I came back from Yorkshire and found a parcel waiting for me with the familiar little Waddling Duck on the address label. I ripped off the paper like a child on Christmas morning and there awaiting me were five proof copies of my very own novel.
I waited for the drum roll from heaven and big Hollywood Aaah Aaah Aaah moment, but nothing - not even a tremor from a passing bus. The house, for once, was empty and so there wasn’t even anyone to show it to. Instead I had to settle for personal satisfaction.
For all of two minutes.
Who shall I call, I thought to myself? I ran through my mental address book very quickly from Absentee-children to X-husband (artistic license, though I could get right to the end of the alphabet if I included the Frenchman whose name begins with a Z but if I rang him I'd have to reintroduce myself), and so there was nothing to do but sit and stroke the cover of the book repeatedly whilst murmuring 'my lovely, my pretty, come to me my pretty,' like Golom in Lord of the Rings. I then opened the flyleaf to read all about myself: 'feisty new talent' (this comment alone has elicited several loud snorts of laughter from those who call themselves my colleagues and friends. 'New' does not mean 'young', okay, so just get over yourselves.
However, according to the frontispiece I continue to live in West London with my husband and four children, and in the acknowledgments I'm still indebted to him for all his help. Worse, I dedicated the book to him the day before he announced he was leaving. 'Strong voice and black humour' indeed. If you don't laugh you cry. I've tried it both ways.
'Why don't you have any quotes on the back cover?' asked my youngest.
'Because nobody's read it yet,'
'I think you should definitely have some - you know, like JK Rowling and Stephanie Meyer telling you how great it is,' she insisted. 'You need to get them to write something.'
'I'll get right on it,' I promised. Surely JK and Stephanie are watching for the postman as I type, simply thrilled at the prospect of yet another unsolicited work of women's literary fiction arriving on their desks (and yes, that's what they're calling it so you can scrub that chic lit smirk off your faces, I should be so lucky) . Why stop there - let's get on to Salman and Zadie and Lionel. Hey, what about our very own Aravind? He's on the Booker longlist, it's only a matter of time before he's rent-a-quote royalty. And we're going to be such good friends. I can just feel it.
At work, the arrival of uncorrected proofs is always cause for excitement, if not narcissistic gloating. When the boxes arrive, everyone rushes to get their hands on the first bound copies and those of us who haven't read the book in manuscript, grab it to take home so that we can be the first to have an opinion on it during the office discussions. Okay, not so much American Prometheus which, when Mr T. suggested I read it I went car-crash pale and sent it instead to my Cambridge professor friend who gave me crib notes (but alas didn’t draw my attention to the printing error on page 434 – though I can’t imagine why…) Even so, I must have the tallest pile of books on my bedside table of any woman in London, so I guess if I ever get truly sick of the Frenchman, I could just give Baking Cakes in Kigali at the bottom of the tower a little push and bury him underneath '40 Years of Shite'.
So, by way of celebration I took a copy of my own book into the office and left it idly lying around and waited for a suitably enthusiastic response then, when that failed, waved it around accepting congratulations until the phone began to ring.
and ring
and ring...
A sweet Indian man asking: 'Will you be printing books there?'
I said we don't 'print' books but that we do 'publish' them, and struggled to explain the difference. 'Thank you,' he said eventually and hung up.
Two seconds later he called again: 'Will you be publishing books there?'
Sigh.
Next up was a man with a really, really bored syrupy accent who wanted to leave his telephone number for one of the editorial staff. As I copied down the sequence of repeating numbers I remarked that it was an easy one to remember - a dull comment, yes, I grant you that, but we receptionists have to get our kicks where we can.
'Why do you say that - are you a numerologist?' he asked me.
Note to self: keep your stupid observations to yourself.
'No, I'm a feisty new talent,' I nearly said, but didn't. I'm having it printed up on headed stationery instead.
I then tried to book the Christmas Party at a well known private club much frequented by our senior staff. The person I spoke to didn't seem to think it would be possible for our minuscule workforce to take over one of their private rooms as they are too large and there aren't enough of us, but he would enquire.
'Oh well, find out and let me know the price per head. If it makes any difference Mr T is a member,'
The person at the other end of the phone coughed. 'Ahem well, I think you'll find the rules are pretty rigid and we don't make any exceptions.'
It took me a second to realise that he thought I was trying to name drop in order to bribe him. I mean, come on - really? Dear goodness, to get my kid into Oxford maybe (unnecessary actually, she got in on her own), but to put 26 of us onto one table at the Onion Club? I explained that I only meant that there might be a special rate for members when hiring a room.
He sniffed.
So did I.
Doesn't he know who I am?
