‘You can write whatever you want…’ says Mr T.
There’s a pause while he smiles at me encouragingly like a bank manager urging me to take out a really big loan that he knows I won’t be able to pay back.
‘…just as long as it’s not libelous,’ he adds, hurriedly.
I knew there would be a catch. This means I can say whatever I want as long as I’m nice.
The problem is that I’m not very good at nice. Bitch, I’m good at. Nice? Not so much.
It doesn’t help that everyone around me in the office is giddy with party fever about tonight’s Nibbie’s for which my gold embossed stiffy never arrived.
Nibbie’s, which those of you who (like me until five minutes ago) might think is a brand of cat food or an extra nipple - neither of which make you want to reach for a posh frock - are in fact the affectionate name for the British Book Industry Awards where the prize, should you get one, is an engraved.....wait for it...nippl, I mean nib.
Got your interest there for a minute, though didn't I?
Mr T won Baker Tilly Imprint & Editor in 2005 and this year The A Team have been nominated for no fewer that three gongs: Baker Tilly Imprint & Editor, Frankfurt Book Fair Rights Professional and BBIA Lightning Source Independent Publisher of the Year.
Naturally, it’s the big guns who dust down their top hat and tails and pitch up to this sort of thing - those who have been nominated, suitably accessorised by some of the Directors and Managers. But on this occasion - sing Hallelujah and Loud Rejoicing in the Choir- we’ve just been told that there’s a spare ticket.
The invitation is offered round the office in diminishing order of seniority and time served: so naturally I’m last, just before accounts and Marco the doorman. Truth to tell, I think Marco might have beaten me to it.
Cinderella, must have felt like this.
Oh well, I comfort myself, I couldn’t have gone to the ball anyway, even if I had longed to, even if I had a dress to wear, not even if I was first pick and Marco's suit wasn't in the cleaners. Thanks to the youngest of my four children, I’m currently doing my GCSE’s for the fifth time and I’ve got Religious Education tomorrow afternoon. Revision doesn’t happen on its own you know. Somebody has to dangle chocolate and jimmy the remote control out of said daughter's hand, lead her away from the Castaway marathon, and gently suggest she opens a book (and then duck when it flies across the room and hits the wall behind your head).
Definitely no ball for me then. There’s absolutely no way I could swan off to Brighton and gorge on canapés whilst basking in the glow of other people’s hard work and achievements even if there was any good reason why I should be there.
Instead I get to draw the raffle.
Yes indeedy – since all of the more senior people have passed, we’re having our very own Nibbie’s Lottery with the names of all those interested placed inside a large manilla envelope, which I’m holding feeling like one of those rent a celebrities that they drag out for award’s ceremonies, but without the plastic surgery and the borrowed dress from Alexander McQueen.
‘It’s a great honour to be here with you this evening rewarding the work of the Publicity Department, the Editorial Staff, and the Sales Team (pause for applause)…and before I open the envelope, I would just like to say a few words...
I am told to get on with it. Everyone is trying to look casually disinterested while mentally getting their hot party dress ironed and into a garment bag by four o'clock., having already memorised the train timetable
….and so, tonight’s winner is…
Not me.
Obviously.
You’ve got to be in it to win it.
‘Never mind,’ said Ms Rights, who earlier in the day had looked at my outfit and told me I reminded her of a luxury Park Avenue Apartment. Small, chic, compact and terribly expensive, perhaps? No, beige, taupe, peach and brown - you know, like the upholstery. My, I was flattered. And very glad nobody tried to sit on me.
She continued: ‘We’ve still got the Orange Prize to look forward to.’ Everybody on the A team is really excited about our author Nancy Huston’s novel Fault Lines being shortlisted and we have a whole table to fill.
‘Everyone will be there and we'll all be together then. It’ll be so much better.’
‘Everyone will be there and we'll all be together then. It’ll be so much better.’
I nod. But then I remember, just at about the same time as it dawns on her.
I’m not going to that either.
