by Paul Carroll
As Julia arrived at her desk he thrust a cappuccino from Café Nero towards her and smiled. She immediately wondered what was up. ‘You’re in a good mood for a Monday morning,’ she said.
‘I’m in a good mood every morning,’ he replied. ‘But an even better one today now I know I’m working with a budding author.’
Julia laughed. ‘So you got the file, then?’
‘Got it? I’ve read it. All of it.’
Julia couldn’t be sure if he was joking – surely Dylan, of all people, hadn’t managed to read a whole book over the weekend. ‘What happened in the end, then?’
Dylan recounted the denouement for her, albeit in clunky, black and white terms.
Julia was taken aback. ‘You did read it. Well, what did you think?’
‘It’s the best book I’ve read in years,’ he said. Although factually correct as it was the only book he’d read in years, his summary wasn’t meant to be tongue-in-cheek. ‘Seriously, I just had to tell you how bloody brilliant it was. I was gobsmacked.’
Julia was uncertain as to Dylan’s sincerity. ‘You seriously read it all? And you really liked it?’
‘Every page, I’m telling you. Dr Who meets Shirley Holmes, like I said. I could see that on television, I could.’
Julia felt like Alice in Wonderland after wolfing down the cake marked ‘Eat Me’ – her head was pressing the ceiling in the face of such praise. The effect, however, didn’t last long. She soon checked herself – this was, after all, Dylan. She knew he didn’t read books, almost certainly wasn’t a reliable critic and knowing him, he was probably up to something. ‘Thanks. I appreciate it. I’m glad you liked it.’
‘Do you want me to give it to my mate to look at?’ Dylan asked enthusiastically.
Julia tensed – things were going a little too fast. She needed time to re-evaluate the situation. She guessed Dylan meant well but it didn’t mean she had to appoint him as her agent. ‘Not yet, if you don’t mind. It’s very kind of you, but I’m going to take my time. I’m going to go back to it after I finish here.’
Dylan, tribute paid, adopted his usual swagger and ambled off. ‘No sweat, Jules. You’re the boss. But it’s a brilliant book.’
Nevertheless, Julia was still buzzing half an hour later when Eric arrived. ‘Running late,’ he said as he dumped his bag on the desk.
Julia dutifully went to make him some tea, and determined to be extra – careful not to mention Dylan within earshot of her mentor. ‘Good weekend?’ she ventured as she passed him his mug.
‘Very good, indeed. I spent quite a bit of it looking at the conference programme and activities. It’s really well put together, I must say.’
Julia was genuinely interested now she knew two people who were going. ‘Did you pick out which agents you want to meet?’
‘That was quite a challenge, I can tell you. Some of the ones I’d have loved to have met were already booked up – I’m a bit late signing up, I suppose.’
‘But there are some slots left?’
‘Better than that – I’ve managed to bag some extra slots – I’m going to be seeing four agents in total.’
Julia was impressed that Eric had somehow negotiated double the number of allocated one-to-ones. ‘How did you manage that?’
Eric paused for a second before telling her the truth. ‘It wasn’t that hard. You could pay for extra slots. I thought I might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb and took advantage. Incremental cost and all that.’
Julia didn’t ask how much the extra slots cost but knew that such a luxury wouldn’t be within the grasp of all the delegates. Still, good for Eric if he’d somehow doubled his chances of success. ‘Well, why not? And what about the rest of the programme?’
‘There are quite a lot of seminars and talks but I don’t think a lot of them are that relevant to me,’ he said airily. ‘Looks like they’re covering a lot of ground specifically for really new writers. Characterisation, plot, that sort of thing. The ones that caught my eye the most are the sessions on how to get published, writing killer query letters and scintillating synopses. They’re the ones I’ve opted for.’
‘You have to say now which ones you’ll be going to?’
‘Yes – it’s very organised.’
Julia made a mental note to check with Bronte what plans she’d made for conference. Maybe she should get Eric and Bronte to meet up? Then again, maybe not.
Eric changed the subject. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen our stellar head of sales today?’
‘I did see him first thing. Why?’
‘I want to see his face when he realises that his brand of humour isn’t going to be tolerated around here for much longer.’
Julia hadn’t heard Eric sounding so bellicose before. It disquieted her. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked nervously.
‘It’s not what I’m going to do – it’s what I’ve done,’ said Eric, the Judge Dredd of the newsroom. ‘I’ve reported him to Human Resources for abusive behaviour.’
Julia’s eyes widened. The intern was shocked that Eric had taken such a course of action but didn’t want to say so in case it riled her boss. She spluttered, ‘What did they say?’
‘As you can imagine, they were very concerned. They told me such behaviour could constitute bullying in the workplace.’
Julia grimaced. Surely Eric didn’t have to resort to HR over a few jokes? ‘What are they going to do?’
‘They’re going to investigate, but first they’ll be telling him that his number has been called. They’ll want to interview you, too.’
‘Me? Why would they want to interview me?’ she said in alarm.
‘You’re a witness. You were there on Friday when he played his latest prank on me. And before that, as well.’
Julia now felt like she‘d guzzled the bottle marked ‘Drink Me’ as she seemed to shrink into her clothes and disappear. Here was an aspect of office life she’d never thought to experience on her secondment. Was Eric really that affronted he felt justified in wielding the inflatable hammer of employee legislation to settle a squabble? Was Dylan really that iniquitous he needed to be caned in front of the whole school? Should she show some sympathy with Eric’s cause? What would she say to Dylan if he raised it with her? She feared such a chain of events wouldn’t end well. She turned her gaze to her keyboard and said quietly, ‘I’ve got to finish this.’
Later that afternoon Dylan Dylan emerged from the HR manager’s office and slammed the door behind him. He was not thinking kind thoughts. That bastard, Eric. That lily-livered, self-righteous, keyboard-pounding wanker. What sort of man ran to Mummy every time someone pulled his leg? How old was he? So he’d wound him up once or twice and this is how he reacted? By trying to get him disciplined or even sacked? Everybody knew Dylan liked a bit of banter. It stopped the office being a stuffy place. It provided some fun and entertainment for the team. God knows they needed it. But cowards like Eric always hid behind someone else, never having the balls to fight for themselves. He was a sneak and a creep who could only stand up for himself if he was stabbing people in the back. Eric-bloody-Blair, thinking he was so special, delicate, artistic and vulnerable to the point where he needed special protection.
Dylan’s first reaction on hearing he was to be investigated over a potential breach of his employment terms and conditions was to go down to the editorial floor and have it out with the business editor right away. Man to man. He punched the lift button, but as he waited he realised he shouldn’t act in haste. That pillock Eric would merely add it to his list of pathetic complaints. And in any case, he’d not been suspended but he could be if he didn’t stay away from Eric. They said they were going to call Julia as a witness as well. What if that got back to her dad? As the lift arrived, he decided to get out of the office altogether to buy some time.
Minutes later, as he collected himself over a pint of Kronenbourg in Mulligans, he took stock of the situation. There was no way he could be found guilty of harassment over these trivial incidents. Surely, they would conclude that Eric was an old woman who needed to grow a thicker skin? Would Julia put the boot in on him? Could he depend on her to back him? What a cock-up. They told him it could take a few weeks to investigate the claims. Why so long? Why not do it today and let him get on with making a few quid for the newspaper? He cursed the Didsbury dipshit who was trying to rain on his parade, motivated, no doubt, by pure jealously. Boy, was he going to get his own back on him. Then he’d know what a true wind-up was. But not in the office. Not there, under the watching eyes of HR and the sanctuary of contracts of employment. But where, and how? He took a deep draught of his lager. And then he had a brilliant idea.
PART TWO
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It was time.
‘Have you got your sandwiches?’ Rosie asked.
‘Yes,’ snapped Con. ‘I’ve got everything.’
‘And your phone charger?’
‘Yes,’ he hissed. It was good of Rosie to come and see him off on his trip north this bright and sunny Friday morning but she didn’t have to treat him like a five-year-old. ‘I’ve checked everything, three times. I’m not a retard.’
Rosie, aware that Con’s biggest strength wasn’t personal organisation, decided he was ready. ‘Well, this is it,’ she said.
She gave him a hug and waited for him to reciprocate. He threw his rucksack across his shoulder and looked up at the departure board. ‘I’d better get on board now. Bye.’ With that he trudged up the stairs, only turning at the top to proffer an unconvincing wave. Rosie had been amazed when Con had decided to travel to Lancaster by coach instead of by train. It was almost seven hours by road but Con had stuck to his guns arguing that it made sound economic sense for him to make the journey in this way. Since Rosie was advancing the fees for the weekend conference he didn’t want to appear profligate with her hard-earned cash. Travelling by coach also provided the additional bonus of being dropped off at the campus rather than in the town, thus saving further money. A taxi from the railway station to the university cost around £10 according to the conference website. That was £10 each way. Of course, he wouldn’t have got a taxi but there’d still be a few quid to shell out on bus fares so the coach made a lot of sense. The lengthy journey up the M1 and M6 would also give him plenty of time to review the conference programme and refine his pitch for his one-to-ones. More importantly, he calculated that the savings he’d make would fund around ten pints of Guinness – five on Friday and five on Saturday – allowing for university bar prices. He didn’t want to look like a cheapskate.
He made his way to the rear of the coach and sat on the back seat, on the side opposite the on-board toilet. He hoped that if he spread out his bag and coat he could deter other passengers from sitting too close to him. He kept his head down, not looking to see if Rosie was hovering – he didn’t want her waving him off like a war wife in a Pathé newsreel. At last the engine shuddered into life and the coach moved slowly off the stand. He had the back row all to himself – until Birmingham at least. Now he sought out Rosie one last time, only she’d gone. He felt slightly rejected, or maybe she’d just moved position and he’d missed her?
Clear of the station his thoughts returned to economics. He couldn’t shake from his mind the cruel injustice of the organiser’s last-minute offer to sell further one-to-one sessions at the conference. What he would have given to be able to do that – anything but the £50 a time they were actually asking. Con was incensed that less deserving writers could steal an advantage by dint of their deeper pockets. It riled him that the initial level playing field of two one-to-ones per delegate had been abandoned in order to crank out a few more quid for The Write Stuff – it was inequitable in his view. It was even more frustrating that he couldn’t moan to Rosie about this discrimination as she would naturally interpret this as a request for extra money. He knew if she offered £50 – preferably £100 – for him to see another agent, he’d snap her hand off and that made it even harder for him to bellyache about it. He consoled himself that it would only take one agent to like his work and he would be on his way. One agent to recognise his potential and change his life. And he was seeing two – that was a 50/50 shot. He’d take that.
Selecting two agents to meet had been a challenge in itself as the list contained over 40 names. He had spent hours looking them all up online and whittling down his list of ‘possibles’. Getting rid of book doctors was the easiest decision – he only wanted to see people who could give him a deal. Then he drilled down to get rid of those agents who were mainly interested in fantasy, children’s, crime, historical and the like. He decided that he was very much ‘literary fiction’. But that still left quite a few who claimed they were open to any genre of writing as long as it was great writing. Easy for them to say but harder to target in that case. At last he narrowed it down to a choice of five at which stage he started to look at the authors they represented, how many clients they had, and how big an agency they worked for – it was an exacting process to say the least. More than anything he looked to see if they ‘welcomed debut writers’ – no point wasting his time on an agent who didn’t. He looked at the available meeting slots still free on the one-to-ones calendar and up-weighted the agents who already had lots of appointments – surely the fact they were in demand indicated that they must be worth seeing more than the agents with only a few appointments? Then he mulled over whether a male or a female agent would be better for him given his writing style and his approach to things – who would be more empathetic? He studied the Twitter feeds of his shortlist and gawped at their photographs to see if he could find any clues there. Finally, he fine-tuned his ‘probables’ list down to three candidates. Unsure of whom to eliminate, he wrote the names on three pieces of paper, folded them up and asked Rosie to pick two out of his hand. Choices made and meetings confirmed online he told himself, ‘no regrets’. Now, as he idled north, he was in the lap of the gods.
Travelling in the same direction at a rather faster pace than Con was the 10.43 train from Euston to Lancaster. Emily Chatterton and Hugo Lockwood sat in a rather deserted first-class carriage contemplating the complimentary sandwiches and beverages that had just been wheeled up to their table. Although the selections on offer looked rather unappetising at least there was a vegetarian option for Emily.
‘I was dreading Reardon being on this train,’ confessed Emily.
‘Not much chance of that. I made sure he was on the Saturday one. We’ll only have to avoid him at tomorrow night’s gala dinner. We should be able to manage that,’ said Hugo. He pointed to a six-inch pile of paper in front of him. ‘Do we really have to read all of these?’
‘Apparently so,’ giggled Emily. ‘They seem to have put us on the slow train to make sure we do.’
‘I’d noticed that – we seem to be stopping at every bloody station going. And they want us to fill in a form for each one?’
‘“Sufficient to provide feedback” according to The Write Stuff.’
‘I don’t need a form to be able to do that.’
‘I’m sure you don’t, Hugo, but I’ve been warned some of the delegates can be rather tetchy when you don’t give them good news. Best to at least demonstrate you’ve read their sample chapters.’
Hugo rolled his eyes, asking himself – not for the first time – how he’d ended up on this gig. ‘I refuse to dress up criticism as praise. If it’s crap I’m going to tell them.’
Emily couldn’t help but smile at Hugo’s dedication to forthright evaluation. God, he’d kill her if he ever found out how he’d come to be on that train with her. ‘Go gently, Hugo, or some of the delegates might not repeat their booking next year. I’m sure that’s not in the organiser’s plans.’
‘It sounds a good
plan to me if I don’t have to go again,’ sneered Hugo, by now having dropped his mock enthusiasm for the trip. ‘How many have you got, anyway?’
‘Thirty in total. Today, tomorrow and Sunday morning.’
‘Jesus – how did you cop for that? I’m doing 18 and thought I’d drawn the short straw.’
‘If I’m going, I may as well do it properly. I’m on the lookout for new talent after all. Aren’t you?’
Hugo checked himself. Yes, of course he was on the lookout for new talent – he had to remember to keep reminding himself of that. ‘Yeah, it’s just that I got added to the list later than you so don’t have as many slots. Anyway, I’m doing a seminar session on “the perfect submission letter” as well as my one-to-ones. It’s full on.’
‘Well, you’d better make a start on that pile then, seeing you clearly haven’t already,’ said Emily.
‘Have you done yours?’
‘Yes – all 30. With notes.’
Hugo realised he was behind in this particular game. ‘Anything that jumps up and bites?’ he quizzed, indicating Emily’s bulging briefcase.
Emily adopted a thoughtful demeanour. She’d decided some weeks before that returning to the office empty-handed after the conference would not find favour with Rocket. He would want to see evidence that his strategy for discovering new talent at source was bearing fruit for Franklin & Pope. She had to deliver. Her heart had sunk lower than the Mariana Trench on reading the sample chapters she’d received. Mostly they were awful but there were a couple in there that she could feasibly pass off as ‘potentials’, and she would only need one or two to justify this experiment. They did this winnowing technique all the time so what harm was there adding one or two more from the conference into the mix? At the next stage at least two or three colleagues would assess the work as well. If her recommendations got blown away in the wind at least she would have done her job; if one fell back into the basket, she’d be a hero. Granted, under normal circumstances, agents would normally have got rid of most of the chaff, but it was interesting that one or two examples did bear out Rocket’s assertion that just because a writer didn’t have an agent didn’t make him or her a bad author. The two ‘possibles’ that had caught her eye so far could easily have been pitched to her via an agent. ‘I have to say, Hugo, it’s been an eye-opener. The quality threshold is far higher than I’d anticipated. There’s definitely some potential there.’