I’m sitting in a lush Moroccan garden in the leafy ambassadorial suburbs of Rabat, cascades of frangipani falling over the razor wire at the top of the fence, behind electric doors and bullet proof shutters, and a hibiscus hedge that drips opulent blooms into the pool that trembles in the heat. Apart from a fountain whispering in the courtyard, nothing disturbs the silence but the kiss of my bare feet on the chilly marble tiles that stretch throughout the house like an ice field.
The maid is in the kitchen, hanging out the clothes in the walled women's quarters, the gardener is in some distant corner of the grounds with a hosepipe and three words of English, the guard who changes three times a day is in his sentry box at the front of the house, and the Ambassador is off, waving the flag on the front of his chauffeur driven BMW, doing something worthy, in a suitably stately fashion.
For the rest of the day, from breakfast until late afternoon when my friend the Ambassador returns and takes me out, I'm here alone with only the Booker short list for company, swinging indolently in a hammock, sipping lemonade.
It's like being in a fairly liberal harem, or rather it would be, had it not been for the eunuch, the other guest at the residence, who refuses to leave me alone.
Every time I turn he's behind me, watching me intently. If I move, he's there, his eyes staring at me like prey. If I go to my room, he needs no excuse to walk in univited, and when my friend comes home at 4pm and calls my name around the echoing marble halls, he comes too, as insistently present as a chaperone.
It's like being stalked.
'I'm sorry, but there's a catch,' my host had said as he drove me back from the airport.'I should have told you before but I didn't want to put you off.'
'What is it?' I asked, fearing his mother who is formidable and not my number one fan. Or then again, it could be his wife. As above, possibly, but since I haven't seen her in twenty years I can't be sure though it's a safe bet she's wondering why I couldn't have gone somewhere else to soothe my battered heart. I didn't even want to broach the anxiety that it might be his children whom I have never met, and who I'm sure are charming and delightful but hadn't been factored in to my plans to escape my own charming and delightful offspring.
'No, no, goodness, my children can't stand it here, and my wife's just gone back. She sends her regards by the way. `And mother's in Paris. She warned me to be careful when I told her you were coming,' he added darkly.
As I said, not my number one fan.
'So, what's the catch?'
'We have a dog at home. It's my daughter's actually, not mine. Definitely not mine, but I seem to be lumbered with it. Do you hate dogs?'
'Noooooo, I don't hate them,' I said, crossing my fingers. 'Is it a great big slobbering thing that's going to jump at me and bark?'
'No, not at all. It only barks a little, and it doesn't really jump. Much.'
'Well as long as it doesn't hump my leg.'
'Of course not,' he said, sounding shocked at the idea, in his aristocratic rich, round, Kenko coffee voice - all dark brown polished mahogany, and reassuring.
'Good, it'll be fine.' I replied, smiling benignly into the Casablanca suburbs...
And then a hundred kilometers down the highway, the armoured gates swung open and the car rolled down the drive, and there waiting for us like a rat on springs was Kiki - the Chihuahua from hell.
Two Malteser eyes on stalks gleamed as he leapt out of the shrubbery like a crazed coke fiend, jumping up and down as though on elastic, his little rodent paws scratching in the air as he yipped and yapped, and jumped and jumped, darting back and forth before unceremoniously scrabbling up the front of my skirt.
'He likes you,' said the Ambassador.
'Perhaps a bit too much,' I suggested as I backed down the path while the animal proceeded to lick my knees, my thighs and my calves, all under cover of my clothing.
'He'll settle down in a minute, Kiki, Kiki, behave yourself,' he said sternly, as the dog, large tufted ears pointed like old fashioned television antenna tuned to a distant channel, continued to lick, yip, pant, lick, bark, jump, lick, yip, pant, and I attempted to hold down enough clothing to maintain the minimum standards of decency in front of the chauffeur, trying to seat myself on a garden chair on the terrace, at which point the dog leapt on to my knee and transferred its attentions to my face with a serious case of dog breath.
'He doesn't take to everyone like this,' the Ambassador assured me.
I tried to look pleased.
He asked me if I had a headache.
Obviously pain and pleasure are close cousins.
I took a tumbler with a centimeter of brandy in it as my friend joined me with his own drink. Immediately the dog was between us, licking us in turn until it was placed on the ground where it proceeded to lick every one of my toes, individually. I tried to kick him away. Casually - as though I had a twitch on my foot but he was stuck to me like leg wax. His tongue was fly paper.
'Can I get you something to eat?' my friend said, rising and going inside to see what he could offer me since the maid had left for the day. 'Come into the kitchen and see what you would like.'
I rose to follow him and then stopped, unable to drag myself away.
'What's the matter, is everything all right?' he asked, coming back to help me.
But I still couldn't move.
The bloody dog was humping my leg.
Since then, I've managed to keep him at a safe distance but only if I make sure my feet are above the ground as much as possible. Hiding in the jaw of the hammock he can't reach me but whimpers underneath instead. At night he scratches at my bedroom door and cries to be let in, then has to be forceably dragged away or bribed with dog biscuits and locked in the Ambassador's bedroom. It's quite a sight to see a very senior diplomat (who was once the nerdy student who set fire to my kitchen making cheese fondue) in a monogrammed dressing gown dancing down a marble hallway slapping his thigh and snapping his fingers calling 'Kiki, Kiki' in a falsetto sing-song voice, trying to coax, usually in vain, a small manic chihuahau hanging by his bared teeth from my door handle.
I mean, it's not that it hasn't been on my list of things to do before I die to have a male beg to be let into my bedroom, but I didn't anticipate it having triangular ears and a tail.
And all this is played out to the background of the Ambassador, as a respectable married man being absolutely appalled that the maid, the gardener or the guard might think that there was anything going on between he and I since, rabid rat-faced dog and three staff apart, we are alone in the house. So an exclusion zone of at least three feet is maintained at all times, even in the pool, with much loud soliliquising in French and Arabic being made to seemingly empty rooms every time we inadvertently touch whilst, say - for instance - passing a tea cup, or watching television together - most of which, thanks to aforementioned rabid rat-face dog, are unnecessary since it is usually boinging up and down, panting, in the middle of us.
Until one night there was a thunderstorm and the lights went out and rabid rat face became hysterical walking on back legs, somersaulting, yipping, yapping, shivering, quaking rat face in my bed, into which it slipped while I was brushing my teeth, refusing to come out and leaping all over me like a freaked out mini gazelle.
It was like something out of the Hammer House of Dog Horror.
'Monsieur Ambassador, will please come and get your *ing stupid *ing dog,' I yelled down the thundercracking, lightening lit hall.
'It's not my dog, I keep telling you,' came his distant voice as, CRACK, flash, CRACK, yip, bark, whine, he eventually roused himself from his own dog-free quarters, and padded towards me from the other end of the house in, I noticed, matching monogrammed slippers (who, for *s sake stops to put slippers and a dressing gown when a woman calls out your name in the middle of a thunderstorm? This is how innocent victims in ripper films get their throats cut).
'Shh,' he hissed, 'you'll wake the servants,' and walked into my room to try and lift the offending, offensive animal that was, by now, making retching sounds of fear and welded to my arm (the legs were under the covers).
Then the downstairs door clicked.
The animal went silent for a second and began to howl in earnest.
My friend walked out on to the landing outside my bedroom and peered through the gloom into the hall down the curl of the staircase, just as the light snapped on and there stood the gardener.
There followed a long exchange in Fran-abic during which he attempted to explain that the dog was upset by the storm, while the animal fell suddenly and dutifully quiet, and tapped his little claws daintily, skipping out to stick his snout through the banister, wagging his tail as though he hadn't a care in the world.
'Well, that was embarrassing,' he said, returning with a face as red as his robe as Kiki skipped back to my bed and after a few circuits of the pillow, curled up peacefully beside me. and attempted to lick my face.
Yep, irresistible to dogs. That’s me.
Or at least sex-crazed Chihuahuas.
Sunday, 28 September 2008
Tuesday, 23 September 2008
Out of office...
I’m away from my desk.
Should you wish to contact me urgently during my absence please refer first to these FAQ:
1. There is no paper.
Yes there is.
2. There are no lightbulbs.
You’re right.
3. The photocopier isn’t working.
Too bad, huh?
4. You want a lift home (and you are a family member).
No.
5. You want a lift home (and you are not a family member, but suddenly have a pressing desire to see me on the night you arrive back from Heathrow).
Damn, no.
6. You want to submit your unsolicited autobiography of approx 120,000 words.
You can’t.
7. It has been six months since you sent in your unsolicited autobiography of approx 120,000 words and you haven’t heard back yet.
Consider the possibility that it’s a no, then.
8. It has been six months since you sent in your unsolicited autobiography of approx 120,000 words and you haven’t heard back yet, so now you want to complain.
Call my ex-husband, my sister, my former friend Laura, my ex-lover’s wife or the marketing consultant from Barking with whom I unwisely went on a date, all of whom would be only too pleased to add their own, very personal, comments on my shortcomings.
Alternatively, you can wait and I will deal with your emails when I get back, along with 2,000 offers of fake Rolexes, pharmacy assured Vicodin, Viagra and Regaine (at massive discounts), and ways to increase my size, girth and popularity.
Clearly, only the last is pertinent.
Meanwhile, dear callers, I will be in Morocco, going forward into the past.
Please leave a message...
Should you wish to contact me urgently during my absence please refer first to these FAQ:
1. There is no paper.
Yes there is.
2. There are no lightbulbs.
You’re right.
3. The photocopier isn’t working.
Too bad, huh?
4. You want a lift home (and you are a family member).
No.
5. You want a lift home (and you are not a family member, but suddenly have a pressing desire to see me on the night you arrive back from Heathrow).
Damn, no.
6. You want to submit your unsolicited autobiography of approx 120,000 words.
You can’t.
7. It has been six months since you sent in your unsolicited autobiography of approx 120,000 words and you haven’t heard back yet.
Consider the possibility that it’s a no, then.
8. It has been six months since you sent in your unsolicited autobiography of approx 120,000 words and you haven’t heard back yet, so now you want to complain.
Call my ex-husband, my sister, my former friend Laura, my ex-lover’s wife or the marketing consultant from Barking with whom I unwisely went on a date, all of whom would be only too pleased to add their own, very personal, comments on my shortcomings.
Alternatively, you can wait and I will deal with your emails when I get back, along with 2,000 offers of fake Rolexes, pharmacy assured Vicodin, Viagra and Regaine (at massive discounts), and ways to increase my size, girth and popularity.
Clearly, only the last is pertinent.
Meanwhile, dear callers, I will be in Morocco, going forward into the past.
Please leave a message...
Monday, 22 September 2008
Covert Action
Sarah - tall, strikingly beautiful and the first person I see every morning when I walk into the office, already at her desk, crouched over her computer screen where I fear they keep her chained over the weekend, has touchingly introduced me to one of her best friends - a man who works around the corner.
We exchanged a few emails and arranged to meet when I come back from Morocco. He suggested a bar nearby where, about ten years ago, I once arrived early to meet my now ex-husband, and found him sitting in a club chair waving around a cigarette.
Until then, I hadn't known he smoked.
I was wondering how we would recognise each other given that I apparently don't know the most basic details about men with whom I've raised children and owned goldfish, and he suggested that he would carry a copy of a book written by one of his authors, and that I should bring the White Tiger.
How Bloomsbury can you get? I can just see the ad in the London Review of Books personals.
Aspiring author seeks literary gent for mutual neuroses.
I thought it was sweet, though a tad risky, perhaps, to rely on carrying a book in this neighbourhood as a means of recognition. If you go to the Coach and Horses any lunchtime every second man has a hardback in his hand. (That sounded better in my head - vaguely obscene when you write it down.) Horrible memories of meeting the bald French photographer in the coffee shop in South Kensington came back when I turned up to discover that every man in the place was bald, and two of them had cameras, plus they were all French since I'd stupidly chosen the Institut Francais.
I shuddered inwardly as I pictured myself mincing around the bar in the high heels that vanity would dictate I wore, walking up to one man after another saying: 'Oh you must be... Ah, no - The Clothes on her Back - sorry, my mistake.'
I quickly reacquainted myself with the cover of the book by Googling it and then, once it was committed to memory - got on with my busy, busy morning. I've since realised that I could more simply have Googled the man himself. He's there. Talking, even. I should have done my research.
Mel, our intern had brought in a box of chocolates to thank us for graciously letting her work for free and do all the jobs that nobody else wanted to do, and the lovely glossy package was 'in the usual place' - ie beside the franking machine which I assure you is the only time any of the Chiefs ever go near it - I swear they think its function is in some way linked to dispensing chocolate biscuits. This, of course, meant that much of my work that morning involved weighing a great many unnecessary envelopes and walking past the postbag on numerous occasions. It was a very large box of truffles and it seemed only fair to sample all the different varieties.
Ah - if only those people with the 2:1 in English from regional universities who are so keen to work for nothing in publishing knew that the real way to ingratiate themselves was to buy confectionary. To hell with all the 'passionate about books' stuff (and while we're on the subject, do yourselves a favour with your superior 2:1 command of English literature chaps and chapettes and come up with something different because everybody says that - it's about as original as Hugh Heffner saying he loves women and no woman wants to loved simply because of her mammaries - I fear the books feel the same).
I cut through the slush pile with a letter knife - it's like a slasher film but with a stapler, sent out a couple of proof copies, gave Mel a few really important jobs to do (believe me, if I'm delegating tasks then you can only imagine the depths to which the heroic girl is sinking) when a messenger came in: a white Rasta with dreads in a tall crustie hat who flushed with annoyance when I asked him who the packages were for. He looked at the address labels and clammed up, then refused to meet my eye as he threw them at my desk. It only occurred to me later that perhaps the poor guy couldn't read. It would be tasteless to suggest that he would be ideally placed to manage the slush pile and, in my defence, just to point out that I've done lots of literacy work over the years, the slush pile not being one of them. That would be an oxymoron.
Next a rep came in for a meeting with the sales team, Penguin New Zealand were passing by later, a large delivery of boxes arrived in reception, and just as I was padding past the franking machine for the Chocolate Cappuccino Cream with Crepes (bizarre but delicious) in my stocking feet, falling out of my dress which was askew from wrestling with the recycling, my hair waving angrily all over the place like a mob of Islamic fundamentalists at a rally, another man walked into the office, handed me a parcel then backed out wearing an alarmed and bemused expression.
Fifteen minutes later - Ping - an email arrived.
It was from lovely friend and said: 'I think we’ve already met. I just handed you a package for Sarah. '
Dear Lord of Lard.
At any rate, I don't suppose I need to carry a copy of White Tiger any more. I'm guessing my hair will be enough of a distinguishing feature. If he hasn't entered the witness protection program by then.
We exchanged a few emails and arranged to meet when I come back from Morocco. He suggested a bar nearby where, about ten years ago, I once arrived early to meet my now ex-husband, and found him sitting in a club chair waving around a cigarette.
Until then, I hadn't known he smoked.
I was wondering how we would recognise each other given that I apparently don't know the most basic details about men with whom I've raised children and owned goldfish, and he suggested that he would carry a copy of a book written by one of his authors, and that I should bring the White Tiger.
How Bloomsbury can you get? I can just see the ad in the London Review of Books personals.
Aspiring author seeks literary gent for mutual neuroses.
I thought it was sweet, though a tad risky, perhaps, to rely on carrying a book in this neighbourhood as a means of recognition. If you go to the Coach and Horses any lunchtime every second man has a hardback in his hand. (That sounded better in my head - vaguely obscene when you write it down.) Horrible memories of meeting the bald French photographer in the coffee shop in South Kensington came back when I turned up to discover that every man in the place was bald, and two of them had cameras, plus they were all French since I'd stupidly chosen the Institut Francais.
I shuddered inwardly as I pictured myself mincing around the bar in the high heels that vanity would dictate I wore, walking up to one man after another saying: 'Oh you must be... Ah, no - The Clothes on her Back - sorry, my mistake.'
I quickly reacquainted myself with the cover of the book by Googling it and then, once it was committed to memory - got on with my busy, busy morning. I've since realised that I could more simply have Googled the man himself. He's there. Talking, even. I should have done my research.
Mel, our intern had brought in a box of chocolates to thank us for graciously letting her work for free and do all the jobs that nobody else wanted to do, and the lovely glossy package was 'in the usual place' - ie beside the franking machine which I assure you is the only time any of the Chiefs ever go near it - I swear they think its function is in some way linked to dispensing chocolate biscuits. This, of course, meant that much of my work that morning involved weighing a great many unnecessary envelopes and walking past the postbag on numerous occasions. It was a very large box of truffles and it seemed only fair to sample all the different varieties.
Ah - if only those people with the 2:1 in English from regional universities who are so keen to work for nothing in publishing knew that the real way to ingratiate themselves was to buy confectionary. To hell with all the 'passionate about books' stuff (and while we're on the subject, do yourselves a favour with your superior 2:1 command of English literature chaps and chapettes and come up with something different because everybody says that - it's about as original as Hugh Heffner saying he loves women and no woman wants to loved simply because of her mammaries - I fear the books feel the same).
I cut through the slush pile with a letter knife - it's like a slasher film but with a stapler, sent out a couple of proof copies, gave Mel a few really important jobs to do (believe me, if I'm delegating tasks then you can only imagine the depths to which the heroic girl is sinking) when a messenger came in: a white Rasta with dreads in a tall crustie hat who flushed with annoyance when I asked him who the packages were for. He looked at the address labels and clammed up, then refused to meet my eye as he threw them at my desk. It only occurred to me later that perhaps the poor guy couldn't read. It would be tasteless to suggest that he would be ideally placed to manage the slush pile and, in my defence, just to point out that I've done lots of literacy work over the years, the slush pile not being one of them. That would be an oxymoron.
Next a rep came in for a meeting with the sales team, Penguin New Zealand were passing by later, a large delivery of boxes arrived in reception, and just as I was padding past the franking machine for the Chocolate Cappuccino Cream with Crepes (bizarre but delicious) in my stocking feet, falling out of my dress which was askew from wrestling with the recycling, my hair waving angrily all over the place like a mob of Islamic fundamentalists at a rally, another man walked into the office, handed me a parcel then backed out wearing an alarmed and bemused expression.
Fifteen minutes later - Ping - an email arrived.
It was from lovely friend and said: 'I think we’ve already met. I just handed you a package for Sarah. '
Dear Lord of Lard.
At any rate, I don't suppose I need to carry a copy of White Tiger any more. I'm guessing my hair will be enough of a distinguishing feature. If he hasn't entered the witness protection program by then.
Wednesday, 17 September 2008
Salt and Vinegar
My neighbour, who I've known since she did a job somewhat like mine, but with audio typing, in the Bloomsbury Triangle, always seemed to have the most glamorous life. There were author parties and author lunches and famous names popping in and out of her office and dropped into our conversations like fish food to a bowl of hungry guppies. And then, since she was also married to a publisher, there were even author parties held in her kitchen, a short dance up the two times table from us and to which I was sometimes lucky enough to be invited.
She has now gone on to run her own list at another publishing house and I've moved up the ranks from restaurant critic to, erm (today) flat pack furniture assembler at the cutting edge of quality literary fiction. (And I do mean cutting - I've discovered that the bread knife makes an excellent box cutter and comes in handy for waving around in a threatening fashion when the bloody bolts won't align and the only man in the place whose salary scale is DIY appropriate informs me that all I need is an Allen key to put the sodding chair together. It's that simple. Apparently. Or he thinks I am.)
Flat pack is one of my few skills so I'm terribly frustrated that nothing is going into the right hole, as it were. I once wrote an article in the Times about how effective I felt putting together Ikea furniture - sort of Lara Croft with a Black & Decker Hammer Drill, and you can eat my dust, baby.
It usually makes me feel like I have balls, but today it has occurred to me that anyone with balls in this place is sitting on a chair, not assembling one. Having balls really means you delegate someone else to do it (or to be fair, around here it's a lot less overt than that - you simply leave it sitting around in a box until another person trying desperately to ingratiate themselves - okay me - caves in and does it for you). It's a whole new acronym - LITSE (Leave It To Someone Else as in - 'Hi, what are you doing this weekend?' 'Oh just a spot of LITSE, you know... while I'm down the pub for a swift half.')
I was struggling to force a ribbed dowel into a plinth (I hope you realise the lengths I am going to here not to resort to sexual innuendo) when Ubereditor came in and said really gratefully: 'Oh you are sweet to do this.'
'No I'm not sweet, I'm a psychotic seething pit of vicious impotent rage, I snapped as the offending orifices still refused to line up.
'Em, I assume with the furniture...' He said hopefully.
'Yes, yes, don't worry, go in peace,' I said to his back as I eventually succeeded in driving the tool home (okay, okay, I failed on the sexual innuendo front).
In the end I managed all but one fairly essential screw. For a small fee I might point out which chair you shouldn't sit in. But then again, I might not.
'So do you like working in publishing?' asks my ex-Faber friendly neighbourhood editor when I went round last night for a look-I've-got-a-proof-copy-of-my-book celebratory drink (not such a novelty to her when almost everyone she knows is an author - and we're glossing, or at least spot UV-ing over the fact that 'working' and 'publishing' in my case is perhaps not entirely accurate).
'I love it, really love it.' I say (thinking please, please don't ask what I actually do there.)
'I wondered whether I might see you at [insert any party you might have been to in the last month with the exception of the one I crashed the other night]...'
Me: incoherent, em well, yes, but, terribly busy, no time for parties, only open other people's invites, muttering, while still trying to look bright and included and really really plugged into the circuit, as oppose to really good with the rawlplugs, darling.
Then she told me she had been out the other night and won Jeremy Irons in a charity auction. As you do.
'Won?'
'Jeremy Irons?'
'Like, to keep?'
'No, just to have a bit of a drink with him...'
'Just?'
'And so what did you do with him?'
'Oh we had great crack.'
Me: Giant swill of wine and furious eating of crisps so as not to burst into tears of envy.
'So, Jeremy Irons, eh what about that?' I said eventually, stuffing even more crisps into my mouth so I wouldn't be tempted to tell her all about the sort of male booby prizes I've been pulling out of the bran tub lately, in competitions I hadn't even realised I had entered, for evenings when the male boobies don't bother to turn up.
'So what was he like?' I crunched, eventually, aiming for an airy, I-mix-with-slebs-al-the-time-darling, all-the-sodding -time, nonchalance.
'Lovely.'
'Mmn'. More and more and more crisps.
I couldn't top that.
I can't remember her ever telling me that she spent her days at Faber spreadeagled on the floor of her Ubereditor's office with a screwdriver in her hands. Surely this isn't what they mean by sitting at the feet of greatness?
No it doesn't, because the Ubereditor's gone out to lunch.
She has now gone on to run her own list at another publishing house and I've moved up the ranks from restaurant critic to, erm (today) flat pack furniture assembler at the cutting edge of quality literary fiction. (And I do mean cutting - I've discovered that the bread knife makes an excellent box cutter and comes in handy for waving around in a threatening fashion when the bloody bolts won't align and the only man in the place whose salary scale is DIY appropriate informs me that all I need is an Allen key to put the sodding chair together. It's that simple. Apparently. Or he thinks I am.)
Flat pack is one of my few skills so I'm terribly frustrated that nothing is going into the right hole, as it were. I once wrote an article in the Times about how effective I felt putting together Ikea furniture - sort of Lara Croft with a Black & Decker Hammer Drill, and you can eat my dust, baby.
It usually makes me feel like I have balls, but today it has occurred to me that anyone with balls in this place is sitting on a chair, not assembling one. Having balls really means you delegate someone else to do it (or to be fair, around here it's a lot less overt than that - you simply leave it sitting around in a box until another person trying desperately to ingratiate themselves - okay me - caves in and does it for you). It's a whole new acronym - LITSE (Leave It To Someone Else as in - 'Hi, what are you doing this weekend?' 'Oh just a spot of LITSE, you know... while I'm down the pub for a swift half.')
I was struggling to force a ribbed dowel into a plinth (I hope you realise the lengths I am going to here not to resort to sexual innuendo) when Ubereditor came in and said really gratefully: 'Oh you are sweet to do this.'
'No I'm not sweet, I'm a psychotic seething pit of vicious impotent rage, I snapped as the offending orifices still refused to line up.
'Em, I assume with the furniture...' He said hopefully.
'Yes, yes, don't worry, go in peace,' I said to his back as I eventually succeeded in driving the tool home (okay, okay, I failed on the sexual innuendo front).
In the end I managed all but one fairly essential screw. For a small fee I might point out which chair you shouldn't sit in. But then again, I might not.
'So do you like working in publishing?' asks my ex-Faber friendly neighbourhood editor when I went round last night for a look-I've-got-a-proof-copy-of-my-book celebratory drink (not such a novelty to her when almost everyone she knows is an author - and we're glossing, or at least spot UV-ing over the fact that 'working' and 'publishing' in my case is perhaps not entirely accurate).
'I love it, really love it.' I say (thinking please, please don't ask what I actually do there.)
'I wondered whether I might see you at [insert any party you might have been to in the last month with the exception of the one I crashed the other night]...'
Me: incoherent, em well, yes, but, terribly busy, no time for parties, only open other people's invites, muttering, while still trying to look bright and included and really really plugged into the circuit, as oppose to really good with the rawlplugs, darling.
Then she told me she had been out the other night and won Jeremy Irons in a charity auction. As you do.
'Won?'
'Jeremy Irons?'
'Like, to keep?'
'No, just to have a bit of a drink with him...'
'Just?'
'And so what did you do with him?'
'Oh we had great crack.'
Me: Giant swill of wine and furious eating of crisps so as not to burst into tears of envy.
'So, Jeremy Irons, eh what about that?' I said eventually, stuffing even more crisps into my mouth so I wouldn't be tempted to tell her all about the sort of male booby prizes I've been pulling out of the bran tub lately, in competitions I hadn't even realised I had entered, for evenings when the male boobies don't bother to turn up.
'So what was he like?' I crunched, eventually, aiming for an airy, I-mix-with-slebs-al-the-time-darling, all-the-sodding -time, nonchalance.
'Lovely.'
'Mmn'. More and more and more crisps.
I couldn't top that.
I can't remember her ever telling me that she spent her days at Faber spreadeagled on the floor of her Ubereditor's office with a screwdriver in her hands. Surely this isn't what they mean by sitting at the feet of greatness?
No it doesn't, because the Ubereditor's gone out to lunch.
Ring Ring
‘Can I speak to your Uuuuuuuuuubereditor, please’
Who’s calling?
‘I'm an aaaaaaaaaagent and I need to ask him about a manuscript I've sent him,’
‘I’m sorry, he’s in a meeting can I take a message?’
‘Can I leave one?’
‘Yes.’
Silence, while I wait.
‘Okay, go ahead…’ I prompt.
‘Oh doesn’t he have voice mail?’
‘No it’s the old fashioned woman with a pen writing it down method.’
‘Ha ha ha ha ha…. (looooooong silence) …that’s funny.’
You see, all this and stand-up.
Who’s calling?
‘I'm an aaaaaaaaaagent and I need to ask him about a manuscript I've sent him,’
‘I’m sorry, he’s in a meeting can I take a message?’
‘Can I leave one?’
‘Yes.’
Silence, while I wait.
‘Okay, go ahead…’ I prompt.
‘Oh doesn’t he have voice mail?’
‘No it’s the old fashioned woman with a pen writing it down method.’
‘Ha ha ha ha ha…. (looooooong silence) …that’s funny.’
You see, all this and stand-up.
Tuesday, 16 September 2008
On being submissive
A man wid' a wonderful Dutch accent rings and says he has 'yust bought a copy of zee Vriter's Handbook and vould like some clarification of our submission criteria.'
It's at times like these that you wish you came further down the alphabet.
However, I'm all loved up as Australian and South African Ducks are Waddling around the office for a sales conference and a few of them have read my book and liked it, and I've been kissed and hugged, had my photograph taken, and generally felt momentarily elevated from my position of authority as conference room cleaner in which, apparently, Mr T's 'coalition of the willing' consisted of me and me alone.
But the phones are always with us, and I had to drag myself back down to earth but not - spreading the joy, spreading the love - without a radiant, Mother Theresa smile on my face.
And so I didn't snap. Oh no, I waited patiently, enjoying his lovely undulating voice like a gentle fairground ride - gosh I like a Dutchman - and let him get all the way through his question (which was vondering vat the different categories such as history and biography meant) with calm and grace. I then explained, as kindly as though to a child about the limitations of Santa when it comes to wishing for a pony, that the most relevant criteria on our submissions policy was that we don't accept them.
'Oh...' He sounded dejected.
'We only accept submissions from literary agents, so what you should do is look at the section for agents and try there.'
'It's not for me, I'm trying to help a friend, but ve yust weren't sure where to send it. Now, since I've got you on the phone, could you clear something up for me...? If someone has vritten a book about demselves and deir life vat vould ve be calling it?'
A novel with the names changed, I didn't say. 'A memoir, or an autobiography?' I proposed instead.
'Even if it's only about part of der life - for instance der troubled childhood?'
'Yes, it doesn't have to be an exhaustingly comprehensive summary of their entire life.'
'So it vouldn't be, for instance, history?'
'No.'
'And dere isn't a specific yenre for say troubled childhoods?'
Oh dear Lord, I bit my tongue. I swallowed the words misery and that usually associated with it and said no.
'It's yust that dis book is a story about a troubled childhood,'
'So many of them are, unfortunately,' I said, sadly.
'You mean childhoods?'
'Troubled,' I agreed. 'Very troubled.'
'So dere's really no special category for dis?'
Now I could have said, yes, it's usually the top tray on my filing cabinet, overspilling like lava from a volcano of troubled childhoods, but I am mellow, I am empathetic, I feel their pain. It has been mine, albeit usually associated with tales of my miserable life regurgitated as journalism and renamed 'a feature' for £300 a pop.
'But vat if it's vritten in the t'ird person?'
'So it's a personal memoire, about a troubled childhood, written by the person who experienced it but in the third person?'
'Yes.'
'Ah well, it still doesn't have a specific category...' I say and wish him and his friend good luck.
I hesitate to say more. The last time I made even a vaguely encouraging remark it turned up on a letter to my agent masquerading as a recommendation. Then yesterday, I shook a book out of an envelope that was, unusually, addressed to me, and out fell a copy of this very same manuscript, self published, with my quote slapped on the back.
It was accompanied by several others (a slightly unusual ploy to put quotes from rejection letters on your book) headlined by a colleague at Cannongate, a couple of agents, and with 'my friend Dave' bringing up the bottom of the bill.
To add insult to injury he even spelt my name wrong.
I would write and tell him to remove it (along with the extra 'a') but I'm afraid I'm much too busy. The Ducks are still arriving, from India this time, and if anyone needs me I'll be upstairs in the conference room pushing in chairs and attending to the important business of making coffee.
Slap that on the back of a book jacket and see how much credibility it gets you.
It's at times like these that you wish you came further down the alphabet.
However, I'm all loved up as Australian and South African Ducks are Waddling around the office for a sales conference and a few of them have read my book and liked it, and I've been kissed and hugged, had my photograph taken, and generally felt momentarily elevated from my position of authority as conference room cleaner in which, apparently, Mr T's 'coalition of the willing' consisted of me and me alone.
But the phones are always with us, and I had to drag myself back down to earth but not - spreading the joy, spreading the love - without a radiant, Mother Theresa smile on my face.
And so I didn't snap. Oh no, I waited patiently, enjoying his lovely undulating voice like a gentle fairground ride - gosh I like a Dutchman - and let him get all the way through his question (which was vondering vat the different categories such as history and biography meant) with calm and grace. I then explained, as kindly as though to a child about the limitations of Santa when it comes to wishing for a pony, that the most relevant criteria on our submissions policy was that we don't accept them.
'Oh...' He sounded dejected.
'We only accept submissions from literary agents, so what you should do is look at the section for agents and try there.'
'It's not for me, I'm trying to help a friend, but ve yust weren't sure where to send it. Now, since I've got you on the phone, could you clear something up for me...? If someone has vritten a book about demselves and deir life vat vould ve be calling it?'
A novel with the names changed, I didn't say. 'A memoir, or an autobiography?' I proposed instead.
'Even if it's only about part of der life - for instance der troubled childhood?'
'Yes, it doesn't have to be an exhaustingly comprehensive summary of their entire life.'
'So it vouldn't be, for instance, history?'
'No.'
'And dere isn't a specific yenre for say troubled childhoods?'
Oh dear Lord, I bit my tongue. I swallowed the words misery and that usually associated with it and said no.
'It's yust that dis book is a story about a troubled childhood,'
'So many of them are, unfortunately,' I said, sadly.
'You mean childhoods?'
'Troubled,' I agreed. 'Very troubled.'
'So dere's really no special category for dis?'
Now I could have said, yes, it's usually the top tray on my filing cabinet, overspilling like lava from a volcano of troubled childhoods, but I am mellow, I am empathetic, I feel their pain. It has been mine, albeit usually associated with tales of my miserable life regurgitated as journalism and renamed 'a feature' for £300 a pop.
'But vat if it's vritten in the t'ird person?'
'So it's a personal memoire, about a troubled childhood, written by the person who experienced it but in the third person?'
'Yes.'
'Ah well, it still doesn't have a specific category...' I say and wish him and his friend good luck.
I hesitate to say more. The last time I made even a vaguely encouraging remark it turned up on a letter to my agent masquerading as a recommendation. Then yesterday, I shook a book out of an envelope that was, unusually, addressed to me, and out fell a copy of this very same manuscript, self published, with my quote slapped on the back.
It was accompanied by several others (a slightly unusual ploy to put quotes from rejection letters on your book) headlined by a colleague at Cannongate, a couple of agents, and with 'my friend Dave' bringing up the bottom of the bill.
To add insult to injury he even spelt my name wrong.
I would write and tell him to remove it (along with the extra 'a') but I'm afraid I'm much too busy. The Ducks are still arriving, from India this time, and if anyone needs me I'll be upstairs in the conference room pushing in chairs and attending to the important business of making coffee.
Slap that on the back of a book jacket and see how much credibility it gets you.
Thursday, 11 September 2008
Party favours
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.
'
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.
'
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