by Paul Carroll
As his sight adjusted to the glare he could discern numbers arrayed on the doors to both his right and left. Another light went on – he was at the Villa Madame Hotel in Paris, taking a well-deserved city break with Belinda. But what was he doing out here? And more importantly, what was his room number? Hands cupped over his privates he advanced down the hall and contemplated the four doors surrounding him – numbers 24, 25, 26 and 27. He looked at his watch – the only thing he was still wearing – and noted it was 6.30am. Should he knock on each door? Or should he go to reception? Before he could decide on his course of action the lift mechanism started up and he instinctively knew it was heading his way. He ran back to the sanctuary of his hidey-hole. Finding the light switch he saw an assortment of mops, brushes and pails in a room barely two-metre square. He looked around for something to protect his modesty. The only thing that would serve was a newspaper left on a shelf by one of the staff. Footsteps approached and the door swung open. Without a hint of surprise, as if naked men lingering in the cleaner’s cupboard was a daily occurrence at Villa Madame, the Algerian homme de ménage merely looked at Reardon and said, ‘Bonjour, Monsieur. Puis-je vous aider?’
Reardon had to hand it to the French. Within two minutes of him explaining, in approximate Franglais, that he must have been marchant en sommeil and had oublié le numero de mon chambre the receptionist appeared, opened the door to number 26 and stood aside for Reardon to enter. As the door clicked behind him Belinda stirred, waking to find her husband déshabillé et désorienté at the base of the bed. She immediately recognised all was not well. ‘Reardon. Are you alright?’
Reardon looked at his wife, then down at the newspaper still held over his midriff. It was only then that the author noticed the front page headline on the journal maintaining his dignity, a comment on last week’s visit to the city by Chelsea fans: La honte de l‘Anglais. He burst into tears.
Once Belinda had got Reardon back in his pyjamas and into bed she made him some tea. If she had been worried about him before, now she was deeply concerned. She took her time coaxing out of him what had happened. Reardon, embarrassed about his walkabout, tried to laugh it off. ‘I must have mistaken the room door for the bathroom door when I got up to go to the toilet.’
‘If that was the case, you would have knocked on the door to come back in. And you would have been wearing your pyjamas.’
Reardon didn’t have an answer to these rather obvious points. ‘Well, maybe I was hot in the night. And then I sleepwalked. It’s not that implausible.’
Belinda suggested an alternative theory. ‘It’s stress, Reardon. Your publishing deal, this university job offer.’ The crestfallen author shrugged his shoulders, knowing she was right. ‘You’ve been miserable for months and you’ve no right to be. You’re a brilliant writer, and well respected. You’ve finished your new book and the university is desperate to have you. Yet you think you’re a failure.’
‘Yes, but will Original Motion ever come out? And you know my views on selling out to academia.’
Belinda gave Reardon’s hand a squeeze. ‘You can’t give up. That’s fatal. The book will sort itself. You need to be active and engaged again, and out there where people can see you. You have to accept the university job.’
Reardon squirmed. He’d thought of nothing else for the past two weeks. Could he accept the thirty pieces of silver Edward VIII was tempting him with? Could he square his own views on the worth of these writing courses? Would Original Motion ever see the light of day? He squeezed Belinda’s hand. Maybe it was time he went back to school.
Eric Blair had barely slept and couldn’t shake a cloying feeling of guilt, shame and remorse from his mind. How could he have been so stupid as to enter into a Twitter spat with Hugo Lockwood? He knew he’d made a big mistake and exposed himself to ridicule. Worse, he’d used his real Twitter account to take exception to one of the agent’s comments. People were probably looking him up now to see who he was. Should he delete his Twitter account? No, he couldn’t, as it was the one followed by the region’s business readers too. As he lay waiting for the alarm clock to go off he wondered what messages would be queuing up on his mobile. No doubt more opprobrium from sycophants attempting to curry favour with the oleaginous agent. What would his editor say if he saw it? He glanced over at Victoria who was still soundly asleep. Should he tell her?
Eric was rarely rash but had to admit that he’d lunged in without thinking. Bloody Hugo Lockwood. Not only did the agent appear to derive vicarious pleasure from his high-handed shattering of writers’ dreams, he was also overfond of spreading his wisdom to the great unwashed with frequent smarmy observations and slights. Other agents and editors Eric followed didn’t behave like Lockwood. They weren’t trying to act as some sort of irreproachable guru, a sneering, know-it-all, smart-arse. Eric had noticed Lockwood’s modus over the months he’d been following the agent but prior to being rejected by him had chosen to interpret the style as being direct and businesslike. Now Eric’s views on Lockwood’s tweeting style had changed to a point where he read his outpourings with mounting rage (not that he stopped following him). And how many novels had Hugo Lockwood written? None.
There was a reason why Eric had snapped when he read the comment from Motif’s mouthpiece on the use of over-punctuation. Eric prided himself on his rigorous adherence to grammatical correctness – he worked in journalism after all. Only the afternoon before, Julia had innocently asked him why he used semicolons; surely there could be no valid reason to continue to do so? Despite Eric’s patient explanation and examples, Julia remained unimpressed – in her view semicolons were outdated and she cited Kurt Vonnegut’s observation that their employment only served to show the user went to college. Eric wasn’t used to such grammatical sparring with his interns, but then Julia moved on to other peculiarities of written English. ‘And another thing I don’t understand. Why do we sprinkle commas everywhere?’ she asked. ‘It’s like Tony Blair dictating into a computer: “She, was, the, people’s, princess” – it just slows everything down.’ As Eric reflected on this conversation on his way home he put Julia’s views down to the impetuosity of a generation who had learned to write by texting and tweeting. But then the thought had struck him – could an over-pedantic use of grammatical conventions have blighted his novel? Could that be a reason why he’d not had any offers yet? He resolved to take another look at the manuscript with a fresh eye at the weekend. And that’s exactly what was on his mind when Lockwood’s tweet hit him.
Before retiring to bed later in the evening he realised that the agent’s tweet couldn’t possibly have been aimed at him and he deleted his two tweets – the first one about Hugo having no right to criticise an individual’s perceived grammatical failings, and the second one about how Hugo must have been bullied at school as he was such a twat.
It was no good – he was going to have to tell Victoria. He gently shook her awake and owned up to his indiscretion. Victoria, still groggy with sleep, took a moment to register what he was telling her. Then she burst out laughing.
‘It’s not funny,’ Eric said. ‘People are going to see it.’
‘So what if they do? He does sound like a twat from what you’re saying. Anyway, you’ve deleted your tweets so forget about it. You’ve not murdered anybody.’
‘No, I haven’t, but what about my submission? What if other agents see the tweets and it scuppers my chances?’
Victoria got up and put on her dressing gown. ‘You’ve got to stop being so paranoid. You’ve written a really good book, it’s tough to get an agent and you’ve got to be patient. Keep trying, and then if it’s still “no”, publish it yourself. How many more times?’
Here we go again, thought Eric. ‘I’m not doing that. You know I won’t. I want to be published properly or not at all.’
Victoria pulled the duvet cover off her husband. ‘Get the kids up for breakfast, Eric, and stop being s
o bloody precious about your book.’
Eric dragged himself up to meet the day. At least he hoped no one at work had seen the tweets.
Dylan Dylan greeted the business editor on his arrival into the office. ‘Morning, Eric. Good night last night?’ The insufferable head of sales was sitting at Eric’s desk in his swivel chair. Julia, sat opposite, just nodded meekly by way of welcome.
‘Planning a transfer to editorial?’ Eric asked as he plonked his bag down almost in Dylan’s lap.
‘Just keeping your seat warm for you. And seeking the advice of a colleague.’ The human monobrow got up to let Eric reclaim his chair. ‘I wanted to check the punctuation on a new sales email I’m planning.’ Eric didn’t rise to the bait. Dylan smirked. “Tricky, is punctuation. Can alter the meaning of things if you get it wrong, like “Stop clubbing, baby seals” for example.’
‘Your sales message must be very creative if it involves reference to baby seals, either as party animals or cull victims,’ said Eric.
‘We aim to please,’ said Dylan. ‘Anyway, you were the one wielding a big stick last night. Beating that agent around the head.’
Eric could have punched the swaggering, sarcastic, Salfordian shit. Julia kept her head down and said nothing. She’d obviously seen it too. ‘Is that all? Can we get on with our work now, Dylan, or are you going to be hanging around here all day?’
Dylan sauntered off, resisting the urge to chalk up an imaginary score with his finger as he left. Eric was such an easy target it was embarrassing.
Eric sat down. ‘I suppose you know what he was referring to?’
Julia nodded. ‘I did see your exchange last night, yes, but he shouldn’t be poking fun. You must have been upset.’ The catalyst for his outburst at least wasn’t lost on her.
‘Just one of those things, Julia, and a salient lesson to look before you leap when it comes to setting down any sentiment in writing.’
Julia had been busy. ‘I’ve done a quick analysis, and it’s died already. It got a bit of comment last night but hardly any favourites or re-tweets. Think you’ll be out of the woods now.’ Eric wasn’t really sure what Julia was telling him but at least he picked up on the supportive tone.
‘Thank you, Julia. Most kind. Now let’s get on, shall we?
Would you like a cup of tea first? I’ve got you a pain au chocolat too. Thought you might need cheering up.’
For the first time in his life Eric could have hugged an intern.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Alyson and Alison sat poolside on a hard wooden bench in the local leisure centre, breathing in the chlorine and raising their voices above the din to talk. ‘I wouldn’t mind running a shot across his bows,’ Alyson said, admiring the physique of the young lifeguard in charge of the children’s Pirate Ship swimming party. A woman within earshot on the next bench tutted and moved off to the other end of the pool. ‘Stuck-up cow,’ ventured Alyson, before the two of them dissolved into giggles. The two friends, initially keeping half an eye on their children as they enthusiastically repelled boarders from the giant inflatable galleon, soon become engrossed in their own conversation. Thank goodness for organised activities in the half-term holiday.
Alyson had a favour to ask her friend and it was a big one.
‘You want me to have the kids for a whole three days?’ said Alison. She was used to looking after Alyson’s kids, Saffron and Teddy, and did so regularly but three days would be the longest stayover ever.
‘I can drop them off at school on the Friday, so you’d only need to pick them up at 3.30pm. Then, I’ll leave early on the Sunday and be back for mid-afternoon, so it’s closer to two days really.’
Alison still didn’t commit. ‘But are you sure it’s going to be worth it?’
‘It’s exactly what I’m looking for. I can put my new style in front of two agents in one-to-ones as well as finding out how the real publishing world works.’
‘Have you actually written in your new style yet?’
Alyson looked hurt. ‘Yes, of course. I told you I would. I’m working on an idea that’s completely fresh for me. And this conference will give me the right sort of incentive to get it finished.’
‘Is this the best writing conference around, though? Wouldn’t it be a good idea to check what else is available first, before signing up?’
‘I can send you the stuff, Ali, but I doubt I’ll find anything better. The testimonials are great, they’ve got loads of agents there, the programme looks interesting and people have been signed up for publishing deals on the spot in the past.’
Alison was still contemplating the three-day stretch with Aly’s kids and wondering what her husband would say. ‘Lancaster is a long way away though – isn’t there one a bit closer?’
‘It’s only three and a half hours by train. I can write two chapters in that time. Will you, Ali? I’m so excited.’
‘Can you afford it though? It sounds a lot of money.’
‘I took your advice and negotiated a bigger commission on my next book with ViXen – that will pay for it. I’m thinking, can I afford not to go?’
Alison could see her friend had made her mind up. She had one last question. ‘How did you find out about it?’
‘I was Googling the difference between “affect” and “effect” and the ad just popped up. It was like some sort of miraculous intervention.’
Alison chuckled – her friend certainly didn’t lack enthusiasm or ambition. ‘Go on, then. Just this once, but you’d better get a deal out of it.’
Alyson jumped up and danced a small jig of delight before giving Ali a big hug. ‘You bet I will. You’re a lifesaver. Talking of which…’
Alison turned to see what Aly was looking at and caught sight of the young lifeguard getting ready to deflate the SS Bluebeard. The air pipe he was holding between his legs looked like a huge phallus. Alyson’s eyes widened with glee as she projected an altogether different interpretation on this innocent scene. ‘Actually, Ali, that gives me an idea for two new stories. One on Pirates and one on lifeguards.’
‘I thought you were going mainstream?’ Ali reminded her.
‘All in good time. I’ve still got bills to pay. Seriously though, thanks for helping me to go to this conference.’
‘I get the impression you’d have gone whether I had the kids or not. But you enjoy it and get something out of it.’
‘I will. And you never know, there might even be some dishy men there…’ Alison had long given up wondering if Alyson ever turned her libido off – she knew she couldn’t. It was like a runaway train where the deadman’s handle had stuck – she was gathering speed and destined to stop only after she had careered off the track and into a ravine.
Victoria was really looking forward to lunch. It was Geraldine’s turn to pay and she’d managed to persuade her it was about time they tried Manchester House. To offset the spike in the average lunch cost Victoria had volunteered to fund cocktails in the 12th floor bar first. Swings and roundabouts. As they sipped their Pornstar Martinis on the open sunlit terrace high above the city centre they felt very superior indeed.
Geraldine approved. ‘Good choice, Vic.’ Then, pointing down at the Manchester Evening Chronicle’s offices off Deansgate, ‘I reckon you’ll be able to see Eric from up here.’
‘As long as he can’t see me,’ Victoria replied. ‘He probably wouldn’t approve of such daytime decadence. I’ll just pretend that we’ve been to Costa if he asks – not that he will.’
Seduced by the sunshine and their vertiginous vantage point they decided to have another cocktail. It was the sort of day where one would be all right, two too many and three not enough. Later, when they’d taken the lift down to the restaurant on the second floor, they were both feeling very giddy indeed.
Geraldine recounted an amusing tale about one of her client
s asking her out on a date. He was twenty years older than her, blessed with a ‘flexible marriage’ and keen to drink champagne out of her glass slipper. As their laughter subsided Victoria decided to tell her lunch companion about Eric’s cyberspace exchange with the ogre agent. ‘Honestly, Gez, it’s like giving Basil Fawlty a Twitter account. Touchy is not the word, and all over something where the guy didn’t even mean Eric.’
Geraldine whinnied in a Sybil-like bray. She thought Victoria’s description suited Eric perfectly. ‘How to make a bad situation worse. Speaking of which, dare I ask how he’s getting on with his book?’
‘Not very well is the answer. That’s obviously why he lost it on Twitter. Even the rejections have dried up now.’
‘Well, I’ve said it before, but if I were Eric I’d self-publish in a heartbeat,’ Geraldine said. ‘God, it doesn’t even need to be any good. At least he can call himself an author then, direct people to Amazon and give copies away as Christmas presents. Anyway, some self-published authors have done really well. He’s being a bit bloody-minded if you ask me.’
‘Can’t disagree with you there. But he’s adamant it should be published “properly”. He’s doing my head in with it to be honest.’
Geraldine nodded, a little too energetically. ‘So what next? Does he just keep sending it out to every agent under the sun until there’s none left, or what?’
Victoria hadn’t really worked out the end game. ‘I don’t know. What else can he do? He’ll give up soon but then he’ll just sulk even more. He reads the bestsellers lists every week and it’s “that’s crap”, “I bet it’s not as good as mine” and “how can people read this rubbish?” all the time.’
Despite the cocktails and bottle of wine they were sharing Geraldine put her work head on. In fact, that’s when she was most inventive. ‘If this was a client problem, then we’d go to Plan B as Plan A hasn’t worked. So what’s Plan B?’