by Niamh Greene
‘Great! We’re going to meet him in the lobby of the Sheldon Hotel at noon – is that OK with you?’
‘That’s fine.’ I feel sick. ‘Thanks, Samantha.’
‘See you back at the office!’ Samantha sings.
I close my phone slowly, my head reeling. I’m meeting David. After two years of desperately trying to forget that he exists, I’m finally going to see him again.
Julie’s Blog
5.00 a.m.
It is 5 a.m. and I can’t sleep. I can’t sleep because Mr X snores. He snores like nothing I have ever heard before. Like a rattling whistle, combined with a nasal gurgle and then a raspy tickle at the end. This is something I never knew. Mr X also hogs the duvet. He starts off pretending he’s going to be fair, but within minutes of falling asleep he’s tucked most of the duvet around him, hanging on to it with a vice-like grip. This is also something I never knew. Then again, how would I? We never shared a bed before. Not once.
I have been lying shivering on my side for the last two hours, listening to his snoring getting louder and louder and trying to prise the duvet from his hands. I tried poking him with my toe, then kicking him gently, then kicking him quite hard, but nothing would budge him or get him to stop. He was totally oblivious – he is a very deep sleeper. He sleeps the sleep of the dead – again, something I didn’t know.
8.00 a.m.
At desk. Exhausted after the worst night’s sleep of my life. But the office is completely deserted, which means that at least I’ll get a head start on my brilliant PR strategy for Mr Dick Lit. I already have the Her thing in the bag, but that’s not nearly enough, not when everyone is expecting Elle to be on board too. I’ll have to get much more media coverage, and just as every good publicist worth her weight in tropical fruit baskets knows, the best way to do that is to exploit his personal life. I wonder if he has any deep dark secrets we could leak, accidentally on purpose, to the press? Not that it matters, because even if he doesn’t have any skeletons in his closet, we can always make up something good and juicy. Something that will grab the public’s attention and make sure his novel flies off the shelves. Or maybe we could get him on a reality TV show. I wonder if he’s any good at cooking? Even better if he’s not, the public loves an under-dog. If I can pull some strings at one of the TV stations, we’ll be minted.
8.04 a.m.
God, it’s so hard to concentrate when I can hardly keep my eyes open. I’m wiped out after last night – and for all the wrong reasons. I’ll just get a coffee from the machine in the kitchen. That’ll wake me up.
8.10 a.m.
Can’t believe it – the coffee machine is broken! How am I supposed to work in these conditions? Will have to email the janitor and get him to come up here and fix it quick.
8.12 a.m.
Email to janitor:
Coffee machine is broken. It needs to be fixed ASAP.
8.14 a.m.
UC One has just arrived. She’s sipping on hot water and lemon. She just called over that I should try it: it really clears her nasal passages and helps her focus. Tosser. I could help clear her nasal passages for good… with one direct hit to her big hook nose.
8.16 a.m.
Email from janitor:
A please would be nice – or can’t you remember your manners until you have caffeine?
What a nerve. It’s his job to make sure things like that work. I shouldn’t have to crawl all over him to get the job done. And since when did he become so cheeky? He’s such a nerd he never usually answers back. He’s always been so quiet and easy to push around.
8.18 a.m.
Email to janitor:
Just do it. Please.
8.45 a.m.
No sign of Mr X yet – he’s probably still snoring in my bed. Feel just a teeny bit resentful.
8.47 a.m.
Email from UC One:
I couldn’t help but notice that you were in early this morning. I’m usually the only early bird here! Is everything OK? If you’re behind with some of your work then please do let me know – I’d be happy to help. I’m so organized I’m almost twiddling my thumbs. BTW, have you seen my latest press cuttings for my new chick-lit client? They’re amazing!
8.58 a.m.
Just read UC One’s press cuttings. Her new chick-lit author has appeared in a ‘My Favourite Room’ piece for the Gazette. Turns out her favourite room is her kitchen because ‘rolling pastry relaxes her’ – yeah, right. The only thing that woman is interested in rolling is money – and I bet she never eats, so why on earth would we believe that she makes complicated apple tarts with fiddly latticework? That’s it – I’m going to blow UC One out of the water with my Dick Lit campaign. Maybe I’ll take him to lunch, butter him up a bit. And of course I can put it on expenses, so I get a free meal too. I feel like Italian today… yes, a special pizza at Gianni’s would hit the spot. I just hope he’s not still flirting with that waitress – he’s old enough to be her father.
9.05 a.m.
Email to Mr Dick Lit:
I’d be thrilled to take you for lunch today, if you’re free. It could give us the opportunity to discuss the direction you’d like the press campaign to take. How about Gianni’s at 1 p.m.?
This is a great idea. I’ll charm him, get him on-side and let him think he’s having a say in the PR. And hopefully a few glasses of wine will help persuade him that the more controversial and outspoken he can be, the better his book will sell.
9.15 a.m.
Email from Mr Dick Lit:
OK, that might be a good idea. See you there.
Perfect! With any luck we’ll bag Elle yet.
10.01 a.m.
No sign of Mr X. Where the hell is he? He can’t still be asleep.
10.02 a.m.
Just thought: hope he hasn’t got trapped in the flat or something – the lock on the front door can be a little tricky until you get used to it. Maybe I should call him.
10.06 a.m.
Mr X not answering his phone. Am starting to get worried. Maybe he slipped and fell in the shower. Maybe he slapped his head on the tiles and is lying bleeding and helpless on the bathroom floor. Maybe an intruder broke in and assaulted him. Feel a bit panicky. Perhaps I should go round and check he’s OK.
10.08 a.m.
UC One just commented to UC Two that Mr X is very late today. UC Two said that he’s probably having trouble dragging himself out of the marital bed – he is a newlywed after all. Could feel my cheeks burning. If only they knew the truth.
10.14 a.m.
Mr X just arrived. Am so relieved he isn’t dead. He doesn’t look like he had a bad fall or was attacked by an intruder. He looks… cheerful. And very well rested. Like he had the best night’s sleep of his life. I’m sure he’ll email me any second to let me know what happened.
10.16 a.m.
Any second now he’ll send me an email to let me know where he was.
10.18 a.m.
I can’t believe he’s not emailing me. I can’t believe that he’s being so selfish. I was worried sick about him. I thought he had been attacked or was even dead, and there he is filling his cup from the water cooler and smiling at UC One like he hasn’t got a care in the world. Right, that’s it. I’m going to give him a piece of my mind. He can’t have me crawling the walls with worry and then act like nothing’s happened.
10.20 a.m.
Email to Mr X:
Where have you been?
10.23 a.m.
Email from Mr X:
I decided to work from home this morning.
He worked from home? He went back to his wife for the morning just to get some work done? What’s he playing at?
10.25 a.m.
Email to Mr X:
You worked from home?
10.28 a.m.
Email from Mr X:
Yes, I got loads done – it was so quiet. BTW, you do know that you need to separate your plastics from your paper before you recycle, don’t you? I think we need to get a proper
system up and running or things will get out of control.
Of course. He means he worked from my flat – which he is now calling home. God, that’s sort of freaking me out.
11.03 a.m.
Email from janitor:
The coffee machine is now fixed, m’lady.
Thank God. If I don’t have a coffee soon my head will explode.
11.04 a.m.
Email to janitor:
It’s about time.
11.05 a.m.
Email from janitor:
By which you mean thank you?
11.06 a.m.
Email to janitor:
By which I mean it took you long enough.
11.07 a.m.
Email from janitor:
You’re welcome.
3.03 p.m.
Back from lunch with Mr Dick Lit. Things did not go exactly as I’d hoped. He has point-blank refused to cooperate with my brilliant publicity plans. He won’t even hint that he might be recovering from a drug problem – even though that would guarantee huge press coverage. He seems to think that revealing details of his personal life is in some way sordid and that the book should stand on its own merits. Which is a sweet old-fashioned idea, but it’ll never work. We need an angle. Readers need to identify with him before they’ll buy his book in droves, and how can they identify with him if they know nothing about him? He just can’t seem to grasp that idea. He was even edgy about the Her interview. The minute I mentioned it he got all shifty and weird. It took me ages to convince him that he needs to do it for the exposure. I didn’t tell him that I’d already agreed to it on his behalf – he didn’t need to know that.
3.07 p.m.
Just thought: maybe we could pretend he’s a recovering sex addict. That would be huge.
3.08 p.m.
Or he could have mental health problems. Some sort of split personality disorder? Or how about OCD? That would be great: ‘Top Author Washes Hands a Hundred Times a Day’. The public would love it.
3.10 p.m.
Or we could go the old-fashioned route and concentrate on his looks. He’s very attractive in a scruffy kind of way. Perhaps I could suggest one of the glossies give him a head to toe makeover – get his chipped tooth capped and his bushy eyebrows waxed. Readers love that sort of thing. It’d be even better if we could get a few shots of him in his underwear – he looks like he’s quite fit under that corduroy jacket he wears. Will put the feelers out and see what I can come up with. Won’t bother asking him first – what he doesn’t know won’t harm him.
3.16 p.m.
Feel a bit tipsy. Maybe I shouldn’t have polished off that bottle of Chianti at lunch. Still, it would have been a shame to leave it there, and Mr Dick Lit insisted on only having one measly glass – which really screwed up my dastardly plan to get him drunk and confess his deep, dark secrets to me. I just don’t know what to do with him. I mean, really – what do these authors expect? That their books will just walk off the shelves? Have they no idea they’re competing with celebrities who are happy to reveal all the intimate details of their gastric-band surgery or how they like to self-harm with hookers?
4.07 p.m.
Mr X is back at his desk.
4.08 p.m.
Might go talk to him – he looks a bit lonely. Can’t say that of course. Need to come up with something professional I urgently need to discuss with him. Like… my meeting with Mr Dick Lit. Yes, I’ll tell him all about it. He might have some really good suggestions that will help me. That’s an excellent idea.
4.11 p.m.
No, that’s a very bad idea. Am definitely tipsy – could do something I might regret later. Like confess that I don’t have an Elle exclusive at all, that all I’ve managed to drum up is a pathetic interview with a two-bit magazine called Her… which he has probably never even heard of.
4.13 p.m.
Or I could do something even worse… like sit on his lap and nibble his ear. That would be bad, especially when we’re trying to keep our relationship a secret from everyone.
4.19 p.m.
But… desperately want to talk to him. Maybe I’ll just send him a quick professional email to ask his advice. That’s perfectly acceptable. And hopefully he’ll send me a sexy email back and we can have a bit of naughty banter like we used to.
4.22 p.m.
Email to Mr X:
Had excellent meeting with Mr Dick Lit – would you like to discuss?
4.25 p.m.
Email from Mr X:
Sorry, too busy, can’t. Can you just email me an update?
What’s that supposed to mean? He was never too busy to talk to me before.
4.28 p.m.
Email to Mr X:
Of course. I’m very busy myself.
Right. Will have to pretend to be snowed under with work.
4.47 p.m.
Email from Mr X:
Are you asleep over there?
Crap, maybe I did nod off for a split second. Drinking wine at lunchtime always makes me a bit drowsy.
4.49 p.m.
Email to Mr X:
Don’t be ridiculous! I was simply closing my eyes and trying to concentrate – I was mentally drafting a brilliant press release.
4.51 p.m.
Email from Mr X:
Spoofer. You were snoring.
4.54 p.m.
Email to Mr X:
No, I wasn’t.
Oh God, what if I was? UCs acting normally around me, but what if someone videotaped me snoring with my mouth open on their mobile phone and I end up on YouTube? UC One is definitely smirking.
4.56 p.m.
Email from Mr X:
Yes, you were. It was sexy – your little nostrils were flaring. It was really cute.
Ah… he thinks I’m cute. But must keep denying that I was asleep, just in case he’s bluffing. Can’t admit to cat-napping in the office.
4.58 p.m.
Email to Mr X:
I’ve never snored in my life, unlike some people I know. Now, please stop harassing me – I’m very busy.
5.02 p.m.
Email from Mr X:
So I guess you’re going to be late home tonight then?
5.05 p.m.
Email to Mr X:
Why would that be?
5.07 p.m.
Email from Mr X:
Because, according to your brilliant press plan, you’re going to fax at least 300 publications telling everyone how marvellous Dick Lit is before you leave.
Crap – he expects me to do that straight away.
5.09 p.m.
Email to Mr X:
Yes, that’s right.
5.12 p.m.
Email from Mr X:
It’s great to see you’re so committed. BTW, there’s a problem with the system so you’re going to have to fax them all the old-fashioned way, by hand. I won’t wait up.
Open Forum
From Broken Hearted: Do you see what Mr X is doing, Julie? He tells you the way you snore is cute and then he reminds you that he’s the boss. He’s playing mind games with you. This is just the start of the emotional torture – wake up and smell the coffee!
From Angel: Julie, how can you justify trying to sell books to people by manufacturing hype? The publishing industry has sold its soul by giving six-figure deals to celebrities who secretly employ ghostwriters to do all the work! It’s immoral for people like you to feed off this celebrity sickness.
From Devil Woman: If you object so much then why don’t you stop reading her blog? No one is forcing you to!
From Angel: I’m just saying that there’s real writing talent out there – talent that the public should be made aware of.
From Sexy Girl: Hey, Angel, have you had a novel rejected by a publisher by any chance?!
From Angel: Not that it’s any of your business, but my writing tutor told me that my novels were all powerfully enlightening – and he’s positive that a publisher will see their potential one day.
From Devil Woman: M
aybe you should bed a pop star and get fake boobs – you’d probably get a book deal then!
From Angel: That is exactly the kind of depraved mindset that has ruined the chances of real literature ever seeing the light of day.
From Sexy Girl: Face it, Angel, people prefer to read about hot sex, not highbrow drivel. That’s why we’re all reading this blog – the sexual chemistry is explosive!
From Devil Woman: I agree! Hey, Julie, what’s the janitor like? He sounds cute.
From Angel: You really are pathetic.
From Comfy Pants: Hi, Julie. I was just wondering if you tried those hipsters yet? They’re on special offer this week.
From Devil Woman: Will you give over about the hipsters? This girl has more important things on her mind!
From Comfy Pants: I just wanted to let her know. It’s buy one pack, get another pack free – that’s pretty good value.
From Broken Hearted: Julie, do you see what he’s doing? He’s toying with you.
From Hot Stuff: I wouldn’t mind him toying with me!!
From Devil Woman: And so say all of us, Hot Stuff!!
From Graphic Scenes: You know what, Julie? If you don’t start describing all the hot sex soon then I’m not coming back to this blog.
Eve
Dear Charlie,
My brother Mike called today. He’s in Texas with the school’s basketball team, on some sort of cultural exchange. I know what you’re thinking. Mike’s a physical education teacher: he wouldn’t know culture if he was slam-dunked by it. I still remember the time you tried to persuade him to read Kafka and he said he thought Kafka was a spreadable cheese. But he has improved a bit since then. He swears he’s cut right back on those lads mags. Anyway, I think he’s really enjoying Texas, in spite of the killer heatwave. Apparently things have got much better since they bought those little portable fans – they carry them everywhere now to keep cool. Mike says the heat’s not too bad once you get past the fainting. And it sounds like they’re doing much more than just playing basketball: they’ve arranged an entire schedule of activities for the kids. Although perhaps taking a group of teenagers to see death-row prisoners is a bit strange. I asked Mike if the visit was to teach the students that spirituality could be found even in the grimmest of conditions, and he said that was the official line all right… but really the teachers were more looking forward to seeing the looks on the lads’ faces when they met hardened criminals up close and personal. The boys have been getting very boisterous on the tour bus and Mike reckons that a good dose of real-life brutality should bring it home that bad behaviour doesn’t pay. I might be wrong, but I got the impression that he wouldn’t be unhappy if an execution was carried out when they were there.
