by Paul Carroll
As the decibel levels rose and fell Eric felt very isolated indeed. Maybe he’d picked the wrong two agents to see that afternoon? Maybe he’d get a different view tomorrow?
CHAPTER TWENTY
Fifteen minutes later a bunch of diehards congregated in the bar while the sensible ones headed back to their spartan accommodation. Con, with £8 still jingling in his pocket, knew he’d paced himself perfectly. He slipped off to the end of the bar to buy another pint of Guinness for himself and, as the stout settled in the tulip glass, took stock of the evening so far. First: Eric was a knob. Just because he’d had two one-to-ones and got nowhere he was trying to spook everybody else. If any further evidence of Eric’s general twattery was required surely it was the titbit he’d dropped into the conversation about seeing two additional agents tomorrow. Trying to buy his way to success. Two: all this talk about men not buying books and genres that sell – and by implication, those that don’t sell. Con remembered his girlfriend’s assessment of A Refugee From the Seraphim as ‘dense’. Would his novel appeal to women? Tomorrow he needed to stress that it would. Three: that line – Eric again – about the conference not really being about getting signed up by an agent. Con knew what he was there for and feedback was bottom of his shopping list. If he didn’t get a sniff tomorrow he might as well throw his manuscript in the bin. And four: he had nothing to worry about if those readings earlier represented the pinnacle of unpublished literary achievement (by now Con had convinced himself it had been an advantage not to have been shortlisted). His writing knocked spots off that hackneyed shite.
The agents had managed to once more circle their wagons in a corner of the bar. They might as well have brought their own velvet rope, bouncer and ‘Private Members Club’ sign. Alyson, Bronte and Eric studied them as they exchanged jokes and tried to score points off each other. Occasionally a renegade delegate would pluck up the courage to march over and try to engage them. Did they know them? Were they merely exchanging meaningless pleasantries in an effort to get on the agents’ radar? Were they actually attempting a sly pitch? It was like watching riders on a bucking bronco – how long could they hold on before they were thrust skywards? Eric spotted Hugo Lockwood sitting among the agents and couldn’t help but steal glances in his direction every so often. As he’d surmised from his tweets, Eric thought Hugo looked a bit too fond of himself. He was clearly holding court – he could tell that by the way everybody was laughing at what he was saying. Should he have had the courage to request a one-to-one with him? No, he’d definitely made the correct call.
As Con rejoined them Eric pointed at the agents. ‘We’re running a book on how long each delegate lasts talking to the agents. Do you fancy giving it a go, Con?’
Con, who’d spent a good deal of the evening working out how he could ingratiate himself with the red lapel badges, smiled and said, ‘I’ll take the turn after you, Eric.’ It pained him to be still stuck with the three people he’d spent the past few hours with because he really wanted to be talking to the agents, editors and publishers whose presence was promoted so heavily in the Write Stuff’s publicity material. He, too, had noticed that they didn’t appear very approachable. Con reminded himself that this was the first night of conference and he’d find a way to buttonhole these people before he left, come what may. ‘Anyway, it’s all about the scheduled one-to-ones, isn’t it? Our two shots at glory – or four in your case.’
Many of the delegates chatting at the bar were guessing they had better options elsewhere. They’d rather be hobnobbing with the experts, obviously, but they also harboured a suspicion that the other delegates would probably be more interesting than their current company. It was curious how groups thrown together, with the same randomness as the lifeboats on the Titanic, now appeared to be immutable. There was no getting off. Conversations were conducted with eyelines aimed over the shoulder of the person being talked to or listened to; the grass in the distance had never appeared as verdant and lush.
Alyson had graduated on to double gin and tonics. In her subconscious she’d already begun to give up hope that conference would produce anything worthwhile for her and her new literary direction in The Moon Pulls on The Tide. Everybody seemed to be taking it so seriously she was starting to think this was the sort of club she wouldn’t want to join, even if invited. Talking to Eric didn’t seem to help. ‘So what do you do when you’re not writing, Eric?’ she asked to get him off publishing.
‘Actually, I write when I’m not writing – I’m a journalist,’ he said proudly.
‘That’s cheating. That’s an unfair advantage over the rest of us,’ said Alyson, further convinced that she was lacking the core ingredients for literary success.
Eric, mellowing as he enjoyed a whisky, remembered what Brian Brooks had said to him that afternoon – it’s a little too precise/more like a report than an engaging narrative. ‘I honestly don’t feel being a journalist gives me any advantage at all. It could be a handicap.’
Alyson couldn’t fathom why that would be the case. ‘You know how to spell for a start, and the difference between stationary and stationery. I haven’t a clue.’
‘Ah, yes, but does grammar of itself guarantee that you can move the reader? That’s the important thing.’ Alyson was as impressed at Eric’s modesty as she was at his unselfish observation – she could see the sense in that. ‘If I’m being honest, that’s what one of the agents said to me this afternoon,’ Eric confessed. ‘Maybe my writing is too rigid?’
Alyson was slightly surprised at Eric’s change of mood – she thought he’d been quite chippy all evening. ‘I’m dreading what the agents will say to me tomorrow,’ confessed Alyson. ‘I lashed mine together a bit quickly.’
‘Is it finished?’
‘No. I only started it when I knew I was coming here, so I’m about halfway through.’
‘You must write quickly,’ said Eric, knowing how long his own work had taken. ‘Is it your first novel?’
Alyson hesitated. For the past few weeks she had been wrestling with the dilemma of whether to divulge her literary track record at conference or pretend it didn’t exist. She feared mentioning her ViXen success would lessen her credibility as a writer in the eyes of the agents. Her conference experience to date had only reinforced that decision – she was feeling out of her depth. ‘Well, yes and no,’ she laughed, the gin dismantling any preconceived notions of strategy. ‘This is my first mainstream book attempt, but not my first novel.’
‘So you’re switching genres?’ said Eric, impressed. ‘That takes some doing. What do you write normally?’
Alyson giggled. ‘I write erotica.’
Eric suddenly saw Alyson in a whole new light. This unassuming, artless, middle-aged woman wrote erotica? He would never have guessed. His business-desk instincts immediately kicked in. ‘Really? Can you make money doing that?’
Alyson’s inner love light began to gleam. She felt on home turf for the first time since she’d arrived. ‘I’m a long way off E L James in what I earn, but it pays the bills.’
Even Eric had heard of E L James and ‘that book’. ‘You write the same sort of stuff as her and you make money – what do you want to be a “proper” author for if you can do that?’
‘I’ve been asking myself that all day,’ said Alyson, feeling unburdened now she’d got it off her chest.
‘Do you self-publish or do you have an agent? How does it all work in that game?’
‘I don’t have an agent but I do have a deal with a specialist online publisher – it’s big business these days.’
Eric was starting to glow too – he’d never met anyone who wrote pornographic prose before. He was curious. ‘Do you mind if I ask you something? How do you get your ideas? Isn’t erotica supposed to be rather limited in its subject matter?’
Alyson laughed at his typical vanilla reaction. ‘You’d be surprised, Eric. I find id
eas wherever I look,’ she teased.
Eric felt a stirring in his loins. ‘And this website – how, er, racy is it?’
Alyson kept a straight face. ‘Let’s just say it starts where Amazon leaves off. Do you ever read or watch porn, Eric?’
The innocent scribe felt his face reddening at such a direct question. At the same time he was surprised at how the plain housewife he’d spent the majority of the evening with had now transformed into a seductive siren, beguiling him with her charms. It wasn’t only his writing that felt rigid at this point in time. ‘Catholic upbringing, so not really.’
‘Oh, I’ve met some very randy Catholics in my time,’ Alyson replied. ‘There’s something about being a left-footer that seems to heighten their pleasure.’
Eric sensed she was dangerous but was unable to tear himself away. Lacking a cold shower at that moment he tried to steer her back to why she was at the conference. ‘Are you enjoying writing mainstream stuff?’
Alyson shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t know. It’s a lot bloody harder, I can tell you.’
‘Why bother then, if you’re doing so well in your, er, stock-in-trade?’
‘I want to prove to myself I can do it, and I want to gain recognition for being a proper writer. I know it sounds silly but I dream of winning an award and Richard and Judy recommending me. I could die a happy woman if that ever happened.’
Eric had no problem understanding such modest ambitions. ‘Well, good for you, Alyson. I have to say if attitude counts you’re halfway there already.’
Alyson’s bosom swelled with pride at such encouraging words from this man of letters. She didn’t meet too many professionals in her normal daily grind. ‘Fancy a night cap?’ she purred.
Across campus Suzie was getting ready for bed. She applied fresh lipstick and touched up her foundation before slipping into her new Victoria Beckham organza mini dress. She knew it was a bit young for her but it had been such a bargain in the Net-A-Porter summer sale. And it felt so right as it slid across the silky smoothness of her freshly waxed legs. In the bathroom a bottle of champagne stood chilling in the sink while two glass flutes she’d carefully wrapped in her luggage sat expectantly by the bed. She turned off the overhead light to allow the reading lamp to cast long, dramatic shadows across the wall. In the league table of love nests it was hardly a suite at The Langham, yet Suzie had thought of little else all day. As she awaited Chapman’s hesitant knock on the door she was still nervous – what if he didn’t turn up? Such uncertainty was understandable as their previous trysts had all occurred without any specific arrangements actually being discussed, starting with the first ever Write Stuff conference when a triumphant Chapman had shown his gratitude to her in the most intimate of ways. Afterwards, and throughout the intervening year, neither Chapman nor Suzie mentioned their night of passion to each other but at the second conference Chapman once more stole to her room ‘to discuss arrangements for Saturday’. And so it had continued year after year. When Chapman had married, Suzie feared that their tacit ‘tradition’ would cease yet once again she heard his soft footsteps outside her door. If anything, that night she felt she had won an even greater victory. Deep down, though, Suzie knew she had no hold over Chapman. She wondered whether he was merely indulging himself, or worse still, indulging her? But she looked forward to this night more than any other in the calendar, when she and Chapman became one and the rest of the world didn’t matter. She never divulged their secret to anyone – friends or family, and certainly not to work colleagues.
They were nothing if not creatures of habit. It was always the first night of conference on which their clandestine coupling took place and Chapman never returned for the second night. As nothing was ever discussed between them she never really found out why this was the case. It just was – these were the unspoken rules. Chapman would wait until all was still, quietly knock on her door and innocently say he wanted to discuss a few things for tomorrow. Suzie would invite him in and ask if he would like a drink. They’d talk shop for ten or fifteen minutes pretending nothing was going to happen and then he would reach forward and take her in his arms. Their lovemaking was surprisingly varied, enthusiastic and agile, as if they were fitting a whole year’s shagging into one night – which is exactly what they were doing. Despite putting on a lot of weight over the years Chapman still insisted on a bewildering variety of sexual positions, as if he was on a Rotary Club sponsored campaign to re-enact every page in the Kama Sutra. There was very little conversation – all of their efforts were focused on the physical. Their lovemaking lasted as long as it took to drink the by-now traditional bottle of champagne, and Chapman would then sneak off as if staying the night was somehow an act of infidelity to his wife. The next day, and over the successive 364 days after that, nothing would be said but Suzie knew that Chapman had endorsed, once more, that they were an item despite all the outward signs to the contrary.
Suzie selected a new playlist on her iPhone, generated especially for this evening, and adjusted the volume on the travel speakers to low. Where was he? A look at her watch told her what she already knew – he’d never been this late before. Had he given her any signs earlier today? Yes and no – he’d given her no signs but that was normally the sign that the usual arrangements were in place. Should she text him? No – she’d never done that before and she didn’t want to look presumptive, or desperate. But the prospect of him letting her down filled her with woe and longing; how could she endure the rejection if he broke their trust of seven years? As the hands of the clock climbed to one o’clock the feeling of abandonment sharpened, matched only by a deep sense of shame for being such a fool and then a rising tide of anger. She decided to open the champagne and to give him until the end of the playlist before capitulating. As each song on ‘Book-Ends’ shuffled forward she took swigs straight from the bottle. Finally the only sound from the speakers was a low hum. She was all played out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The next morning at breakfast Emily and Hugo were comparing notes. To help inject some added value into the weekend the agent had invented a game of ‘conference bingo’ on the journey north. He was keen to see if he was ahead of Emily. ‘To be honest, Em, I should have made it harder. I cleared half of my card with just one delegate, and that was within the first half-hour.’
Emily suspected Hugo was showing off as usual but agreed they should have thought longer and harder over the rules. ‘We should have weighted the comments for degrees of difficulty, not just given a point to each one.’
‘Next time, not that there will be one, we will. Go on then, let’s see what you’ve got so far.’
Most of the delegates had already eaten in order to be at the guest lecture kicking off Saturday’s programme. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I got “it would make great TV”, “my partner read it and thought it was brilliant” and “how much can I expect to earn?” in double-quick time.’
‘Check. They’re the easy ones. How did you do on “look-a-likeys”?’
‘Two Harry Potters, two Twilights, one A Song of Fire and Ice, one Bridget Jones and one Da Vinci Code.’
‘A good haul. You did better than me there,’ Hugo conceded. ‘But if we had weighted the scores surely I’d have got more for the Wolf Hall and Captain Corelli’s Mandolin ones I had?’
‘I don’t disagree, but would remind you that you set the goalposts.’
Hugo couldn’t argue with that. ‘Free scoring section: I had one cover design, one “can I have my photo taken with you?” and a Kendal Mint Cake gift set.’
‘That’s not really trying, Hugo. I had two people who came along with book covers they’d designed, three who gave me new mug shots they’d had done especially for the jacket and I got asked out on a date back in London.’
‘Impressive. It’s looking pretty even at the moment but we’ve a long way to go,’ said Hugo who had quickly worked out that he was
behind in the scoring.
‘Pretty even? I don’t think so,’ said Emily. ‘And what about unsolicited pitches? How many of those did you get?’
Hugo thought for a second – should he overegg the number a bit? ‘Two in the bar before dinner, three afterwards, and one on the way into breakfast just now.’
‘Pathetic, Lockwood. I see you and I raise you – I can match that and throw in a pitch through the cubicle door when I was having a pee before last night’s readings.’
‘Male or female?’ queried Hugo.
‘Woman, of course.’
‘Shame – I would have given you extra points for a bloke.’
Over in the main auditorium Alyson Hummer was listening to guest author, Melanie McCardle, delivering the opening lecture. With ten novels and over two million sales to her name Alyson was keen to derive inspiration from an acknowledged queen of women’s fiction. In Alyson’s preparation for conference she’d read two of Melanie’s bestsellers, Mascara Tears and Cold Kisses. She was delighted to see that sex – albeit pretty tame sex – was a vital ingredient of the novels and her hopes soared momentarily. When she’d finished reading the two books, however, she experienced an overriding sense of woe. It wasn’t the writing (which was pretty formulaic and repetitive) and it wasn’t the plots (which she had to concede were paper-thin) that caused her dismay. It wasn’t even the boring sex (which was tediously dull). What really unsettled Alyson was how the settings and the characters portrayed a world she had never experienced and in which she knew she could never feel comfortable. Melanie’s books were chock full of first-world problems like not being able to get a suitable nanny, husbands who couldn’t get it up (with their wives, at least), ageing, dieting, holidays and fashion. Her women were either career wives spending their husbands’ money or young professionals working their way up to that status. They called each other ‘Darling’ and ‘Sweets’, as if anybody in real life spoke like that. Alyson reasoned that if this was the kind of stuff that was selling it was outside her terms of reference and she would be wasting her time in trying to emulate it. If, on the other hand, she stuck to what she knew then she’d be back to what she was already writing. Of course, Alyson was sensible enough to know that self-doubt was a monkey that sat on every writer’s back – could Melanie’s talk help remove hers?
