I'm working in an office of dancing princesses, who skip off after work to this other world that starts when I stop.
Half the office is at the Cafe Royal where 30 tables of London's (g)literary elite show off their expensive educations and superior knowledge of all things bookish, while the other half get to show off their nominated, but absentee, author at the John Llewellyn Rhys Prize at the Century Club.
But instead of trudging home to undone taxes, the new washing machine (bought after the kids pulled the door off the last one) which is sitting in the middle of the kitchen blocking the sink, a broken dishwasher and assorted unsnapped mousetraps, I get to slip on my leopard skin shoes (by the bus stop on Shaftesbury Avenue) and join them.
I call Pierre who owns the Club to see if he's in the house. He used to own Odeon in Regent's Street when I was a restaurant critic, but alas he's at his other club, Paramount, at the top of Centrepoint. 'But pass by and have a drink, if you like, and bring a friend. I'll leave your name at the door.'
Yep, first find a friend. If my life was a board game I would still be on Go waiting to throw a six. Thank goodness I can take somebody else's turn.
I tag along with Glam Editor who meets someone she knows by the coat check. 'This is mumble, she says as I insert myself between them on the stairs. 'And this is my friend, Marion,' she adds kindly, because it's nicer than saying 'our office manager' which might prompt people to ask what the hell I am doing there.
Normal conversation:
'Where did you say you worked again?'
'Pedantic Press.'
'Oh really (impressed) and are you on the editorial side?'
'Erm, no, I answer the phone, buy lightbulbs, and write the... (they've already wandered off)...blog.'
We are given badges. With our names on. I have my own. It is thrilling. There is no mention of status, or its absence, as a large glass of wine is placed in my hand and speeches begin. Unfortunately - strike two after this morning's William Hill disappointment - our author doesn't win. Instead that honour goes to a man who announces in his acceptance speech (aren't men odd?) that a certain part of his anatomy allegedly looks like a Cornetto, which he then hastily denies. Too late, the image is branded on every woman's mind in conical, but not particularly comical, detail. A roomful of eyes flicker magnetically north, followed by a lot of hurried examination of the bottom of wine glasses with that liquid swirling, mmm, is this Soave? concentration before we all look at each other with wide eyes.
I can't stop wondering which way round the Cornetto is attached.
Mr mumble, is still pinned to the wall between me and Glamorous Editor, being incredibly charming. He has pinned his badge to the bottom of his jumper which dangles at Cornetto height and I can't bring myself to stoop and check either out. He is talking very modestly about the history book he is working on.
'Do you only write non fiction?' I ask hoping for clues to his identity.
'No, I've written four novels and...' he says. I fall off the cliff as he elaborates. Literary parties are not the place to go if you have an easily crushable ego. Mine is a coke can under his heel. Glamorous Editor chooses this moment to announce that I too have written a novel, but by then it's a bit like wearing a training bra in a room full of Page 3 girls. 'You know that it's not going to change your life,' he says with empathy as I fold my arms protectively over my chest.
'I work in publishing.' I say (look I do, I bloody do), 'so, yes I know there's not going to be any big fanfare.'
'I remember when my first novel came out, I kept expecting everything to be different and it was just another day.' It occurs to me that I must have heard of him if he's this prolific but it's a bit late to ask him to better annunciate his name. Is it ruder to just let the four novels float over my head as if they were trays of indifferent canapes as though I'm used to chatting with well-known authors everyday? Come on, when did I ever let a canape go past me?
'What did you say your name was?' I asked.
He repeated it. Quite clearly this time.
'Oh God,' I spluttered into my wine. 'I was talking to you completely naturally, and now I'll have to stop,' He looked puzzled. 'I know all your books. I've read them. I've bought them at airports. And now I'm going to be all overawed and babbling.' (And that would be different - how, exactly?) I wandered away, star-struck to cower inadequately with two of the other dancing princesses.
'A Cornetto?' said one to the other, mystified.
My own editor at Waddling Duck was in the corner with one of the other nominated authors who apparently has been up for all sorts of prizes but not won any. Yet. It's a great novel, set not a million miles away from Ginger Pig farming country. I feel I've been there. Hell, I have been there.
'Bad luck,' I tell him, and he looks embarrassed and a bit fed up. He shrugs: 'It's so awkward being consoled for something you didn't have any expectations of winning in the first place.' I rack my brain (which has become singular since the second glass of wine) for something that doesn't sound consoling and can only come up with a story about an Eartha Kitt album being the one thing I have ever won in my life. When I was nominated for Restaurant Critic of the Year, people didn't even clap because nobody had a clue who I was.
'And your point is?' he seems to say.
My attention is caught by a very pretty girl who suddenly falls over flat on the floor. Even dancing princesses get drunk, apparently. A man rushes over and 'oxters' her to her feet (it happens so frequently in Scotland we even have a verb for it, you see...) An oxter, for those of you interested in the Secret Life of Words is from the Old English oxta or ohstais and means an armpit. The rest should be self-explanatory.
It seemed like an auspicious moment to put my own leopard skin slippers into my bag and dance myself off up to Oxford Street for the long bus ride home. Paramount's panoramic views can wait for another night. I've got art homework to do, a pressing one thousand words to be milked from my marriage break up for the Sunday Times, five thousand words on cows to edit for the cookery book, a washing machine to plumb in, and mice to trap.
I also have a box of Cornettos to throw out of the freezer. Somehow, I've lost my taste for them.
.
