Written Off

by Paul Carroll

  ‘Well, it must have been a more saleable proposition. You know, Eric shouldn’t resent other people’s success.’

  Victoria thought this a little harsh, too. ‘He doesn’t really – I think he just took a dislike to this particular guy.’

  ‘So how’s he enjoying the lectures and the workshop thingies?’

  ‘Well, you know how Eric is. Thinks it’s like being back at school where the teachers are only one page ahead of the pupils. He wasn’t very complimentary.’

  Geraldine tried to remember the last time she’d heard Eric pour praise on anything. ‘I’m sure he’s picking some good tips up. And meeting people in the same boat. It sounds highly useful to me.’

  Victoria had retained the most important part of her conversation with Eric until last. ‘But the worst thing is that one of his work colleagues – one who Eric’s having a bit of trouble with – has turned up at the conference. Eric’s going spare.’

  Geraldine couldn’t immediately see why that would be a problem. ‘Well, it’s the only writing festival in these parts so bumping into someone he knows isn’t that implausible. What do you mean by “having trouble with” anyway?’

  ‘Eric’s convinced he’s turned up on purpose just to harass him. Eric reported him at work for bullying and he thinks he’s trying to get his own back.’

  That Eric should be so paranoid didn’t come as a shock to Victoria’s best friend. ‘Come on, Vic, nobody’s going to spend all that money and waste a weekend just to annoy Eric. He’s obviously there for the same reason as Eric.’

  ‘I thought that, but when I said so to Eric he said this guy couldn’t write his own name and couldn’t possibly have written a book.’

  ‘Someone who works on a newspaper can’t write? Hardly likely, Vic.’

  ‘No – he’s in sales. That’s why Eric is suspicious.’

  Geraldine thought it typical of Eric to report someone for bullying. ‘Well, that sounds like the least of Eric’s problems to me. He should stop being so sensitive and make the best use of the rest of the conference.’

  ‘I know. You’re right.’

  Geraldine was bored talking about Eric so attempted to draw a line under this particular topic. ‘Tell you what though, Vic, his Christmas present this year should be easy. You can get him a book on self-publishing.’

  ‘I thought I’d be pleased. I know I should be. But I’m not.’ Rosie was sharing Con’s news with Grace as they strolled over Paddington Recreation Ground looking for a picnic spot on this blazingly hot Saturday afternoon.

  Grace, whose expectations for Con at the conference had been low to say the least, sought clarification. ‘Did they actually say they’d take it on, or what?’

  ‘They’ve asked to see the rest of the manuscript, so Con’s cock-a-hoop. Says it’s as good as an offer.’

  ‘Well it sounds a long way off an offer to me, Rosie. Just the next step.’

  ‘I agree, but you know what Con’s like.’

  Grace didn’t comment – she knew full well what Con was like. The two sisters laid out their rug on the grass and began to unpack cheeses, homemade salads and lemon drizzle cake from their basket.

  Rosie continued to wrestle with her conscience. ‘I should be ecstatic for him, for us, but all I can think of is that he’ll use it as an excuse not to go back to work.’

  Grace could sympathise with that fear. However, now that Rosie was entertaining such doubts she didn’t want to attack Con too hard in case her sister felt the need to defend him. ‘Say he did get a deal, then that would make him a proper author, right? So he wouldn’t need to go back to the hospital in that case?’

  Rosie had considered this already. ‘Yes, but what if he’s not telling the truth about this offer – how would I know?’

  While it wouldn’t surprise Grace for Con to pull such a stunt she was taken aback that Rosie should consider the possibility. ‘I don’t think even Con would stoop that low, surely?’

  ‘When he got the bus to go up there yesterday, I just thought, don’t come back. He’s so self-absorbed I might as well not be here. Except I have to pay for everything.’ The penny’s dropped at last, thought Grace. She didn’t stem her sister’s flow. ‘I know it sounds horrible but it made me think how he’s taken me for granted and treated me like a mug ever since we started going out. I hate to admit it but I was actually clinging to the hope that he’d get nowhere in Lancaster and have to drop this book-writing idea once and for all. I thought we could get back to a normal relationship. Now he’s going to be even harder to live with.’

  ‘Won’t he go back to work until he gets an actual deal?

  Rosie tugged absent-mindedly at the grass. ‘There’s no way he’ll go back if he thinks he’ll be signed. He’ll come up with a million reasons why it’s not the right time and how he needs to keep working on the book. I know it.’

  An obvious consideration struck Grace. ‘But say, and you never know, Con did get a deal, he could become a famous author. It could happen.’

  Rosie looked miserable. ‘No. It won’t happen, Grace. I’ve read it, remember? And even if it did, I’ve had enough.’

  Grace suppressed the urge to cheer. ‘So what are you going to do?’

  Rosie grabbed a large handful of grass and tore it from the ground. ‘I’m going to finish with him. I’m kicking him out. This is the end.’

  Grace nodded her head softly at this pronouncement and reached into the basket. ‘Wine or beer?’ was all she had to say.

  ‘Hi Jules. Conf is gr8. Just met your boss Eric and Dylan from Mcr Chron! They think ur brill. XXX B’

  ‘Wondered if you’d bump into E. Treat him gently. Dylan? Confused. Dylan not at conf. J. X’

  ‘He is – looks like Oasis? XXX’

  ‘JFC – that is Dylan. Him and Eric hate each other. WTFIGO? X’

  ‘They seemed OK. See what u mean about E being a bit grumpy tho … XX’

  ‘He can be, but if D there, not surprised. What did D say he there for?’

  ‘D sez he’s written a book about Madchester. XX PS – What’s Madchester?’

  ‘Oldsters music scene. No way!’

  ‘That’s what he sez. X’

  ‘Seriously – were E and D actually together?’

  ‘Yeah – at lunch. Sat with us. D came this morning – E here lst nite’

  ‘Long story, but v surprised at that. Deffo keep an eye on them’

  ‘How do u mean? X’

  ‘They might end up killing each other’

  ‘OOhhh! Brill. Fight! XXX’

  ‘OMG – just twigged!!!! BSTD!’

  ‘WOT???’

  ‘TYL. J. XX’

  ‘Have you been drinking? Belinda could sniff alcohol on her husband’s breath even though he was over 200 miles away.

  ‘No, of course not,’ Reardon replied.

  ‘You’re awfully cheerful,’ came back the damning accusation.

  ‘I don’t need to have a drink to be in high spirits, my love. I’m just enjoying my day out. I feel like St Patrick setting forth to convert the pagans,’ he said with a guffaw.

  Yes, thought Belinda, he’s had a drink. ‘Reardon, now listen to me, you have to be very, very careful about alcohol – we’ve been through this a hundred times.’

  Despite the fact his wife couldn’t see him, Reardon held up his hand to quieten her. ‘Darling, you have nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘Lancaster Station. Journey’s end beckons.’

  ‘Promise me you’ll call me later?’

  ‘Of course, my lamb.’

  Reardon rang off and picked up his overnight bag from the station bench. Two minutes later he was in a taxi heading south to the campus. Belinda could be such a worrier at times – he was quite capable o
f looking after himself. There was no doubt about it – he was ready for the evening. His speech was fashioned now and, if he said so himself, it was a jolly good effort. He was back in the public eye – admittedly not a book launch but at least an audience who were keen to see and hear him. He was getting paid – the first pay cheque had arrived earlier in the week from Edward VIII and compared to his recent royalty cheques wasn’t too shabby at all. Life could be a lot worse. And who knows? Maybe his ineffectual agent might land him a new contract soon – why not? Reardon felt a warm glow as he thought of his representative – not out of fondness but amusement at the prospect of Hugo attending the conference. Hugo had tried to bullshit him that he’d always intended to be there but the author knew better – he was under orders. As long as he didn’t have to sit with Hugo, Reardon thought he could definitely enjoy the evening that lay ahead. As the ugly stone terraces on the A6 gave way to meadows and hedgerows Reardon saw a road sign announcing that the university campus was a quarter of a mile away on the left. On his right a charming-looking hostelry called The Boot and Shoe hoved into view. On a whim Reardon called to the taxi driver to pull into the pub. He had plenty of time – a pint of local cask ale would be just the ticket.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Not for the first time in the past 24 hours Eric was beginning to question why he’d signed up for this weekend of despair and disappointment. He felt further away from a publishing deal than at any other time since he’d first put pen to paper. His two one-to-ones after lunch only confirmed what he had already learned – Scrub Me Till I Shine in the Dark was destined to linger in the shadows a bit longer as far as the book industry was concerned. Now Eric had lost hope his one-to-one meetings took on the aspect of counselling sessions. His expectations well and truly lowered, he treated the ten-minute slots as light-hearted exchanges, taking consolation from the observation that at least his work was well-written even if it wasn’t the sort of thing anybody was looking to publish. And now Eric sat in the largest lecture theatre Lancaster had to offer waiting to listen to Hugo Lockwood tell him and other delegates how to compose a killer submission letter. Would he even need such information in the future? It didn’t matter – he had a compulsion to see Hugo Lockwood up close.

  As the heralded agent walked in to begin his address a man wearing a large black caterpillar across his forehead followed him through the door – Dylan had tracked him down. Worse still, he made a beeline towards Eric and jumped into the empty seat next to him. ‘Wouldn’t want to miss your Twitter mate, eh?’

  Eric was trapped. ‘Can’t you just bugger off and annoy somebody else? This is ridiculous,’ he spat.

  ‘Be quiet,’ came the admonition from the people sitting behind them.

  Hugo began by dumping a huge sheaf of papers on the desk in front of him. ‘This, on average, is how many submissions I receive every single week – about 100. That’s 5000 a year. How many make it through?’ He paused for effect. ‘About five. Now you know what you’re up against.’ What a charmless, smug tosser thought Eric as those around him scribbled these vital statistics down. ‘I, of course, have to read these efforts while actually managing my roster of established authors. It’s no mean feat.’ Spare us the bloody martyr act, Eric spluttered under his breath. ‘So as part of my talk today I thought I’d give you a live demonstration of how a typical reading session goes. Bear in mind that for me this may be at midnight after a long day, or on a Sunday morning when you’re all doing something interesting with your lives.’ Eric shook his head in disbelief at such arrogance. Even Dylan, the natural salesman, was finding such pomposity hard to fathom – he wouldn’t get far selling space at The Chron acting like that. ‘These examples are purely random, and apologies in advance in case one of your submissions is in here.’ Eric stiffened. Christ, he wasn’t joking. Hugo took the top document off the pile. ‘First one. Hugh Lockwood. Wrong.’ He threw it into the bin at his feet. ‘If you can’t get my name right, don’t bother.’ He picked up the next one from the pile. ‘She Sang Angels to Rest – does that title grab me? No.’ Into the bin it went. ‘Now you’ll have noticed I’ve not even started to read the accompanying letters yet. Let’s try this one.’ He picked up a further submission and scanned it. ‘This author is telling me all about how she started to write at the age of five and would read her stories to her teddy bears. Charming.’ He smiled, and then he hurled it into the bin. ‘What does that tell me? That she probably still can’t write for a grown-up, book-buying audience.’ Muffled gasps mixed with uncertain laughter as Hugo continued his diatribe. ‘Next one – ‘Dear Mr Lockwood, blah, blah, blah… always wanted to write, blah, blah, blah… interesting life, blah, blah, blah.’ He tossed it over his shoulder. ‘Dull, dull, dull. I don’t care about his interesting life unless he’s David Beckham. Print it up and give copies to your friends and family if it means that much to you.’ Hugo selected another submission. ‘My novel weighs in at 49,000 words… Well, does it really? Forget it. That’s not a novel. It’s a premature birth. Bin.’ Eric was so tense by now he felt almost delirious. ‘This one has possibilities,’ said the agent as he held up a submission for all to see. ‘“The novel is set in a mental institution where the patients are saner than the staff”.’ Hugo paused for effect, then struck. ‘On one level an interesting premise but in my experience most likely the work of someone who’s actually spent too long in a loony bin. Whether as an inmate or an orderly is immaterial but my verdict is still…’

  ‘Bin,’ came the shout from around a quarter of the delegates.

  Hugo read the next submission for a few seconds. ‘“My novel is a fantasy adventure young adults will adore…” Great, but I don’t do YA, which would have been easy enough for the author to establish before submitting to me. Bin.’ Eric wondered how much longer was this going to go on for? Pray God Scrub Me Till I Shine in the Dark wasn’t in that pile? ‘Now this is interesting. Opinions Are Coffins. I like that title.’ He read on momentarily. ‘But it’s another “No”. Why? Because while the letter tells me everything I could ever want to know about the writer, he omits to tell me what the story is all about. Double fail. Hook me, get me interested, or don’t bother.’ Within what seemed like minutes the heap of submissions had been pulverised, razed and wracked into thin air. Eric’s knuckles turned white at the disregard and utter contempt the callous agent was displaying towards work people had poured their hearts and souls into. As Hugo stood knee deep in a pile of unstapled 90gsm A4 pages he reminded Eric of a cowardly hunter, a smoking rifle in his hand, posing for the camera over the carcass of a once-proud lion he’d just blasted to death.

  Next to Eric, Dylan was struck dumb, something that didn’t happen very often. It had never crossed his mind that people would actually pay to be insulted in this manner. And by a jumped-up public schoolboy who, like Dylan, had probably failed his English GCSE. The interloper looked sideways at Eric and could see he was ready to burst. Now, for the first time, it dawned on Dylan just how cruel his Golden Fleece prank had been. It would have devastated Julia, too. Books were like babies – ugly or not, they were yours. And all this beautiful baby judge had to offer was bananas.

  Hugo now opened the session out to a Q and A. A succession of banal questions were proffered up for Hugo to heave over the boundary rope. ‘Did the work have to be finished before it was submitted?’ ‘Was it OK to chase after an agent if you hadn’t heard back within a week?’ ‘Was a friendly, humorous enquiry letter a good idea?’ Hugo could have patiently clarified the due protocols on these points but couldn’t resist the opportunity to continue his ‘this is what I have to contend with on a daily basis’ riff instead. Then one of the delegates asked, ‘Would you say it’s important to follow agents like you on Twitter?’

  Hugo’s eyes lit up. ‘Now that is a good question. I’ve found Twitter is a double-edged sword. On the one hand it allows me to keep followers updated on what I’m doing, new deals, what I’m looking for in a submi
ssion; on the other hand it’s like asking people to stand in line so they can fling custard-pies in your face. You wouldn’t believe the abuse I receive. Or maybe you would.’

  The audience tittered on cue. Then Eric’s voice boomed out. ‘They wouldn’t believe the amount of abuse you dish out either. Or maybe they would.’

  Hugo was taken aback. ‘I’m sure I’ve never abused anybody on Twitter. Corrected a few people, possibly.’ A few delegates laughed, but hesitantly this time.

  ‘I follow you on Twitter,’ said Eric. ‘You’re a nasty piece of work in my opinion.’

  Hugo was suddenly back in the playground – he could dish it out but he couldn’t take it. ‘If I’ve offended anyone I’d be the first to apologise, I assure you. But sometimes unlooked-for exchanges occur – normally aimed at me, not the other way round.’

  ‘You didn’t sound like a victim five minutes ago when you were trashing everybody’s work, did you?’ said Eric looking around for support. Half the audience looked shocked at his intervention; the other half nodded in agreement.

  ‘I was simply employing a dramatic device to get my message across,’ struggled Hugo in defence. ‘I think you’re confusing the message with the messenger.’

  A new voice joined the debate. One with a flat, sneering, Salford accent. ‘I think you’re confusing yourself with someone whose shit doesn’t stink. You’re a tosser, mate.’

  Eric could hardly believe he was the recipient of support from such an unlikely quarter. He looked at Dylan, who simply sat back in his seat, crossed his arms and nodded back at him. A stunned silence descended on the room. Nobody had ever witnessed an encounter quite like this at a Write Stuff conference.