by Charlie Hill
Check.
The scene was set.
When Lauren arrived, Richard stood and gestured to the chair opposite. Then he sat back down and frowned intently at one of his printouts, a table of children’s audiobook sales he’d photocopied from the Bookseller.
‘Good evening Lauren,’ he said, without looking up. ‘Before we start, I thought it might be instructive if we had a little recap of the situation to date. Now, my understanding is that at the moment we haven’t sufficient evidence of the damaging effects of Sayles’ books to formally present our case to any of the parties who may be able to provide us with assistance. Would you say that’s a fair assessment?’
‘Gosh,’ said Lauren. ‘I mean, I think so.’
‘Good,’ said Richard as he underlined something in his notebook, ‘and so to business. And what we can do. The first thing is to speak to a few newspaper people. If we can get them to carry even a small news story about a possible link between Gary Sayles and SNAPS, it’ll be a start. But we need to move quickly. His latest shit-smearing is due out in about five weeks but by then it will already have been read quite widely: reviewers and booksellers will get their copies long before it’s due to hit the shelves. So we’re looking at the first finished books being in circulation in about, ooh, a week. If they’re not already.’
Richard caught himself. It was a good start – sober and apposite – but then ‘shit-smearing’ had somehow slipped out. Had she noticed? He didn’t think so but he’d have to be careful.
‘Either way,’ he continued, ‘to give you an idea of what we’re up against if we don’t give ourselves enough time to put the mockers on – to arrest the momentum of the book’s publicity campaign – I have some data for you.’
And he had too. Minute after minute of statistics, each one drier than the last. He talked about the marketing budget of Barker Follinge and the percentage that was allocated to fiction; the year-on-year fluctuations in this figure and the projected publicity spend on The Grass is Greener. That each number had been plucked from his bitter and jaundiced arse didn’t matter. It sounded good and it seemed to work. Lauren was absorbed, listening intently, almost certainly impressed.
As Richard reached the end of his preamble, she shifted in her seat, glanced around the pub and cleared her throat.
‘This is all valuable information. But before we go any farther, would you like a drink?’
‘Yes,’ said Richard, ‘yes, I’d love one. A lime and soda, please.’
‘Are you sure? Are you not drinking?’
‘No, I’m not drinking. I don’t, not always. With some people it can be habit forming.’
‘Can it really?’
‘And anyway, you don’t drink. And we’re supposed to be in this together.’
‘We are, that’s true. But I do drink. On special occasions.’
Richard watched as she went to the bar. It was obvious the stats had gone well. Yet although the question of drink had arisen at just the right time – he must have scored some points there too – there was something about Lauren’s response that he wasn’t entirely comfortable with. Her ‘Can it really?’ was a pointed comeback, her mention of ‘special occasions’ designed, he felt, to provoke him into a response. If he didn’t know her better, he’d have thought she was up to something.
Lauren came back to their table with a lime and soda and what looked suspiciously like a gin and tonic. He nodded at her glass.
‘What’s so special about this occasion?’
‘I fancy a drink.’
‘Is that it?’
‘That’s it.’ Lauren smiled.
‘Great,’ said Richard, ‘well, that’s great. Absolutely great. So where were we? Oh yes. Marketing books. There’s a few things that I probably should have told you before. For starters, have you wondered why some titles are called bestsellers before they’ve even been released? Yes? Well, it’s because “bestseller” hasn’t got anything to do with actual sales. “Bestseller” is just the way publishers classify some of their titles. They’re the ones that the publishers push. The ones they have decided they’re going to make sell.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. You see, the thing is, a lot of people think that publishing is about art. About literature. But it isn’t. Publishing is an industry, just like any other. The industry looks at the public as two groups of people – readers and people who read – and then the industry decides what’s going to be read by each group. Now your average ‘reader’ has the luxury of being better informed about what’s going on and so they’re reasonably wise to the game. But say you’re the sort of person who reads Gary Sayles. Not a reader. Someone who reads. You read what you’re told to read. Or at the very least what you’re made aware of. The bestsellers. And you’re constantly being shortchanged because there’s a discrepancy between what the industry needs you to read to keep the industry afloat – the units it manufactures, in bulk – and what you might, given half a chance, actually want to read. It’s really unhealthy. And it’s a vicious circle.’
‘I see,’ said Lauren. ‘But you do realise you’re ranting?’
Richard shuffled his paperwork and looked for a graph, a table, anything to give his invective the imprimatur of objective analysis. He settled on a pie chart and waved it in the direction of his newly combative companion.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘this tells you all you need to know.’
‘Wait. Let me see. How Dr Seuss Helped the Berenstain Bears. Really?’
‘Whatever. To get back to my point, it suits the industry to buy into the idea that most people can’t cope with better, bigger and, yes, darker books than Sayles’. It’s easier that way. It’s cheaper and it involves less thought. No one has to judge anything on artistic merit anymore – the only criterion being applied is whether or not they’ll make any cash. So people are force-fed the mediocre and sooner or later that’s all they want, it’s all that’s laid out before them and it’s all they can take. This deathly drivel.’
‘So people don’t have a choice about what to read?’
‘Not at all. It’s just that the presentation of the choice is loaded.’
‘Now you’re making it sound a bit sinister. Are you saying there’s a conspiracy?’
‘Not as such. And neither am I saying that people shouldn’t try the odd slab of desiccated horseshit once in a while, if that’s what they want. It’s just that – whatever you’re used to – you should be given the option of trying something different every once in a while.’
Hmm. Richard stopped then, puffed out his cheeks, looked around the pub. Suddenly there was a lot to cope with. Lauren, sobriety, gin, it was all getting a bit on top. The cracks were beginning to show, and he could feel far worse than ‘desiccated horseshit’ bubbling under. Surely he’d done enough by now? Surely it was time Lauren cut him some slack?
‘Do you mind if I ask you a question?’ she said.
‘Oh Christ,’ said Richard. ‘I recognise that tone of voice.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s your “I’ve been giving the matter some thought” voice.’
‘And?’
‘And it’s never an idle threat. OK, then. Go ahead.’
‘Thank you. I’ve been thinking about this for a while now. Why do you write?’
‘Why do I write? Blimey. Haven’t you got anything easier than that?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you’d like to talk about it.’
‘I suppose, if you must know, I write for the same reason I read. To provoke people. To make them change their way of thinking, to make them laugh. Not chuckle, mind, but wet themselves.’
‘I see. And do you think the best way to do this is to bash them over the head?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t put it like that exactly. But yes, a little bit of shock therapy never hurt anyone.’
Lauren threw her head back and laughed. It was a trilling laugh, a bit forced but inclusive nonetheless. Richard looked at her. What he’d said wasn’
t that funny.
‘That’s interesting,’ she said. ‘But surely life isn’t only a choice between putting yourself at risk of SNAPS or being bashed over the head? Aren’t the best experiences a mix of all sorts? A mix of the extreme and the ordinary?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Of the old and the new?’
‘Could be.’
‘Psychological insight? A little bit of fun?’
‘I get the picture,’ said Richard. ‘But what the hell has this got to do with SNAPS?’
‘I’m just thinking about the alternatives to Gary Sayles, that’s all. How best to move people on. Because it’s not just the great leaps of faith and imagination that move people along, is it? It’s how they’re assimilated. People change incrementally. And whether or not Gary Sayles is the cause of SNAPS, you may find you have more success altering people’s attitudes to that type of writing if you approach the matter in a more reasonable manner rather than bashing them over the head.’
‘No,’ said Richard, ‘you’re wrong. People should read books that bash them over the head. If you want to grow, if you want to evolve, then go for it. Be bold. Be daring. Don’t hedge your bets.’
‘There you go again,’ said Lauren. ‘You’re always so sure of everything. But these are your truths, Richard. Who’s to say that the truths you’re looking for are the same as those that other people are looking for?’
And at that moment Richard lost it. And it didn’t matter whether it was Lauren or Julie or Jeff or his fucking boss or whoever sitting there in front of him, impugning his integrity, wilfully misreading all that he believed in, taking the piss. He hadn’t stayed off the booze to sit there and be insulted.
‘Look. You’re not listening to what I’m saying. I mean, yeah, I’ve no doubt there are some very good reasons why we should all switch off occasionally, kick back with something that isn’t going to blow our heads off. A little bit of escapism never hurt anyone. Jesus, I want to escape too. But I want to escape to a place where I might stumble on to a truth or a moment of beauty or darkness, however unwholesome or unpalatable it might be. Where someone tells me something new, or something old in a new way. Not to a land of sludge where anything out of the ordinary is something to be afraid of. Do you understand? I mean really? Do you?’
Richard wiped the corners of his mouth. He looked at Lauren and swallowed hard. He was suddenly drained.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘It’s getting late. I ought to be going.’
‘I’m just about finished,’ said Lauren, raising her eyebrows, ‘we could share a taxi…’
She reached out to touch his arm, stopped herself, pulled her hand away. Jesus, Richard thought, she’s only bleedin’ drunk.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I need to go straight home. Tomorrow I’ll speak to the press. I’ve got an in with the Correspondent so I’ll start there. Then I’ll call you.’
And with that, he stood up, drained his lime and soda and left the pub.
Lauren waited outside the station in the queue for a cab, among the drunks and the shouts and the laughter. It had been a good night. She was pleased with herself. Short of actually raising her middle finger to Richard, she couldn’t have done more to let him know that she was not going to put up with any more of his mindless provocations.
She’d promised herself that she was going to have fun and she had. She’d knocked back the gin – she must have had at least three – and copied his direct approach to the conversation. She’d even ventured a few jokes. She supposed her own behaviour could almost have been called provocative. It had certainly been the first time in, well, yonks that she felt as though she had any power over a man. And that was fun.
Lauren was tipsy. She would need to consider it all later. A taxi came and she sat back in her seat. She looked out of the window at the city. ‘Where to?’ asked the driver. She pretended for a moment not to have heard. They drove slowly around the one-way system, stopping and starting. So this was what it felt like to be free.
It wasn’t until she was almost home that the tears came, in slow salty drops that she made no effort to wipe away.
In which Richard speaks to the national press
Alistair Bevan was proud to call himself a literary man. The appellation was nothing more than the due recognition of his standing within the culture. In the years since he had read Russian at Oxford, his steadily jowling mugshot, authoritative byline and confident tone had graced the books pages of some of the most prestigious publications in the country. Now, as Literary Editor of the Correspondent, Alistair Bevan was a bone fide member of the literary establishment.
For some, the very idea of a literary establishment was anathema. Its role was much – and in many cases wilfully – misunderstood. Alistair knew the naysayers’ objections were many. Principal among those directed at him daily – by email and letters that may have been scrawled in green ink – was a criticism of the system that resulted in the books pages of the Correspondent being the exclusive preserve of a ‘Dynastic Mafia’. Judging by the unexceptional nature of their prose, the complainants argued, most Correspondent reviewers seemed to have got their commissions by virtue of their name alone. Were they not the sons and daughters of columnists, authors and editors? Members of an elite? Was it not about time that Alistair gave a fair crack of the whip to others? Those who weren’t ‘connected’ but had instead been to redbrick universities or spent years honing their craft on blogs or, say, the Chorlton Gazette or Nether Wallop Bugle?
Alistair found such criticisms naive. They were missing the point. He looked at it this way (and really, the reasoning was infallible): just as democracy needed checks and balances to keep the barbarians away from the gates, so the culture required gatekeepers to look after the upkeep of the artistic landscape of the nation. Mediators, critics and arbiters – call them what you will – these people were an elite by any other name. But what of it? People didn’t buy newspapers just to be informed but to be persuaded into a way of thinking. And who was better placed to persuade, the scions of the literary nobility or the enthusiastic semi-professionals of the population at large?
There was also, apparently, an issue with the regions. Alistair was often contacted by people who ran small provincial publishing houses. They were largely humourless people, plugging this dialect-driven curiosity of a novel or that socially realistic memoir, while muttering darkly about the dangers of ‘regionalism’, whatever that might be. They would criticise the Correspondent too, this time for its attitude to independent publishing. This was to criticise a dog for not being a cat. The Correspondent did not offer a benevolent service, it was not a charitable venture. It wasn’t as if he didn’t care. Alistair had supped – literally – with some of London’s finest small-press people. But there was a limit. Publishing was an industry that was operating at capacity. The number of titles published already outstripped the hours of reading time available in the population at large. What was the point of reviewing titles that were going to be read by only a handful of people?
One of Alistair’s more consistently annoying epistlers was a blogger – and wannabe member of the literary elite – by the name of Richard Anger. Over many years the fellow had seen fit to litter Alistair’s inbox with links to under-informed rants on what constituted ‘good’ literature. He’d also submitted an equal number of unsolicited reviews.
His latest words landed with a greater than usual thump on Alistair’s virtual doorstep. It was a long and involved email concerning the ‘public health implications’ of a forthcoming novel. In it, he’d asked Alistair to run a news story in the next issue. ‘Anything you can do to help bring this to the attention of the public,’ he’d said, ‘would be welcome at this stage. We are talking about averting a potential catastrophe.’
Alistair knew enough about the hyperbolic argot of the bloggerati to question the accuracy of this assertion. And besides. While the basic premise of Anger’s argument was preposterous enough – an unsubstantiated claim about the damaging e
ffects of certain books – the pest was once again misreading the needs of the Correspondent and the role of Alistair therein. If the accusations were provable – and mediocre art could in some way harm people – then surely the danger would not be restricted to books? Exposure to mediocre TV programmes, advertising campaigns, films and music would prove to be equally hazardous. And then how on earth would the Correspondent fill its weekend lifestyle supplements?
More pertinently, this Mr Anger seemed to be implying that Alistair should have an opinion on the reading habits of the general populace. As a Literary Man, Alistair held no such views. There were people lost in the cultural landscape, who were beyond help, people whom not even the Correspondent could reach. There was no debate about what these people could and should read. They were beyond consideration. This constituency would – and did – read anything. As long as they kept buying books it was of no consequence what books they bought and no one who understood the industry – no one who was worthy of Alistair’s time – would dream of suggesting otherwise…
Photographs without people in them
Lauren listened to the message and smiled.
‘Hello, Prof, it’s Richard. I think we need to think again. I wrote to various people in the nationals and they’re just not biting. If we’re going to get people’s attention we need a rethink. I’ve got one or two suggestions that I think we migh… shit… I’m running out of cred—’
So. A rethink. If Richard’s previous mood swings were anything to go by, they’d be back on terrible truths again by now. Was she in the mood for terrible truths? It was hard to know. As the new, single-digit-waving Lauren she was certainly open to the idea that she might be. She switched off her phone, poured herself a glass of red wine and sat back on her sofa. Warmed by the wine and the late afternoon sun that came full and strong into her front room, Lauren closed her eyes and thought about the motivations and behaviour of this uniquely confusing man.
Some people, she knew, needed no one else. They were satisfied with their own company and their own counsel. Since Will’s death, she’d counted herself as one of them. Others craved the approval of friends or colleagues and bent their character to the prevailing mores, in order to fit in. Richard, on the other hand, seemed to be different again. He was uncompromisingly himself but also seemed in permanent need of validation. As if he was afraid that he would amount to nothing if people did not accept him for his essential difference.