by Marian Keyes
‘Think sex, look sexy. LOOK SEXY.’
‘Louder,’ I muttered. ‘I don’t think they quite heard you in Kazakhstan.’
‘Look sexy,’ he yelled, clicking away. ‘Look sexy, Lily.’
A bunch of schoolboys stopped to mock.
‘A little change coming up, Lily, down you come and let’s have you swinging off a branch.’
I clambered down and saw that my good boots had got scuffed on the trunk. Tears sprang up in me but I couldn’t go for it because Lee was making another ‘chair’ with his hands so I could swing from a branch like a monkey.
‘Eyes to me and a big laugh.’ Lee cackled like a maniac to encourage me. ‘C’mon, big laugh. Like this. AHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAH! You’re swinging on a branch, having the time of your life, head back, big, BIG laugh. AHAHAHAH-AHAAAAAAAH!’
My arm-sockets were aching, my hands were raw and slippy, my face was killing me, my new boots were scuffed and obediently, I laughed, laughed, laughed.
‘AHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAH!’ he went.
‘AHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAH!’ I tried.
‘AHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAH!’ the schoolboys went.
Just when I thought it could not get any worse it began to rain lightly. Briefly I thought it was a good thing because surely now we could go home. Not a hope. ‘Rain?’ Lee scanned the skies. ‘Could be good. Wild and romantic. Let’s see, what shall we try next?’
I spotted one of the schoolboys sending a text. Some dreadful instinct tipped me off that he was rounding up reinforcements.
‘Let’s try walking up to the top of the heath,’ Lee suggested. ‘See what’s up there.’
Damp, pissed-off and laden with equipment I followed him up the hill, then I looked back, hoping the schoolboys had not decided to follow us, but they had. Keeping a respectful distance but they were still there and was it my imagination, or were there more of them?
Lee stopped by a park bench. ‘We’ll do it here.’
Panting and sweaty, I sank onto it. Thank goodness, a sitting-down shot.
‘Lily, I need you standing.’
‘On the bench?’
‘Not quite.’
‘Not quite?’
He paused. Something very terrible was coming. ‘I want you on the back of it, Lily. Like you’re on a tightrope. It’ll make a fantastic shot.’
Mute with misery, I simply stood and looked at him.
‘Your publishers said they wanted wacky shots.’
I slumped with resignation, I had to do this. I didn’t want to get a name as a ‘difficult’ author.
‘I’m not sure I can balance.’
‘Give it a try.’
Up I climbed, watched by the schoolboys. I could hear them talking about whether or not they would ‘do’ me.
I planted one foot on the back of the bench, but that was the easy bit, then to my amazement I got the other on too and suddenly I was balancing on a ridiculously thin piece of wood.
‘You’re doing great, Lily,’ Lee yelped, clicking for all he was worth. ‘Eyes to me, think sex.’
There was activity amongst the schoolboys, I suspected they had opened a book on how long it would be before I fell off.
‘Lily, lift your leg!’ Lee called. ‘Balance on just one leg, arms out, like you’re flying!’
For just a second I had it. For the briefest time I hung in mid-air like I was floating, then I noticed that there were so many schoolboys on the hill that it was starting to look like an open-air rock concert and I wobbled and tumbled heavily to the ground, twisting my wrist and, worse still, muddying my new jeans.
The rain was coming down heavily now and, my nose two inches from the filthy ground, I was thinking, I am a writer. Why am I on all fours in the mud?
Lee came to help me up. ‘A few more shots,’ he said cheerily. ‘We almost had it there.’
‘No,’ I said and my voice was thin and quavery. ‘I think we’ve done enough.’
All the way back down the hill, I was on the verge of tears of humiliation, disappointment and exhaustion and when I got home I went straight to bed.
39
Then it all went quiet again. At some stage I got sent a print of the jacket, then a copy of the proof copy to look for mistakes, of which there was a disturbingly huge number. During this time I ought to have been working on my second book. I certainly made a few stabs at starting, but I was always so tired. Anton tried to be encouraging but as he was nearly as exhausted as I, he too ran out of steam.
The day came when the finished copies were delivered and I was moved to tears. Bearing in mind that I had once got excited about finding myself in the phone book, to see and hold a novel, with my name on the cover, was overwhelming. All those words, words that I’d written all by myself, gathered and printed by someone other than me, convulsed me with pride and wonder. Obviously nothing like as intense as having Ema, but a definite second.
The author photo was the first one Lee had taken – of me sitting on my couch, looking straight to camera. I had purplish shadows under my eyes and a double chin that I was pretty sure I did not have in real life. I looked slightly anxious. It was not a good picture but it was a hell of a lot better than me swinging from the branch of a tree going ‘AHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAH!’
That night I came to bed to find the book tucked in under the duvet, with just the title sticking out; Anton had put it there and I went to sleep cuddling it.
Publication day was the fifth of January and when I woke up that morning (the fourth time since I had gone to bed) I felt like a child on her birthday. Perhaps slightly over-expectant; teetering on that narrow wire where high-octane good spirits could topple over into tantrumy disappointment at a moment’s notice.
Anton greeted me with a cup of coffee and, ‘Good morning, published author.’
I got dressed and he kept up a commentary of, ‘Excuse me, Lily Wright, but what’s your profession?’
‘Author!’
‘Excuse me, ma’am, I’m conducting a survey. Can you tell me what job you do?’
‘I’m a writer. A published one.’
‘Are you the Lily Wright?’
‘Lily Wright the author? That’s me.’
Then we both bounced giddily on the bed.
Ema picked up on the fizzy atmosphere and gave a long incoherent speech, then slapped her plump knees and shrieked with laughter.
‘Enter Ema with news from the front,’ Anton said. ‘Let’s saddle her up, Lily, we’re going to visit your other baby.’
I unfolded the buggy for the ceremonial walk to our nearest bookshop, which happened to be in Hampstead.
‘We’re going to visit Mum’s book,’ Anton told her.
She was all agog at her dad being home midweek. ‘Lalalala-jingjing-urk!’
‘Exactly.’
We were on top form. It was a cold sunny morning and we walked with a sense of purpose. I was about to see my first novel on sale, what an experience!
I entered the bookshop with my neck so stretched I felt like a goose and on my face was a happy smile. So where was it?
There were no copies on the display at the front and I swallowed away the pang. Tania had gently explained to me that, although she wished things were different, mine was a ‘small’ book and therefore would not have big, front-of-shop displays. Nevertheless, I had still hoped…
But nor was Mimi’s Remedies to be found on the New Releases shelf. Or on any Recent Publications tables. Increasing speed a notch, I left Anton and the buggy and moved through the shop, searching and seeking. I moved ever faster, my head swivelling like a periscope and my anxiety swelling as my book failed to appear. Though there were thousands of other books I knew I would instantly see mine in amongst them. If it were there.
When I found myself in the Psychology Department, I stopped abruptly and hurried to find Anton. I met him at the information desk.
‘Did you find it?’ he asked quickly.
I shook my head.
‘Me either. Don’t worry, I’ll ask yo
ur man.’ Anton nodded at the saturnine youth staring at the computer and endeavouring to ignore us. After a while Anton cleared his throat and said, ‘Sorry to cut in on you there but I’m looking for a book.’
‘You’ve come to the right place,’ the youth said flatly, indicating the oceans of books on the shop floor.
‘Aye, but the one I’m looking for is called Mimi’s Remedies.’
A few keys were pressed half-heartedly, then the boy said, ‘No.’
‘No, what?’
‘We’re not getting it in.’
‘Why not?’
‘Store policy.’
‘But it’s brilliant,’ Anton said. ‘She –’ he pointed at me – ‘wrote it.’
I nodded over-brightly, yes, I had indeed written it.
But far from being impressed, the boy repeated, ‘We don’t stock it,’ then looked over Anton’s shoulder to the person queuing behind us. The implication was clear: Piss off.
We loitered by the desk, opening and closing our mouths like goldfish, too stunned to move obligingly along. This was not how it was supposed to be. I had not expected to be carried shoulder-high through the cheering streets, but nor had I thought it unreasonable to expect to find my book for sale in a bookshop. After all, if not here, where else could I expect to find it? In a hardware store? The dry-cleaner’s?
‘Ah, excuse me,’ Anton said, when the other customer had been dispatched.
The youth acted startled to find us still there.
‘Can we talk to the manager?’
‘You’re talking to him.’
‘Oh. Well, how can we change your mind about stocking Mimi’s Remedies?’
‘You can’t.’
‘But it’s a great book,’ Anton insisted.
‘Talk to your publisher.’
‘Oh. OK.’
It was a matter of some pride to me that I waited until I was outside the shop before I wept.
‘Fucker,’ Anton said, his face red with humiliation, as we tramped angrily towards home. ‘Patronizing little fucker’ He threw a kick at a bin and hurt his foot. I began to cry again.
‘Fucker,’ I said.
‘Fucker,’ Ema piped up from her buggy.
Anton and I turned to each other, our faces briefly alight. Her first real word!
‘That’s right,’ I sang, crouching down to her. ‘He’s a fuck-ex.’
‘A fucking fucker,’ Anton said, angry again. ‘We’re ringing them publishers the minute we get in.’
‘Fucker,’ Ema said again.
‘You said it, babe.’
It took about twenty minutes to reach home and I was still shaking when I dialled Tania’s private line.
‘Can I speak to Tania?’
‘Who’s calling?’
‘Lily Wright.’
‘And what’s it in connection with?’
‘Oh.’ Surprised. ‘My book.’
‘Which is called?’
‘Mimi’s Remedies.’
‘And your name again? Leela Ryan?’
‘Lily Wright.’
‘Libby White. Hold for one moment.’
Two seconds later Tania came on the line. ‘Sorry about my assistant. She’s a temp, she hasn’t a clue. How are you, love?’
Haltingly, not wanting to seem like I was being critical, I relayed what had happened in the bookshop.
Tania cooed and soothed. ‘I’m sorry, Lily, I really am. I love Mimi’s Remedies. But one hundred thousand new books get published every year. Not all of them can be best-sellers.’
‘I wasn’t expecting it to be a best-seller.’ Well, obviously I’d hoped…
‘To put it into context, your print run is five thousand copies. Someone like John Grisham has an initial print run of about half a million copies. Trust me, Lily, your lovely book is out there, but perhaps not in every store.’
I relayed what she had said to Anton. ‘This isn’t good enough. What about publicity? What about interviews and signing sessions?’
‘There won’t be any,’ I said, flatly. ‘Forget it, Anton, it’s not going to happen. Let’s just move on.’
But I had not reckoned on Anton’s energy.
A week or so later he came home from work, all aglow. ‘I’ve got you a signing.’
‘What?’
‘You know Miranda England? One of Dalkin Emery’s major authors? Well, her new book is out soon and a week on Thursday at 7 p.m., she’s doing a signing in the West End and I’ve persuaded Tania to make it a double – with you! Miranda’s huge, the crowds will really turn out for her and when they’ve got her book signed, then we’ll bag them. Captive audience.’
‘Oh my God,’ I stared at him. ‘You are amazing.’ But I had to wonder what other authors did. Those that didn’t have an Anton? ‘For that, young man, tonight you can have the sex act of your choice.’
Oh, how we laughed.
40
The night of the signing, Anton and I arrived at the bookshop embarrassingly early. In the window was a photo of Miranda almost as big as the one of Chairman Mao in Tiananmen Square plus a display of her books, several thousand strong. There was also a poster of me. A smaller one. Quite a lot smaller. It would not have looked out of place in a passport.
In the shop there were several more Chairman Miranda posters and although it was twenty minutes before kick-off, a queue had already formed. Mostly women, all fidgety with excitement.
A minute before seven o’clock, a silver Merc drew up and Miranda emerged, looking slightly entouragey. She had just been on the BBC evening news and was accompanied by her husband, Jeremy, Otalie the publicity girl and Tania our mutual editor. Tania gave me a kiss and a reassuring squeeze of the hand. Through the open door Miranda spotted the ever-swelling throng. There were probably seventy people – some groups so big they might have come in coach parties.
‘Fuck,’ she said. ‘We’ll be here all night.’ She turned to Otalie. ‘Good cop, bad cop, right?’
What were they talking about?
As soon as we entered, a young man hurtled through the shop at breakneck speed. He skidded to a halt in front of Miranda and introduced himself as Ernest the events manager.
‘It’s a great honour to meet you.’ He actually bowed, touching his forehead to the back of Miranda’s hand. ‘They’re all here for you.’ He indicated the fans. ‘And what can we get for you? We heard you like timtams, so we had them air-lifted in from Australia.’
Otalie shunted me forward. ‘And this is tonight’s other author, Lily Wright, who’ll be signing copies of her new book, Mimi’s Remedies’
‘Oh er yes, we’ll get them.’ The tone of his voice said, ‘From where they’ve been buried in the sealed vault, fifty feet underground, beneath the slabs of nuclear waste.’
As Miranda was ushered through the crowds to start signing, the noise level went up and mini-shrieks rose into the air. Excluded from the magic circle, Anton and I looked at each other and shrugged.
‘I see your table,’ he said. ‘Come and sit down.’
He led me to a small neglected table bearing a little sign saying my name and that of Mimi’s Remedies. A small pile of books eventually appeared.
While I waited for someone – anyone – to approach me, I watched Miranda and tried to keep my envy from showing on my face. All around her, a veritable army of bookshop staff were ferrying in pile after pile of her books, stacking them up in some prearranged configuration. It looked like an artist’s impression of the construction of the pyramids.
Otalie was patrolling the crowd, coralling them into an orderly line and distributing post-its. ‘Have your book open on the signing page and have your name written, spelt correctly, on your post-it,’ she boomed. ‘No backlist titles,’ she threatened. ‘Miranda will NOT be signing any backlist, only the new book. You, madam,’ she descended on a woman who was carrying a bulging plastic bag, ‘if there are backlist titles in that bag, please put them away. There isn’t time for Miranda to sign them.’
&nbs
p; ‘But they’re my daughter’s favourite books, she read them when she was recovering from a nervous break –’
‘She’ll enjoy a signed copy of the new book just as much.’ Otalie picked up the new book and put it on top of the woman’s armload. I thought Otalie was horrible and although the woman looked startled she did as she was told, just shuffling forward when the queue did.
‘No dedications,’ Otalie yelled, along the line. ‘No birthday wishes, no special requests. Do NOT ask Miranda for anything except your name.’
Despite her reign of terror, a party atmosphere prevailed, and occasionally some of the fans’ comments to Miranda floated over to me. ‘… I can’t believe I’m meeting you…’
‘… I feel like you’re my best friend…’
‘… you know in Little Black Dress where she finds her boyfriend wearing her knickers, that happened to me, and they were my best ones too…’
‘I’m so sorry about my publicity girl,’ I heard Miranda say again and again. ‘I’d love to chat to you all night, she’s such a bitch.’
Ah, good cop, bad cop, now I got it.
As people left Miranda some were wiping away tears, and people further back in the queue were asking, ‘What’s she like?’
‘She’s lovely,’ they always said, ‘she’s as lovely as her books.’
And still no one came to see me. ‘Step back,’ I hissed at Anton. ‘You’re blocking the view of me and putting people off.’
Quickly he moved away from the table and stood to one side.
And then… a man approached me! He walked right up to me, with firmness of purpose. I beamed, so, so happy – my first fan! ‘Hello!’
‘Yeah,’ he frowned. ‘I’m looking for the real life crime section.’
I froze, paused in the act of lifting a Mimi’s Remedies from its pile. I think he thinks I work here.
‘Real life crime,’ he repeated impatiently. ‘Where will I find it?’
‘Just step outside the door,’ I heard Anton mutter.
‘Um,’ I twisted my neck around the shop. ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps if you ask at Information.’