by Paul Carroll
Like a guest at Belshazzar’s feast, Emily wrestled with the meaning of the writing on the wall. Rocket was no Biblical scholar but he knew what their conversation had just foretold: ‘Numbered, weighed, divided.’
Hugo had been ducking Reardon’s calls for the past week, figuring that confirmation of the lack of progress in finding a new publishing deal for him would only heap more misery on the already despondent author. Plus, Hugo could do without the hassle. Then, this morning, a miraculous occurrence had taken place. Not quite a publishing deal, but a reminder that Reardon still cast some light within the literary firmament, a distant echo of his authorial value and reputation. Hugo also reflected that he would earn a nice little commission on having fielded this one single phone call. So, a freshly brewed cup of coffee to hand and his feet casually propped up on his desk, Hugo made himself comfortable in order to break the good news to his chary client.
‘Reardon. I call with good news. I hope you’re sitting down.’
The author, who of late had found it increasingly difficult to raise himself from his bed before noon, was comfortably reclined. Despite his supine position, Reardon felt his body tense. Good news? What news? Who had Hugo placed him with? On what terms? He also felt a slight twinge of guilt over the names he’d called his hapless agent over the past three months. He collected himself. ‘Yes, Hugo. Do tell.’
Hugo, as was his custom when selling something, was keen to build to his ‘reveal’. ‘Well, as you know, Reardon, I’ve been testing the market for some time and, if I’m being honest, I’d missed a trick.’ Reardon shifted himself up on his pillows. Bloody Hugo, never getting to the point. ‘It struck me that we were only chasing one fox when we could have been after more.’ Good God, what was he on about now? thought Reardon. ‘So, I broadened my sights beyond simply finding you a new publisher and explored some new areas. And you know what? I’ve come up with an absolute winner. You’re going to be very pleased with this, Reardon, I know.’
The author resisted the temptation to berate his agent for his unwarranted prolixity. ‘Perhaps you could just tell me what “this” is, Hugo?’
‘I’ve only lined you up for a professorship in creative writing at the King Edward VIII University. Forget your next advance, Reardon, these academics are paying big.’ Hugo, at last, shut up, ready to be showered with heartfelt gratitude from his grateful client. However, the agent’s announcement was met with silence. Hugo, shifting his feet from the table back to the floor as if that would help the author construct a response, thought maybe the line had gone dead. ‘Reardon, are you there? Reardon?’
The award-winning writer, the voice of his age, this colossus of literary fiction, did not stir as he absorbed the news imparted by Hugo. Finally, he cleared his throat and, not removing his gaze from the framed photograph of him receiving a BAFTA for best screenplay that held pride of place on his bedside cabinet, he spoke. ‘Hugo, you are my agent, correct?’
Hugo was now sitting fully erect at his desk, his cup of coffee placed on a coaster sporting the Motif Literary Agency logo. ‘Yes, of course I am, Reardon.’
‘And under the normal terms of an agency-author relationship it would be expected that you, as my agent, find me, the writer, a publisher. Not just any old publisher, but one that will respect me as an author, promote and help my work to reach the widest possible audience?’
‘Yes, of course, but…’
‘Hugo. Let me continue, please. So, after three months, you call to tell me you are no closer to the accomplishment of your primary task but somehow I’m not to worry as you’ve found me a job as a performing seal in a travelling circus?’
‘Reardon, I think you’re looking at this all wrong. This is a massive opportunity. Most writers would give their right arm for an opening like this.’
‘They would, would they? Do you really think I’m “most writers”? Is that how you view me?’
‘Of course not, Reardon, you’re exceptional. That’s why the university is busting a gut to get you.’
‘I’m intrigued, Hugo. Do you really think that writing can be taught? That through the serendipitous presence of an established author a shower of literary gold dust somehow settles on the young shoulders of those paying £9,000 a year for enlightenment? Is there such a thing as belletristic osmosis? I think not.’
Hugo felt his hackles rise in the face of such ingratitude. ‘I’ve just landed you a fantastic, highly-paid post that will gain you tons of prestige and you’re telling me you don’t agree writing can be taught? Seriously?’
‘I think that pretty much sums it up, Hugo. How can I look students in the eye and pretend to be Prospero to their ambitions?’
‘Reardon. I think it’s important to be objective about this. One, you don’t have a publisher at the moment. Two, I’m trying, but we have to face facts that it may take a while yet to find someone who’ll take you on, and the deal may not be too brilliant when I do. That means, three, this university post is a no-brainer.’
‘To borrow your gauche idiomatic phrase, Hugo, it’s a “no-brainer” that a sane person could believe that being subjected to lectures, cosy chats and individual critiques of their amateurish scribbles from a published author will help them to become better writers. Creative writing courses, and the positions attached to them, are symptomatic of the commoditisation of everything we once held dear. Colleges desperate to ice their particular cake in the name of competition pander to today’s “quick-fix” mentality by claiming that, rather in the same way you can lose two stone in a week, you can now write War and Peace in three ten-week terms. I won’t participate in this deception.’
‘Reardon, if you don’t do it, then somebody else will. All you have to do is turn out for a few days a year and encourage, let’s say inspire, the students. Surely, that’s not a deception or a sell-out?’
‘The only advice I have for those who wish to write, is to read. Is that worth the king’s ransom of a stipend you imply is attached to the post?’
‘Yes, absolutely. That’s exactly what they’re after. You and this position were made for each other – you’re a natural teacher. What was that line from The History Boys? “Take it, feel it and pass it on.” That’s all there is to it. Come on, Reardon – at least discuss it with Belinda first before making any rash decisions. Promise me that much?’
‘I will discuss it, but the answer will be the same. And Hugo, now we have dealt with that, perhaps you could refocus your attention to the matter in hand? Goodbye.’
As Hugo sipped his by-now cold coffee and contemplated the commission he would lose if this gift horse remained unmounted, he told himself that this was the last straw with Reardon. He could start looking for a new agent as well as a new publisher if he buggered up this deal.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Alyson Hummer was having a day off. No research today, no writing, just a pleasant day out with her best friend, Alison. Their names could get confusing when they were out together in company so they were identified by their acquaintances as Ali – I and Ali –Y. Alyson was in an especially good mood as the two women checked in for their special treat – a day of pampering at their favourite spa in Bath. There they were planning to enjoy a massage, a facial and a relaxing soak in a hot tub before celebrating their health-promoting regimen with a glass of champagne. Aly was also keen to canvass the opinion of her chief gossip on an important decision she had to make.
The two had been friends since school days, which was a surprise as the two were poles apart both in temperament and outlook. The years hadn’t narrowed those differences. Ali for example had only ever been with one man in her life, her husband, and had held down the same job as a nurse for over twenty years. Aly’s antics shocked and amused Ali in equal measure but she never passed judgement; on the contrary, she derived a vicarious pleasure in being Aly’s confidante. Aly, on the other hand, loved Ali for always encou
raging her, never looking down on her and for consistently being able to help her to see things objectively. It was the best kind of friendship, a partnership of mutual interest and respect, a comfortable attraction of opposites.
Ali read Aly’s books, of course. She claimed she was unqualified to comment but the truth was that the writer valued her friend’s input more than anyone else’s and made a point of always sending first drafts to her. Ali had an unerring knack of asking the ‘daft’ questions that made the biggest difference to the edits: Why did she do that? When did she decide? What was it about him that made him so appealing? There was a bit missing in the story there and so on. She never commented on the sex scenes per se, adopting a professional, anatomical indifference to the myriad bodily functions and interactions she found within the virginal typed-up pages she received. ‘I’ll take your word for it, Aly,’ she’d say.
Aly knew she had the sex nailed – it was the rest of her approach she fretted over – characterisation, plot, conversation (not that there was a lot of that), grammar – which is why she felt so indebted to her oldest friend. If she felt any contrition at all over Ali’s diligent work on her scripts it was that her friend would self-effacingly laugh off the value of her contribution – ‘it’s a good job I was paying attention in English GCSE when you were round the back of the bike sheds messing with the lads,’ is all she’d say when Aly poured praise on her. Ali politely declined the offer the author extended to dedicate a book to her, or to mention her in the credits.
Now Aly needed Ali’s view on another matter. As the two women, complexions the colour of the rosé champagne they were now sipping, relaxed in the bar after their treatments, Aly broached what was preoccupying her. ‘Ali, something’s come up and I don’t know what to do about it.’
Ali didn’t rush to drag it out of her friend. ‘Well, take your time, Aly, we’re in no hurry.’
That was another reason why the author cherished her best friend – she always remained calm and never jumped in with two feet. ‘It’s not a “problem” problem, Ali, it’s, well, it’s a big opportunity. But I’m not sure about it.’
Reassured that the crisis wasn’t health or family-threatening, Ali relaxed. ‘Come on then, spit it out.’
‘You know I publish with ViXen? Well, they’ve been on and offered me a three-book deal at a better commission rate.’
‘That hardly sounds like a problem, Aly. You should be delighted, surely?’
‘Yes, I am. Well, I was. It’s the first time they’ve done it apparently and the money will be better, but it means the next three books have to be in the same vein as my others, and to be honest I’ve been thinking of changing my style.’
‘Changing your style?’ It was the first Ali had heard of a U-turn in her friend’s literary approach. ‘But you’re successful because of your style. Why would you want to change it?’
‘I know it sounds poncey, but for artistic reasons. I know I’m good at the hardcore stuff and I earn a decent enough living, but I want to go more mainstream, switch genre. I think I can do it.’
‘You mean get a proper publisher?’
‘Yes, that’s my dream. ViXen has been great and I’ve enjoyed it, but I feel like I’m in a rut. Another three novels of the same old filth and it will put me off sex forever. But it’s not just that – I need to prove to myself that I can be a proper writer.’
‘Don’t say that, Aly. You are a proper writer.’
‘You know what I mean, Ali. Bookshop signings, media interviews, bestseller lists, Richard and Judy – that’s what being a proper writer is all about. I don’t want to be only associated with filth.’
‘I think you’re being a bit hard on yourself. I bet E L James doesn’t think she has to apologise about writing erotica.’
‘I don’t kid myself that my stuff is as tame as hers – that’s the whole point. That ship has sailed. I either keep grinding away – literally – with ViXen or I throw a double six and go legit.’
Ali, ever practical, had an obvious question. ‘Have you written anything that’s not, you know, extreme?’
‘Not yet, but I know I can. I want to write romance. Say goodbye to dicks, clits and butt plugs. Sensual, yes; filthy, no. I need to find out if I can do it – that’s why the ViXen offer, while it’s brilliant, is also a problem because I don’t want to commit.’
Ali sucked on the strawberry floating in her glass of champagne and contemplated her friend’s dilemma. ‘The way I see it is that it’s a toss-up between a bird in the hand and two in the bush. You’ve got a good income from ViXen, you can do it standing on your head and you’ve enjoyed yourself doing it. I’m not saying you couldn’t make the switch to romance but you’d be starting at the bottom and aren’t millions of people trying to write romance these days? You could end up with nothing.’
‘I know, but it’s driving me mad. How will I know unless I try?’
Ali could see how her friend’s vision was firmly fixed on the two birds frolicking in the treetops. ‘Listen. Here’s what I think, Aly. Say you’ll decide on the three-book deal with ViXen depending on how your next one does but ask for the higher commission for that book anyway. Then, get cracking on your romance novel and see if you can get someone to publish it – find out what you’re up against.’
Aly weighed her friend’s suggestions. Walk before I can run. Don’t scorch the earth behind me. Yes – that was sound advice. What would she do without Ali as a sounding board?
Con Buckley sat staring at the rain mingling with the dust on the windows of Kilburn Library Centre. It was fascinating how the shapes shifted, conjuring up different images as long as he kept his focus fixed on the panes. He had decided on a change of environment for the all-important task of the final edit of A Refugee From the Seraphim. In front of him was a clear plastic folder containing the 297 A4 printed pages that represented the sacrifices he – and Rosie – had made. In monetary terms a bundle of stationery costing less than £10 but in a wider context the past two years of his life. He fiddled with the red pen he’d bought especially for the task of marking up amends, rotating it through his fingers, first on the left hand, then the right. He’d yet to start on page one. He thought of going for a cup of tea before getting stuck in – the truth was he just wasn’t in the right frame of mind for the task. It was all Rosie’s fault. He should never have shown her his manuscript. For months, as he’d slaved away on the novel, he’d looked forward to the moment of communion when Rosie would read it and they could share in the creation together. She would heap praise on him, naturally, admire his brilliance, express surprise at his hidden depths and they would then engage in an ardent intellectual exchange on the themes, motifs and influences of this literary breakthrough. It would be a congress as deep and sacred as the first time they made love. It hadn’t turned out like that. At all.
Con had purposefully avoided asking Rosie what she thought about the book as she spent the best part of a week, every evening after work and at the weekend, studiously reading his manuscript. Her face gave nothing away as she turned the pages. Then, at 7pm on the Sunday night, she placed the final sheet on the pile of inverted pages to denote she’d finished and said, ‘There. Done.’
Con, who was making a show of preparing their evening meal at the time, tossed the potato peeler on to the kitchen work surface and jumped into the chair opposite her. ‘You’ve finished it? What do you think?’ Rosie gathered her thoughts and tried to select her words carefully. ‘It’s not what I’d imagined.’
‘Not what you’d imagined? What does that mean?’
‘It’s not what I thought it was going to be like, that’s all. It’s a bit more “out there” then I’d pictured it.’
‘It’s meant to be “out there” – that’s the whole bloody point. But did you like it?’ implored Con.
Again Rosie searched for the correct response. ‘It’s di
fficult reading something by somebody you know. It makes it harder to be objective. Yes, I liked it.’
Con knew what she really meant. ‘You’re just saying that. You hated it.’
‘Don’t be silly, Con. I did enjoy it. It’s very clever and, … it’s different. Different is good if you’re going to get published, isn’t it?’
Con felt his world shrink to the size of the potato he still held in his hand. ‘So you think it’s crap, basically. “If” I’m going to get published?’
Rosie tried to mollify her over-anxious partner but only seemed to fan the flames. ‘It’s a good book, Con. I liked it, honestly. It’s intellectual, it’s dense and I…’
‘“Dense”?’ screamed Con. ‘“Dense”?’ He flung the white tuber in his hand at the wall above her head, dislodging a photograph of the two of them taken at last year’s Glastonbury Festival. The glass shattered and the frame crashed to the stripped pine floorboards. ‘Well, thanks a lot, Rosie, for your keen literary insight. I should have known better than to ask someone who reads Twilight for relaxation.’
A lot of women might have been intimidated by Con’s needy and aggressive behaviour, but not Rosie, who now stood up to tower over her boyfriend. ‘Don’t you ever, ever, talk to me like that. If it wasn’t for me you’d never have written a book in the first place. Two years it’s taken, and you’ve not done a day’s work in between. You’ve no right to kick off.’
Con’s Irish temperament meant he had no concept of discretion being the better part of valour, so he ploughed on despite the long odds on winning. ‘Not done a day’s work? What do you think that frigging is?’ he said, gesticulating wildly at the uneven pile of paper on the coffee table. ‘I’ve slaved my guts out on that and all you can say is “it’s a pile of crap”.’