And YES, Michael Portillo says: 'The winner is a debut novelist: Aravind Adiga.'
We're sharing the space upstairs at the Union with another publishing house, but when we all start screaming like crazed Take That fans, there are only about 15 of us hugging each other and shrieking with joy while the rest of the room looks on. There may be a polite smattering of applause but if there is we are too overjoyed to hear it. Though the comment overheard on the stairs that 'those Atlantic girls (girls! * off) need to calm down, it's only a book prize,' did make its way to our ears. Oh, bite me! We're a small company. We actually like each other. There are only around 20 of us, some of whom only work part-time and it's not 'only a book prize' so tonight we're pretty full-time darn ecstatic.
It didn't start out quite like that. Though never anything less than totally enthusiastic, as if by common consent, we all emerged from various offices, bathrooms and cupboards dressed in black. 'We look like we're going to a very sexy funeral,' said Sarah, with Fran doing the whole mistress with the single rose thing, the only exception in red. Alan is wearing his kilt and a smile of total, unconditional delight as he lifts me right off the floor which is something that is as rare as winning the Man Booker in my world, and I wonder whether he's amenable to being rent-a-guy for reassuring back patting in a crisis, arm candy at parties when all the other women are matched up, and general Macho stuff. But before I can ask (though just as a matter of interest, are you?) within seconds, he's outside texting furiously, as is our printer, no doubt telling the presses to roll with Winner of instead of Shortlisted for on the brand new editions.
White wine - from a town near Condom, our Company Secretary tells me, swirling some around in his glass (a very safe place, no doubt) - is replaced by champagne and 2 paracetamol from Lynsey's party pharmacopia, and we wait for what seems like hours until Mr T and Ubereditor arrive. Toby is low key, stunned into unaccustomed silence, looking like a man whose birthdays and Christmases have all come at once and buried him under the gifts. As he kisses his way into the room and someone I don't know mutters behind me: 'How anticlimactic.' I don't quite know what she means. What does she want, a ticker tape parade of self-congratulation? We can do quiet, stupified pleasure too. And then it's Ravi's turn, eliciting more screaming and cheering. Somebody else says ruefully: 'yeah, but what about the person who wrote the book?' But he's still being interviewed on Newsnight, on the television in the corner which is whispering modestly, talking to Kirsty Wark who either must have prepared a speech for all six books or had some notice about what she had to mug up on.
And then thirty minutes later Aravind arrives at the Union with his retinue.
I would love to stay - if for no other reason because of Hardeep Singh Kohli wearing an elaborate turban and yet another kilt (what are the chances of being swept off my feet in delight twice in one night?), but I'm too flushed with success and too fifty, and I have only an Oyster card between me and a long walk home in heels. However, our Financial Director who lives close to me, is sober and padded with petty cash and offers to pay for the taxi home. Downstairs, Faber's room is fairly empty compared to the crush when they were handing out canapes earlier, and I hardly recognise a soul except for our own staff who are in meetings outside on the pavement where Irina and I hail a black cab.
Ah success, hard won and long awaited, is very very sweet...
