My Biggest Lie

by Luke Brown

  And with her marvellous, instinctive gift for a change of subject I was led around for the next twenty minutes, pitching my entirely fictional novel (in the worst way, in being unstarted) to editors, many of whom were friends of mine. This was excruciating, for there are few things more undignified than an editor who writes.

  I should explain that, in general, we hated writers. Awful people. Scavengers. Needy little vultures, picking around in creative writing classes, sending in expenses for dinners they had eaten on different dates and in different cities to the events they had not turned up for. Fine artists, the lot of them, experts in cover art. Parasites. Imperiously rude and/or sleazy to editorial assistants. Lazy readers of their own work. Hungry bastards. Reviewers of their friends. Reviewers of their rivals. Making young women cry. Making them sick. Making advances. Not earning advances. Making them pregnant. Making line graphs of Amazon rankings. Sending you these line graphs. Seeking plot and motive in them instead of their own flimsy storylines and characters. Accidentally ccing you into correspondence berating you to another needy little vulture. Being ‘glad, in some way, that this mistake happened’. Never more than a metre away from the booze table at a book party. Obsequious chairs of literary events until the sixth drink in the follow-up dinner. Quoters of Goethe and Schiller. Owners of The Mammoth Book of German Aphorisms. Twitterers. Shitheads. Carrion-pickers. Slobs. Sociopaths. Laptop-dogs. Wolfes. Woolfs. Carvers. Lushes. Lishs. Gougers. Hacks. Mice. Lice. Writers, they were the worst, the most awful, we pitied them but loathed them more; because if it wasn’t for them, the job really would be a pleasure.

  My confrères listened to me with suppressed amusement. They had all seen me arrive with Craig Bennett and were polite enough to skip over my pitch completely and ask me the same set of questions when it was over.

  ‘So, is it true Cockburn was screaming for mercy?’

  ‘And the window wasn’t even open, I heard!’

  ‘Well, someone told me he was holding him by his shirt collars, just, y’know, to shake him up, and the fabric just ripped – he hadn’t actually meant to drop him.’

  ‘Yah. Apparently there’s a whole chapter missing they didn’t print and he’d only just noticed. A whole chapter. If that was me, someone would definitely have gone through the window. Who can blame him?’

  ‘Someone said to me it was actually Nick Cave who pushed him.’

  ‘Really, because I’d heard it was Bret Easton Ellis.’

  ‘No, no, it was F. Scott Fitzgerald,’ I said, and fled to the bathroom, bumping straight into Bennett in the corridor heading the same way with his publicist in pursuit. Amanda glared hard at me as I pushed the door open and went in.

  ‘Thank God, I thought she was going to follow us in for a minute,’ he said.

  ‘Shall we?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said and we ducked in together to the free cubicle.

  We had conspicuously avoided the subject so far (I had been advised not to bring it up) but I had been made giddy by the speculation outside, and I couldn’t resist asking him any longer. ‘So, go on then, what did happen with you and James?’

  He paused and shot me a disappointed look. I’d said it gleefully.

  ‘From the tone of your voice, I think you’d like to believe I pushed him out. Imagine if I had done that – what an appalling thing to do. Is that what you think of me, Liam? You sound like you wish I was that man, like you wish I was indecent. Is that how little you think of James?’

  He delivered this soliloquy turning between the cistern and me, gazing into my face then back and with economical movements setting out two large lines.

  ‘I’m sorry, I was being glib,’ I said. ‘I would much prefer you to be decent.’

  He finished rolling up a note and pointed it towards the cistern. ‘And this – is this compatible with decency?’

  I searched for a truism to excuse our behaviour but came up short. ‘No, it’s really not.’

  He leaned over and snapped up his line. ‘Of course it isn’t, and if you’re going to behave in a certain manner it is important to name it correctly – or else how will you recognise and resist it one day?’

  He passed me the note. He had still not told me what happened with him and Cockburn. ‘To decency,’ he said.

  ‘To decency,’ I repeated, and leaned over.

  Chapter 5

  ‘You like drugs?’ interrupted Arturo.

  ‘He loves drugs,’ said Lizzie quickly, and I wondered how she knew before I realised she was talking about Arturo.

  ‘I used to like drugs,’ I said. ‘But I don’t take them any more.’

  ‘Why no?’ asked Arturo.

  That was the easiest and hardest question in the world to answer. Because drugs made me so hungry and irresponsible. Because that was the best thing about them.

  Bennett and I exited the toilets together to a welcoming party comprising Amanda, Belinda and Suzy. They scrutinised us and in the surge of enthusiasm the coke had inspired it felt like being caught doing something heroically wrong at school. Bennett roared with approval at the sight of them while I tried to keep a straight face. I’d examined myself in the mirror and given my face a good rub to eliminate any stray traces of powder, but under the test of those three meticulous and knowing gazes I felt transparent. When I looked over at Bennett I could see a smudge of white on the tip of his nose.

  ‘Craig,’ said Belinda. ‘I’m so glad you’re getting looked after so well by Liam. Now, could I impose on you for just a few more minutes? There’s a very attractive and also quite important supermarket buyer whom I’m sure you’d love to meet.’

  ‘I can’t promise I’ll fall in love with her,’ said Bennett.

  ‘I promise you won’t want to marry her,’ I said, and all three women turned to look at me as though I had made a racist joke: this despite Belinda having last described the woman in question to me as ‘that half-price desperada cunt’.

  I had been becoming someone else for quite a while, or someones, but that was the day when it became clear to me that I had chosen a role that did not become me, that was pushing the people around me into roles that did not become them. I liked these women. They were clever and sophisticated and knew far more than me about almost everything. I had wanted to be their colleague, learn from them, assist them. But as I lost my equilibrium we lost our common ground and could see each other only as cut-outs: the brash, know-nothing fool; the cold, unfeeling bitches from hell. By acting as one of these I had forced them to act as the other.

  Bennett read their animosity correctly and tried to come to my rescue. ‘Thanks for setting me up with Liam, by the way. He’s been a good companion.’

  But he was already being walked away by Belinda and Suzy, leaving me alone with Amanda. ‘You realise, I presume, that we have not taken that as a ringing endorsement?’ She made to walk away and then turned round again. ‘What has gone on? All that earnest bullshit when you joined – commitment to editorial development, championing voices from outside the mainstream, blah, blah, blah. We all thought you were boring. We thought you were safe hands. He’s got a huge rim of coke under his nose, and you’re obviously fucked too. Jesus, you’re not the only ones,’ she said, looking around her. ‘But earlier I told you quite clearly that he had a heart condition. Can I strongly suggest you do everything you can to try to remedy this situation?’ She shook her head in disgust and walked away.

  That was a shock. Had I been told about a heart condition? Not by her, I was sure. But then she had spoken a lot of words to me that afternoon when she arrived at my table to brief me; had they all contained meaning? If so, she should have said. My head had been full of Sarah and now I felt awful. Bennett still had the coke. I would have to get it off him and lose it. Or say I’d lost it. I’m very much my mother’s boy; I may be susceptible to guilt but I abhor waste. I thought Amanda was probably exaggerating or lying to cover herself, but I decided I had best be safe. I stepped off the corridor into the room where the dan
ce floor had got going. It was entirely made up of young women. I recognised a couple who’d started with us recently; I had no idea who the others were. The women looked so lovely there, dancing with each other, un-protective and slightly embarrassed, like they were at a children’s birthday party. And then we began to arrive, the men. The DJ was the publisher of Sweden’s most hip literary imprint: he had put on ‘1999’ by Prince and was celebrating by jumping up and down behind the decks with his hands in the air. I looked around for Craig and got sadder about Sarah. And the older people arrived on the dance floor, the publishing legends, the members-club raconteurs, the eccentrics and the elegant, the sharks and the chic and the scouts and the Indians and the auctioneers and the earnest-faced editors-who-really-edit, the recently-fired and recently-promoted, the recently dry and the recently high, the rehabbed, reformed, retweeted. It didn’t usually feel this febrile and poignant to me; perhaps it was the lyrics about ignoring the impending apocalypse. The way the book industry was about to change, we might all be out of a job in five years. But my friends were facing the prospect with courage and so I stopped feeling so sad for a second before I realised who I was missing from the centre of the floor: James Cockburn.

  Cockburn and I had become friends at various ceremonies and private-members clubs during the two years when the books I published from Birmingham were winning prizes. A hedonist easily recognises another hedonist, often in the queue for a toilet cubicle, and as we were both from the North, lads in a feminine industry, we became friends quickly. At book fairs he’d introduce me to the funniest and drunkest of the foreign editors and agents. I don’t believe European women are naturally more alluring than British, but at the time their accented English and the fact I hadn’t met any before made them seem so. As men we were outnumbered and popular, despite the limitations of our looks and characters. I won’t pretend I didn’t enjoy it, that it didn’t give me an impression of my attractiveness and charm I could never have believed in as a teenager; but I was in the first glorious wave of love with Sarah and never did more than flirt. James was more used to it than me, more adapted: he felt entitled to his luck and whatever else he wanted. He had made a myth and come to rely on it for his place in this world. He had to keep creating stories for people to tell about him at book fairs; he was the notorious James Cockburn, outlaw publisher. I knew he loved this role, but I also saw how it trapped him. He was frequently in trouble with Belinda because of it, but it was also this persona that allowed him to do his job the way he did it. He was the ideal editor for a writer like Craig Bennett, and they were the very worst influences on each other.

  What was certain was that there was no room for two James Cockburns in our office, and that Belinda wouldn’t hesitate to sack me for similar behaviour. For both our sakes, I needed to separate that coke from Bennett – but now he was trapped between Belinda and the producer of a TV book club. As I moved closer he saw me and shouted over, ‘Liam! Cocktails! Three mojitos!’

  ‘Oh, I don’t like rum,’ said the TV producer.

  ‘And, of course, whatever the ladies want.’

  Belinda looked hard at me. I betrayed Bennett rather than her, coming back with only one mojito and some wine for the women. Belinda was gesticulating to the TV book producer as I handed them their bowls of white, and it gave me the chance to talk under my breath to Bennett. ‘Do you mind if I do a line while you’re engaged with these?’ I asked. I wasn’t going to mention what Amanda had told me, but I had to correct the mistake I’d made when I’d offered him a line at dinner. I’d have an accident and drop the lot in the toilet.

  ‘Of course I do,’ he said. ‘I’ll come with. Belinda! We’re just going for a fag,’ he called to her, ushering me away with a hand on the small of my back. He propelled me down the corridor towards the smoking balcony. I caught a glance of Belinda’s face as I was pulled in a swift right angle into the toilet.

  Again, I was bundled into a cubicle, and there, finally, I had to confront him. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Craig, I can’t allow you to do that. Amanda’s told me about your heart condition.’

  He looked over his shoulder at me from where he had placed his wallet on the top of the cistern.

  ‘I feel awful for setting us off on this path tonight, but I can at least get us off it,’ I went on.

  He shook his head at me and went on doing what he was doing, opening the wrap and shaking coke out onto the surface.

  ‘Seriously, please give it here,’ I said. ‘I can’t be responsible for something else awful. And I really like you too.’

  ‘I do not have a fucking heart condition,’ he said, not looking my way. ‘Unless maybe heartlessness.’

  ‘Come on, that’s not you. You’ve got too much heart. Let’s look after it.’

  ‘What do you fucking know about it?’ he said, rounding on me. ‘It’s not what they say in articles about me, is it? I’m “wantonly cruel”, “animated by spite and distrust”.’

  ‘Journalists, mate. I don’t recognise that picture, and no one could from your books.’

  ‘And I don’t recognise whatever picture Amanda gave you. Look at me: I’m too young to have a heart attack.’

  I was looking at him. He was red-faced and dry-lipped, licking around his teeth.

  ‘They’d say anything!’ he carried on. ‘They do anything to make you do what they tell you to!’

  ‘But let’s not now, hey? We’ll save it up for later.’ I heard my voice as though it was someone else’s. I had the forced tone of an HR assistant who’d just come back from a ‘persuasiveness’ ‘workshop’. I knew I’d got it wrong.

  Craig held me by the shoulders. ‘I like you,’ he said, ‘because you were honest with me. You didn’t flatter me. You told me about yourself and let me talk to you. Simple qualities, found in many places, but not always here. But I am free to do what I want to do, and you are not responsible for my actions. We hardly know each other. We don’t know each other at all. I absolve you of any responsibility. I will not listen to you. There is nothing wrong with my heart and I intend to do a line of cocaine right now. You may join me if you like.’

  Although his words were robust, they no longer sounded true. It was a performance without point, playing the version of himself he’d tried to disown to me earlier. I think I could have spoken to the man behind the face, if I had really wanted to. In fact, I’m sure I could. And it is this that makes it unforgivable that I accepted the line he offered and charged out of the toilets, past Belinda’s stare and onto the dance floor, where I twirled around and poured my drink on the feet of a pretty editorial assistant, whose number I found later in my BlackBerry, ‘girl with wet feet’. I would like to say I deleted it and that I haven’t thought about calling it since. I would like to say much about myself that I cannot. There is something wrong with my heart too.

  Chapter 6

  Lizzie sniggered. I had been hamming it up a bit. Arturo looked at her with an appalled expression.

  ‘Lizzie, there is something wrong with his heart!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Liam,’ Lizzie said. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your heart.’

  We looked at each other then, and I smiled back. I couldn’t help myself. I really liked the woman. She had a forgiving smile: I know you are ridiculous, but I like the way in which you are ridiculous.

  ‘I didn’t mean that literally,’ I said to Arturo. ‘I was exaggerating too.’ And in an instant his wide, innocent eyes narrowed and a sly grin cut through the concern he had affected. ‘I know, Liam,’ he said, and laughed, and I realised I had made two friends.

  The party in Kensal Green came to a sudden end at two, far too early for my liking and the other guests with ‘stamina’. As we queued for taxis, we gravitated towards each other, all asking the same thing: ‘Where now?’ There was a gang of about twelve of us, editors and agents, buyers for book chains. The assistants and the marketing and publicity people would have to go to work in the office tomorrow, and while it was possible to work at a book fair af
ter only two hours’ sleep and enough booze that you were still drunk at lunch – was in fact something to boast of in your half-hourly meetings – your wild eyes and slurred speech would be more noticable in the office. Fergus the actor was still here with his two friends. We waited for Bennett to appear. When he did, he was surrounded in a triangle by Amanda, Belinda and Suzy, as though he was being escorted back to prison after a day in the dock. Suzy caught my eye and immediately strode over to me. ‘Liam: are you in the middle of arranging an after-party?’

  ‘I think some people are –’

  ‘Stop it right now, or pretend to Bennett it’s not taking place.’

  ‘But he’s been to this party before. He’s not really going to believe we’re all going to bed now.’

  ‘Well, Cockburn’s not here this time, is he? And can’t you just help, Liam? He’s supposed to be speaking at the Fair at midday tomorrow, chairing an event on the Argentina programme. If he carries on he won’t have gone to sleep by then. He should not be doing this any more.’

  Nor should I. She was right; it was time for my empty bed and Sarah’s strewn clothes on the floor, to start to tidy up the mess I had made of my life.

  ‘Sorry. I’ll go and tell everyone to pretend the after-party’s off. Come and help though. They all love him, they won’t want to let him go. I need you to help me threaten them.’

  ‘With pleasure.’

  But it was too late. Fergus and the actresses had found a cab and as Suzy and I made our pact, one of them opened the door and called out to Bennett: ‘One space left, Craig, get in!’ Before anyone could stop him Craig had darted towards it. ‘Craig, come back!’ we all shouted. The door closed behind him and the taxi accelerated away.

  ‘Oh, fuck,’ Suzy said.

  Belinda and Amanda appeared either side of me.

  ‘I blame you for this,’ said Belinda.

  ‘I was trying to help Suzy get him home,’ I protested.