to get a deal. And that’s what we can get them.’

  Suzie looked a little uncomfortable. ‘We’ve not had that many people, you know, actually go on and publish a book from the conferences. We do keep getting asked.’

  ‘You worry too much, Suze. I’ve been there and done it – that’s a strong message.’ Suzie’s eyes widened at this particular sales point. ‘And, we connect people – that’s the key. We lead the horses to water – it’s up to them if they drink.’

  Suzie coughed and moved the conversation back to the budget. ‘I’ve managed to squeeze the sponsorship rates up too. I created a few additional categories for new partners to stick their names on. It all helps ring the changes for the delegates too.’

  ‘You’re a genius.’

  ‘And I’ve also agreed expenses for our pros, still at last year’s rates.’

  ‘Loving it. Second class rail?’

  ‘I’ve changed it this year. Do you know it’s cheaper to give them first class tickets? Crazy, but it is. It’s only the ones travelling on the Friday that cost more, but they’ll be off-peak and I’ll be doing advance bookings in any case. Obviously, they don’t know that, so it’s a very nice touch.’

  This was all music to Chapman’s ears. ‘Prudent men woo thrifty women,’ he said gleefully, an acclamatory tribute to her economy and coordination. A blush suffused Suzie’s neck and rose to her face as she silently cast her gaze downwards to the file on her lap. Her reaction made the unpublished writer’s champion realise that he might have selected a better quote to praise his PA. ‘Money pads the edges of things’ for example.

  In the Franklin & Pope meeting room the biscuits were being passed around the table. They always had biscuits at budget planning meetings. Emily Chatterton passed the plate to her left, resisting the temptation to help herself to a bourbon cream. Twelve editors, including four from the publisher’s associated imprints, chatted idly while awaiting the arrival of Group Sales Director, Malcolm Sollitt, or ‘Rocket’ Sollitt according to a much-vaunted reputation for action. Rocket had been brought over from New York following the absorption of Franklin & Pope into the larger Colophon Publishing group six months earlier. The culture clash emanating from the union had resulted in the hard-pressed UK team referring to their new bosses as ‘The Bottom Inspectors’ – a symbol of resistance not entirely on a par with Tiananmen Square or the Poll Tax Riots.

  Emily had completed her twelve-month projections earlier in the month and had forwarded the figures to be collated alongside the other eleven. This was the first opportunity they’d get to see how they stacked up together. A year of expansion or a year of decline. Margin growth or shrinkage. More importantly for the editors, what it would mean for their budgets in the year ahead.

  Rocket burst into the room like he was trying to escape the forces of gravity. Such was his normal orbit it was only the second time they’d actually seen him. ‘Hi, you guys. Let’s do this,’ he boomed.

  A dozen faces around the table remained blank. Do what?

  Rocket declined to sit and addressed them while pacing the floor like a demented tiger. ‘First off, budgets. They don’t add up,’ he snarled. ‘Looks like you’ve taken last year’s and added ten percent to everything. That’s not going to wash anymore. Blank piece of paper, bottom up is our way.’

  Emily let go of the budget she’d prepared as if it had just been taken out of the oven.

  Rocket threw a pile of documents on to the table, gesturing for them to be passed around. ‘Here’s this year’s budgets. This is what we’re going to be working to.’

  Rocket saved the editors the bother of absorbing the figures. ‘Read them in detail later, but let me summarise. The author cull – it carries on; we’ve another forest of dead wood to chop before we’re done. Marketing costs – we’re going to get smarter and stop throwing cash down the drain, especially in this digital age. New authors – advances are being slashed by seventy-five per cent. Saves enough to keep most of you in a job for another year. Questions?’

  The look on the editors’ faces didn’t reflect how grateful they were feeling for this continuity of employment. Faced with the vacuum of silence Rocket had achieved, Emily bit her lip and, as elder statesperson, moved to initiate dialogue. ‘I think we all appreciate the need for cost controls, Malcolm, but I’m a little concerned – I think I speak for others around the table – that cuts on this scale may render us ineffective.’

  ‘Emily, right?’ said Rocket. She nodded, already regretting opening her mouth. He fixed her in his sights. ‘“Ineffective” is an interesting word to use. Because that word has been on my lips this past week as I’ve been looking at the figures. Are we effective at talent spotting? No. Are we effective at building sales? Nope. Are we effective at making profits? Seven out of ten books don’t even pay t
heir way, so that’s a big fat round “no” there as well.’

  Nobody came to her aid.

  ‘Now, Emily, let me give you an example of what I mean. From last year’s figures I see we signed a new author who got a £250,000 advance. To spearhead our new category – “Guilty pleasure for the thinking woman”, yeah? We injected another £100,000 into the marketing. How many did we sell?’ Rocket wasn’t expecting an answer and didn’t wait for one. ‘Jack Shit, that’s what we sold. That single book alone wins every prize going for what’s been going wrong in this place, and what I need to fix.’

  The blood drained from Emily’s face. Would she ever be able to forget she signed Demons Paint Their Lips or would she be forced to carry the shame to her grave?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Victoria Blair was taking the weight off her feet at The Art of Tea, a Didsbury bookshop incorporating a café bar (or maybe it was the other way around).

  ‘My treat today, Vic,’ said Geraldine, her best friend from when they’d worked together in PR. Now they were both freelancing they’d made it a rule to have lunch together at least once a month.

  ‘I wish I’d known – I’d have suggested going to San Carlo,’ said Victoria. She was teasing, but only slightly as she recalled that she’d picked up the tab last month at Harvey Nicks.

  They were so busy talking it took the waitress three attempts to take their order. Geraldine was much taken with the bookish setting of their lunch spot. ‘Isn’t this a lovely idea, Vic? You don’t get this at Costa. Maybe they’ll have Eric’s book in here this time next year.’

  Victoria shifted in her chair. ‘Not at the rate things are going. I hope not anyway – they’re all second hand, aren’t they?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I think you’re right. He’s finished it though, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. Last October. It’s out with agents now, seeing if someone will take it on. But nobody’s bitten yet.’

  ‘Poor Eric. Still, it took JK Rowling years to get published, and look at her now.’

  ‘I know, Gez, but honestly, it’s breaking my heart to see how disappointed he is. He puts a brave face on but it’s killing him that no one is interested. Especially after it took nearly three years to write – he thought that was going to be the hard part.’

  Geraldine, who thought Eric was a bit up himself anyway, declined to offer any sympathy. ‘What’s it called? Have you actually read it, Vic?’

  ‘It’s called Shine in the Dark – no, Scrub Me Till I Shine in the Dark. Yes, I’ve read it. It’s very good.’

  ‘That’s an odd title. Do you think that’s the problem? What’s it about anyway?’

  ‘Well, you’d have to read it to understand the title. I don’t think that’s the issue. It’s just very competitive to get published these days, that’s all. And I don’t think there’s much call for gritty northern social realism nowadays.’

  ‘What, like Kes or A Kind of Loving? I’d have thought they’d be crying out for something like that these days.’

  ‘Geraldine – they’re years old – you’re showing your age.’

  ‘Maybe, but isn’t it time for the kitchen sink to have a bit of revival? Eric could be at the forefront.’

  ‘I don’t see it somehow. No, Gez, it’s very dispiriting. Eric reckons Charles Dickens would get Great Expectations turned down these days unless it incorporated Ye Olde Victorian Cooke Book. I don’t know where Eric turns to next.’

  ‘Write another?’

  ‘He’s not mentioned doing that. All his hopes are pinned on this one.’

  ‘Can’t he self-publish? He could have it on Kindle by the weekend. It’s easy these days,’ suggested Geraldine.

  Victoria looked dubious. ‘Well, I mentioned that to him, but I may as well have suggested he ran stark-bollock naked down Canal Street. He really bit my head off at the idea.’

  ‘But why? He’s spent all that time on it – surely he wants to see it in print one way or another?’

  ‘That’s what I thought but he thinks it would be an admission of failure – he reckons self-publishing is an artistic sell-out, pure vanity.’

  ‘Well, everybody else is doing it. No point in doing all that work and then hiding it away. He wants people to read it, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Gez. It’s just that his heart is set on a proper agent and a proper publisher – it’s that or nothing for him.’

  Geraldine thought this attitude typical of Eric. ‘Can I have a read of it, Vic, or is it still “for your eyes only”?’

  ‘Eric doesn’t want anybody to read it yet, not until it’s published.’

  Geraldine thought that, too, a matter-of-course for Eric. She stopped herself from voicing what was going through her mind: I won’t hold my breath, then.

  Diana Damson was not best pleased at Bronte’s latest no-show for her restaurant duties. ‘Short-staffed again this lunchtime. I’m telling you, Ade, she’s taking the mick.’

  ‘Did she give you any notice? Maybe something came up?’ asked Adrian, not wanting to be too quick to rush to judgement.

  ‘A text, five minutes before service. But you could say it was an emergency – she was buying a wall chart and post-its to help her plan her novel.’

  Adrian remained stoic in the face of this latest report of his daughter’s dereliction of duty. ‘Oh,’ he said.

  Christine Marks, the founder of online erotica publishing empire, ViXen, was getting turned on at the sight of her sales figures. ‘You’ve got to hand it to Alyson Hummer – top seller again this month.’ Since starting ViXen five years previously to cater for women’s erotic romance she’d been amazed at how the site had taken off. It was a gift that kept on giving – on one hand she had a growing army of readers whose appetite appeared to be unquenchable; on the other hand she also had an endless supply of new material flowing in from indefatigable authors.

  Christine’s editor, Robyn Knott, shared her enthusiasm for their top author. ‘Yes, impressive. It’s her range, I think. Never covers the same ground twice. Very inventive.’

  ‘And her productivity – she can really crank them out. You know she told me she only ever writes about her own experiences? I have to say I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘Really?’ said Robyn. ‘How does she find the time to write?’

  ‘Exactly. Whether she does or not doesn’t matter – Backlash Love Affair has gone straight to number one this month, and A Love You Can’t Survive and No Price on Love are still both in the top twenty.’

  Robyn was studying the monthly figures. ‘She’s the only author we have to appear in three categories too. Range again,’ she said. To help readers navigate their preferences the ViXen site was helpfully broken down into four classifications: romance, raunch, explicit and hardcore (Alyson still had to feature in romance). As if these choices weren’t helpful enough readers could also search and cross-refer by topic – hetero, BDSM, lesbian, ménage and historical being the five most popular. Alyson could tick all of those boxes in her work to date.

  ViXen owed its success not only to its means of distribution but also to the discretion of its readers. Word of mouth, particularly on the material that Amazon wouldn’t list, had never been as powerful and at an average price of between 99p and £1.99 per download nobody was ever going to complain about value. Where Christine’s business model really scored was that, from the outset, she actually paid authors a fair percentage on sales whereas most erotica sites rewarded contributors with a big fat zero. Consequently, ViXen attracted better submissions and could claim the highest editorial standards – a reassuring guarantee of quality for its growing legion of followers. Christine herself formulated the editorial policy pre-launch and it still pertained five years on – all listings had to be passed by the editorial department according to a well-established set of guidelines, the exceptions to the
‘anything goes’ rule being non-consensual, underage, incest, necrophilia and bestial. Over the past twenty-four months Christine had added audio books, movies and a sex toys retail section to the offer and now Vixen claimed, with some justification, to be the UK’s most sophisticated erotica site for women (allowing for the fact that forty per cent of its sales were overseas).

  This was a source of great pride to the founder of the business but so too was the democratic and empowering ethos she promoted among the young team she had built up. She encouraged them to have ideas and to make suggestions, which is why Robyn now felt at ease pointing out a potential pitfall that had just struck her regarding their star author. ‘You know, we should really look at tying Alyson in, maybe on a three-book deal,’ Robyn said, conscious that under their current contractual arrangement Alyson was free to publish her future books anywhere she chose. ‘We don’t want to lose her – she’s a real money-spinner.’

  Christine had never extended such a deal to a writer before but could see the logic of Robyn’s suggestion. ‘You’re right. It would be a blow to lose her.’

  ‘She may ask for a bigger percentage – I know I would.’