The Afterparty
Page 20
‘It sounds like there’s a lot of media out there,’ Hugo said eventually. ‘Mike, when the bell goes could you answer it?’
Michael did not know what to say, so he said, ‘OK.’
Then the bell did ring, loud and shrill and real. So he lifted up the handset from its cradle, did not listen, and applied his finger to the buzzer.
And it was strange, but when Michael opened the door it was not the two policemen marching up the path that took his attention, nor the sleek and gleaming silver car they had left cooling at the kerb. It was the sudden memory – surging so strongly to his mind that the first officer had to say, ‘Good morning, sir’ twice in order to be heard – of Monty Python’s Life of Brian. It was that scene, when Graham Chapman gets up in the morning after having sex with Sue Jones-Davies, and he opens the shutters and he looks out on to the street below, and there, tucked doggedly into every point of vantage … It was the mob.
Michael actually looked down, to check he was not naked.
* * *
From: valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk
To: williammendez75@gmail.com
Subject:
Date: Thursday, 17 December 2009 16:03:34
Dear William,
Bad news, I’m afraid. Jane and I met earlier today, and though she remains mustard keen on your book, she says she cannot approve a deal without an author. I’ve checked with Bloomsbury, and they said (with some surprise) that they assumed they were going to meet you too. (Frankly, we all did.) On people’s minds are the following: the legal problems of an anonymous contract, the question of your reliability in finishing the novel, the difficulty your absence might present in the editing and production process, and most of all, I fancy, the fact that they would have no author to promote Publicity***** in person. I also detect some anxiety from both of them about where the story is now going, especially in the last two chapters. Virtually everyone who has read them cannot escape the similarities between what is happening to Calvin/Hugo and the story of Alfie Marsh and Harvey Green. I actually knew very little about the case until they mentioned it to me, but after a bit of Googling I have to say that I do see their point. Nor is it much of a stretch to see Michael as a version of that creepy advertising guy Daniel O’Nolan, while Mellody is very obviously a reimagined Vesta Green. Real-life ‘inspirations’ are fine, of course, but this looks like someone advancing a theory about what really happened, the families might argue, and at times I’ll admit that it does come across that way to me. With the matter still under police investigation, I fear that you might have to make substantial changes to the story if you are going to avoid legal problems.
For various reasons then, I think we have to consider the whole thing belly-up. I am so, so sorry to be saying this, but we have talked about little else over here, and nobody can see a way out. I know this will leave you badly short of money, but if you can somehow find a way to finish the book (and perhaps distance it a little from the Green/O’Nolan case) then I would be delighted to resubmit it – and I would do so with great optimism. Do keep sending me your chapters, if you can face it. It is a pleasure to read them.
Affectionately,
Valerie x
* * *
From:williammendez75@gmail.com
To:valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk
Subject: Re:
Date: Thursday, 17 December 2009 19:14:21
Dear Valerie,
That is very sad to hear, and of course I’m bitterly disappointed. If Jane and Matthew have to meet me, and I can’t come, then plainly we are at an impasse.
Though on the legal point, for what it’s worth, I must admit I cannot see the problem. Yes, I have already said that the book is influenced by the Alfie Marsh case, but that does not mean that I am writing specifically about it. Besides, in the coming chapters I’ve dramatically accelerated the aftermath of ‘Alfie’s’ fall anyway, so that the whole story now plays out in a completely different timeframe. There are also so many precedents for this sort of thing that it seems perverse to single me out. Robinson Crusoe was based on the case of Alexander Selkirk; Kavalier and Clay is a patchwork of true stories; even Basil Fawlty originated with some real Torquay hotelier, didn’t he? So why shouldn’t I put real things in my book? If I invented a new character in the next chapter, a tabloid editor called ‘Rebekah Wade’, say, and completely fabricated everything she did, that would not in any way purport to be a picture of the things that the real Rebekah Brooks/Wade has done, or would do, because it would be obvious that I’d made it all up. And the parallels you mention seem far slighter.
But then of course this counts for nothing if we can’t do a deal. And I suppose we can’t, which does leave me short of money. Still, ‘something will turn up’, I imagine. Dickens’s dad used to say that, didn’t he?
W
PS By the way, I’m also intrigued by your impression that Daniel O’Nolan was a ‘creepy advertising guy’. This idea, much like Marsh’s canonisation, has always struck me as a media concoction. Having decided that Marsh was an innocent victim after his fall, the papers needed a perpetrator to blame for it, and O’Nolan, who was not on the original guest list and had no influential friends, was the obvious candidate. By criticising journalists for hassling him, moreover, he only incited further abuse. Just look at how they subtly stitch him up:
‘Ever since that night [Green’s party], O’Nolan has insisted that journalists hounded him “incessantly”.’ (BBC website)
‘The 35-year-old former advertising copywriter, who has been on the run since 2006, is wanted by police…’ (Telegraph)
‘O’Nolan, described by colleagues as “an oddball”, has not been seen since …’ (Mirror)
‘…lone gatecrasher, twice arrested and released, before bungling officers lost track of him…’ (Sun)
Is this *really* evidence of him being creepy? Or does it merely demonstrate that it is fun to paint him that way? Michael’s naive awkwardness, in my story, shows that there are always other explanations.
* * *
From: valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk
To: williammendez75@gmail.com
Subject: Re:
Date: Friday, 18 December 2009 08:18:55
Understand your frustration, but publishers can only go on the advice their lawyers give them. Sorry. Will be in touch if anything changes.
V
* * *
From:williammendez75@gmail.com
To:valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk
Subject: An idea
Date: Monday, 21 December 2009 22:17:02
Look, I’ve thought of something. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before, actually. It’s a bit sneaky and unusual, I’ll admit, but it works – and everyone would win in the end.
How about I suddenly relent and agree to meet the publishers? Then they make their offers, I sign a contract, take the cash, and perform all their promotional capering? Fantastic, right? But what if, actually, the person who turns up and does all this is someone else – another writer probably, anyone who can talk the talk. It’s my book, after all, so I can give the copyright to whoever I like. (Joe Klein did something similar with Primary Colors, you’ll recall, and, lawyers aside, the JT Leroy stunt worked beautifully too.) The only deception is that the volunteer would have to say that they wrote all these emails to you, which is irrelevant. Surely some impoverished hack can be found who would be willing to do that in exchange for a cut of the proceeds and a bit of exposure?
And think about it: either we never get found out (which is, I suppose, possible); or we do, in which case I confess everything and we leak it, generating lots of publicity for the book. And *then* what is the publisher going to do? They’ll feel deceived, of course, but they’re not exactly going to go round every Waterstone’s pulling copies off the shelves, are they? And if you’re worried about your reputation you can always delete this email and claim that the impostor and I cooked up the deal without your knowledge. I won’t tell
.
It’s brilliant, isn’t it? A bit mad, I know. But think about it. If you’re not keen, I’ll totally understand, of course. Although in that case I think it would be best we call it quits. I’ve been working on this book incessantly for months, and I really can’t carry on much longer without more cash. So if you don’t want to help me choose a surrogate, I think I’d better down tools, find some paying work, and then make a fresh start with another agent when I can finish the book.
So… Know any writers who are going hungry this Christmas?
William
* * *
From: valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk
To: williammendez75@gmail.com
Subject: Re: An idea
Date: Tuesday, 22 December 2009 09:02:47
Hi William
Let me think about this over the holidays and get back to you.
Regards
Val x
* * *
From: valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk
To: williammendez75@gmail.com
Subject: All right then
Date: Monday, 28 December 2009 11:00:16
OK William, I’ll probably regret this one day, but let’s do it. I can’t bear to see you penniless, and you’re right: as long as the book sells, your publisher will forgive you. To protect my own livelihood, however, I will want to disassociate myself from the scheme before anybody rumbles it. And, if you are ever asked, you must obviously say that I knew nothing.
When it comes to choosing an impostor, clearly this means I can’t suggest any of my clients either. (It would be too obvious that you met them through me.) This complicates things, but I do know someone who might be suitable. His name (it has to be a ‘he’; your book is incurably male) is Leo Benedictus. Leo is a freelance feature writer with the Guardian, late 20s or early 30s I think, who I met through a friend at the Edinburgh festival and still bump into occasionally. He has been working on a sort of post-postmodern novel for several years, but he and his wife also have a baby boy now, and Leo was telling me just the other day that the writing has ground to something of a halt. He is a merry sort of cove, however, with a taste for provocation, so he might be game for your scheme. I don’t think he has an agent, so I could take him on briefly, as long as he swiftly ‘decides’ to abandon me for someone at a bigger agency once we have an offer in writing. If we do this, however, I’d need to take my commission out of your royalties in cash.
If you’re happy with all that, let me know, and I’ll speak to Leo straight away.
Best,
Val x
* * *
From:williammendez75@gmail.com
To:valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk
Subject: Re: All right then
Date: Monday, 28 December 2009 13:18:37
Chapter 9 – Police
Oh Val… I honestly could not *be* more excited! Leo sounds perfect! I’m actually punching the air with my left hand and typing this with my right. (A tough trick. Try it.) I’ve had a look at his stuff online – immigration, theatre, interviews, television… bits and bobs, right? He’s a different type of writer from me, in some ways, but not too different to be believed. I see he’s done stuff for the London Review of Books too, which can only help, can’t it? Do you think he knows anyone on the books pages of the newspapers? It would be very useful if he did. So yes, do approach Leo in a dark alley and make him see things our way!
Meanwhile here’s the next chapter for you to have a look at. (I’m moving really quickly now!) FYI, I’ve decided to ditch the opium tincture plotline since Mellody’s on the junk again. It felt bohemian and exciting when I put it in, but now it just gets in the way…
Yours cheerfully,
The Elusive ‘William’!
Saturday, April 2 2005
06:55
HERE!
‘Sir.’
Here! Over here!!
Michael made a sort of noise.
‘We’ve had reports of a serious accident at this address, sir. May we come in?’
He, ‘Er yes, sorry, yes,’ stood back into the hall.
What happened? shouted from the street.
Who killed him? looked for a reaction.
And Me-elllll!!!! with fresh impetus from one cluster. Then Mell! Mell! Over here, Mell! craved the rest, fearful she had been spotted, but not by them. Or, like chicks, straining to produce her with their force of need.
‘Sorry to trouble you this early, sir, and with all that going on,’ said the policeman, back-nodding as he shut the door. ‘Are you the householder here?’
He was young, black and polite, like policemen were supposed to be. Michael could imagine him being badgered constantly to do recruitment posters, or stand guard at televised events. Not so his colleague, who was white and older – a little too old, in fact, to be a beat copper with a future. This man, by the sagging look of him, preferred a life of modest torpor, with its locker-room authority and regulation paunch.
‘No,’ Michael said, as soon as he understood that the question was serious.
‘Could we speak to the householder please?’
But Hugo, and to a certain extent Mellody, were already approaching.
‘Morning, officer,’ Hugo said, offering a handshake which the policemen accepted. ‘I live here.’
‘Morning, sir. Do you have anywhere we could talk? My colleague and I will need to ask you a few questions.’
‘Sure. Let’s go into the kitchen.’
Hugo led them through, taking calm control of things. His composure was a parent’s hand that Michael longed, despite himself, to clasp.
‘Can I ask, did any of you see what happened?’
Like the ambulance crew, the policemen gave no hint of excitement.
‘Yes,’ Hugo said. ‘Mike and I did.’ He gestured to the kitchen table and its chairs, but the men declined to sit.
‘Mike …?’ the policeman asked, pencil poised.
‘Knight,’ said Michael, yawning to disguise a shiver. No policeman had ever taken his name before.
‘And your full name, sir?’
‘Hugo Marks.’
‘M-A-R-K-S?’
‘Yes.’ He was filling up a tall and shiny metal kettle at the sink.
‘And Miss?’
Mellody had arranged herself with lopsided equilibrium on the surface of a stool. Her eyes were closed and her chin rested in the cup of one hand.
‘Miss?’
‘Mellody,’ she faintly said.
‘Mellody Marks,’ Hugo confirmed. ‘My wife.’
Surely the policeman knew?
But, ‘Thank you,’ he said routinely. ‘And I believe you’ve been having a party. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’ Hugo took over. ‘My birthday.’
‘I see. Congratulations. And did anybody else witness the accident?’
‘I don’t think so.’
The policeman nodded and made more jottings in his notebook while his colleague’s eyes reconnoitred the kitchen and its dressings with suspicion.
‘So can you tell me what happened?’
‘Well, about half an hour ago …’ Hugo began. Michael did not flinch. ‘… me and Mike went up on to the roof, and saw Calvin lying there. He didn’t look very well, and he was leaning right over the edge, almost off the edge in fact.’
‘I see.’
‘And Mike went up to him to check he was all right. That was it, wasn’t it?’
Michael croaked up an assent. Its smallness sounded shifty and reluctant, so he said ‘Yes’ afterwards, for clarity.
‘And then he … Well, it looked like he just slipped off. I don’t really know what happened, to be honest.’
The kettle had begun to mutter.
‘Do you remember touching him in any way?’ the policeman asked, turning to look Michael directly in the face.
‘I, er,’ Michael said. His breathing ceased. ‘I did sort of try to catch hold of him when he fell.’
I didn’t knock him off o
r anything. The words bellowed for permission to be spoken. But he overruled them. Too suspicious. Would most men say that? He began the experimental transposition of his thoughts, trying to imagine, but found the task too difficult, like chess.
‘How could you see he didn’t look well?’ the older policeman asked pleasantly, but without warning.
‘Sorry?’
‘I mean, if he was leaning over the edge and you couldn’t see his face.’
‘Oh, right.’ Michael felt sick again. How could he have seen? Did he see? It was Hugo who had said they saw. ‘Well, I think I just sort of assumed …’
‘It’s a party, late at night, people have a little too much of whatever …’ A drone of reassurance from the fat man, feeding him relief.
‘Exactly.’ Michael swallowed.
‘I thought he was being sick, too, to be honest.’ Hugo helped him.
A funnel of steam bullied at the window pane, causing it to run with drops.
‘And after he fell, you came down and called 999?’
‘Yes,’ Hugo said. ‘Tea?’
‘No thank you, sir.’ The young policeman answered for them both. ‘Could we just have a look at where all this happened? Starting with the roof if we may?’
‘Sure.’
And Hugo had put down his cup and started walking.
‘He was leaning off here.’
The side of Hugo’s house veered out to meet his downward gaze, a swaying plane of brick perspective. He had never really noticed the drop before. It was substantial.
‘Bent over the railing?’ the younger officer asked helpfully.
‘No, he was on the ground, where that towel is.’ A further shake of the head and a solemn ‘Jesus’ conveyed Hugo’s concern.
‘So he had already crawled under the railing when you arrived on the roof?’
This seemed to be stating the obvious. Hugo wondered if he had missed something.