Written Off

by Paul Carroll

  Despite the additional weight Chapman had just added to Suzie’s already onerous list of duties she had to acknowledge that her boss didn’t miss many tricks. No wonder he was buying champagne. ‘That’s genius, Chapman.’ But she may as well have saved her breath. He knew that already.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It was Eric’s birthday as well as a Friday and Julia had brought in two homemade chocolate chip muffins to celebrate. As the business editor was meeting Victoria for lunch he asked if they could save them for the afternoon. Julia’s internship had now lasted four months and Eric was not looking forward to the end of September when she was due to leave. Without doubt she was the most able intern he’d ever worked with. Her writing was exceptional and she was so quick on the uptake he rarely had to tell her anything twice. With his previous interns the relationship had been a one-way street; he told them what to do – end of story. Julia, however, had opened his eyes and given him a fresh perspective. It wasn’t only that she asked lots of questions that forced him to re-appraise whether his answers held water, she also challenged slavish adherence to old-fashioned working practices and suggested practical improvements. In addition, her knowledge of new media and how her generation consumed news shamed the newspaperman for the shallowness of his outlook. Eric began to see his job of two decades in a new light – he’d been on automatic pilot for too long. And Julia was so pleasant and considerate, always making him tea, bringing him biscuits and cake, and showing genuine interest in his literary ambitions. Eric wondered if he could fix a full-time job for her at the end of the internship but knew he’d be powerless to pull the right strings in a department where his own job could be the next to go. He’d miss her when she went, that was for sure.

  Still, it was his birthday, the sun was shining and he shouldn’t be worrying about what he couldn’t change. As Julia went off to recharge their tea mugs Eric decided to check his personal emails – his mid-morning ritual. As the incoming emails streamed into his in-box one heading in particular stood out – ‘Request for full manuscript’. Eric, who had virtually given up on his submissions by this juncture, could hardly believe his eyes. This time there was no rain dance, deep breaths or counting to ten – he clicked the message open and read: ‘Dear Eric. I’ve had the opening chapters of your novel passed on to me and I’m interested in looking at it further. Can you please send me the full version at your earliest convenience?’ Eric stared at the screen, dumbfounded at this change of fortune – this was the break he’d dreamed of for months. The disappointment and pain of the past year was swept away in an instant. He felt the urge to run down Deansgate shouting at the top of his voice that he was going to be published; he’d struck oil, received a knighthood and discovered a cure for EBOLA all at the same time.

  He would send the manuscript right away. The sooner the better. He checked the identity of his saviour again. Hugh Moran. He didn’t recognise the name, but then he did say he’d had the work passed on to him. Passed on by whom? Another agent presumably. What was the agency called? Golden Fleece. He didn’t recall them from the Writers’ and Authors’ Yearbook but maybe it was a start-up, a breakaway of some description, an agency keen to swell its list of authors. Julia was approaching his desk with two mugs of tea in her hands – should he tell her before Victoria? He had to – he couldn’t keep this news bottled up, even for a couple of hours.

  ‘Julia, it’s happened,’ he croaked as she put down his drink. ‘I’ve had a request for my full manuscript.’

  His expression conveyed such excitement, relief and indebtedness she felt like a rescue worker unearthing a survivor from under tons of rubble six days after an earthquake. ‘That’s brilliant, Eric. What a lovely birthday present. I’m really pleased for you.’ He stood up and gave her a clumsy high five, made even more awkward by the fact she was still holding a mug of tea. She could see he was at bursting point.

  ‘I’d just about given up hope, to be honest, but it just goes to show. Stick in there and all that.’

  Julia sat down opposite him. ‘Who’s it from?’

  ‘Golden Fleece. It’s a new name on me, but I don’t care.’

  ‘Look them up – see who else they handle.’

  Eric entered ‘Golden Fleece literary agency’ into his search box. Nothing but ‘Jason’, ‘Argonauts’, and a gastro pub in Cheshire flashed up. He tried again, this time adding ‘Hugh Moran’ to the search term. More Greek myths and The Fleece pub in Dorset run by a Mike Moran came up.

  At that moment Dylan Dylan strolled over to their workstation. He wasn’t welcome at the best of times, but certainly not now. ‘What’s all the excitement about?’ asked the head of sales. ‘I could see you jumping up and down from over there.’

  ‘None of your business,’ said Eric, tartly. He had no intention of sharing anything with this scourge of civility.

  ‘No need to be like that,’ said Dylan in a mock, injured voice. ‘I just thought you must have received some good news, that’s all.’

  ‘Nothing to worry about, for me or for you,’ Eric said, trying to look like he was getting on with his work.

  ‘I just thought you should know our firewall has been compromised so you need to be on the lookout for spoof emails.’

  ‘I think we’re quite capable of resisting the urge to pass on our bank details to Ugandan solicitors,’ Eric said, desperate to get back to his search.

  ‘Well, scams like that are a bit old hat these days, Eric. They’re getting more sophisticated all the time.’ Dylan looked meaningfully at Eric, who didn’t deign to respond. ‘The latest one is some guy pretending he’s from a literary agency.’ Dylan again paused for effect. ‘You’d have to be a real moron to fall for it, but there’s one born every minute as they say.’

  Eric’s face turned incarnadine as the penny dropped. He was numb, unable to utter even the mildest of curses to his tormentor as the extent of his credulity, like an elephant lumbering into quicksand, sank in. Dylan turned on his heel and sashayed off, holding his sides in mirthful glee. Eric and Julia sat looking at each other in stunned silence.

  Two hours later in Cicchetti, Eric still hadn’t thawed out of his cryonic state. He wished he hadn’t agreed to meet Victoria for this birthday lunch. Detecting he hadn’t had the best of mornings she tried to prise out of him the reason for his agitation. Given his cue he told his wife about the cruel hoax visited upon him by the Salford snake and awaited her sympathy.

  She was aghast, but curious too. ‘But why, Eric? Why would he play such a nasty, mean trick on you?’

  ‘As far as I can tell his motivation appears to derive solely from being a loutish, lairy, little shit. I can only imagine he has some form of learning difficulty.’

  ‘Are you sure? He sounds quite clever – I mean he knew which buttons to push.’

  ‘Maybe you should have invited him out for lunch as well if you’re so impressed with him?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Eric. I’m only saying that it’s unusual for someone to go to such lengths to wind somebody up.’

  ‘I dare say it’s de rigueur where he went to school, a badge of honour. People like Dylan are symptomatic of the sick world we live in. He comes swaggering into the office like some Britpop-throwback, regaling us with his exploits and how bloody wonderful he is…’

  ‘He must be a good salesman to keep that job down?’

  ‘So he would have us all believe. Really, can we change the subject now?’

  Victoria was only too glad to talk about something else. As she fussed over which sampling plates to opt for Eric sat looking morose with his ‘you choose’ face on. Victoria was now subscribing to her husband’s unstated view that this lunch was a mistake. As she started on her second glass of prosecco (Eric, going back to work, declined) she rallied. It was present time. Reaching into her bag she produced a parcel, neatly gift-wrapped in a colourful collage of Penguin cla
ssics. ‘Come on, Eric. Cheer up. Happy birthday.’

  Bucking himself up, he took the gift and tore away at the paper. Victoria, who’d been planning on recycling such a lovely gift-wrap, suppressed a sigh. He reached inside and pulled out a copy of Stephen King’s On Writing. As he turned over the book to read the blurb, Victoria explained its significance. ‘They told me in Waterstones it was the definitive book for any author.’

  ‘A pity you didn’t buy it for me last year, then,’ said Eric, a tad ungraciously.

  Ignoring him, she pointed at the torn package. ‘There’s something else.’ From the shredded wrapping he pulled out an envelope bearing his name. ‘Go on, open it,’ she urged.

  Looking at her for clues, Eric did as he was told and slid out a sheath of papers. He read the top sheet. ‘I don’t believe this,’ he said. ‘Really?’

  ‘I thought you needed a bit of encouragement. Are you pleased?’

  Eric didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to appear ungrateful. ‘A conference on how to get published? Interesting. Thanks.’

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Victoria. ‘You don’t look too sure?’

  ‘It’s just a surprise, that’s all,’ he said, before adding rather too brusquely, ‘It’s not self-publishing, is it?’

  ‘No – it’s the best writing conference around and you get to meet two agents who read your opening chapters. I’ve checked it all out.’

  ‘Isn’t it a lot of money though? Can we afford it?’ Victoria had removed the price list from the pack.

  ‘It’s worth every penny, Eric. It could make all the difference.’

  ‘You don’t mind me going away for a whole weekend?’ Eric said, scanning the programme of events.

  ‘That’s all part of my cunning plan. Not if you come back with a publishing deal. Maybe I should have bought you this present last year but better late than never.’

  ‘Well, it’s very original of you. Thanks. I’ll look at all the details tonight.’

  Victoria nodded. She was used to her husband’s cautious pessimism. He’d get it in good time. ‘Do you want to share a pudding?’ she asked.

  Mindful of the chocolate chip muffin waiting for him at the office, Eric passed. ‘Better get back. A lot to do.’ As he got up to leave he added, ‘It’s been lovely, though.’

  Julia was ready with tea and confectionery when Eric got back from lunch. Yes, he was going to miss her when she left, no doubt to be replaced by some unwashed, inarticulate tenderfoot whom he’d have to show the ropes from scratch.

  She noticed the book he bore under his arm. ‘Oh, On Writing? What a good choice. It’s brilliant.’

  ‘You’ve read it?’ Eric didn’t cease to be amazed at the breadth of his young intern’s terms of reference.

  ‘Yes. What’s good about it is that it’s not at all like a textbook. Half of it is about his life and really funny, and then the other half, on how to write better, is pure common sense. You’ll love it.’

  Eric eyed the book, and resolved to start reading it that evening. He appeared to be behind the curve on virtually everything these days. ‘I’ve never read any Stephen King. Not my cup of tea, usually.’

  ‘You don’t need to have read any of his novels to enjoy On Writing. He knows what he’s talking about, although I don’t agree with his view on plot development.’

  Now Eric felt really inadequate. ‘What view is that?’

  ‘He thinks that you shouldn’t plan out your plot in advance, but set off on page one and see where it goes.’

  ‘Really?’ Eric didn’t like the sound of that. Every chapter of Scrub Me Till I Shine in The Dark had been planned in meticulous detail before he started writing it. ‘That’s like jumping in a car and driving around aimlessly to see where you end up.’

  ‘Or putting a message in a bottle and throwing it into the mid-Atlantic hoping it hits land,’ said Julia. ‘People say his novels all end up the same in any case – maybe that’s why. Anyway, you’ll love the book.’

  ‘It’s a present from my wife. In fact, she got me something else to do with my writing. A place at a weekend writing conference. It’s in Lancaster in September.’

  ‘The Write Stuff annual conference?’

  Again Eric was taken aback at how well-informed Julia appeared to be. ‘It is, actually. How do you know about that?’

  ‘I’ve got an ex-uni friend going. She’s desperate to be a writer.’

  ‘And she thinks this will help?’ Eric was keen for any form of endorsement for this amateur authors assembly.

  ‘Bronte thinks so. She can’t wait. She’s been full of it for three months.’

  Eric relaxed a little. Maybe he’d been a little too quick to judge. He hadn’t wanted to offend Victoria by appearing ungrateful but his initial reaction on seeing the conference pack was a feeling of dread. It had conjured up an image of mixing with scores of earnest, middle-class scribblers, scraping the small talk barrel with people he didn’t know and wouldn’t meet again, and learning the square root of sod all. The middle-class bit was unkind, he knew. He was middle-class, but who else could afford to go on these things? Now Julia appeared to approve the concept he could see that the weekend could well hold possibilities. Thank goodness he’d not let his guard down and looked disappointed when Victoria gave him his present. ‘So you think I should definitely go?’

  Julia, pleased to be consulted by her mentor on such a matter, nodded enthusiastically. ‘Definitely. You get to see two agents. It would be worth it for that alone.’

  Eric could already envision his two agents fighting over him, like judges on The Voice each trying to convince him how they were uniquely equipped to help him on his ‘journey’. ‘Yes, you’re right. That’s quite a plus, really, isn’t it?’ Eric’s mind was made up. ‘It would be a shame to look a gift horse in the mouth.’ He smiled at his own little joke. It was decided – he was going to Lancaster. Julia passed him his plate. ‘No candles?’ joshed Eric. After the unpleasantness of the morning things were looking up.

  Eric and Julia had cast a silence over Dylan’s morning wind-up, recognising it was a subject best avoided. The steely intern, however, wasn’t prepared to let Dylan think his actions met with her approval. That lunchtime she’d emailed the head of sales to see if he would have a drink with her after work. Dylan simply emailed her back with, ‘Alchemist, outside terrace, 6pm’.

  The bar was busy when she arrived but she could see Dylan had already bagged a table on this fine summer’s evening. His greeting consisted of thrusting the menu into her hand and saying, ‘The cocktails here are brill.’ Without perusing the list she asked for a glass of Chenin Blanc. When it arrived five minutes later it looked rather staid next to Dylan’s crimson-coloured Dead Red Zombie, bubbling and smoking away in its hi-ball glass, more of a statement than an aperitif. Dylan gave the impression that he was very much at home in this most modern and opulent of Manchester watering holes. Julia realised this was his natural habitat, not the antiseptic office environment where he retained a desk.

  ‘So you’re happy with the job?’ asked Dylan when the chemical reaction in his cocktail had abated.

  ‘Yes, thanks, loving every minute of it.’

  ‘So your dad’s happy too?’

  ‘Very grateful.’

  ‘Music to my ears,’ said Dylan, dispensing with his straw.

  Julia and her father, sensitive to accusations of nepotism, had been keen to maintain an air of meritocracy over her placement. Eric still hadn’t twigged exactly how Julia’s internship had come about, which was surprising given that most placements at the newspaper were favours to advertisers’ offspring. At least Dylan had kept his end of the bargain and not mentioned it – he wouldn’t do anything that could potentially compromise a client relationship.

  Julia didn’t tarry over her main reason for
asking to see Dylan. ‘Why are you so horrible to Eric?’

  Dylan sniggered. ‘What do you mean? It’s just a bit of harmless fun.’

  Julia wasn’t being brushed off with such a casual denial. ‘It’s hardly harmless. I wasn’t sure at first if your joking was banter, but this morning you were just cruel.’

  Dylan was taken aback. How could anybody not find his japes amusing? ‘I was having a bit of craic, that’s all. Alleviating office boredom.’

  ‘I don’t think Eric saw it that way, and neither did I.’

  ‘He’s a grown man – he can take it,’ said a defensive Dylan. Despite his bravura, Dylan’s already busy brow congested still further. The last thing he wanted was word getting back to an advertiser that he might be anything less than wonderful.

  ‘Eric’s poured his heart and soul into his book. I don’t think you realise how sensitive a writer can be trying to get their work recognised. You humiliated him.’

  The normally unflappable head of sales looked puzzled. Christ, it was only a wind-up. Where was all of this arty-farty, bleeding heart stuff coming from? It was pathetic – no wonder Eric-bloody-Blair was such an easy target. So his booky-wook hadn’t been published – so what? Hardly a surprise, as it would be shit anyway. But he could do without Eric bellyaching and putting him in a bad light if it got back to Julia’s dad. So Dylan did what he always did when being confronted – he took the line of least resistance. ‘Julia, what can I say? I’m really sorry. I hadn’t realised.’

  ‘So I see. It’s not just doing the writing – that’s the easy bit – it’s getting an agent that gets you to square one on the board. Eric’s sent his book to lots of agents and nobody’s bitten yet. That’s why your so-called spoof was so sadistic.’

  ‘I just didn’t think,’ said Dylan, trying to adopt a hangdog look. Inside he was punching the air that his casual hoax had scored so heavily.