by Marian Keyes
‘It’s not the same here, they have flat shoes and minger hair. So you really were one?’
‘For a couple of years.’
SNAP!
‘Cool.’
Not cool. It was a shitty job and she blamed TV for making it look glamorous.
‘Ever kick any doors down?’
‘Hundreds.’
SNAP!
‘Ever go undercover?’
‘Oh, always. I had to seduce Mafia bosses. Sleep with them and get all their secrets.’
‘REALLY?’
SNAP!
‘No.’ She laughed.
‘Hold that look. Ever get shot at?’
SNAP!
‘Always.’
‘Tilt the head slightly. Ever shoot someone?’
SNAP!
‘Yeah.’
‘Big smile now. Ever kill someone?’
SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!
13
Later Monday afternoon
Keith left, Jojo fastened herself back into her jacket and was about to start work when Manoj buzzed her.
‘Eamonn Farrell on the line.’
‘What now?’
‘Apparently Larson Koza got a blinding review in today’s Independent and why didn’t he? Shall I jerk him off and get rid of him?’
‘You love saying that. I should never have taught it to you. No, put him through.’
With a click, Eamonn’s rage streamed down the phone line and into the room. ‘Jojo, I’ve had it with this Koza fucker.’
He let it all out as Jojo ‘Uh-huh’d sympathetically and scanned her emails. One from Mark; she’d save it until she was off the phone.
‘… plagiarism… I was the first…’ Eamonn was saying. ‘… owes everything to me… thinks it’s all about image… good-looking prick…’ Jojo held her receiver away from her head for a second, just to see if it was foaming. On he went. ‘And d’you know what they called him? “A Young Turk.” I’m the Young fucking Turk around here.’
Poor guy, Jojo thought. She’d been here before with other authors. After their first flush of joy at being published, the craven gratitude dissipated to make room for jealousy. Suddenly they noticed they weren’t the only new writers in the world – there were others! Who got good reviews and high advances! It was hard to take on board, especially for someone like Eamonn who had enjoyed a lot of early success. He’d been described as a ‘Young Turk’, a wunderkind. Now it was cuckoo-in-the-nest Larson Koza who was getting the plaudits.
Eamonn drew his rant to a close.
‘So what are you going to do about it? Let’s not forget you’re walking around with twenty-five thousand pounds of my money in commission.’
I wish.
She had got Eamonn an advance of a quarter of a million pounds for his book. One of her biggest deals and pretty impressive by most standards – especially as Young Turks got great reviews but didn’t tend to sell in commercial quantities.
‘That ten per cent you’re skimming off me is paying your salary.’
That’s where you’re wrong, buddy. Jojo didn’t get any of it. You had to be a partner before you pocketed a percentage of any deal; even so it was never more than five.
But she kept it zipped. He was angry and insecure and she didn’t take it personally. Anyway, a few more insults later, he stopped abruptly and said, ‘Aw, Jojo, I’m sorry, I’m as sorry as anything. I’m a stupid bastard, doing this to you. It’s just the competition is so fierce in this business, worse than any other, it really gets to me.’
He’d want to try being an agent, she thought. Then he’d really know about competition. But all she said was, ‘I know, I totally understand. Don’t even think about it.’
‘You’re a gem, Jojo Harvey. The best. Can you forget all that shite I said?’
‘It’s forgotten.’
TO: Jojo.harvey@LIPMAN HAIGH.co
FROM: Mark.avery@LIPMAN HAIGH.co
SUBJECT: Miss
Miss (v.) 1. Feel the want of. 2. Not have. 3. Notice esp with regret the absence of ~ e.g. I miss you.
M xx
TO: Mark.avery@LIPMAN HAIGH.co
FROM: Jojo.harvey@LIPMAN HAIGH.co
SUBJECT: Tough
Tough (adj.) 1. Hard, severe, unpleasant ~ e.g. tough luck, you shouldn’t have gone away for whole week to book fair. (Joke (n.) 1. Thing said or done to excite laughter.)
JJ xx
PS I notice esp with regret the absence of you too.
Ten minutes later
Manoj buzzed again. ‘On the line we have your cousin Becky, who looks like you, only not so fabulous, if the photo on your desk is anything to go by. I think she wants to hook up with you tonight, she was muttering brokenly about Pizza Express. And if you ladies are requirous of male company, I’d be happy to cancel your order with the male escort agency and volunteer myself. Do you accept or decline this call?’
‘Put her through.’
‘No, you have to say, “I accept”.’
Jojo sighed. ‘I accept.’
14
7.10 Monday evening
Most people had already gone home when Jojo started to fill in the Book News questionnaire.
Name
Jojo Harvey
Age
32
Career path?
Three years in the NYPD (no, really). A few months barmaiding when I first came to London, six months as reader in Clarice Inc. before being promoted to assistant, then junior agent. Made full agent four years ago and moved to Lipman Haigh Agents a year and a half later.
What’s your favourite smell?
Mark Avery
Jojo scribbled, wishing she could inhale him right then.
No, wait; she could not write that. Quickly she scored so many lines through it the page almost tore. What had others put? A quick flick through previous editions showed that some bow-tied old guy had written ‘the aged must of a rare first edition’. Another, his tie even bigger and floppier, ‘the fresh ink of a new author’s first novel’.
Richie Gant (no tie at all because who wears ties with a T-shirt) had written ‘Money’ and his crassness had had all of publishing buzzing. But, Jojo thought reluctantly, she had to admire the guy’s honesty…
Next question.
What makes you depressed?
Richie Gant
A pause, then more heavy pen scoring.
What’s your motto?
Richie Gant must die!
Nope, couldn’t put that either.
Jesus. She’d wanted, really badly, to be asked to do this questionnaire, but it was way harder than she had expected.
Which living person do you most admire?
Mark Avery
Which living person do you most despise?
Mark Avery’s wife? No, no, no. It’s got to be me – see next question.
What traits do you dislike most in others?
Women who hit on married men.
What would you change about yourself?
Apart from my boyfriend having a wife and two children?
How about her perfectionism, she wondered. Her tenacity? No, she thought: it had to be her calves. They were too hefty and leather knee-boots were a no-no for Jo-jo. Even stretchy sock boots were a bit of a struggle. A common enough complaint perhaps, but on Jojo, the zip wouldn’t go all the way up even on ankle boots. Worst still, she insisted her calves had the mottled consistency of corned beef. As a result she nearly always wore tailored trouser suits to work. They had become her trademark. (Another goddam one.)
How do you unwind?
Sex with Mark Avery. Or, if he’s not around, a bottle of Merlot and a wildlife programme, especially the ones about baby seals.
What makes you cry?
A bottle of Merlot and a wildlife programme, especially the ones about baby seals.
Do you believe in monogamy?
Yes. Yeah, I know, how can I? I’m a hypocrite. But I never meant for this thing with Mark to happen. I’m not that kind of pers
on.
Which book do you wish you had agented?
Easy, she thought, not that she’d ever fess up, even under torture. It was Fast Cars, the current talk of the town. A great novel except that Richie Gant was the agent – not Jojo – and he’d secured a £1.1 million advance at auction. Jojo had had similar coups but nothing as high and she had been disgustingly envious even before Richie Gant made a special trip down the hall to her office to wave the contract at her and crow, ‘Read it and weep, Yank.’
Where do you see yourself in five years’ time?
As a partner in Lipman Haigh Agents. And hopefully a lot sooner than five years. Like, as soon as someone retires.
At Lipman Haigh there were seven partners – five based in London and two in the Edinburgh satellite. Then there were a further eight agents who weren’t partners, and while there was no way of knowing who the board would pick to replace the next retiree, Jojo had hopes that it might be her. Although there were three agents who’d been there longer than she had, she brought in a lot of income to the agency – for the last two years she’d generated more than any of the other agents.
What’s your favourite phrase?
What doesn’t kill us makes us funnier.
What are your distinguishing qualities?
I can whistle for a taxi and swear in Italian. I do a great Donald Duck impression and I can fix bikes.
What five things could you not live without?
Cigarettes, coffee, vodkatinis, the Simpsons… What else? A regular heartbeat?… More cigarettes.
What achievement are you proudest of?
Quitting smoking. I think. It hasn’t happened yet…
What’s the most important lesson life has taught you?
Bad hair happens to good people.
She paused. This is total crap, she thought, sticking her pen back in her hair where it was more useful. Manoj would have to do it. It was time to meet Becky.
15
8.45 Monday evening
Out on Wardour Street, it was still busy even on an iron-cold night in late January. Jojo clipped along so quickly she caused a homeless man to mutter, ‘Where’s the fire, love?’
Jojo hurried on, she didn’t want to be late for Becky.
Jojo and Becky were very close, as close as sisters. When she first arrived from New York and was earning a pittance, first as a barmaid, then as an agent’s reader, Jojo had bunked down in Becky’s bedroom. Squashed together in such close quarters, it could have been a bloodbath. Instead they had bonded in a million different ways, thrilled and enchanted by their similarities, despite having been brought up thousands of miles apart. They discovered that their mothers (who were sisters) both kept the plastic coverings on new upholstery for up to a year. And when their daughters were out of line, both mothers said, ‘I’m not angry with you, I’m disappointed,’ then cuffed them upside the head in a way that looked much more like anger than disappointment.
Becky and Jojo even looked alike. But Jojo, taller and curvier, was like a ‘25% extra free!’ version of Becky. (Although both of them had naturally auburn hair Becky’s was short and highlighted to bits and as a result she was almost never accused of looking like Jessica Rabbit.)
After months of living on top of each other, they had eventually moved into a flat where they had a bedroom each and cohabited in harmony for several years, until Jojo bought her own place and Becky met Andy.
Even though Becky was eight months older, Jojo seemed like the big sister. Somehow she attracted a lot more attention than Becky, who was at heart a gentle soul.
In Pizza Express, Becky was drinking red wine and picking at garlic bread. She waved and beckoned Jojo over.
They hugged, then Becky pulled back and bared her teeth at Jojo in a silent snarl. ‘Are my teeth black?’
‘No.’ Jojo was alarmed. ‘Why, are mine?’
‘No, but I’m on the red wine. Keep an eye on me.’
‘OK, but I will be too, so you’d better keep an eye on me also.’
They scanned the menu and Becky said, ‘If I get the Veneziana will you tell me if I get spinach caught in my teeth? Can you believe that Mick Jagger once got an emerald set into his teeth? What was he thinking of? Bad enough to have real food trapped in there, but to put something fake…’
After they ordered, Jojo said, ‘So what’s up?’
Becky was an administrator in private health care, responsible for the schemes of large companies, and was going through hell.
‘You’re not going to believe this – she gave me four new clients today.’ ‘She’ was Elise, Becky’s boss and tormentor. ‘Four! And each of them has dozens of employees, all of them needing health plans. I’ve more than I can handle already. I’ve started making stupid mistakes and they’re going to get worse because I don’t have the time to check my stuff properly.’
‘Becky, you’ve got to tell her it’s too much.’
‘You can’t do that. It makes you look like you can’t cope.’
‘You’ve got to.’
‘I can’t.’
‘If she’s giving you more clients, she must think you’re good.’
‘No way! She’s overloading me so that I’ll crack and leave. She’s a bitch and I hate her.’
Caught up in the stress of Becky’s tale, Jojo produced a box of cigarettes from her bag. ‘Back on them.’
‘What happened with your acupuncture?’
‘Every time I twiddled the pin in my ear, I got a craving for mashed potatoes. Like, really bad. But I’m going to be hypnotized on Friday night. One of the partners, Jim Sweetman, gave me the number. He was a forty-a-day man and now he’s on his third cig-free week.’
‘We all need a vice,’ Becky said virtuously.
‘I know, but they make it so hard for smokers. If I want to smoke at work I have to stand on the street and sometimes men mistake me for a prostitute.’
Becky swigged some wine, then checked her teeth in her spoon. Upside down but not black. Good. ‘I feel better,’ she said. ‘You can’t beat a good vent. Now, your go, Jojo. Share the joy.’
‘We…ll, OK, I haven’t sold anything in a while. Nothing good has come my way. Like, nothing and Skanky Boy Gant has done two big deals in the past two months and it scares the pants off me.’
Becky wagged a finger. ‘Now, now, didn’t you just do a deal last week? The reason you bought the celebratory Marc Jacobs wallet?’
‘Which? Oh that was just for Eamonn Farrell. I’m not talking about my existing authors. I need to keep adding to my client list. If things don’t pick up soon I won’t make this year’s bonus.’
‘And then how will you keep yourself in Marc Jacobs wallets? Bonus, my bum. You should get some of the percentage you negotiate. Become a partner!’
‘I’m working on it.’
‘Are you still talking to the wallet?’
‘Not as much.’
‘So how’s your new guy working out?’
‘Manoj? Young, keen, smart as a whip, but… well, he’s not Louisa. Why did she have to get pregnant and leave me?’
‘She’ll be back in four months.’
‘You think? You don’t think she’ll love her baby too much to leave it?’
‘Louisa? Not bloody likely.’
Louisa was a heel-wearing, vodkatini-drinking, razor-brained babe. She’d knocked off the vodkatinis when she’d got pregnant but not much else had changed.
‘I really miss her,’ Jojo sighed. ‘I’ve no one to talk to now.’ Louisa was the only person at work who knew about her and Mark.
‘What does Manoj look like?’
‘Oh no, Becky. Oh, no, no, no. Seventy-five pounds, soaking wet. A bit of a fussy britches. Likes me to look great, thinks it’s his job to keep me that way.’
‘Gay?’
‘No.’
‘JGE?’
‘Huh?’
‘Just Gay Enough.’
‘Right! And like I say, he’s smart. After two weeks, he already knows about m
e and Richie Gant.’
‘Does he know about Mark?’
‘No! Are you insane?’
‘When’s Mark back from the book fair? Where is it this time?’
‘Friday. Jerusalem.’
‘Why didn’t you just go with him?’ Becky asked.
‘And miss a whole week of work hanging around in a hotel room waiting for him to come back from meetings?’ Jojo tried to look indignant but couldn’t sustain it. ‘Ohmigod, think of it. Five whole days in bed. Room service, movies, fresh sheets every day, there’s something about hotel sheets… But there were too many others from Lipman Haigh going and staying in the same hotel. Someone would have seen us.’ Jojo looked at her pizza a little sadly.
Becky offered solidarity by squeezing her hand but there was nothing new to say. Since it had started, about four months ago, they’d analysed the situation so much that sometimes soft-hearted Becky began to regret ever getting involved.
Received wisdom has it that something must have already been lacking in the marriage for Mark to have strayed. But it was different when you were actually having an affair, Jojo thought. You can’t help but feel ashamed. Well, she couldn’t anyway.
But she hadn’t liked a man so much in the longest time. Her last boyfriend (‘Poor Craig’) had become rather needy, then went a tad stalkery when she broke up with him. The relationship before that had started well until the bloke (‘Richard the Dick’) discovered that Jojo earned more than he did, then the criticism began; the speed she walked at; the fact she wore heels even though she was already five nine; the way she never wore skirts.
‘What’s the rest of your week like?’ Becky asked.
‘Tomorrow night, launch party for Miranda England’s fourth novel.’
‘Oh, will you get me a copy, I love her. And what are you up to on Wednesday night?’
‘Ohhh.’ Jojo put her face in her hands. ‘A dinner. Biography of Churchill launch. Old guys talking Second World War stuff and me face down in my soup, passed out with boredom.’
‘Why are you going? That’s not one of your books.’
‘Dan Swann asked me along.’
‘But he’s not your boss. Tell him to shove it.’