The Concrete Ceiling

by Peter Rowlands

  The opportunity to visit Openshaw in person was one I would never have expected. His home in Islington was only three or four Tube station stops away from my flat on the Northern line, so it was a simple matter to make the trip. The prospect made me nervous, but I had to ask myself what would be the worst he could do. He was a publisher and book promoter, not some gangland boss. I’d held back for a week, but eventually I decided the time for action had come. I took the Tube to Angel station, then set off on foot along Upper Street, the broad bustling heart of Islington’s commercial centre.

  The walk took fifteen minutes. As I arrived at the short flight of steps up to the front door it was snatched open and a girl appeared. She had shortish dark hair and a slightly shiny complexion, and looked about fifteen, but could have been younger. She was wearing studiedly scruffy jeans with splits and tears at the knees, and was tapping urgently on a mobile phone. The white wires from her ear buds dangled over her shoulders. She slammed the door behind her, then glanced at me and gave me a hostile stare. “What are you looking at?” The accent sounded American.

  “Nothing. I’m trying to find Rob Openshaw. Is this the right place?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “My name is Mike.”

  “Is that right?” She continued to stare malevolently at me. I tried to meet her gaze without flinching, and after a moment she said, “Right.” She turned back to the house, gave an exaggerated press on the large bell push, then swivelled round and trotted down the steps. “Knock yourself out, Mike.” She gave my name sarcastic emphasis. She almost barged against me as she headed off airily down the street.

  There was a long pause, then the door opened again and a man looked out warily at me. He was slim in build and quite tall, and had a narrow face and soft mid-brown hair. His black jeans and smart loose-fitting grey linen jacket gave him a youthful aura that probably belied his age.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Rob Openshaw? I’m here about The Magic Bookseller.”

  “What?” He stared at me with what I could only read as shock. After a moment he said, “Who are you?”

  “I’m a client – an author. I’m wondering when my promotional campaign is going to run.”

  “A client?” He continued to stare at me as if he could scarcely comprehend what I was saying. Finally he shook his head. “Look, I’m sorry you’ve wasted your trip, but this isn’t an office. We don’t meet clients here. We’re a virtual operation …”

  I could almost hear the thought processes whirring in his head. He wanted to close the door on the conversation, but he could see that this wouldn’t make me disappear, or prevent me from knowing where he lived.

  Before he could come to any conclusion I said, “All I want to know is when my campaign is going to start. I’ve paid up-front and you’ve had my money, but I haven’t seen any evidence of any promotional activity.”

  He was shaking his head. “How on earth did you find me here? We don’t publish a UK address. We operate from California.”

  “I know that, but you don’t answer messages, so what else was I to do?”

  “All the same …” Abruptly he switched to another tack. “Can I ask who you are?”

  “My name is Mike Stanhope. I paid my eight hundred pounds, but so far as I can see, nothing has happened.”

  “Mike, yes.” He seemed to be recovering. “I recognise your name. Well look, we’ve been short-staffed and we’re a bit behind on some of our promotions. I’m sure we can still make something happen for you.”

  I took a deep breath. “I have a colleague who is even more frustrated. He paid you over six hundred a few weeks ago, and he’s seen virtually no result either. No tweets, no mailing, no real action.”

  “This seems most unlikely.”

  “Well I’m here to tell you it’s true. And my colleague is less patient than I am. He’s talking about fraud, and he’s thinking of going to the police.” This was a total invention, but I had the sense that Openshaw was looking for a way to duck out of this. I wanted him to know it wouldn’t work.

  “That’s crazy.” For the first time I was aware of the American undertones behind his English accent. “Who is this guy?”

  “His name is Bulwell.”

  Openshaw nodded. “I think that seems familiar.”

  For a moment we stood there in silence. I couldn’t work out where the conversation was going to lead. Then he seemed to relax. He said, “Look, I’m sure we can sort this out. Do you want to come inside?”

  * * *

  Surprised, I followed him down his hallway and into one of the front rooms. It should have been a sitting room, but it was decked out with electronic machinery: computer units on racks, large monitors on desks, several laptops and tablets strewn around, all on a polished dark timber floor. The place had an air of elegant high-tech chaos.

  He waved me towards a black upright leather chair with a chromed tubular frame. “Have a seat.” He sat down himself. “I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me how you tracked me down here?”

  “I have a friend in IT.”

  He nodded. “Of course.” He looked me over. “So you’re a self-published author?”

  “Exactly. It’s not my day job, but I want to do well at it if I can. That’s why I bought the book promotion with you.”

  “And I’m glad you did.” He didn’t sound greatly enthused, but at least he was going through the motions.

  For the time being he seemed to have nothing else to offer. I waited. He said, “You’re probably wondering how come I’m running an American business from Islington.”

  “The question did cross my mind.”

  “We needed a change of scenery.” He took a deep breath. “My daughter Ellie was running wild over there. I thought a bit of British schooling would help.”

  “I should think the change would be a bit of a shock to a teenager who was brought up over there.”

  He was shaking his head. “It was worth a try … ” He fell silent.

  I waited a respectful moment, then said, “I understand you once worked in the publishing business over here.”

  He frowned. “You seem to know a lot about me.”

  “I’ve done my research.”

  “Well, that was a long time ago.”

  I decided to say no more. The small talk was deflecting the conversation from the central issue – his failure to deliver on his promises. I waited.

  “We’re short-handed,” he said finally. “I haven’t been able to recruit new staff yet to replace my key people in the States. That’s why we’re behind.”

  “Couldn’t those people have stayed on? I understand you’re still based over there.”

  “I don’t care to go into that.” He flashed me a defensive look. “What I can tell you is that we’re about to restructure our business. Once that happens, we’ll be back to full strength.”

  “Does that mean our promotions will go ahead? Between us, my colleague and I have paid you fourteen hundred pounds, yet nothing has happened, and you won’t even do us the credit of answering our emails. Can you blame us for considering legal action?”

  He picked up a pen and notepad from a table. “You said your name was Stanhope?” He scribbled it down. “And your friend’s name again … ”

  “Graham Bulwell.”

  He wrote than down too. “Let me look into this.”

  I had a sudden sense that I was being fobbed off. I said, “Look, I’m glad you’re listening to what I’m saying, but I think you need to do more than just look into this. Your firm has done virtually nothing for our money – and you’ve ignored dozens of messages from us. Surely the only options here are a full refund or a cast-iron guarantee that you will run both our campaigns as advertised. And the very least we deserve is a proper written response from you.”

  “Well, if we did let you down, I’ve no doubt we’ll make it up to you.”

  “There’s no if about it. You did.”

  He looked at me coldly
for a moment, then said, “Look, I’ve invited you into my house and I’ve been frank with you. I’ve told you we’re about to re-launch. Could we have a bit of give and take here? Your confrontational manner isn’t helping anybody.”

  I attempted a smile. “OK, so can you give me something definite that I can take back to my friend? Can I say you will email us without fail and outline a plan of action?”

  Tersely he said, “I think you can take that as read.”

  “Fine.”

  In the end I had to give him the benefit of the doubt. There was nothing I could do to enforce my claims or Graham’s. If Openshaw was an honourable man, he would take appropriate measures to run our campaigns. If he wasn’t, we would know soon enough.

  Chapter 17

  My phone buzzed as I arrived back at my flat, and a woman’s voice said, “Ah, is that Mike Stanhope? Annette Braddock here.”

  It took me a moment to clear my head. She seemed to realise I was floundering, and added, “From Hunt Topham, the publishers. Any the wiser?”

  “Annette – of course! It’s good to hear from you.”

  Several years had passed since I’d originally been put in touch with her. She was a senior executive at Hunt Topham, and I’d been told her company might consider publishing my book – a prospect which, for a brand new author, was little short of miraculous. It would have meant a proper print run, bookshop circulation, the whole nine yards. But it had sounded like a dream, and that’s what it turned out to be. I quickly established that her approach had been engineered as an oblique bribe to me to keep quiet about a news story I’d picked up, and in the end it had come to nothing.

  However, I was never clear whether she realised she’d been manipulated by a colleague at Topham’s parent company in pursuit of an agenda that had nothing to do with publishing. Her team had appeared to give my book serious consideration, and when they turned it down, they’d given me properly argued reasons.

  She now said, “So how has your book been selling?”

  I gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Slowly. To be honest, I haven’t made enough effort to push it.”

  “You should have. I enjoyed it.”

  “It’s kind of you to say that.”

  “Did you ever write a follow-up?”

  “Not yet.”

  “That’s a shame.” She paused a moment, then slid into a more businesslike tone. “Reason for my call, I wondered if I could pick your brains.”

  “You want to pick my brains? That’s a bit of a turnabout.”

  She gave a polite chuckle. “I’m doing a bit of research into self-publishing – looking into sales volumes, audience penetration, genre segmentation, all that good stuff. The current phase involves talking to authors about their experience. Yours was one of the first names I thought of.”

  “I should feel flattered.”

  “So I was hoping you could give me half an hour of your time.”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “That’s great. Perhaps we could meet in central London?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “When? Is tomorrow morning too soon? They do a mean coffee at the British Library.”

  * * *

  The sprawling modern British Library complex was situated just along the road from King’s Cross and St Pancras stations – defiantly redbrick and striking for its apparent lack of windows.

  I’d never met Annette in person before. Our few previous interactions had been by telephone. Yet somehow I knew her straight away – a trim figure in her early fifties, with greyish-brown curls and quick, emphatic movements. She was already sitting at a table when I walked over, her legs neatly crossed.

  She stood up. “Mike, lovely to meet you at last.”

  Once we’d ordered more coffee and settled at the table she told me she’d stepped back from mainstream publishing for six months to head up various special projects for her company. “One of them is to prepare a report on the current state of the self-publishing market – basically to explore whether it’s turned out to be the threat we all expected, or an opportunity for the traditional publishing world.”

  “And what’s the verdict so far?”

  She shrugged. “It’s more or less unstoppable. The internet and social media are great levellers. These days anyone with a Facebook or Twitter account can have a say – and anyone can publish a book.”

  “And is that good or bad in your opinion?”

  “Ha!” She looked at me coolly. “I won’t lie to you Mike, it’s been mightily disruptive for traditional publishing. For a start, it’s diluted the market. Every sale by a self-published author is a sale lost to the mainstream. And it doesn’t help that a lot of eBooks are free.”

  “But are you saying they’re all bad?”

  She sipped her coffee. “I’ve read dozens of self-published books in the last couple of months – everything from the best to the worst. And d’you know what? There’s something admirable in nearly all of them. It’s been a real eye-opener.”

  “I sense a qualification.”

  “Well, the very best would have been good enough for us to publish. As for the worst, well, they’re just wasting everybody’s time.”

  “According to you.”

  “And what’s wrong with that?” She leaned forward. “The trouble is that literary criticism is a very subtle thing. The average person knows if their TV is broken or not, but they don’t necessarily know if a book is broken.” She sat back again. “We use our experience to make that judgement for them.”

  I said, “A lot of self-published authors would be up in arms if they heard you say that. They see publishers as a barrier between them and their audience.”

  “But think about it, Mike, that’s always been the way in the arts. The job of people like me is to make sure the audience gets the best in class.”

  “In this brave new world, that would be called elitism.”

  She sighed deeply. “And there you have it in a nutshell. Democracy may be fair, but is it always right?”

  * * *

  Finally Annette turned the conversation to my experience as a self-published author. She wanted to know where I’d promoted my book, how much money I’d spent, whether I contributed to book blogs, whether I’d built up a reader mailing list, how often I posted to my Facebook page, how my promotional efforts had affected my book ranking … her interrogation was probing and apparently endless. For someone who seemed resistant to self-publishing, she clearly knew a lot about the dynamics of it. Her insights reminded me uncomfortably of the deficiencies in my track record.

  An idea occurred to me. I said, “Can I run something past you?” I pulled my tablet computer out of my bag and called up Graham Bulwell’s book. “Can you have a look at this? It was written by a friend of mine.”

  She took the tablet a little reluctantly and scanned the first couple of pages quickly, then looked up at me. “We would never publish something like this. It’s beyond saving.” She held the tablet towards me as if wanting to distance herself from the very notion.

  Instead of taking it back from her I said, “Would you mind telling me why?”

  She glanced at the tablet again. “Where do I start? The style is stilted and unconvincing. The insights are clichéd and superficial. The prose has no consistent rhythm or cadence – it just stutters along. Basically this person is not a writer.”

  “You’ve come to that judgement very quickly.”

  “In our business you soon learn what to look out for. Even if this book had the best plot in the world, it would take almost a complete rewrite to make it saleable in my world.” She handed the tablet back to me decisively.

  “Yet people have bought it.”

  “What can I say?”

  As the session drew to a close I had a sudden thought. “By any remote chance, have you ever come across someone called Rob Openshaw?”

  She thought about this for a moment. “The name seems familiar. Should I know him?”

 
That got me interested. Sitting forward, I said, “I’ve no idea, but I believe he may have worked in the UK publishing industry – maybe fifteen or twenty years ago, something like that.”

  She flicked her fingers. “Got it! I used to see him at publishing industry events. He worked at a rival publishing house.” She stared back into her memory. “I think he joined them from one of the niche publishers. What was it called again?” She flicked her fingers. “Firecorner Publishing! That was the name. He was quite a pushy young guy – very energetic. How have you come across him?”

  “He’s moved into e-publishing, and runs a company that was supposed to promote the book I just showed you. But he hasn’t delivered on the promise.”

  She gave a curt laugh. “He probably realised what a dreadful proposition it was, and decided it was beyond help.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve been stung by him as well.”

  “I see. Sorry.” She was still searching her memory banks. “Now that I think about it, there was some kind of fuss about Rob Openshaw – some suspicion that he was fiddling retailer returns to give an artificial boost to his clients’ books.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “Not in my experience. The market doesn’t work like that – but he obviously thought it did.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I don’t really know, but I assume he was rumbled.” She stretched, readying herself to stand up. “I think I heard he’d moved to the USA. He was probably hoping his reputation wouldn’t follow him there.”

  Chapter 18

  It was mid-afternoon two days later when I approached Rob Openshaw’s house for the second time.

  In the interim he’d made an offer to Graham. It amounted to two options: keep the promotion open, and Magic Bookseller would re-run the entire campaign “when operational circumstances permit”; or accept a refund of two thirds of the original price. This was supposed to reflect the fact that part of the package had already been fulfilled. If Graham took up the second option, the refund would be phased over six months.