Isn't publishing full of parties? You know, book launches, summer soirees, that sort of thing? Apparently so. I get the stiffies in the post for Mr T on an almost daily basis. Five on one night at Frankfurt alone, all of which, after dutifully accepting on his behalf, I have had to rescind due to his attendance at the Booker Prize Ceremony.
Last night he and the Ubereditor were both invited to a big bash at another publishing house nestling in the middle of the book equivalent of the Bermuda triangle, roughly consisting of us, Faber and Quercus. My literary friend was also invited and she called to see if I wanted to go with her. I didn't. And then I thought about my hot date with MTV, Football Manager, and the younger son's laundry and - miraculously - I did again. And so I found myself wedged into the corner of a pretty courtyard clutching a glass of Prosecco, warding off the evil eye of literary friend's cigarette, with which she was punctuating a very angry sentence (full moon - we're all mightily pissed off at the moment).
'It's crammed with aging gents,' she said wearily.
'Just what I need,' I perked up immediately and scanned the throng which, indeed, was full of men, a large proportion of whom could fall into the silver fox category.
'No you don't,' she hissed.
'I do.'
'You've already got an agent, why do you need another one?'
'I thought you said "aging gents"' I told her as she shot me a 'shut up' look and dug me in the ribs, hard as several of the same jostled past, most of whom were also ending long sentences with lit cigarettes including an incredibly handsome craggy man with a lit cigarette in both hands. Now that's what I call a conversation.
It was an unpublished writer's wet dream - a room full of people to pitch to. There should be people clutching manuscripts outside on the pavement. I recognised one of the agents, a woman who once came to my house for dinner, but though I elbowed through the crowds to say hello and she seemed incredibly pleased to see me, I fear had absolutely no *ing idea who I was. Ditto a blank look from another agent who I met at a friend's house the previous week and to whom I have spoken on the phone in my capacity as receptionist several times.
'You're not that forgettable,' said the literary friend, implying that they remembered me all too well and just didn't want to speak to me.
From afar, I noted a few of the telephonically challenged from my blacklist and vowed to avoid them lest I got drunk and started dishing out advice on charm and telephone manner, thus ensuring that I really never would work in this town again - and watched as our very own lovely Ubereditor deservedly hugged and kissed his way through congratulations for the Booker nomination.
I also met the scout who coincidentally sold my book to the Dutch (I loved her) and had a chat with someone I knew from Waddling Duck who asked me if I was still writing and, when prompted had, 'come to think of it', 'seen my name' somewhere. But by then had exhausted both my topics of conversation and my acquaintances in the world of publishing movers and shakers, so it was back to the old standbys of canapes (perfectly bite sized and delicious) and cava.
My literary friend, being short, was frustrated in her attempts to do the whole networking thing because she couldn't see anyone. In heels I could pick off the bloody London Eye and the Essex coast, so she kept asking me 'can you see a tall bloke with sort of greying hair and a blazer?' which didn't narrow it down much as it more or less described half the party. It was a relief then when an Irish chap pitched up and claimed to recognise her. Within two seconds we had all established a common bond. He knew one of her authors. He was one of Pedantic's authors. Her author and my ex-husband were friends. And our author had once organised a talk with my ex-husband and her author. Keep up, keep up, it's a cocktail party not rocket science.
'I thought I recognised you - didn't you used to do that column with Horsley?' asked our author. I nodded quickly, hoping he wouldn't elaborate. 'So when did the husband * off then?' he wondered, before telling me that he had also recently split up with his girlfriend, thus prompting a few minutes of mutual dumpee banter. Any day now, they're going to tow us up the Thames on a barge.
'I'm off to the cinema in a few minutes,' he said. 'In fact I've got two tickets, do you want to come?' he looked down into the lower stratosphere and asked my literary friend.
'I have to be in bed by nine thirty,' she replied, 'this is just party Mogadon,' holding up her glass of rose.
About fifteen glacier forming millennia went past. In silence. Then he turned up to my mist-swirling heights and said: 'What about you - do you want to come?'
I declined.
Visible relief unwrinkled his brow, like one of those ads for headaches when the painkiller kicks in.
Mr T pressed past me with a quizzical 'who invited you' look on his face, so it seemed like a good time to leave, put my shoes back on (abandoned under a potted shrub) and collect our goodie bags on the way out.
I opened mine on the bus.
Not unsurprisingly it contained a mug.
'
