by Paul Carroll
The lecture started well, for Alyson at least, in that Melanie had a distinct northeast accent – she hadn’t been expecting that. Perhaps she’d misjudged the author and she was as down to earth and normal as Alyson was? Maybe, like a modern-day Catherine Cookson, she wrote about ordinary people as well? But Alyson soon found her class barometer to be incorrectly calibrated as Melanie, not an author given to coyness, regaled the audience with tales of her privileged upbringing, university education, blessed marriage, supportive family and her blossoming career as a lawyer before ‘fate’ intervened. Some ‘fate’ thought Alyson enviously. Around her, scores of delegates were busily writing notes to capture such gems as ‘never give up’, ‘if I can do it so can you’, and ‘make time to write’. The crowd broke out in spontaneous applause as Melanie told them that henceforth the word ‘chick-lit’ was never to pass their lips again. All around Alyson people were scribbling these words of wisdom in their notepads, or tapping them into their phones. Why? wondered Alyson. Would they ever look at them again? What did the words actually mean? It was like the draft syllabus for a ‘statement-of-the-bleedin’-obvious’ GCSE – sitting the exam proved the pupils had attended class but they would gain no practical use from the so-called knowledge they’d ingested. If Melanie was supposed to be inspiring the eager delegates to write women’s fiction then she was having the opposite effect on Alyson. She not only found herself begrudging the author’s success, she found herself wanting to stand up and tell her she was talking bollocks. Was it the gin last night that had put her in such a foul mood? She couldn’t be sure. When, mercifully, the lecture ended, Alyson crept out of the auditorium with two monkeys clinging to her back.
Eric had skipped the lecture and opted for one of the work groups on how to write a perfect pitch. He was finding it hard to concentrate. It wasn’t only his whisky hangover making him feel unfocused – he couldn’t get Alyson out of his mind. In his strictly ordered life Eric had come across few women like her. Once she relaxed she exuded such sensuality, fun, daring and a sense of danger that he’d felt entranced; there was an allure there, a promise of the forbidden that would cause many men to abandon normal constraints. Many men, but not Eric. He was the mouse who could resist an appetising piece of cheese while others threw themselves on to the Little Nipper. When the bar closed a terrified Eric had scurried back to the protection of his bedroom, aghast that such thoughts, however fleetingly, had entered his mind. He was so steamed up he Googled Alyson and within minutes found himself on the ViXen site.
‘The pitch is the single most critical means of getting an agent. It has to be honed to perfection…’ said the workshop leader. Eric wasn’t listening.
The staid journalist’s eyes were on stalks as he’d surfed the erotica site. It was all very professional and as Alyson had said it was aimed squarely at women. He’d never imagined. Did Victoria ever access sites like this? He doubted it. He searched for Alyson’s name and found a dozen works listed. The titles and the taglines alone were enough to raise his blood pressure another notch. At first he hesitated to download anything from the site in case he was bombarded with dirty junk emails for the rest of his life but the temptation to read Alyson’s work proved too strong. He joined up to buy Backlash Love Affair and No Price on Love.
‘A pitch is not a description of what happens in the book. It’s the bait to hook you a deal.’ Eric’s notepad remained blank.
As Eric devoured Alyson’s graphic prose, outlining acts he didn’t know existed or if they were even legal, he marvelled at how she had come up with these ideas, never mind actually setting them down in print. And there was a consistent theme running through the pages – it was all about the pleasure the woman was feeling in the highly imaginative sexual scenarios dreamt up by the author. About how the woman was in control of her passions. If Victoria ever read this she’d want Eric to up his act, that was for sure.
‘The ideal length should be no longer than a tweet.’ Eric was still deep in thought, staring out of the window.
And she must have sold thousands of her books looking at the bestsellers list. And if what she said about her deal was true, then she was more than making a living; she must be very comfortable indeed. She was probably earning more a year than Eric and yet she wanted to cross over to so-called serious writing?
‘If I say, “In space no one can hear you scream” we all know what movie I’m talking about. This is your benchmark.’ Eric unconsciously scratched his balls.
There was definitely a formula to Alyson’s erotic structure. She never went more than two pages without a sex act or a description of how the heroine was feeling about sex. It was a lascivious equivalent of the Atkins diet – you can have meat, meat, meat or meat. Eric recognised that to be able to write like this took enormous discipline.
‘A very simple way to get started is to use the “x meets y” approach. If I say my new novel is Wuthering Heights meets The Shining I’ve immediately got you interested.’
Eric devoured Alyson’s steamy shenanigans in a state of intense arousal, tossing and turning under the sheets until 3am before falling into a dream where he and Alyson were making love in a bath of baked beans.
He was trying to recapture this image as he stared out of the window but his reverie was suddenly and rudely interrupted. There, crossing the car park and making its way to reception, was a giant monobrow and underneath it the smug visage of Dylan Dylan. If Eric had been paying attention he may have summed up his puzzlement at this sight as The Visitor meets Revenge of the Werewolf.
Dylan had completed his registration when Eric burst into reception and marched menacingly in his direction. ‘What do you think you’re playing at?’ was the business editor’s less than friendly welcome.
Dylan couldn’t believe he’d scored so early after his arrival. ‘Eric, what are you doing here? What a coincidence.’
‘Coincidence? You’ve deliberately come here to wind me up, you cretin.’
Dylan tried his best to look offended at the very suggestion. ‘I’m just finding out how to get published, that’s all. You must take some of the credit for that, Eric. You’ve inspired me.’
‘You need to write a book first if you want to get published. In your case it would help if you’d actually read one.’
Dylan was unfazed. ‘How do you know I haven’t written a book?’
Such a possibility didn’t hold water for Eric. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Look, this is all very amusing but you need to go – now.’
‘Why would I leave, Eric? It’s a free country. I’ve paid my money and I’m looking forward to the conference.’
A tired, disoriented and angry Eric clenched his fists in frustration. ‘Are you seriously telling me that you’ve booked in as a delegate?’
Dylan pointed at his white lapel badge. ‘Yes – Saturday and Sunday. What time does the gala dinner start tonight? That should be really good.’
‘As jokes go, Dylan, it’s a very expensive one. But you still need to leave.’
‘I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got the next 24-hours all lined up. Maybe we can go to some of the sessions together?’
Other delegates passing through reception were now looking at Eric who was clearly upset over something despite the pleasant, smiling young man talking to him. Conscious he was creating a scene an exasperated Eric stomped off as briskly as he’d arrived, cursing and muttering under his breath. Dylan watched him go and allowed himself a twisted smile of victory. If he could get Eric so pissed off within five minutes of arriving, what would he be like by tomorrow? Time to explore, thought Dylan, and see what’s going down in conference-land.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Reardon had the whole first class carriage to himself as he made his way to Lancaster. He’d completed The Guardian crossword and flicked through the conference agenda and now he turned his attention to preparing some notes for his speech lat
er that evening. He was feeling good. In fact he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so relaxed. He and Belinda had recently returned from two weeks in Tuscany where, in between taking in the sights of Florence, Siena and San Gimignano, they’d enjoyed tranquil evenings listening to Puccini and restful days lolling by the pool of their rented farmhouse. As Reardon brushed up on his Ghibbelines, Guelphs and Grimaldis Belinda busied herself with a daily ritual of preparing authentic Tuscan cuisine for the two of them using only local, simple ingredients. It was the most serene vacation they’d ever shared. Belinda, too, was considerably more relaxed now that Reardon’s demons appeared to have been subdued. He was no longer ranting over the lack of a publishing contract and almost seemed to be looking forward to starting the university posting. Calm had descended, so much so that when Belinda dropped Reardon off at the station she gently chided herself that only a few weeks back she’d been offering to chaperone him on this Lancaster trip. Well, that wouldn’t be necessary now – the medication was working wonders. She had nothing to worry about.
Just before Birmingham the steward parked his trolley next to Reardon’s seat to offer him refreshment. ‘Would you like a snack box with that, sir?’ he enquired as he handed him his tea.
‘There’s no food?’
‘Saturday, I’m afraid. Only hot beverages, soft drinks and snack boxes today on the complimentary service.’
Not so long ago this denial of a traveller’s basic rights would have led to an eruption from the crotchety author. But not today. ‘That’s a shame. I was feeling peckish, too.’
The steward looked sympathetic. ‘Have two snack boxes,’ he suggested. ‘It’s dead on here today.’
‘Why, that’s very kind of you. Thank you,’ said the grateful passenger.
The steward smiled and pointed at the bottom of the trolley. ‘Would you like a proper drink, sir? I’ll just pretend it’s a weekday.’
Reardon was impressed at the flexibility and discretion Virgin allowed its staff in their pursuit of customer satisfaction. ‘Why not? I’ll have a gin and tonic in that case. Nobody need know.’ By ‘nobody’ Reardon had Belinda in mind rather than Richard Branson.
The attentive steward filled a glass with ice and lemon and handed a miniature bottle of gin and a can of tonic to Reardon. Then, with a wink, he placed a further bottle and can on the table. ‘Have a pleasant journey, sir,’ he said as he set off up the aisle. Reardon raised his glass to the back of the departing steward. The West Coast service had certainly picked up since the last time he had taken it.
By the time he was on his second gin Reardon had completed a page of notes for his speech. In a self-deprecating device he planned to open by recounting his reaction on being offered the creative writing professorship at Edward VIII university: ‘creative writing can’t be taught’. His conversion from this credo would mirror that of St Paul on the road to Damascus and provide a rich vein for his address. Yes, that would do very nicely.
Chapman noticed, much later than the rest of his team, that Suzie had been avoiding him all morning. She had skipped breakfast, which wasn’t like her, and put Amy in charge of Melanie’s book-signing session, a responsibility she wouldn’t have parted with lightly under normal circumstances. Shortly after the mid-morning coffee break Chapman spotted Suzie in the conference office, printing documents. He slipped in and closed the door behind him. The rest of the Write Stuff team gave each other knowing looks. Suzie, standing by the open window on another stiflingly hot day, gave him a stare that would have frozen helium.
Chapman started to walk over to her, then caught her look and hesitated. As casually as he could he flopped into the office chair. ‘Suze? Is there anything the matter?’ he asked innocently.
Suzie had agonised over how she should confront Chapman on his no-show the night before. The bottom line was that she couldn’t. As there was no arrangement in place, he’d not officially broken it. As there were no promises made, there was no letdown. She knew how he’d squirm his way out of it anyway, like a barrister who’d given up the law for politics. All she could do, she reasoned, was to give him the cold-shoulder treatment and never let herself be treated like a sex slave again. ‘I’m fine, thank you. Busy,’ she said tersely.
‘You don’t look fine, Suze. Has somebody upset you?’
She shook her head in disbelief at his brass neck. Now she looked directly into his piggy little eyes and saw him anew. Not as a Capability Brown reshaping the literary landscape, nor an alchemist turning leaden scribblers into gold bullion. What she saw in front of her now was a fat, arrogant, conceited, pathetic excuse of a man over whom she’d been deluded enough to put her life on hold for a decade in the hope of, what? The cold-shoulder plan bit the dust. ‘Has somebody upset me? Let me think,’ she mused. ‘Oh, wait a minute. How about the glutton of a boss who takes what he wants, when he wants, but suddenly put himself on a diet last night?’
Chapman sat up straight in his chair. He didn’t expect her to kick off like this. ‘Listen Suze, if you’re referring to what I think you are, I can explain everything.’
‘Go on, then,’ she urged. ‘This will be interesting.’
Chapman groaned. ‘Look, I know we’ve had a bit of a thing at conference in the past, but it’s difficult. I’m married now.’
‘You were married last year, and the year before that, and the…’
‘Yes, I know. We should have stopped it then,’ he said before adding, rather inadvisably: ‘But I didn’t want to let you down.’
‘Let me down? So you were doing me a favour, were you? Shagging me senseless instead of giving me a company bonus – was that the idea? Is it a benefit in kind? Taxable? I’ll have to check with Accounts.’
Chapman could feel the hole he was in getting deeper. ‘It wasn’t like that. You know it wasn’t. I’d have said something but what was there to say? I thought it would be best to quietly draw a line under it.’
Suzie looked at him with contempt. ‘Quietly draw a line under it? By which you mean don’t mention it at all. You know what? You’re a coward and a shit. Adele is welcome to you – you deserve each other.’
Chapman chivalrously defended his wife’s honour. ‘It’s not fair to drag Adele into this, Suze.’
‘Fair? You talk about fair? What do you think she’d say if she knew what we’d been up to?’
Was this a threat? Surely she wouldn’t tell her? Chapman couldn’t be sure. ‘Please, Suze. Let’s not go there. You have to see it from my point of view?’
‘You know what, Chapman, I’ll tell you how I see it. I’m a mug. Always have been. Ever since I let you pretend you’d written A Poisoned Heart and A Twisted Memory. How prophetic a title that was, wasn’t it?’
‘You know I was grateful for that. It’s not helpful to bring that up.’
‘No? It only made you and your poxy company. You’ve said so yourself. Go on – admit it. You only came on to me to get my book because you were incapable of writing one yourself.’
‘You know that’s not true. It was just, well, it just happened, didn’t it?’
‘With you begging me, you mean. I could have been published. I could have written more books by now if I hadn’t sacrificed myself to you and your frigging business.’
Chapman knew he was losing control of the situation. The last thing he needed was a scene, or worse still, his number two not doing her job properly this weekend – the whole conference depended on her organisational prowess. ‘Suzie, keep your voice down. Someone will hear,’ he pleaded. ‘Why don’t we meet up next week and calmly talk it all through?’
‘Forget it, Chapman,’ said Suzie as she made her way to the door. ‘I don’t ever want to talk to you again.’
Chapman put his head in his hands as she slammed the door behind her. No, he’d not been expecting an outburst like that. Maybe she was overstressed with the confe
rence planning? He hoped to God none of the staff had overheard any of their exchange.
Below the window Dylan Dylan was congratulating himself on having picked such a great spot for a fag break. He thought his ruse to haunt Eric at conference might lose its sparkle after a few hours but then he’d not counted on the free theatre that was included in the price of admission.
‘“Every time I thought I was being rejected from something good, I was actually being re-directed to something better”. These sage words from lifestyle coach and empowerment guru Steve Maraboli hold particular meaning for the aspiring writer.’ Bronte was busily speed typing on her laptop, almost verbatim, the work group presentation on ‘Handling Rejection’. She was learning so much and finding so much inspiration she’d hardly paused for breath as she rushed from session to session all morning. Bronte was looking forward to prioritising her notes when she returned home – it was like learning for an exam, but one she knew would stand her in good stead for her future writing career. The self-help and lifestyle philosophy continued. ‘You need to know you are not alone when you receive a rejection slip. Many famous authors have been in your shoes. J K Rowling, Dan Brown, Paulo Coelho, J D Salinger, Margaret Mitchell, Stephenie Meyer, Yann Martel, John Grisham – I could go on – were all rejected.’ Bronte was struggling with some of the spellings as she’d not heard of many of these authors, but she got the general drift. ‘Were they upset? You bet. Did they give up? No. But what they didn’t do is blame the agent for rejecting their work – they set out to improve and raise their standards so the next time they would do better.’ Bronte dutifully wrote this down too, not realising that the observation wasn’t strictly accurate, as many of the authors mentioned had work taken on by one agent after dozens had rejected the same submission. But the presenter knew delegates had not paid hundreds of pounds to hear advice along the lines of W C Fields’ famous dictum, ‘If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Then quit. There’s no point in being a damn fool about it.’
