- Song lyrics, except titles, will need permission from rights holders, and can be expensive, just so you know.
- Yes: girls’ new names better. (You were right.)
This aside, I’m loving it. Very few first novels of this quality arrive on my desk, or in such a (so far) finished state. Well done, and see you on your return.
Val x
* * *
From:[email protected]
To:[email protected]
Subject: Re: Buon Giorno
Date: Monday, 7 September 2009 23:01:22
Dear Valerie
Just saw your email. I didn’t know I might have to pay for quoting songs, so thanks for mentioning. I do take issue with the other points, however.
Of course Pete Sheen is *like* Pete Doherty, but that hardly means he’s supposed to be a cipher for him. I called him Pete because it suits the character, and if people see a Doherty comparison then that’s fine too. I want them to think about the novel’s similarities to the real world, after all, so resonances like that can only help. I find it odd that you would question this, in fact, since there are so many other celebrities in the book who *do* appear as themselves, with their real names. Surely this demonstrates that I welcome comparisons with real life? If you are worried about libel, consider Brett Easton Ellis, whose books are full of real (and non-suing) celebrities. Unlike Ellis, I have given some of my cameos significant dialogue, it is true, but these instances have either been taken from real interviews, which makes them legally acceptable, or they are simply not defamatory. As far as I know, for what it’s worth, I am the first novelist ever to do this. (And there are also at least two passages of hidden quotation for readers to find for themselves. One from The Sopranos, actually.) Obviously I couldn’t use the same tactic to the extent of casting Doherty himself as a major character. But I wouldn’t want to anyway, because it is actually very important that some of my characters remain fictional in order that they remind us not of specific people, but of the archetypes we see everywhere. Without lecturing them about it, I want the reader to consider the stock characters in our media: the self-destructive rock star, the drug-loving supermodel, the talent show wannabe. We all feel we know plenty of these people. But do we? When a private individual becomes a public figure, it is not *he* who is suddenly well known – instead a new version of ‘him’ is concocted by all the news reports and photographs and interviews. And usually this new version is based less on who the person really is, and more on what we, as consumers of media, want to see. Are all cancer patients really ‘brave’, for instance? Are all paedophiles ‘evil’? Must every debut novelist be ‘an exciting new voice’ or ‘up-and-coming’? This is just a crass simplification of real people into familiar *characters* to help us shape the chaos of the world into satisfying stories. We want to see those who strive rewarded; those who seem too lucky, on the other hand, must fall. The world *is* a novel.
And if I’m honest, I don’t understand your objections to my prose style either. Yes, I do drift in and out of the heads of my characters, but I think I subtly adjust the core style as I go. Michael is more verbose, Hugo is posher, Mellody is American, and Calvin is young and ignorant. This has its limits, of course, which I try to be relaxed about. Perhaps you would prefer it if I wrote four different novels and spliced them together like David Mitchell or Wilkie Collins or some other virtuoso one-man-band? Well I’m not going to. And your suggestion of the first person does not appeal either. The first person is a cop-out, used by writers who prefer to shove their typing hand inside a puppet so it can take the blame for their own intolerant opinions and deficiencies of style. (There are a few exceptions to this rule, but you could buy them all on Amazon and still not get the postage free.) Remember: the greatest realisation in fiction of a human being’s inner life is Crime and Punishment. And that is all ‘Raskolnikov’, not ‘I’ and ‘me’.
Now I’m off for a gelato.
W
* * *
From:[email protected]
To:[email protected]
Subject: Sorry, sorry, sorry
Date: Tuesday, 8 September 2009 04:15:08
Dear Val – just want to say how sorry I am about that last email. I was in a Sicilian cybercafé, slightly smashed and with credit to burn, which always makes me take things personally. I hope this won’t put you off sharing your opinions in future?
I also wanted to add that I don’t think the next chapter will be quite finished before I return, which means I probably won’t get it to you before we meet either. Very sorry about that too. Sorry all round, really.
Yours,
William
* * *
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Sorry, sorry, sorry
Date: Tuesday, 8 September 2009 10:59:00
You are a lamb. Take all the time you need, and don’t worry about my feelings. Am sure you’re right, in any case. Just idle thoughts is all they were. Take my opinions to the beach and toss them in the sea.
Val x
* * *
From:[email protected]
To:[email protected]
Subject: Rescheduling…
Date: Monday, 14 September 2009 12:11:53
Hi Val – just got back, and landed in a pile of work. Any chance we could reschedule Friday for another time?
William
PS I’m having second thoughts about Publicity as a title. There seem to be a lot of novels with one-word abstract-noun titles these days, especially from debut authors. (Disobedience, Tourism, Politics and Electricity off the top of my head…) So how about adjusting ours slightly by adding five stars, thus:
Publicity*****
It’s different, which is always good. And it stands out more on the page. (Perhaps also implying that the book has had a rave review…) What do you think?
* * *
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Rescheduling…
Date: Monday, 14 September 2009 16:35:03
Don’t worry, old thing. Next Tue any good?
And yes, I love Publicity*****
Vx
* * *
From:[email protected]
To:[email protected]
Subject: Re: Rescheduling
Date: Monday, 14 September 2009 21:08:31
Chapter 4 – Squat
Sorry, the next fortnight is all a bit rubbish now. Can I let you know when things have cleared? Here’s the next chapter to make up for it.
W
Friday, April 1 2005
22:32
MICHAEL SAFELY LOCKED and pocketed his phone.
‘I am so sorry, Calvin. Of course I know your work,’ Mellody was saying. ‘Listen, I have to run, but why don’t you come along? I’m just going to make an appearance, but you guys can catch up in the car.’
Her face smiled. It was so familiar to Michael from photographs that the real thing looked wrong. Like footage recovered from another age and digitally blended into his.
‘All right,’ said Calvin.
‘Great. Well we’d better go. See you guys later, yeah?’
‘See ya, Hugo,’ the leather lout replied. ‘Great party, mate.’
And they were gone.
Hugo Marks offered Michael a look of amused perplexity, and seemed about to say something when Poppy, who had been nudging the American girl to speak, spoke up herself.
‘Would it be OK to get a picture with you?’ she asked. ‘Just one?’
‘Of course! No problem! Take as many as you need!’
Hugo looked relieved.
‘Could you, um …’
The girl was offering Michael her camera.
‘Oh,’ he said finally. ‘Yes … of course.’
‘You press the button on the top.’
He nodded.
Even though there were two buttons. And arguably two tops.
The girls gathered smiles around their host, and waited hard.
Holding the camera out awkwardly in front of him, Michael stepped back, composed the group into the screen, and pressed something. A menu and nine small pictures appeared, showing two of the girls getting dressed to go out.
Still they held their pose.
‘Erm,’ Michael said. ‘I think I’ve pressed the wrong button.’
‘Is the car ready?’
Pete nodded, but Mellody had already turned away, leading them across the thinning room. At the edge of his vision, Calvin could see that Susie had reappeared and was looking around. For him, he guessed.
‘So are you guys not playing tonight?’ he asked Pete quickly.
‘Not tonight, Josephine,’ Pete said, in a voice like he was quoting something. ‘Maybe for a laugh, but no gigs. Praps you could give us a little warble yourself, Cal? My voice is dogged.’
‘I’d love to, man! That’d be brilliant!’
‘Nice one.’
They were swishing down the corridor again, this time past the disused kitchen, which remained a little den of occupation. As he walked, Calvin noticed that the white paint on the walls was peeling. That would be damp, he knew, or heat. He reached out to touch it, and watched a leisured trail of flakes tumble from his fingers, looking up only when they butted up against the frame of another door. This one was the entrance to a real kitchen, which Mellody herself was holding open for him with a special gaze. He returned it boldly, without breaking stride, and walked through to where a swarm of staff was packing plates and glasses into travel boxes, fitting every item to its white compartment. No one looked surprised, or even interested, by his or Mellody’s appearance.
‘Ready?’ asked a man’s voice from beside a fire exit across the rubber mats. Calvin saw that it was Sean, Pete’s mate from the Brits. And a smiling stare from Sean acknowledged this. Beside him stood a man and a woman that Calvin did not know.
‘The cars are here,’ Sean said. ‘And there’s just a couple of paps ouside. Sasha and me’ll make a break for it first, OK?’
Mellody signalled her agreement with a scooping gesture, as if trying to push him through the door.
‘OK.’ Sean wrenched flat the exit bar and left, the woman with him.
Calvin, Mellody, Pete and the other man waited together for a moment in a twist of chilly air.
‘A’right, mate,’ the other man said. ‘Malcolm.’
‘A’right,’ said Calvin. ‘Calvin.’
‘Scuse me.’
A waiter was trying to reach behind him for an empty box.
‘Sorry,’ Calvin said, and moved.
Mellody laughed at something secret. She was so beautiful.
Then, ‘OK guys?’ And she pushed open the door.
The street was still. Sean had vanished. Two van-size bins stood guard, sour with the metallic death of fruit. Strewn across their lamplit surface was a history of stickers, the paper long since rained away to leave just grimy clouds of glue.
Silently, Mellody pointed across the road towards a big black car. Its exhaust pipe shuddered crimson fumes into the brake lights’ glow.
Calvin set off, and almost immediately he heard a man’s loud voice.
‘Mell! Mell!’
The shout clapped wet and hopeful on the cobbles.
There was a push in his back, and everybody started running. Pete opened the passenger door and jumped in as flashes bounced around. Malcolm followed, diving sideways at the seat. Without thinking, Calvin did the same, and felt Mellody land immediately on top of him.
‘Go!’ she shouted, laughing, ‘Go!’
The door was slammed.
And somewhere in the pile of bodies, Calvin was laughing too.
Her breasts were on his neck.
And he had left his jacket behind.
‘So, Mike,’ said Hugo, ‘You said you were a “kind of journalist”. What kind of journalist?’
The girls had gaggled off to debrief, and the men were now alone.
‘Oh, I’m just a subeditor.’
‘I see. Which paper?’
‘The Standard.’
‘So you write their headlines?’ Hugo knew what a subeditor was, though he could not for the moment guess why one was at his birthday party.
‘Some of them, yeah,’ Mike said, ‘and I make sure everything’s spelled correctly. It’s a day job,’ he shrugged.
‘That implies that you do something else the rest of the time?’
‘Sort of. I like to write things.’
The words were said with quiet purpose, though no eye contact, as if the man were ashamed of his pride.
‘Articles for the paper and stuff?’ Hugo asked, doubting it. He shuffled over to a vacant armchair and lowered himself into its clutches.
‘Not really. Just …’ Mike hesitated. ‘You know, little stories and descriptions and things. Bits of fiction. Nothing special.’
‘I see.’
Hugo was intrigued. Humility had been somehow shouldered out of almost all the characters he met these days. Did he know anyone who had not already proven themselves professionally, or thought so?
‘I used to love writing things when I was younger,’ he was surprised to hear himself saying. ‘I thought I might be a writer when I was at school.’ And it was true. He had even written a play, never performed, about the internal rivalries of a football team. But why was he talking about it now? And why had he ceased talking about it before?
‘Yeah? What sort of things did you write?’ Mike asked with interest, contemplating the chair next door.
‘Oh, you know …’ This was bizarre. ‘Plays, I think … Or books or films. I wasn’t really sure.’
Mike nodded and finally sat down, but said nothing.
‘You get distracted,’ Hugo felt the need to explain. ‘Other things. You know.’
‘Mmm …’
‘Maybe I should get back to it, actually. It might be fun.’
‘It’s fucking miserable,’ Mike said. And they both laughed.
It was nice, thought Hugo, that the man now felt comfortable enough to swear.
Beep.
‘Who keeps texting you?’ he asked.
‘Oh, erm …’ Mike fumbled the phone out of his pocket and looked. ‘It’s my friend Sally.’
‘Sally, eh? There aren’t enough Sallies around these days.’
‘You’re right. There aren’t.’
‘And is Sally your significant other?’ Hugo had begun to feel almost jovial again.
‘Oh no, no, no!’ Mike’s denial frothed tellingly with fervour. ‘She’s just someone I work with.’
‘I see. At the Standard?’
‘Yes.’
‘Checking up on things here, perhaps?’ Hugo said this grinning, to show he didn’t mind.
‘Yes … Well, no.’ Mike jumped in to contradict himself. ‘Not for work.’ He had one of those pale, porridgy faces, and lank black hair, through which he dragged a hand.
‘Scuse me!’ Hugo stopped a waitress by the arm. ‘Could I get a large Macallan 25, please. Two pieces of ice, one squirt of water. Do you like scotch, Mike?’
‘Sure. Yes.’
‘Make that two then. Actually, just bring the ice and water on the side. Thanks.’
The waitress nodded and left.
‘So let’s see this text!’ Hugo resumed the tease.
‘She’s just a friend at work,’ Mike said meekly, passing on his phone. ‘She knew I was coming tonight and wanted to know what you were like. I just told her I had met you.’
‘From: Saz,’ said the top of the screen.
‘Liar,’ was the only word beneath it.
Hugo laughed like a brigand, banged the table – why not? – with his hand.
‘Tell her it’s true!’ he cried, handing back the phone. ‘Tell her I’m a self-indulgent pain in the arse, I’ve been getting pissed all night, and now I’m boring
on about how I’m really a frustrated writer and no one understands me.’ It felt good to mock his own neurotic nature, to fight it back.
Mike giggled shrilly. ‘All right,’ he said, beginning to type with his thumb. ‘He says … to tell you …’ he commentated as he wrote, ‘… he’s a self … indul-gent … bore … And that he’s drunk … and going … on … about how no one … understands him. There. Send?’
‘Send.’
They were still laughing when the waitress returned. She began to unload her tray on to the table, item by item.
‘So, tell me more about these things you write,’ Hugo said, as he composed his drink.
They were north, but Calvin knew no more than that. He felt fabulously free of knowing, as the car cut decisively through dark, wet night. Going to a party was always more exciting when you could not find your way back home.
He sucked on the cigarette that Mellody had passed him, lit, from her seat behind. Takeaways and pubs jinked yellowly through raindrop lenses on his window, their illuminated signage raising brief electric dawns that sighed across the vehicle’s interior. And London went on unknown. He loved this city. Not as you love a friend, but as a hero.
‘We just passed that,’ Pete said to Sean by mobile phone. Then, ‘OK. Yes, I see it.’
The boys were sat with Calvin in a line of three. He and they had not, in fact, had much to say, other than exchanging news.
‘Left before or left after?’ Pete’s temper now was rubbing raw.
In her seat, Mellody was silent. Calvin could hear her smoking.
‘Right,’ Pete said. ‘Take a left after this church, Paul.’
The driver did as he was told, and they swung into a wide residential road.
‘OK. I see you.’ Pete clapped flat his phone. ‘Just here, Paul. Nice one.’
The car pulled in, spotlighting Sean and Sasha on the kerb.
Calvin stepped out first, and held his door for the others. The air was fresh with recent rain, and chilly on his skin. Away in one direction stretched a row of large and pointy houses. Some traffic lights, and perhaps a park, were all that he could see the other way.
The Afterparty Page 8