Written Off

by Paul Carroll

  ‘Looking at what she shifts, it would be worth it. Yes, I like it – stitch her in before she gets a better offer elsewhere. Smart thinking, Robyn.’

  ‘She’s not said “yes” yet, but go for it.’

  Yes, Christine thought, I will.

  Grace Beaumont had a face of stone. ‘Honestly, Rosie, I don’t know how you put up with it.’

  Rosie, not for the first time, regretted mentioning anything to do with Con to her sister but she’d let the cat out of the bag as they shared an after-work drink. ‘He was just a bit over-excited, that’s all. It’s not every day you finish writing a book.’

  ‘Not in his case, no. How long has it taken him? Two years? Longer?’

  Rosie ducked the question and took another sip of her Carlsberg. She knew Grace had a point, only she wished she wouldn’t labour it quite so hard. Rosie had been upset though as, even by Con’s standards, he’d really let her down. She’d not told the whole story to Grace, just the bit about arriving home and finding Con blind drunk with empty cans of Guinness and Magners all over the floor. She’d not mentioned that it was supposed to be a celebration night, that Con was to present her with a print out of his first novel, that the volume of the CD player was turned up to eleven (Paperback Writer no less), that the acrid odour of burnt gammon hung over the cramped flat or that, in addition to the booze, Con was as high as a kite.

  In the absence of an answer, Grace continued. ‘So now he’s “finished his novel” is he going back to work?’

  ‘He will, yes,’ Rosie said, trying to cut her sister off at the pass. After a millisecond pause she added, ‘Just as soon as he’s edited it, and got it out to agents.’

  ‘Oh, Christ, Rosie. And how long is that going to take? If procrastination was an Olympic sport he’d be Sir Steve Redgrave.’

  ‘Just a few more months now, that’s all. Then, he’s promised if he doesn’t get a deal, he’ll definitely go back to work.’

  Grace knew that speaking to her sister about her boyfriend of four years was a delicate subject but she couldn’t help herself. ‘It’s not that I don’t like Con, you know that, Rosie. It’s just that you’ve worked your guts out supporting him and he’s taking you for granted. It was only supposed to be for one year.’

  ‘I know, but nobody knows how long it takes to write a book, do they? There are no set rules. It’s quality, not quantity or speed, that counts.’

  Grace recognised Con’s sage pronunciations on creativity being replayed to her and shook her head. ‘And I don’t want to be negative but you know that the chances of a first-time author getting picked up are pretty slim?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. But Con is really confident he’s got something really different with this book. It’s good to see him so positive.’

  ‘Have you actually read it?’

  ‘Not yet – he wanted to finish it first, but he’s going to print it out for me.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s not, “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” a million times. Has he finally decided on a title?’

  Rosie took another sip of her lager. ‘It’s called A Refugee From the Seraphim.’

  Now it was Grace’s turn to take a deep draught from her wine glass. Poor, poor Rosie.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘A wise man will make more opportunities than he finds.’ Chapman was mid-stride during the official launch of the upcoming Write Stuff Conference. His chosen platform for the announcement was his company’s one-day ‘Pathway to Publishing’ seminar where fifty hot prospects already sat pumped and primed – all he had to do was push them over the dotted line. He’d carefully selected the date and the location of the seminar to gain the halo effect of London Book Week taking place in the same venue. His charges, their noses pressed up against the window, could kill two birds with one stone and dream about where in the cavernous halls they’d be next year. ‘Can a three-day conference make the difference in finding an agent, securing a publishing deal, making you a better writer?’ The wide-eyed audience knew what answer they wanted to hear. ‘No other conference – and plenty of imitators have tried to emulate our successful formula – comes close to putting you, the writer, face to face with agents and editors. Experts who will read your work and give you direct feedback. That ten minutes could be the breakthrough moment you’ve been striving for, the vindication of all the months and years of blood, sweat and tears you’ve poured into your work.’ Chapman had them now. ‘I only need to point to the number of successful delegates who’ve picked up representation from agents after attending our courses. Every year, we get writers placed. This is our seventh annual conference and we’ve not failed yet. This year, it could be you.’

  His stirring words conjured images of Waterstones window displays in the collective imagination of the audience. Chapman pressed on. ‘Of course, you may not be at that stage yet. You may be just embarking on your writing career or have a work in progress. My message to you is that The Write Stuff conference is equally, if not more, valuable in that case. Why? Because as well as rubbing shoulders with the most influential agents and editors in the UK and finding out how the industry works, you’ll also be able to attend sessions with the best – and when I say the best I mean la crème de la crème – literary academics and book doctors in the business who will revolutionise your craft. I guarantee you’ll never write the same way again.’

  There was more. ‘And each year we have guest authors along to share their experiences with us. Why? Because we know writing can be a solitary occupation. When we take time to look up from our keyboards it’s reassuring to discover that many people are on the same journey. Some behind us, some ahead, some who’ve reached their destination. Believe me, it gives one heart, and belief, and renewed determination to succeed.’

  Chapman still had his joker to play. ‘Above all though, what’s the best thing about The Write Stuff conference? Let me tell you. It’s the enjoyment and the fun that marks the three days. Do we provide that? No, we facilitate it. It’s you, the delegates, who make the weekend truly come alive. Old friends returning year after year; new friends to be made. It doesn’t matter what stage you’re at in your writing, or what genre you specialise in, this conference is for you.’ There was a murmur of approval and a nodding of heads in front of him. He moved for his closer, shouting out, ‘So, who’s coming?’

  A number of hands shot up, including Bronte Damson’s. Chapman reckoned about half. Not bad. Not bad at all. He’d make sure nobody left that evening without having secured their deposits.

  Belinda Boyle was trying to cheer her husband up and needed all her reserves of patience to do so. They were having lunch in Balthazar ahead of an afternoon excursion to the National Gallery – her treat. ‘You mustn’t get despondent, darling. Remember what Hugo said – this could be an opportunity for you.’

  Reardon was far from convinced. ‘What does that halfwit know? He’s well-practised in the art of letting people down gently – I’ll give you that. I should have known not to have stuck with him.’

  Belinda, losing the will to live, placed the menu slowly back down on the table. ‘I think that’s a bit harsh. You’ve always spoken very highly of him in the past.’

  ‘When he was good. When he was interested. When I was his meal ticket. Now he’s got too many balls up in the air long-standing clients like me are being taken for granted.’ A month had passed since Reardon had learned his option wasn’t to be taken up by Franklin & Pope and his mood swings had veered wildly in the interim. His initial disappointment and disbelief at the news was short-lived, to be replaced by lengthy bouts of chagrin. Occasionally he’d surface from the ocean of self-pity to snatch at the lifebelt thrown to him by Hugo, that this might turn out to be a good thing after all. But as the drowning man broke the surface of the vast briny expanse in which he found himself, a ship on the horizon came there none. Faced with the prospect of n
ever seeing land again, he took to railing at the pilot who had steered him into these treacherous waters. ‘Complacent, that’s what he’s become. Bloody complacent. I mean, how much has he earned out of me in the past few years? A fortune, that’s what.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s earned it,’ Belinda said, before realising that the comment could be interpreted in two different ways.

  ‘Earned it? Earned it? Christ, did he write anything? On, no – that was me. Did he even discover me? No – I discovered him. Intermediaries like Hugo are scavengers – they add nothing but still take a cut. An estate agent gives better value when I think about it.’

  ‘Reardon, you know that’s not true. If anyone can get you a new deal, it’s Hugo. And he’s made you money, too.’

  ‘Made me money? Which I have to give him his commission out of as well as paying the taxman. What does that leave me with? Not a lot is the answer. If you took all of the hours I’ve slaved away writing, and what I’ve actually earned, a punkawallah with a broken arm would have been on a better day rate.’

  Belinda sighed, but she knew that the worse thing she could do was to endorse Reardon’s paranoia. ‘You’re just being impatient, darling. I know it must be hard for you but you must trust Hugo to do his job.’

  ‘I’d trust him as far as I could fire him. Do you know why he’ll fail to get me another deal?’ It was clearly a rhetorical question because he ploughed on. ‘I’ll tell you. Because commerce has now replaced culture, that’s why. If he does get me a deal it wouldn’t be worth having anyway. That’s the way things are going these days – advances are in retreat. I’d be better off asking for a job here, waiting on or scrubbing away in the kitchen.’

  The waiter who had been hovering to take their order manfully ignored Reardon’s last comment as he closed in on the unhappy pair. Belinda looked sorrowfully at her husband. How much longer was she going to have to endure this? She hoped, for the sake of her sanity never mind Reardon’s, that Hugo could come up with something, and soon.

  Back over at Olympia the man on whom Belinda, if not his client, was pinning all of her hopes was taking a well-earned break from his busy schedule at the London Book Fair. As he looked around for a seat in the busy cafeteria Emily Chatterton beckoned him over to her table.

  ‘Hugo, I didn’t think I’d see you in here – are you hiding from someone?’

  ‘Just taking a well-earned breather from the mayhem. But you’re here so you must be avoiding somebody too.’

  Emily laughed. ‘Let’s just say I had the same idea as you. We should be safe for fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Aren’t you doing a seminar this afternoon?’

  ‘Yes. Will you be coming? I’m sure you’re dying to find out why “Bigger is Better” when it comes to publishing?’

  ‘You might have to let me pass on that. Preaching to the converted, obviously. You’re going to have to be careful nailing your colours to the mast, aren’t you? What if it turns out that the best things come in small packages?’

  ‘I had the same thought myself but unfortunately Rocket agreed to serve me up on this particular topic with onion rings and a side salad.’

  ‘Is Malcolm Sollitt here?’ Hugo said. ‘I’d really like to meet him.’

  ‘I bet you would, Hugo. You’ll have to join the queue I’m afraid. He appears to have a lot of fans.’

  ‘Ah, I take it you’re not one of them?’

  Emily looked around to check there were no colleagues in earshot before she answered. ‘Well, to be honest, he’s shaken things up a bit since he arrived. I can see where he gets his nickname from.’

  ‘So I’m right in deducing that Reardon got singed in his afterburners?’ Hugo wasn’t going to waste this opportunity to confirm his suspicions that all wasn’t well at Franklin & Pope.

  Similarly, Emily knew how to be loyal and discreet while dishing the dirt. ‘Him and another fifteen mid-listers. And he’s not going to stop there. You didn’t hear that from me, of course. How did poor Reardon take it?’

  ‘Oh, he took it as well as can be expected. He was always a moaning old bastard, so it was hard to tell the difference.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, you know that. It’s a sign of the times.’

  ‘That “Bigger is Better”, you mean?’

  ‘Very funny, Hugo. Have you had any interest for Reardon anywhere else?’

  Now it was Hugo’s turn to go on the defensive. ‘Well, it’s early days and all that, but “no” is the answer. He’s absolutely plaguing me as well.’

  ‘It will be difficult, I suspect. And if you do get anyone interested, they’ll offer a tenth of what he was on before and knowing Reardon he’ll tell them to shove it.’

  ‘You’ve hit the nail on the head, Emily. To be honest, it’s a bit embarrassing pushing him too hard – it sort of reflects badly on my authors who are on the way up.’

  ‘Flogging a dead horse, literally. How far has he got with Original Motion?’

  ‘Well, that’s the irony – it’s nearly finished.’

  ‘He could be self-publishing it at this rate.’

  ‘God forbid he’d do that. I think he’d rather take himself off on a one-way trip to Switzerland than do that.’

  ‘Well, changing times. If he’d put some effort into communicating with his readers he might have had a ready-made audience.’

  Hugo grimaced, remembering the number of times he’d urged Reardon to embrace Twitter, to build up followers and to create noise around his work. All he’d been met with was, ‘Hugo, I have no desire to waste a single word on anything but my books. Talent will out.’

  Emily looked at her watch, and made to leave. ‘Well, looking at the amount of self-publishing and marketing companies here this week he’d have been able to get plenty of advice.’

  As Hugo bade farewell, the image of Reardon haggling a deal with Dignitas jumped into his mind.

  Bronte was beyond excited as she rubbed shoulders with other would-be writers enrolled on the Pathway to Publishing seminar. Over the cheapest house wine Olympia catering could muster she and a handful of fellow delegates were enthusiastically agreeing how much they’d learned and how the gems that had been revealed today would be central to propelling their writing careers in an upward trajectory. The thrill of the London Book Fair taking place under the same roof added further fuel to their determination to move up the chain, and into the main hall, in future years. As she listened intently to the middle-aged woman (genre: historical fiction) holding court within their little group, she gasped as she espied Chapman Hall bearing down on them – he was coming to speak to them.

  ‘How did we all find it today?’ he breezed genially in the manner of somebody not expecting any deviation from the party line.

  Historical fiction, the self-appointed spokesperson for the group, gushed on cue. ‘I think I speak for everybody when I say that our eyes have been opened today. We can’t wait to put all of the tips into action.’

  Chapman beamed. ‘Well, that’s why we’re here. The more determined you are, and the more mistakes you eliminate, the easier it is to attain that dream of getting published.’

  Another delegate, a male in his early thirties (genre: satire) whom Bronte noticed had kept himself to himself all day, now tagged himself on to the group.

  An elderly gent (genre: autobiography) plucked up the courage to speak. ‘I must say I found it all rather daunting. Very informative, yes, but to the point that I think I’ll be self-publishing if I’m honest, and I’d consider that a defeat.’

  Chapman shook his head slowly. ‘Self-publishing a book isn’t a defeat, oh no. In fact it’s a wonderful opportunity for many writers to get their work out there; wonderful because it’s never been easier.’

  Satire chipped in. ‘But isn’t that a contradiction? I mean, aren’t we all here today trying to find out how
to get published properly?’

  There’s always one, thought Chapman. ‘Yes, you’re right, of course…’ He squinted but was unable to read the name badge on the delegate’s chest to address him by his Christian name. ‘… but to be published at all is a gift so if gaining a deal with an established publisher isn’t to be, then self-publishing is a more than acceptable option. We all want to see our work reach the maximum possible audience, don’t we?’

  A number of heads nodded in agreement at Chapman’s sage words. Satire maintained his steady stare in Chapman’s direction. ‘I’m afraid I don’t agree. I’m here today to find out how to get a proper publishing deal and for you to suggest self-publishing seems to me to be a bit of a cop out.’

  The group shifted uneasily at the tough line of questioning their host was being subjected to; however, nobody sprang to Chapman’s aid as they were all keen to know the answer to the question that had just been posed.

  ‘Well, let me give you an example,’ Chapman said as he played for time. ‘I myself have been fortunate enough to have gained a publishing deal in the past. You may recall A Poisoned Heart and a Twisted Memory? But if circumstances had been different, I don’t think I would have had any qualms whatsoever in self-publishing my work.’

  ‘When did that come out?’ asked Satire, clearly not familiar with the tome in question.

  ‘It was a few years ago now but that doesn’t alter the fact that I was immensely proud of it, and if I hadn’t secured a publishing deal I’d have made sure that it saw the light of day, one way or another.’

  ‘Just the one book? Or did you have others?’ pressed Satire.

  Chapman kept his cool despite wanting to kill this snivelling creep who was ruining his sales pitch. ‘I stopped at the one novel as The Write Stuff took over my life. It was then I decided it was better for me to help other writers, many of whom were better writers than me, to achieve the goal I’d already attained. Most of my published work these days is of a didactic nature.’