The Afterparty
Page 26
‘Just give me a fucking phone!’
But his own was right beside him on the bed, so he dialled the number that Renée recited.
‘CID,’ said the voice of someone happy.
‘Good morning. Hi,’ he said. ‘This is Hugo Marks.’
He looked back at his manager. She was mouthing something.
Tell. Him. What. You. Saw.
* * *
From:leobenedictus@yahoo.co.uk
To:williammendez75@gmail.com
Subject: Paperwork
Date: Monday, 25 January 2010 09:18:15
Hi William,
Thanks for sending me your bank details. I have now approached another agent (probably best if you don’t know which) who has agreed to handle contract negotiations on the deal with Cape. Val was not quite up to the job, I explained. I also filled my new agent in on the whole ‘William Mendez’ saga, though of course I said nothing about our arrangement. (It all felt a bit caddish, to tell you the truth, but I suppose we’re not actually hurting anyone.) Just to warn you, I did ask about the money, too, and she said that contract wrangles can take a while. I’ll make it as quick as possible, of course, but you may have to wait a few weeks to get paid.
All the best,
Leo
* * *
From:williammendez75@gmail.com
To:leobenedictus@yahoo.co.uk
Subject: Re: Paperwork
Date: Monday, 25 January 2010 11:52:30
Thanks Leo – sounds good. And yes, as quick as you can would be great. When you next meet Cape, I’d also be grateful if you could mention a couple of other thoughts I’ve had.
- Can we get Publicity***** into the hands of some celebs for them to pass it around/comment? Wd be good to get word-of-mouth going that the book shows ‘what it’s really like’ to be famous. Strong appeal for readers. (Either way, the proof copies will be important – we really need to emphasise that this is “a new kind of novel”, with lots of references to its unique marketing strategy. Perhaps we could coin the term “hyperfiction” for it?)
- On the same point, do you think it might add mystery if you do no press interviews at all when the book comes out? I don’t know if you ever actually go to the kind of parties that Publicity***** describes, but I’m sure that if you say nothing people will enjoy presuming that you do.
- If Cape insist you do interviews, however, it is obviously important that you talk and behave exactly as if you had written the book yourself. Perhaps take a bit of time to work out a story about why you wrote it, how long it took, how the idea developed etc. I don’t know what you have already told people about your own novel, but I suppose you can claim this changed along the way? It would also help if you could be as controversial as possible. Maybe write some provocative articles? Or slag off some big-name authors and hope they retaliate? Amis, McEwan, Rushdie, Barnes are all Cape too, so that might intensify the scandal. Amis, especially, seems to enjoy a scuffle. In any case, do please write as much about books and celebrities as you possibly can.
- For the paperback edition, I wonder if some deleted scenes, like on a DVD, might be fun? I have reluctantly cut quite a few good bits, which I still have stored on my computer. You or I could choose some favourites and introduce them with a line or two explaining why they had to go. If I were a reader, I’d be interested in that. And it gives real fans a reason to buy the book twice. Why is this never done?
All the best, and well done once again! I really am very excited. With luck, we can make something rather special out of this.
Best, William
* * *
From:leobenedictus@yahoo.co.uk
To:williammendez75@gmail.com
Subject: Re: Paperwork
Date: Monday, 25 January 2010 17:02:39
Hi William – thanks for that. V useful notes. I had a sketchy chat with Jane about it all yesterday, and she was fully behind your ideas in principle.
As it happens, I’m writing an article about creative writing courses for Prospect magazine, which I could probably postpone until the autumn. Things may get a bit hectic around then, however, as Sarah and I are expecting another baby. Should be easier by March, when I’ll start telling everyone I know to buy the book. I’ll email everyone I’ve interviewed (who doesn’t hate me) too.
You’ll also be pleased to know that I’ve just had the contract through. There are some slightly sticky patches where I’m supposed to ‘covenant’ things (that I am ‘the sole Author of said work’, that it is ‘original’ to me, and what have you…) but I think we should be able to find a way round this if I change some parts of the novel myself and we add a line in the contract about my extensive use of quotation (which is true, after all). I can’t quite believe Cape would sue me, in any case. What loss could they show?
Anyway, watch this space, and the money should be with you in another week or two.
L
PS Thought this line from the contract would amuse you: ‘The Publishers undertake that the Author’s name shall appear prominently on the title page front cover and binding of all copies of the said work.’ Prominently, eh? Shall I push for gold embossed?
* * *
From:williammendez75@gmail.com
To:leobenedictus@yahoo.co.uk
Subject: Re: Paperwork
Date: Monday, 25 January 2010 17:32:01
Ha ha! Insist on three inches tall at least!
Keep up the good work. And big congratulations to you and Sarah on the baby!
W
* * *
From:williammendez75@gmail.com
To:leobenedictus@yahoo.co.uk
Subject: Any news?
Date: Monday, 8 February 2010 14:32:01
Hi Leo
Just wondering… It’s been a couple of weeks… Any movement on the dosh? I’ve had to sell my computer, so I’m now working from printouts before typing everything up in this shitty cybercafé. It is slowing me down and making life very difficult. Would welcome some good news…
W
* * *
From:leobenedictus@yahoo.co.uk
To:williammendez75@gmail.com
Subject: Re: Any news?
Date: Monday, 8 February 2010 15:19:05
Hi William – sorry no, nothing yet. We have now sorted out the contract, but it still needs to be rubber-stamped by Cape’s legal department, and then my agent has to invoice. Not long. Promise.
Leo
* * *
From:williammendez75@gmail.com
To:leobenedictus@yahoo.co.uk
Subject: Date: Monday, 15 February 2010 03:19:05
Chapter 12 – Calls
OK Leo, I admit I’m losing patience. Where is this money?
Saturday April 2, 2005
11:52
‘HELLO?’ SHE SAID tentatively, as if it might not be him.
‘Hi Sally. It’s Michael.’ He sealed himself back inside the safety of the bathroom. The light clicked on, the fan resumed.
‘Hi!’
And there was such happiness in her voice, such relief, that already a stab of sweet self-pity was threatening to take him over. Michael blocked it. He had cried too much.
‘Is it true?’ she said. ‘Are you there right now?’ A breathy rhythm told him she was walking briskly to a place, he guessed, where she, too, would not be overheard.
‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘Are you kidding? Everyone knows. We were just talking about you. I showed them your texts. I hope that’s OK?’
‘Are you at work?’
‘Yes. I’m on Sport today, remember?’
Michael didn’t, actually.
‘And are you going to write something then?’
It was impossible, from the neutrality of her tone, to tell what Sally thought of the idea. Which meant she did not approve.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’d like to.’
‘OK.’
‘What do you think?’
‘About you writing something?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think it depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On a lot of things. Like, does Hugo know? … This is mental!’ Her excitement burst out once more. ‘I can’t believe we’re talking about you and Hugo Marks! Did you really, seriously, spend the whole evening with him?’
‘Pretty much. Yes.’
‘And Mellody too?’
‘Less so, but she’s been around.’
Michael picked up a bottle of moisturiser and looked at it.
‘Jesus, Michael! Fucking how?’
‘I don’t know really.’ He pressed the pump, and a quick white string of lotion hit his foot. ‘I just got talking to these people – Calvin was one of them, actually – and they introduced us.’
‘Calvin? The guy who died?’
‘Yes.’ He rubbed it in.
‘Oh my God. And he just fell off the roof like they’re saying?’
‘Yes.’
Pause.
‘So what do you think?’ he said.
‘What about?’
‘About me writing something.’
There was an echo in here.
Michael found that he had paced into the wet room.
‘Oh right. Well, what do you think?’
‘I think I’d like to.’
‘Uh-huh …’
‘It seems like a once-in-a-lifetime thing.’
‘OK.’
‘If I just write truthfully about what’s happened, then what’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing. I suppose.’
‘You’re not being very supportive.’
They were arguing already. Why were they arguing?
‘Sorry,’ Sally said. But he could tell she wasn’t.
That stab again. ‘I just thought you’d be on my side,’ he said.
‘Of course I’m on your side, Michael.’
‘You don’t sound it.’
He sat down on the toilet. It made a hollow bock.
‘Well I’m sorry about how I sound. And I do think if you want to write something for the paper then you should go ahead.’
‘Even though you don’t approve.’
‘Jesus! Did I say that?’
‘Oh come on, Sal.’
‘I said it depends. Like, would your new friend be happy about what you’d have to say?’
Michael tried to find a way of imagining that he would.
‘Probably not,’ he admitted.
‘Well, there you go. If it’s all true, then I suppose it’s legally OK. But it does feel a bit funny to go to some guy’s party, be invited back to his house, and then tell the world about it without his knowledge.’
‘I was supposed to find gossip, wasn’t I?’
‘This is different’.
‘He’s no fucking saint, you know.’
‘Well who is?’
For a long time, neither of them spoke.
‘Look,’ Sally said, ‘why don’t you just hold fire for a few days? You must be shattered. And I can’t imagine what it’s like in there with all the paparazzi and everything.’
‘Surreal.’
‘I bet. So why not wait until you’ve had a chance to think it over?’
‘Andrea says they want something today.’
Outside, there was a rap at the bedroom door. A timid knuckle triplet, quiet but distinct.
‘Just a second!’ Michael shouted, as cheerfully as he could. ‘I’ll talk to you later,’ he whispered down the phone.
‘OK. Good luck. I’m thinking of …’
He hung up, and left the bathroom.
‘Morning, Mike. It’s me!’
Hugo’s voice filtered through the door.
His shadow crept down the stairs ahead of him, zigzag. The villain, like all villains, just doing what had to be done.
He knocked on Mike’s door.
‘Just a second!’
The shout came out cheerfully and too loud.
‘Morning, Mike!’ Hugo shouted. ‘It’s me!’ He tried to seem light and airy. He thought he managed it.
‘I’m just putting some clothes on!’
Hugo waited.
There were noises. The sat-on creaking of a chair. The sullen clump of shoes.
Finally, the door swung back. Mike stood the other side of it, fully dressed and haste-flushed, hair a flattened skew. He looked different in these better clothes. Smarter, yes, and older, yet more innocent. Behind him lurked the rumple from a failed night.
‘Hi,’ Mike said.
‘Hello there. I hope you managed to get some sleep?’
‘A bit.’
Something almost pleasant passed between them, a wry nostalgia. As if their rest had sectioned off the panic of the morning, and framed it safely in the past. They were companions in disaster now. No words were needed to acknowledge this.
‘Good,’ Hugo said. It was time to perform. ‘Look, erm, I’ve got some news.’
He allowed himself to be ushered inside, into Mike’s warm smell. Neither man sat down.
‘Calvin has died,’ he said.
‘OK.’
Mike already knew. You could see he knew.
‘I’m sorry.’ And for his friend, Hugo truly was. ‘I think maybe we always guessed.’
‘I got a call.’ Mike was looking at his new shoes. ‘A mate told me.’
‘Right.’
‘It’s terrible.’
‘Awful. He was twenty.’
‘Fuck.’
‘I know.’
‘Anyway.’ Hugo stroked his chin and watched Mike’s former clothes. ‘The police are holding a press conference in a moment, and Renée has prepared a statement. She wants you to have a look at it too.’
‘Me?’
‘Because you were there.’
‘I see.’
The bed looked desolate.
‘Are the clothes OK?’ Hugo had to say something.
‘They’re great.’ Mike looked down at himself. ‘No, yeah, they’re really nice. Perfect. I’ll have them cleaned when I get home and then send them back to you.’
‘Don’t be silly. Just keep them.’ Hugo wished that he could buy him more.
‘Seriously?’
‘Sure. Renée’ll put them on my tax bill.’
Mike smiled.
‘Wow, thanks,’ he said. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive.’
They stood together, not sitting, not closing the door, but not leaving either.
‘Any word on when the detectives will be here?’ Mike said. ‘I’ve got some stuff to do at home, so I do need to get back soon.’
‘Oh yes, someone from the police called, actually. He said that, under the circumstances, he thought it would be better to interview us here tomorrow. But he’s happy for you to go home in the meantime.’ There was a chilly satisfaction in how naturally these words elapsed.
‘Really? That’s great. I’m dreading having to wade through that lot.’ Mike nodded at the street. ‘But I’ve got to go back some time, so I think I’d rather just get on with it.’
‘No, definitely. I understand. Although quite a lot of them will probably clear off once we’ve done our statement. Shall we go and have a quick chat with Renée about it? Then we’ll get you a car. How’s that?’
Mike looked relieved.
‘That would be great,’ he said.
A policeman, another young one, was coming down towards them from the roof.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said, looking up the stairs behind him to a superior, unheard and unseen.
Michael looked up also, surreptitiously, then felt worried about looking, then fearful about looking worried. He put his hands in his new pockets. Then he took them out again. No one noticed.
Approaching from the lower flight, a young woman stopped beside them at the banisters. She had a large sad nose, going-on proboscis, and a pristine bob of walnut hair.
‘Hugo,’ she said, an open laptop grinning in her elbow’s crook.
She looked at Michael for a moment. Then she looked away.
‘Theresa!’ was Hugo’s bright response.
‘I’ve cleared your diary for today, and …’
‘What did I have?’
The policeman had reached them now, and squeezed past on his way downstairs.
‘Nothing much. Batman Begins screening at two. Vikram at six.’
‘Let’s keep Vikram,’ Hugo said. ‘I can’t just put my whole life on hold.’
There was a special heartiness in his bonhomie. Like he had made a decision about it.
‘Of course, fine.’ The woman tapped something into her precarious computer. ‘Also, there’s been lots of calls. Renée’s dealing with them for now. And Elton has sent over a fruit basket and some Alka-Seltzer. There’s a note about having lunch tomorrow? I don’t think he’s heard about the situation.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Hugo laughed, unconvincingly. ‘Sure. Tell him I’d love to if I’m not in prison. Book us somewhere private though.’
‘Got it.’
‘And have you met Mike?’
‘No.’ The woman offered him a hand, which still had a pen in it. ‘Hi.’
‘Theresa picked out your clothes.’ Hugo looked at her almost with paternal pride.
‘Oh right!’ Michael said. ‘Thank you!’
‘Are they OK?’ She asked nervously. ‘Renée had to guess your size.’ She was still reluctant to meet his eye, perhaps embarrassed by the intimacy of dressing him.
‘Perfect. Thank you.’
Guiltily, it pleased him, having staff.
‘Come on,’ Hugo said. ‘Let’s go find Renée.’
They all set off downstairs.
And soon ‘… Excuse me?’ Renée’s voice, itchy with disdain, was travelling up to meet them. ‘No, I’ve got a question for you,’ it continued. ‘How do you think it makes him look if he doesn’t attend?’
As they reached the landing, Michael could see that she was leaning against the wall in the first-floor living room, a mobile phone held tightly to her ear. On the sideboard behind her, two anchormen, BBC and Sky, prattled silently on a pair of muted televisions. There was a man in the room, too, dressed with casual expense in chinos and an open-necked shirt. He was reading a sheaf of papers and did not look up.