by Paul Carroll
Dylan declared, unilaterally, that another four bottles of Muscadet were in order for the heat-deprived corps gagging around their table. This time Reardon placed a hand over his glass as Dylan attempted to pour. ‘Better not. I’ll sit this one out.’ He patted his jacket pocket to denote the speech he still had to deliver.
‘Sorry,’ said the good-humoured Dylan. ‘Force of habit. Let me pour you some water.’
Reardon gratefully accepted the tumbler of ice-cold water proffered by Dylan and drank it down in one. All of a sudden he was feeling decidedly odd. Must be the damn heat. He wished they’d hurry up so he could do his speech and go and lie down in his room.
Eric had noticed that Reardon had gone quiet over the past ten minutes. ‘Are you alright, Reardon? You look a little pale.’
Reardon held up his hand in acknowledgement of Eric’s concern. ‘Fine, fine, thank you. It’s just a little stuffy in here.’
‘It’s as hot as a docker’s armpit,’ echoed Dylan. ‘I’ve never known it as clammy. A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall.’
Reardon poured himself another tumbler of water and rallied. ‘Rolling Thunder, or Hurricane do you think?’
‘Don’t care as long as there’s Shelter from the Storm,’ Dylan shot back.
As Alyson and Bronte didn’t have the faintest clue what they were talking about, Eric helped them out: ‘Bob Dylan songs’. They were still none the wiser. Con smirked like he’d been in on the exchange all along despite thinking the Voice of a Generation was overrated and not a patch on Jake Bugg.
The coffees were now being poured. Reardon blew his cheeks out. He didn’t know why, but he was starting to feel apprehensive. The thought, ‘Come on, come on, get on with it,’ was streaming through his mind. ‘Concentrate. Keep it together for another half an hour.’
After more food than had been consumed was returned to the kitchen, the room’s expectations rose as the lights were dimmed. At the spotlit lectern Hugo shuffled through his presentation to Chapman, who at least managed to look suitably overcome with emotion as he accepted what appeared to be a bumper gift pack from Etsy. As the applause rang out he managed a full death stare at Suzie for abandoning him. The cow. Then his ears pricked up – Hugo hadn’t finished. A surprise video to mark ten years of The Write Stuff? He didn’t know anything about this. He turned his chair so he was facing the screen.
It started. A celesta picked out a slow and unmistakeable musical signature as an owl flew across the black night to alight on a lamppost.
There were already a few muffled titters of recognition from some members of the audience.
A gravelly voiceover intoned. ‘It takes someone special to make special things happen.’ A distant object on the screen now hurtled towards the viewer while a familiar stolen voice asked, ‘Did you ever make anything happen, anything you couldn’t explain?’ As the far-off image zoomed closer the audience could see it was a boy riding a broomstick. As the frame froze, high above an instantly recognisable, silhouetted building, the audience cackled in delight – the schoolboy’s face, neatly photoshopped, bore the unmistakeable features of Chapman Hall.
Bronte nudged Alyson in the ribs. ‘It’s Harry Potter,’ she squealed with unconcealed joy. Alyson rolled her eyes.
Now the camera was soaring down Diagon Alley, stopping at a sign that read ‘Flourish and Blotts’.
‘That’s the bookshop,’ said Bronte excitedly.
Con sneered. ‘They’re going to get into trouble ripping off the actual films,’ he said. ‘Haven’t they ever heard of copyright infringement?’
Dylan corrected him. ‘No, perfectly OK. Private use – we do it all the time in our presentations.’
The voiceover continued. ‘Back in the old, old days, the book industry was as traditional as goose for Christmas dinner.’ A lightning bolt split the screen. ‘Then one visionary changed it forever.’ A picture of Chapman beneath The Write Stuff logo filled the screen. ‘This man decided that anybody could write a book; he also pledged to help aspiring authors to realise their dreams.’ As the gleeful delegates broke out into spontaneous ovation, another purloined audio clip was heard. ‘You’re a wizard’.
Chapman was dumbfounded. He hadn’t expected this. Instinctively, he grinned and nodded in the right places as he tried to take it all in. He knew Suzie must have arranged the video and as he watched it he wrestled to separate the ‘then’ from the ‘now’ in his relationship with her.
A huge photo album looking like a tome from the Hogwarts library unfolded on-screen; the pages turned of their own volition to ‘Year 1’ and a multitude of images floated out of the album, including the first ever Write Stuff team shot.
‘He’s been at the chip pan since then,’ commented Alyson on the entrepreneur’s all too evident weight gain over the years.
Dylan spotted the young woman stood to Chapman’s right in the picture. ‘That’s Suzie?’ And the penny that should have dropped earlier now tumbled from his consciousness and rolled across the floor. He turned to Eric and said, ‘She and him are shagging, you know.’
Eric tutted. ‘Really, Dylan, you shouldn’t make baseless accusations.’
‘No – honestly,’ he said as both Alyson and Reardon tuned in to this tasty titbit. He put his finger to his lips. ‘I’ll tell you in a minute.’
As the tribute plundered yet more of the Harry Potter soundtrack the story unfolded further. Now a picture of Chapman behind a huge book display appeared. The screen cut to a close-up of A Poisoned Heart and A Twisted Memory. ‘A man who could not only talk the talk, but walk the walk…’ boomed the voiceover.
Dylan’s eyes mirrored those of the owl’s last seen sitting on the lamppost while his mouth gaped opened like the entrance to the Mersey Tunnel. Slowly, the penny he’d just parted company with completed a full 360-degree arc and rolled back to him. ‘Well, the conniving old bastard,’ he whooped as he slapped the table.
Seven pairs of eyes tore themselves away from the screen and locked on Dylan. Years four to ten could take care of themselves. What was Dylan on about?
As the video concluded, with the legend ‘The magic continues…’ Chapman stood to receive the audience’s adulation. The clip had lasted only two-and-a-half minutes but in that brief passage of time he had found himself experiencing a rapid softening towards his inestimable number two. She had done this for him. Had he possibly been too harsh with her, unfeeling even? He tried to catch her eye, to signal to her that they could be friends again. This time she didn’t evade his gaze but stared straight back at him with steely defiance.
One thing at a time, he thought. Now he gestured with downward palms to still the audience. He was once more a giant among men, the visionary. And he still had a vital speech to deliver. ‘What can I say?’ he began. ‘I didn’t know that was coming. Believe me, I’m as surprised as you are.’ He placed his right hand on his heart to demonstrate his deep-felt gratitude and humility. ‘The film, of course, celebrates the past ten years. Tonight, I want to talk to you briefly about the next ten years.’
Hugo looked at his watch and then across at Emily as if to say, ‘We’re going to be here all night.’
Chapman glanced at his cue cards and began. ‘We have always had a very simple business philosophy here at The Write Stuff. We love – we live – to innovate.’
Suzie dug her nails into her palms. It really irritated her that he always used ‘we’ when he really meant ‘I’. He was as big a team player as Cristiano Ronaldo.
‘Our mission is to see our clients, our friends, achieve publication. And we have been most fortunate to have ushered a number of first-time authors towards that particular achievement.’ He paused for acknowledgement, but apparently nobody in the audience had a deal or knew anybody who did. Undaunted, he continued. ‘Earlier this year I had a rather interesting conversation with some aspiring authors. One said he woul
d probably self-publish, and the other said that he would consider that a defeat. When I ventured the opinion that self-publishing was a very valid option, a tremendous opportunity for an author to get work out there, I was accused of being “contradictory”. Why? Because The Write Stuff was all about getting people “properly published ” according to this particular writer.’
‘I was there when they had that conversation,’ Bronte whispered to Alyson. ‘The guy who said it isn’t here this weekend.’
Chapman was reaching full flow. ‘But what is being “properly published”? The discussion got me thinking. I re-read all of our promotional material; I even went back to my original business plan – I couldn’t find it set down anywhere that The Write Stuff was against self-publishing. Our message was consistent and clear.’ He punched his fist into his palm for emphasis. ‘We were pro-publishing, full-stop.’
In the audience, Eric slowly shook his head. He’d heard all of these weasel words a thousand times before, the sincere tone, the phased delivery, the re-writing of history presented as fact. He knew exactly where this was heading as Chapman raised the cover of the memory hole.
‘We’ve just seen on-screen an image of my book, A Poisoned Heart and a Twisted Memory. I’m very proud of it. I was delighted to get a deal for it. But, as I said to that self-publishing naysayer earlier this year, if I hadn’t been fortunate enough to acquire a publishing deal would I just have abandoned my work? Thrown the manuscript, into which I’d poured my very soul, into a drawer to gather dust?’ The answer to his rhetorical question surprised nobody. ‘No. I would have self-published. In an instant.’
Eight faces on Eric’s table exchanged incredulous looks.
‘I enjoyed our whistle-stop journey down memory lane.’ Chapman could busk as well as anyone when he needed to. ‘Ten years, but more like light years so much has changed in the world of publishing.’
‘Here we go,’ thought Eric.
‘We’ve helped many writers to find agents and publishers, and we’ll continue to do so.’ Chapman’s hand covered his heart again. ‘But not everybody finds a deal – we know that. Does that mean that these authors should give up? Abandon their work? Feel that they’ve failed in some way? No, it does not.’
Hugo turned to Emily. ‘Jesus, he’s launching a self-publishing arm…’
‘Which is why, today, I’m exceptionally proud to announce that The Write Stuff is forming a strategic partnership with Wellington, a new self-publishing business. In the future, if your particular journey doesn’t end with a traditional publisher, we’ll be there to show you another way.’ He made a chopping action with his right hand as he punched home the message. ‘We won’t abandon you at the crossroads.’
Chapman stepped back half a pace in order to invite the audience to show their appreciation, and it was clear that his words had impressed more people than they had offended.
Suzie watched her boss milk the applause. Not all wizards were good. He was no Harry Potter; he was Lord Voldemort. She returned his death stare from earlier and under the cover of her napkin pointed an imaginary wand in his direction while muttering a muted incantation. Expelliarmus.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
A volley of disconnected words boomed over the speakers – pleasure, award-winning, literary giant, Wrong Heartbeat, welcome – informing Reardon it was time. He was on. As he slowly raised himself from his seat, a voice – he didn’t know whose – bade him ‘break a leg’. As his lower limbs already appeared to be struggling to bear his weight he wasn’t sure he hadn’t. He gripped the edge of the table, took a deep breath and launched himself in the direction of the stage, hugging an imaginary straight line strung between his seat and the illuminated lectern. He was aware of applause as he urged himself forward. Come on, come on; let’s get this over with.
Eric’s gaze followed the author as he manouvered towards the raised dais – he imagined people had skipped to the gallows with more brio. He tried to attract Dylan’s attention to see if he, too, had noticed Reardon’s sudden torpor, but the sales supremo was busily engaged in making Alyson and Bronte laugh at one of his jokes. Eric turned back to the stage, a sense of foreboding descending on his hitherto jolly mood.
Reardon appeared to have aged ten years from the afternoon, from an hour ago even, when he’d been so light-hearted and engaging. As the author gingerly ascended the low platform he turned to face the audience but instead found himself looking straight into a blinding spotlight levelled at his eye line. He raised his hand to shield his eyes. Suzie, noting his discomfiture, remained firmly fixed in her seat. The author looked down at the lectern to avoid the glare and his hand moved to his pocket for his speech. A comic dumb show now ensued as Reardon tried each pocket of his suit for the five A4 sheets bearing his succession of bullet points, all carefully written in large, bold, black capital letters so he would be able to read them without difficulty. Chapman, taking in Reardon’s abstraction from his ringside seat, forced himself to catch his assistant’s eye and gesticulated urgently in the speaker’s direction with an unmistakeable ‘do something’ appeal. Suzie guessed immediately that Reardon’s speech was in his overnight bag. The one she’d locked in the office when Reardon had turned up with 20 minutes to go. She smiled back at her employer and calmly raised her coffee cup to her lips.
A hush of anticipation fell on the audience as they realised that Reardon and his notes had somehow parted. All eyes were fixed on the brightly-lit spot insulating this hesitant figure from the encircling void of darkness. A trickle of sweat rolled down Reardon’s forehead. God, it was hot. He looked for a glass of water and saw that there wasn’t any to hand – the small side table next to the lectern remained empty. Suzie knew immediately what he was searching for and felt a momentary twinge of guilt over her wilful neglect. Some of the delegates were now beginning to feel uneasy at the extended hiatus. Others, more worldly, wondered if Reardon was employing a bold oratorical device to ensure everybody in the room was fixed on his opening words.
Thoughts raced through the author’s mind. He felt unwell. Feverish. Disorientated. He’d not eaten. He’d been drinking, but surely not enough to feel this bad? Belinda’s words – are you sure you should be? – echoed deep within his consciousness. Why was that, again? He didn’t want to be here. His notes – gone. Think. St Paul. Damascus. Yes, that was it.
He placed a hand on each side of the lectern and drew himself up. ‘Writing cannot be taught,’ he said finally with slow deliberation. ‘That may come as news to some of you here.’ Unencumbered with notes and the need to read them, Reardon was now peering down at the front row tables to avoid the glare of the spotlight. His furrowed brows lent him a sinister aspect as his head shot maniacally from side to side. ‘I have been offered a lot of money to pretend it can. To tell you it can. Be taught, that is. But do you know what?’ The audience held their breath. ‘That’s bollocks.’ Laughter erupted in small pockets across the room.
Now Dylan picked up on Eric’s sense of apprehension. ‘What’s wrong with him?’ he said in a low, urgent, voice. ‘He was all right before he went on.’ Eric slowly shook his head. What was wrong with him? He’d been drinking but not enough to make him appear as if he’d just ingested a horse tranquiliser.
‘So how come I’m now the Professor of Creative Writing at Edward VIII University? I’ll tell you.’ Like a newly-launched ship whose bows had been smacked with a bottle of champagne, Reardon gathered speed as he slipped down the runway. ‘When I told my agent – that’s him over there, by the way, the shifty-looking one with the glasses – that writing couldn’t be taught, he said “nonsense”.’ Hugo squirmed as 300 pairs of eyes switched to his side of the net before swinging back to Reardon’s end of the court. ‘He pointed out something that I’d overlooked in all of this.’ He uncertainly held up a finger in front of his face. ‘One. I’ve just been dropped by my publisher – that’s my ex-editor sitting next to
my agent by the way.’ He waved over in their general direction.
A gasp escaped from the floor at Reardon’s revelation. His publisher had dropped him? Chapman clenched his fists under the table to mask his fury. His assistant had booked this busted flush? Suzie wore an expression of genuine surprise – she’d not known that. It was getting better as it went along.
‘So, I was a beggar, not a chooser.’ Now Reardon shot two fingers into the air, Agincourt style. ‘Secondly, being surplus to requirements, I still had to find a new publisher. Or rather, my agent had to find one, but as he’s about as much use as an Elastoplast on cancer I had to assume that I might be in between engagements for some time.’
Hugo closed his eyes and bent his head, but it was no use – he was still visible to everybody in the room. At the same time, Emily experienced a baleful sense of regret – not for herself, but for her former client.
‘So, three.’ Now Reardon waggled three digits in the spotlight. ‘And this was – what was the expression? – the no-brainer, the clincher. If I didn’t sell myself out and take it, somebody else would. So what would you have done?’
The feeling of unease in the room could have been cut into slices, wrapped in Icarus-themed napkins and placed in party bags to be transported home. As Reardon’s eyes slid from left to right looking for an answer to his rhetorical question an enormous crack of thunder broke the silence. ‘Exactly,’ said Reardon. ‘Exactly.’ Strangely, despite his drowsiness, he experienced a compelling compulsion to say more. It struck him as being important to say more, vital to address what he had been suppressing for months. ‘I have been bought. I’m not proud of that, I confess.’ He held up his hands in surrender. ‘I can’t make any one of you here a better writer. Sorry if you thought I could.’
