I've been up to my ears in Frankfurt this last week, arranging Mr T's appointments for the book fair. This involves me sending emails to another woman in another foreign capital making dates in a diary for another person who is invariably a man. Most of the women, no matter how grand they are, will respond to an email and make their own appointments, even if they also forward their appointment on to their assistant. Once again it's another foray into the world of women and invisible men - booking travel, booking restaurants, booking hotels...even going to the shrink. All day long I speak to women about men. No wonder they think they run the world.
I'm also fairly invisible myself at work. A couple of the other members of staff were talking about the latest manuscript just in by one of our authors. Are you enjoying it? asked one of the other (and yes the author is a man).
I'm not sure about it yet, I need to read some more.
I asked what it was and one said, Oh Mr T sent it round so a few of us could read it.
I realised that I wasn't one of the few.
This happened before, just a few weeks ago with a comic novel that we later bought and which had everyone laughing enthusiastically. Except me. I just overheard the office conversation.
It's like the 5th Year Common room all over again. To quote The Sopranos: Nursing Homes are just High School with walkers. Publishing companies are High School with books.
I can see literary discourse is not one of my perceived strengths, still, I've had another offer for the Portuguese rights to my book, which the agent has accepted, and last week, a cover arrived.
What do you think about? said the editor.
I love it, I replied.
So far it's a picture of a woman in a pink coat walking off into the distance on a railway platform. Sex in the City meets Brief Encounter.
Mind you, I added. It would have been kind nice if they had got my name right.
It's Marion with an 'o' not Marian with an 'a'.
Even on the front of my own book, I'm not myself.
