Written Off

by Paul Carroll

  ‘Well, Hugo,’ she said, ‘you’ll have to call at Mappin & Webb on the way home. You wouldn’t want to go back empty-handed after all of this, would you?’

  Hugo grimaced. At that moment, a mild hubbub erupted at the other side of the room. As he looked over he saw the unmistakeable lean and lanky frame of Reardon Boyle being escorted through the reception by the indomitable Suzie. As she steered him through the crowd towards the dining room he noticed his client appeared to have acquired the protection of two bodyguards – the two cretins from this afternoon’s talk. What the hell was going on?

  On reaching the empty dining room Suzie turned to Eric and Dylan. ‘Do you mind? Delegates aren’t allowed in for another 15 minutes and I need to brief Mr Boyle.’

  Reardon threw his arms around the shoulders of his new friends and boomed, ‘No, no, young lady.’ He gestured at the troops nobly mustered this St Crispin’s Day. ‘We few, we happy few, we band of brothers, shall not be parted.’

  Suzie bit back her annoyance. Time was short. ‘All right. But I do need to tell you the plan for the evening.’

  ‘By all means,’ said Reardon, swaying slightly.

  ‘The delegates will be let through at seven. You’re sitting on the top table with Chapman, and we’ve also put your agent and editor on there. It’s not a top table as such, it’s round, but it’s next to the stage. The rest of the seating is unreserved,’ said Suzie, as if she was on a Ryanair flight pointing out where the exits were and how to don a life jacket. ‘There’s a three-course dinner and then there’s a presentation to Chapman to celebrate ten years of The Write Stuff. He knows that’s coming but he doesn’t know about the surprise video we’re going to show at that point. Then he’ll say a few words, and then you’re on. Chapman will introduce you. We’d like you to keep it to 15 minutes if possible?’ Reardon sat down heavily as if they’d just hit turbulence. ‘Or ten minutes if that’s better for you,’ she added. ‘Anyway, whatever you think. OK. That’s it. Any questions?’

  ‘Is there a bar in here or do we have to go back out there?’ asked Dylan.

  ‘The bar in here opens in ten minutes,’ replied Suzie, just pulling herself back from adding ‘if you can wait that long.’

  When, earlier, Amy had reported back to camp following her mission to Chapman, she hadn’t exactly softened the tone or thrust of the self-help supremo’s words. Suzie simply said, ‘very well,’ and then spent the next hour and a half playing Scrabble on her iPad. She’d make sure Chapman crumbled first. When, much to her surprise, Reardon did turn up at conference she’d been slightly disappointed that Chapman had somehow prevailed in the argument that they weren’t really having. Now, however, she couldn’t help but notice that the august author, this leviathan of literary luminescence, was acting rather strangely. Was he pissed? He certainly gave that impression. Slowly, the implications of this inferred intemperance began to dawn on her. So Chapman thought he’d won, did he? It would be interesting to see how he handled this. She flashed her brightest smile at Reardon and his accomplices. ‘I do apologise. Now the briefing is out of the way can I get any of you gentlemen a drink from the bar? I’ll make them open up early for you.’

  As Alyson and Bronte sprang from the starting blocks on the starter’s pistol to be first into the dining room they were surprised to see Eric and Dylan already seated dead centre of the room. Dylan beckoned them over.

  Alyson squealed with delight as she raced over. ‘Good work, boys. How did you manage to sneak in?’

  ‘Friends in high places, Alyson. It’s all a question of who you know.’

  At that moment a tall, grey-haired gentleman clad in a crumpled beige suit appeared. ‘The Americanisation of our language continues unabated,’ he said as he sat down next to Eric. ‘I have just been directed to the rest room.’

  Eric looked slightly taken aback. ‘I thought you had to sit up front, Reardon? Won’t you get in trouble sitting with us?’

  The newcomer laughed. ‘Just let them try. I have no desire to grace their self-appointed Mount Olympus, especially with my agent up there. I’m perfectly happy here,’ he said. ‘As long as you are?’

  Eric couldn’t believe their luck. ‘Happy? We’re delighted.’

  Dylan nodded enthusiastically. ‘Introductions. Alyson, Bronte – Reardon Boyle, our guest speaker for tonight.’

  ‘Charmed, ladies,’ oozed Reardon, with a gracious bow in their direction. Alyson and Bronte giggled in their bewilderment. Was this really happening?

  In the controlled explosion of table selection that was taking place around them Bronte spotted Con weighing up his options. Now he was elevated to author class he had promised himself a different set of tablemates for the evening. At least an agent, a publisher or one of the organisers. He didn’t want to sit with the same people as yesterday – they weren’t going anywhere, certainly not on the journey he was now embarked upon. Caught in the headlights of Bronte’s smile and summoning wave, he froze. Around him, options were disappearing as seats were sequestered faster than jurors at the OJ Simpson trial. With a resigned shrug and an unconvincing smirk Con trudged forward to take his place.

  At the business end of the room The Write Stuff table found itself in some disarray. Chapman had arrived late having just finished drafting his speech while Hugo and Emily were quizzing Suzie as to Reardon’s whereabouts. She pointed out the author and said loudly, for her boss’s benefit, ‘It looks like he prefers to sit with the delegates. That’s very democratic of him, isn’t it?’

  Chapman, torn between being denied a VIP tablemate and having to address Suzie directly, harrumphed his irritation. She called her assistant over. ‘Amy, would you go and sit on that table over there and make sure Mr Boyle has everything he needs? It’s rather sweet of him to want to sit with the normal people, isn’t it?’ Amy filed away this development to add to her grand anecdote for later, which she could see was getting better by the minute.

  Just before dinner Suzie had deftly switched the place cards on their table, the only one with a ‘reserved’ sign on it, removing Reardon and Amy’s names. She now sat three to the left of Chapman instead of on his right-hand side leaving her boss with an empty seat on each side of him. To fill the gaps Suzie flagged down two dilatory delegates and invited them to complete their table. Chapman’s expression at this liberty suggested that when it came to egalitarian gestures he tended more towards General Pinochet than Mother Teresa.

  The tidal wave now having reached the extent of its bore, the crowd settled. Everybody was seated and they peered around wondering how they’d come to be washed up with whatever flotsam and jetsam surrounded them. The dinner could begin.

  ‘I don’t know whether to be pleased or insulted,’ moaned Hugo to Emily under his breath. He was staring at Reardon, sitting some 20 yards away, surrounded by a welter of wannabes. ‘I don’t get why he’s down there with them. He hates mingling with his readership, even at signings.’ Emily followed Hugo’s stare and had to admit that the author’s behaviour was atypical. The agent continued to be nonplussed. ‘I mean, he even looks like he’s enjoying himself. What’s got into him?’

  Even at this distance it was clear that Reardon was animated, smiling and giving every impression of being at one with the world. ‘Well, good for him,’ said Emily. ‘He’s certainly lightened up since the last time I saw him.’

  Hugo looked dubious. ‘Can’t say that’s been my experience.’

  ‘Well, there you go,’ said Emily, the target too big to miss. ‘Obviously, you’re the problem then.’

  Hugo shook his head. ‘Look,’ he pointed. ‘Look there. He’s drinking wine. Before a speech? That’s not Reardon.’

  ‘Well, it’s hot, isn’t it? One glass won’t kill him.’

  ‘No, but he’s never done that before. He’s very disciplined usually.’

  ‘God, Hugo, you almost sound as if you
care,’ said Emily. ‘Has the heat got to you or have you had a compassion injection you didn’t tell me about?’

  ‘I’m just saying, that’s all. Very odd. Very odd indeed.’

  Dylan had assumed the role of master of ceremonies on the usurpers’ table. Everybody was now introduced, a warm welcome had been extended to their VIP guest, and four bottles of benumbed Muscadet nestled in the ice bucket in the centre of the table. Dylan was as naturally hospitable as only a man on expenses can be but even he couldn’t spot a more expensive wine on the carte du vin. Con, who minutes earlier thought he’d contracted an STD now discovered the doctor had made a mistake – it was somebody else’s sample. He’d never read any Reardon Boyle and had airily criticised the author’s inclusion in the programme to Rosie – ‘a has-been and a never-was’; now he was a convert. Even better as far as Con was concerned was the presence on the table of Amy and her sidekick, Paula, who had pushed two land-grabbing grannies off the table with a quick flash of their organisers lapel badges so they could take their places. Well, this was certainly a bit more open and inclusive than Friday night, he thought.

  The salmon mousse starters, set at table an hour before, curled before them in the stultifying heat, challenging the diners to a game of E-Coli roulette. The guests pushed the plates aside in favour of the wine, the chilled melon grape providing marginal comfort against the rising room temperature.

  Eric was keen to ensure that the level of conversation at their table was pitched at an intellectual level befitting their esteemed guest. With all the clockwork clunk of a chat show host he wound himself up. ‘I read somewhere that Dan Brown likes to hang upside down in gravity boots when he’s writing. Do you have any particular habits you adhere to when you’re working, Reardon?’

  The author pondered for a moment. ‘Are you sure that wasn’t Bram Stoker?’ Nobody got his little joke, so he continued. ‘I was unaware of Mr Brown’s writing quirk but the revelation does explain quite a lot. Perhaps his books should be read in the same manner? I myself am a creature of habit. I like to be at my desk for 9am and write until 1pm. I take lunch for an hour and then write from 2pm until 5pm. I take weekends off.’

  Seven heads around the table bobbed in acknowledgement. ‘So you subscribe to Auden’s diktat that routine, in an intelligent man, is a sign of ambition?’ Eric said, taking his interviewer duties rather too seriously.

  Con chipped in. ‘Victor Hugo wrote in the nude apparently. And Lewis Carroll and Ernest Hemingway standing up.’

  ‘And Truman Capote wrote lying down,’ Reardon said. ‘Each to their own.’

  ‘Do you turn your email and internet off when you’re writing?’ asked Bronte. ‘It’s very distracting, I find.’

  ‘I never turn it on, so it’s hardly a problem,’ said Reardon. ‘I do, however, wear earplugs. No music, just earplugs to eliminate extraneous sound.’

  Con, who normally listened to drone ambient while writing, had a further question. ‘And how do you break writer’s block, Reardon? That must be the biggest challenge facing an author?’

  Reardon pulled a face. ‘Writer’s block is a psychosomatic affliction. Pullman nails this very neatly, I think, when he asks if plumbers get plumber’s block? Of course they don’t.’

  Con tossed a half-recollected factoid into the conversation. ‘I read somewhere about an author who masturbated to get rid of writer’s block.’

  Alyson looked from face to face trying to gauge their reaction. At least she shared one authorial habit with the great and the good.

  ‘Are you sure that wasn’t a reference to Will Self?’ said Reardon. ‘He has been called an onanist by many people, but they may not necessarily have been referring to his techniques for summoning the muse.’

  Eric coughed and tried to change tack. ‘I believe you’ve just taken up a post at Edward VIII, Reardon?’

  The creative writing professor held up a finger. ‘Ah, very true. But you mustn’t prefigure my speech, Eric.’

  Eric held up his hands in apology. Mariella Frostrup might be able to make artful conversation sound effortless but this interlocutory stuff was a lot more difficult than it first appeared.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Chapman Hall was not a happy man. As he gnawed his tasteless, stringy lamb he felt the appetite for everything he held dear slipping away. This conference, taking place in The Write Stuff’s tenth year, was supposed to be his crowning glory yet he divined it was coming apart at the seams. He could hardly bear to look at Suzie; she’d not only deserted him, she’d mutinied too, drawing her Fletcher Christian up against his Captain Bligh. Betrayal is the only truth that sticks he muttered to himself as he mopped up the last of his gravy with his mashed potatoes. As mad as he was at Suzie, at the same time he felt angry and frustrated that there was no one on hand to do his bidding, especially with Amy having been despatched to the farthest post of the empire. And as for Reardon Boyle, well he’d not even paid him the common courtesy of a greeting, never mind his refusal to sit with them. Who did the author think he was?

  The entrepreneur’s mood was hardly improved by the intentness of the two delegates seated next to him. Would they ever stop going on about how wonderful it was to be invited to join his table? Well, welcome to the captain’s table. On board HMS Bounty. As he attacked his Strawberry Pavlova, Chapman caught Suzie giving him a furtive look. He bristled. He didn’t need her. He didn’t need anybody. Had he not built up his business singlehandedly through his own efforts? He wasn’t going to be derailed now. He felt in his breast pocket for the reassuring shape of the cue cards bearing his speech to conference. Yes, this is what it was all about. Dazzling the delegates with the possibilities of the future, the turnkey services that only he could provide. Reinforcing everything The Write Stuff stood for, and now with added extras. Nothing would spoil his flow tonight. He was invincible. He smiled broadly at the two delegates between whom he was seated. ‘Do tell me,’ he gushed, ‘is this your first conference?’

  Suzie was keeping a careful eye on proceedings in between exchanging pleasantries with Hugo and Emily. The table occupied by Reardon and his chums was buzzing with merriment (in marked contrast to the rest of the tables, it must be said). She noted that Reardon had already drunk two glasses of chilled white wine. It was hard to tell if they were full measures as the man with the Etch-a-Sketch eyebrows kept topping up everyone’s glasses; whatever, it was hardly the best preparation for addressing an audience of 300 people. She stole occasional glances in Chapman’s direction – he looked as happy as Paul McCartney after four years of marriage to Heather Mills. She had the perfect grandstand position to monitor Chapman’s face when Reardon took to the lectern – surely the addled author would only add to her boss’s woes?

  She turned to Hugo. ‘I wonder if I could ask you a big favour?’ The agent looked at her suspiciously. ‘We have a small presentation for Chapman to mark ten years of The Write Stuff and I though it would be really lovely if you could do the honours?’ Suzie had planned to undertake this task herself but wasn’t going to give her boss the satisfaction after the way he’d treated her.

  Hugo flashed her his ‘Do I have to?’ look. Suzie ignored this and took his grimace as an acceptance. ‘That’s brilliant, thanks. You don’t really have to say anything except that you’re pleased to mark the anniversary by presenting the founder with a few well-chosen items.’

  ‘What am I giving him?’

  ‘It’s all gift-wrapped in a box under the table. It’s a number of book-themed presents we’ve picked out. There’s a personalised library embosser, a scented candle that smells like old books, an iPad case with the cover of The Book Thief screened on it. Stuff like that.’

  ‘The Book Thief?’

  ‘Yes – it was top of the bestsellers charts the month he launched.’

  Hugo blinked back his distaste at the type of tat you’d normally find being doled
out in the office Secret Santa. ‘OK, I’ll do it,’ he said, non too graciously.

  Suzie hadn’t finished. ‘Oh – and then it’s just a question of introducing the special anniversary video, which Chapman doesn’t know anything about.’

  Hugo wondered if he should scribble this brief down on a piece of paper. How many other things was she going to land on him? ‘Right,’ he grunted.

  Suzie had thought long and hard over the film clip during the past two hours. She’d been foolish to lavish so much care and attention on it – he didn’t bloody deserve it. But there was no way she could sabotage it at this late hour. She’d thought of excuses for canning it – after all, he didn’t know about it – but the rest of the staff were aware the surprise was going to be sprung and it would be just too obvious to pull it now. No, it would have to run, which was a bloody shame.