Written Off

by Paul Carroll

  Hugo was at a loss. A few more seconds elapsed and he said, ‘Well, that just about takes us up to our scheduled finish time. Thank you.’

  ‘Yeah, mate. You up and run,’ Dylan taunted as Hugo made a quick exit.

  As the room emptied Dylan and Eric remained in their places, facing out the accusatory stares of the blue rinse brigade and the under-25s and not daring to acknowledge the jovial winks and nods from everybody else.

  Once the room had cleared, Eric spoke. ‘You didn’t need to come to my aid, but thank you.’

  ‘He’s a pillock. Deserved everything he got. I enjoyed it.’

  Eric wasn’t sure what to say or do next. Then he knew what he had to ask. ‘Dylan, why have you come here, really?’

  ‘You know why, Eric. To wind you up. To irritate you. You’ve got me in the shit at work and I’m majorly hacked off. I knew you’d hate me turning up here so that’s why I came.’

  ‘Well, you were right about that. But why did you have a go at Hugo in that case? Why support me?’

  Dylan spoke slowly. ‘I get now why you were so upset about my spoof asking for the rest of your book. People here are all so desperate – no offence – to get published, it hurts.’ Eric couldn’t believe his ears. Dylan had discovered sensitivity? His nemesis continued. ‘Crawling to wankers like him to get a deal must be the hardest thing in the world. I hit a rawer nerve than I thought when I pulled that stunt. I guess I owe you an apology.’

  Eric didn’t recognise the co-worker sitting next to him. He’d never heard Dylan express regret over anything. And he was apparently sincere. ‘You did upset me, Dylan. But I overreacted reporting you to HR. That was probably unnecessary.’

  ‘I won’t disagree with you there,’ Dylan said.

  Eric made a decision. ‘I’m going to tell HR I’m dropping my complaint when I get back to work on Monday.’

  Dylan hadn’t been expecting such an outcome when he’d set off for Lancaster. In fact, it had been the furthest thing from his mind. ‘Really? That would be great. Thanks.’

  ‘I think it’s me that owes you thanks. By the way, you’re right about getting agents to accept work. It’s impossible.’

  ‘“Impossible is nothing” as they say. Keep going, Eric. They’re not all like him, believe me. Some new books will get across the line – it’s just that you don’t have to be treated like shit while you’re trying.’

  Eric was impressed at these wise words from Dylan. ‘Let’s just say I’ll be taking stock of my future publishing prospects after this conference.’

  Dylan nodded. ‘Don’t waste it, that’s all.’ Then, ‘Listen, I’ll get off, Eric, and stop bugging you.’

  Eric shook his head. ‘You’ve paid for the gala dinner, haven’t you? Why waste it?’

  Having already noted the potential for fun at the pinnacle event of the Write Stuff conference, Dylan was only too happy to stick around. ‘OK – deal. Fancy a pint while we wait? There’s a boozer outside the main gates.’

  It was the best suggestion Eric had heard all weekend.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Despite her renunciation of all things Chapman, Suzie still refused to let herself or the team down by being anything less than professional in her duties. That’s why she found herself anxiously calling Reardon Boyle’s mobile number for the sixth time in an hour. ‘He should be here by now,’ she said to Amy, who was helping herself to coffee and biscuits now that most of the delegates were mid-session.

  ‘Maybe his train is late? There’s plenty of time yet,’ replied the unconcerned assistant. She had her own list of jobs to worry about.

  ‘His train was on time, if he was on it. I checked.’ Suzie bit her lip. ‘I don’t like hassling him with all these calls but I wish he’d bloody well pick up.’

  Amy rolled her eyes. ‘Honestly, Suzie, he’s an author – he’s bound to be a drama queen. He’ll just be wanting to keep us all waiting so he can make an entrance.’

  Suzie recognised that this very probably was the case.

  ‘Does Chapman know he’s not here?’ Amy asked. ‘I suppose that’s the biggest problem – not that this guy is late, but the blue funk Louis will be in if he knows.’

  Suzie pondered. Yes, Amy was bang on there. If Chapman got wind of Reardon’s non-arrival he’d go into meltdown. Good. ‘Actually Amy, I was putting off telling him but he really does need to know, just in case he has to make any contingency plans. Could you go find him and tell him while I try Reardon again?’

  Leaving the afternoon sessions behind to more industrious delegates the two Manchester Chronicle companions crossed the A6 and entered the car park of The Boot and Shoe. As Dylan went to the bar Eric looked around for a table in the beer garden and was surprised to see another conference asylum seeker, this time in the shape of famous author Reardon Boyle, sitting under a giant parasol and taking the top off a pint of Cross Bay Nightfall. Eric had long been an admirer of this iconoclastic literary giant. When Dylan returned with two pints of ice-cold lager Eric whispered to him, ‘See him, over there? He’s the guest speaker tonight. Can we go say hello?’ As Dylan had never met a famous author before he was only too happy to expand his cultural horizons.

  Eric led the way over to where the flannel-suited writer sat perusing the local CAMRA bulletin. ‘Mr Boyle? I’d just like to say how much I’m looking forward to hearing you speak tonight. I’ve been a massive fan of yours ever since The Wrong Heartbeat.’

  Reardon looked up and squinted in the sunshine. ‘Ah – an early convert in that case.’ Gesturing to the two empty seats next to him he invited them to sit down. ‘Please.’

  Eric couldn’t believe his luck. ‘If you’re sure,’ he said, but only after he was safely seated. For Dylan’s benefit he brought him up to speed on whom they were sharing a pew with. ‘Reardon – may I call you Reardon? – is the pre-eminent figure of the British literary scene over the past quarter of a century.’ He turned to Reardon. ‘I’ve grown up with your books, and would go as far as to say I’ve been inspired to write by you. It truly is an honour to meet you.’

  Reardon was tickled pink. He still counted. Dylan, recognising this guy must be a big-hitter, looked suitably impressed. Eric, dazzled at this chance meeting, now remembered his manners. ‘Oh, and this is Dylan. Dylan Dylan to be exact.’

  Reardon’s eyes lit up. ‘Ah, so good they named you twice. Well, with a name like that you must be possessed of the muse. Most Likely You Go Your Way And I’ll Go Mine.’

  Dylan’s face broke into a grin. He was, not surprisingly, somewhat of a Dylanologist himself. ‘More a case of Mixed Up Confusion,’ he replied, self-effacingly. ‘I missed out on the whole writing thing – I work in sales.’

  ‘Ah, but doesn’t His Bobness describe himself as a song and dance man?’ Reardon shot back. ‘In my estimation that equips you perfectly for your current craft.’

  Dylan beamed. He liked this author guy they’d bumped into. Reardon peered at Eric, inviting him to introduce himself. Even more self-consciously than usual the aspiring author said, ‘I’m Eric. Eric Blair.’ He grimaced slightly, almost inviting derision.

  Reardon’s eyes widened at the announcement. ‘Really?’ Eric nodded. ‘Well, in that case, you are blessed. Honoured, in fact, to bear the torch. What better motivation to write than to be swaddled in the blanket of genius?’

  Eric was taken aback. ‘Oh, thank you. Sometimes people, well, they take the mick about my name.’ He looked sideways at Dylan.

  ‘Nonsense,’ boomed Reardon. ‘He that has an ill-name is half-hanged – you don’t have that problem. Wear it, bear it like a trophy, and follow its path.’

  Eric’s breast swelled with pride. Dylan, recognising the grounds of another charge against him, nodded enthusiastically at these stirring words. He’d have to apologise about that later, too.

  Reard
on looked at his phone, which had been buzzing intermittently during the past few minutes, and thrust it back inside his jacket pocket. ‘I deduce from your presence here that the magnetism of the conference has somewhat lost its attraction?’

  Eric didn’t answer immediately. He knew he was truanting but didn’t want to admit that school wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  In the end it was Dylan who explained their absence from the afternoon programme. ‘To be honest, we had a bit of a run-in with one of the speakers, so thought we’d lie low for an hour.’

  Reardon was bemused. ‘Is that so? It appears I’ve misjudged the passion of these conferences. You’re not going to heckle me are you? I’ll have to prepare some rebuttals in that case.’

  Eric jumped in. ‘Oh, no. It was just that this particular agent basically trashed everybody’s work and made us feel about two inches tall. There was an exchange of views shall we say.’

  ‘You have my sympathy, gentlemen,’ Reardon said. ‘Agents are like wasps. It’s hard to fathom what possible practical use these parasites serve but we are told that without them our problems will only multiply. Did this pest have a name?’

  Eric hesitated again. He was uncomfortable naming and shaming any member of the publishing fraternity; surely these people all stuck together and it might rebound on him and Dylan if they were loose-lipped and indiscreet?

  ‘Hugo Lockwood,’ said Dylan. ‘A right pillock.’

  Reardon spat his beer out as he was struck with a coughing fit. As his faced turned red and tears welled in his eyes an alarmed Eric and Dylan looked at each other in panic, unsure what to do. Reardon clutched at his chest as his airways gave the impression they had ceased to function. Just as Eric was looking round to see if the pub was equipped with a defibrillator he realised that the award-winning writer was actually laughing.

  It took Reardon a good minute to regain his composure. ‘Hugo Lockwood? Excoriating people’s work and diminishing them? That’s not the most surprising news I’ve heard today but it’s certainly the funniest.’ He started to cackle again.

  ‘So you know him?’ Eric ventured.

  ‘Know him? He’s my agent,’ stuttered the convulsed author. He composed himself temporarily. ‘Yes, “a right pillock” just about sums him up. I couldn’t have put it any better myself.’

  Relieved that they’d not traduced anyone’s reputation without justification, Eric felt emboldened. ‘If I may say so, Reardon, I wouldn’t have paired you with him.’

  ‘Lesson One for a writing conference – misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows,’ Reardon said as he downed his pint. ‘Now, have we time for another before we join the flock? I’d quite like to try the Sunset Blonde, purely for medicinal purposes, of course.’

  Dylan jumped up to stand the next round. He couldn’t believe that the day was turning out to be so eventful.

  The thought struck Eric that perhaps he shouldn’t be drinking during the afternoon, what with the gala dinner that evening. Then he pinched himself – what was he thinking? He was sharing the company of one of the most important authors in living memory. And Reardon was giving a speech later and he was having another drink. Of course he wasn’t going to skip. ‘Just a half for me, Dylan, please.’

  Amy found Chapman hidden away in a side office, busily putting the finishing touches to his gala dinner speech. He understood how important it was to get the tone right for his announcement about The Write Stuff’s foray into self-publishing territory. Tonight he would be traversing a tightrope suspended between two asymmetric clouds –the cirrus of traditional publishing and the stratocumulus of DIY publication – and there was a long way to fall if he made even the smallest slip. He instinctively knew that his fortunes depended on how well this evening’s announcement was received. If he could engender enthusiasm for the new venture he had effectively created a second income stream. If he’d misjudged, then his current cashflow might start to reduce to a trickle. Normally Chapman would have relished drafting and practising this exercise in obfuscation but today he was finding it hard to concentrate – the spectre of Suzie kept breaking his train of thought. He couldn’t fathom what had got into her. It was obvious that she was being unreasonable and, worse still, trying to back him into a corner. If he didn’t continue to indulge her he feared consequences. But that was tantamount to blackmail – coitus or calamity? OK, they’d had a bit of grown-up fun once or twice – it was hardly an invitation to join the board, was it? They both knew the score so why was she being so bloody-minded now? He’d not liked the way her mood had turned ugly – who knew what a woman in that frame of mind was capable of? If news of their dalliance – yes, dalliance, it was nothing more – became known it would tarnish his reputation and reflect badly on his business – never mind Adele finding out. No, it was just too bloody inconvenient to have this thrown back in his face like this now; inconvenient and unfair.

  ‘Suzie’s asked me to tell you that Reardon Boyle hasn’t turned up yet,’ said Amy.

  Chapman threw up his hands in frustration. Did he have to do everything around here? ‘Well, tell her to call him. I’m sure he won’t be far away.’

  ‘She has, and he’s not answering. She said you might need to make some contingency plans.’

  Chapman stared coldly at his assistant’s assistant. ‘Can you please advise Suzie that I expect her to make contingency plans; that is her job, is it not? Can’t you see that I’m exceptionally busy?’

  Amy shrugged, turned on her heel and left him to it. Not her place to proffer an opinion. She was, however, looking forward to making the rest of the team laugh later that evening when she would recount her role as a shuttle diplomat between the two warring factions.

  Chapman wearily lay down his pen on the desk. Surely Reardon Boyle would turn up? Suzie was playing games. He was very probably already here. But then the image of a packed gala dinner crowd flashed into his mind, hundreds of eager faces all anticipating The Write Stuff’s greatest speaker coup ever. How could he tell them the maestro wasn’t going to be appearing? How could he replace the speaker at this late stage? There was no Plan B. It was sure to lead to disappointment and reflect badly on him, no matter what the reason was for the author’s absence. Well if Reardon wasn’t going to turn out he hoped it was something bloody serious so the delegates wouldn’t bad-mouth the organisers. He sighed and stood up. Come on, Chapman, pull yourself together, he whispered to himself. You’ve faced bigger odds than this growing the business.

  Suzie and Reardon were not going to rain on his parade, not tonight of all nights. His biggest triumph in the history of The Write Stuff. Did Suzie expect him to stop drafting his crucial speech so he could join in a hue and cry over Reardon’s whereabouts? Yes, that was her game. Well, he wasn’t going to rise to the bait. He sat down again and picked up his pen. He had a speech to write. Suzie could bloody well do the job he paid her for.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Emily and Hugo raised their glasses of Sparkling Blanc de Blancs to each other and braced themselves for the evening ahead. Having realised that being sedentary made them sitting ducks for delegate attention they had positioned themselves in the corner of the bar and determined to remain on their feet. ‘It’s a good time-management technique,’ Hugo theorised. ‘Insist on having meetings in someone else’s office and then you can always leave when you want to.’

  The conference pack had helpfully suggested a dress code of ‘glam and gorgeous’ for the gala evening. As the delegates filed in for the complimentary drinks reception the smell of mothballs battled for domination over the fetid air and the deepening scent of eau de perspiration. To combat the stifling heat the catering staff had thrown all the windows open and even positioned fans down the side of one wall. Despite this the room’s thermostat remained firmly stuck on ‘sixth circle of hell’.

  Emily had heard the gossip about Hugo’s altercation
that afternoon. ‘How did your talk go, Hugo?’ she asked innocently, fanning her face with her hand.

  Hugo twitched in a self-righteous way. She bloody well knew. ‘It went very well, I’d say. I engaged them from the outset.’

  ‘Worth the effort, then,’ Emily said. ‘Get any sort of feedback?’

  ‘Yes, as it happens. I had a number of people tell me how much they had learned from my talk.’ Hugo wasn’t giving anything away.

  ‘I heard a malicious rumour you’d had a contretemps with some of the delegates,’ Emily countered. ‘Your troll friends?’

  Hugo blushed, and this time the suffocating heat wasn’t the cause. ‘Rubbish,’ he snorted. ‘Two louts tried to ruin it for everybody but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t manage. I know how to handle that sort.’ He crashed his gears. ‘More importantly, Emily, have you discovered any gold nuggets yet? The primary reason we’re here?’

  The editor looked him firmly in the eye, as if to say ‘we’ll return to that topic later’. She answered his question. ‘As it happens, I have. I could almost take tomorrow off – my mission is accomplished. And you?’

  Hugo beckoned to the waitress carrying a tray of drinks and swapped his empty glass for a full one. Surely Emily was bullshitting? ‘Are you sure it’s not fool’s gold, Em? It’s hard to tell the difference. My pan remains deposit free.’

  Emily knew the agent was rattled, and didn’t know whether to believe her or not, but the truth was she was rather excited at her day’s haul. At the outset of this experiment she had been totally opposed to the idea of unagented writers and highly sceptical about the chance of anything positive turning up. Now she was genuinely looking forward to reporting to Rocket come Monday. Most of what she’d read and seen over the weekend had not been of publishable standard, that was true, but that wasn’t to say there was a shortage of good writing. Far from it. It had been sobering to talk to a succession of aspiring writers, some self-deprecating, some bullish, all of them bursting with desire and hope. It wasn’t their characters, plots, structure or genre that let most of them down – it was just that their books wouldn’t sell commercially, at least not in the quantities required by her behemoth of an employer. Being so close to the chalkface had been humbling for Emily and she was perfectly sincere in her exhortations to delegates not to give up and to think more about who would want to read their books. ‘The book itself is half the battle,’ as she told the majority of those with whom she shared her carefully regulated face-to-face sessions. Being a missionary for the publishing industry wouldn’t have been half as satisfying if she’d not glimpsed some flashes of glitter amid the silt. She’d requested full manuscripts of two books during the day. One she was particularly excited about and couldn’t wait to read; the other she knew was a flier, but offered enough to justify a closer look and would also provide contrast to her top choice. Both novels would, she felt confident, demonstrate to Rocket and her colleagues that she hadn’t lost her touch. She also knew who the eventual winner would be – she, the fielder, had the choice of who to run out and whose wicket to spare. Yes, she was energised and the pleasure she felt at her day’s work was only heightened by Hugo’s steadfast refusal to shed the carefully contrived straitjacket of conservatism he slipped into each morning.