Written From the Heart

by Trisha Ashley

  I hope you find my enclosed critique helpful, and await your additional cheque of three hundred pounds.

  Yours sincerely,

  Tina Devino

  I packed the last of the manuscripts off on the Tuesday afternoon before reluctantly packing myself off for another Devino family Christmas in all its ghastly splendour, leaving Minnie in the care of Mel, together with a little present of festive rodent treats (for Minnie – Mel preferred hard cash).

  Oh, the things we do for love.

  Five

  Decimated

  The Ramblings,

  Bosson Surcoat,

  Cresney

  Dear Ms Devino,

  I have now read your comments and it is clear to me that you are incapable of appreciating a work of the magnitude of Banking On It, and indeed, have advertised your services under false pretences. It is not my policy to throw good money after bad, so do not expect to receive any further cheques from me.

  As to length, I can only point out the many, many blockbuster novels abounding on the shelves of airport bookshops, many of which are by famous authors who have ‘crossed genres’, as you put it, several times in the same book, so your advice to stick to one genre is also short-sighted in the extreme.

  As to breaking the manuscript up into chapters and indenting paragraphs, obviously this was merely a rough draft and these very minor points have been addressed in the final rewrite.

  What I was hoping to receive from you was information to enable me to present Banking On It in a way that would draw the attention of publishers to its unique qualities, and you have failed me most dismally. Your contention that no publisher would be interested in it in its present form is ridiculous: why, the merest glance at newspapers and magazines shows that there are many, many publishing houses crying out for new writers, and clearly I should be targeting these smaller firms rather than the bigger ones, who evidently receive so many manuscripts that they cannot perceive the true gem among the dross.

  Should your conscience by now be troubling you, you could return the first payment for services you so signally failed to deliver. I will not be recommending you to my many friends and acquaintances.

  Yours sincerely,

  Harold Snaith, ACA

  I saw Tube Man on my way to Miracle’s office, which is around the corner from the Ritz, and it took me by surprise to see him somewhere other than on the tube. Our eyes met – and his were like warm treacle – and we both smiled as people do when they half-recognize each other, but can’t remember where from, which at least meant he had noticed me as well as the other way around. Unfortunately we’d passed each other by the time I’d realized that he was Tube Man, and by the time I had turned round, he had vanished into the crowd, or the Ritz, or back into my subconscious, or somewhere.

  I walked on, thinking about the sort of inspiring things glimpses of my Heathcliff of the Northern Line usually made me think of: the strong, thrusting stems of lilies, the soft, velvety petals of pansies, silky pussy willow buds and dangly catkins … all qualities the male interest in my latest novel had in spades. Now, there’s a man who knows his dibble from his trug! I went all D. H. Lawrence for a minute, walked right past the brass plate that said ‘Miracle Threaple Literary Agency’, and then had to retrace my steps.

  As I got to the door a novelist I know slightly, another of Miracle’s clients, came hurtling down the steps and stood looking at me a bit wild-eyed and with her jacket buttons done up wrongly. ‘Hello, Ria!’ I said, and she groaned and said in a tone of utmost despair: ‘Not you too, Tina!’

  Then she turned and more or less threw herself into the nearest taxi on top of a surprised businessman, so obviously she was having a bad day, and probably her sales figures were way down.

  Miracle’s secretary and right-hand woman, Chrissy, showed me straight into her office, which was pretty swish, really. Miracle used to work from home in Hampstead until she had a run of luck with a series of three blonde-babe one-hit-wonder novelists, though that entire generation couldn’t all be naturally blonde, which made me think the makers of Born Blonde and the like should be suing for a cut of the takings. Or perhaps I was getting a fixation about it, and being unfair to the fair?

  I was hopeful that Miracle had come up with a strategy to deal with Tim the Suit – maybe even a way of making Salubrious Press promote my next book – but she was pretty occupied on the phone when I first went in, and just waved me to my usual chair while Chrissy went to fetch coffee.

  ‘Yes, lovely,’ she was saying, puckering up her small mouth in a way that reminded me of cats’ bottoms, which they will insist on showing you while you are stroking them, as if it was some special honour they are bestowing on you. Maybe in cat language it is.

  ‘The photo shoot tomorrow and then the main article in the Sunday paper,’ cooed Miracle. ‘And then … no, don’t worry about writing the rest of the book yet, just concentrate on generating a bit of publicity now … No, I know a few sentences on the back of an envelope will take some time to work up into a decent-sized novel, but I’m sure you can do it in no time, a natural writer like you. Yes, I was surprised at the size of the advance too, but I’m sure the book will deserve it and soon earn it out … Mmm, yes, wonderful. Yes, lovely. Yes, of course … bye …’

  Miracle put the phone down with a long sigh, then let her expression of bright eagerness lapse into exhausted exhilaration. ‘I only hope I don’t end up half-ghosting the book, like the last one, but at least the family connections mean mega publicity, and anyway, who cares if she’s another one-hit wonder, so long as the hit is big enough!’

  ‘Another blonde-babe-bombshell first-time novelist?’ I asked gloomily.

  She nodded. ‘Yes, that makes five in a row. I thought when I had the first three, one after the other – boom! boom! boom! – things couldn’t get much better than that, but now I feel like all my cards are turning up aces, my slot machines all bells – ding, dang, dong—’

  ‘I get the idea,’ I said, interrupting her hastily. She was capable of going on like this for hours and I was not exactly in the mood to hear other authors’ praises sung. But of course, while I may have resented the huge advances, at least I was not too insane with jealousy to realize that she was doing so well out of them that she could afford to have a few more writers who didn’t make her quite so much – like me. Or anyway, that was my theory.

  Miracle was looking serious again and not quite meeting my eyes over the coffee cups, which considering how long we’d known each other was a pretty bad omen. ‘How is the next book coming along?’

  ‘Oh, fine – nearly finished. I’m just polishing now. But, Miracle, have you thought about how to deal with Tim? It’s been worrying me no end, because—’

  ‘Well, that’s just it,’ she broke in. ‘I have spoken to Tim – in fact, he’s the editor who has just taken on Lydia, the girl I was talking to – and that’s the way he envisages Salubrious Press going.’

  I stared at her, puzzled. ‘What do you mean, Miracle? That they are only taking on the Lydias from now on?’

  ‘More than that, I’m afraid – they don’t want any midlist authors at all, just established bestselling ones and new first-timers, and all the publicity budget will go there.’

  ‘But – but I’m under contract! I mean, the next one, and the option—’

  ‘Oh, the next one will be published, but they won’t take you up on your option on the one after that unless Dark, Passionate Earth does amazingly well, and since they aren’t going to spend anything on promoting it, that’s rather unlikely, isn’t it?’

  There was a small silence while I gazed at her, stunned, and she gazed back at me with an air of sweet, sad reason on her broad-cheeked Persian cat face. ‘Of course, you may just find another publisher, but the market is difficult and although you sell well, you don’t sell huge amounts. But the fact is that even before this happened I’d decided to make some changes.’

  ‘Changes?’ I echoed stupidly. I was beginn
ing to think I’d left my brain at home in Shrimphaven – or even my body: could this just be a nightmare?

  ‘Yes, I’m taking on so many new authors that I’ve decided to follow the example of some of my colleagues in the business, by dropping the ten of my authors each year who are performing least well, to make room for the new ones … and I’ve already seen the other nine.’

  ‘The other … Miracle!’

  ‘Well, Tina, it’s very, very sad after all this time, I know, but I’m afraid after Dark, Passionate Earth I will have to let you go, though I will, of course, continue to represent you for any rights from your first novels. And I can recommend you to another agent if you can find one who is still taking on authors.’

  I opened my mouth – to plead, I admit – but all that came out was a strange, frog-like rasping noise and no prince was in sight to kiss and make it better when I most wanted one.

  ‘You may well find that a change of agents is quite invigorating to your writing, even,’ she suggested, smiling encouragingly.

  And I might well find myself temping again.

  ‘And so I don’t have an agent, and soon I won’t have a publisher either,’ I told Linny when we met in Liberty’s café afterwards. Though really I was in such a state of shock that even shopping wouldn’t help me, and after tea and buns we got in a taxi and went back to her place.

  Tershie was home, and he was terribly sweet and opened champagne, and even offered to send me all the way home by taxi, which I declined because naturally I always hoped to see Tube Man, and anyway it would have been phenomenally expensive, even though Tershie could afford it, and I didn’t like to take advantage of my friendship with his wife.

  Speaking of which, once I’d calmed down a bit and had two glasses of bubbly I realized that Linny, although sympathetic as always, was also sort of enjoying the situation, but I supposed that was perfectly natural since our friendship was built on mutual regard: I was jealous of her because (a) Tershie was super-rich and (b) hardly ever home so (c) Linny didn’t actually have to do anything at all except shop and pretend to write novels. In return, Linny was jealous of me because (a) I was published and (b) she fancied the leotard off Sergei.

  Well, after a while I decided that I’d have to devote the whole of the foreseeable future to polishing up the new novel, which I was due to deliver a week on Friday, and making sure it was mega-bestseller quality, then trying to think of a way of getting publicity that wouldn’t cause my arrest on indecency charges, though I did have ages to come up with something before it was scheduled to be published in December.

  So I decided to take in Sergei’s flat on the way home, and leave him a note saying I couldn’t see him on Monday due to pressure of work, though actually I secretly hoped he would be there to give me a bit of comfort, despite it being the time when he would normally be overseeing one of his SergeiYoga classes.

  But as it turned out, it would have been better if I hadn’t wished that, because when I was at the furthest end of his street I saw this tallish, dark-haired man come out of his front door, and although I couldn’t make out who it was, Sergei followed and kissed him on both cheeks … though he does that to practically everybody so it doesn’t really mean anything; but he doesn’t usually follow it up with a back-thumping embrace.

  There was just something about the tableau that made me turn on my heel and head for the nearest tube station. If anything was going on, I simply couldn’t take it just then, and I wasn’t even going to think about it. Anyway, Sergei had never shown any inclinations the other way that I’d noticed.

  Of course by the time I got home I realized I was being stupid and over-imaginative due to the shock of Miracle’s bombshell, and I knew that if I casually mentioned Sergei’s visitor to him, he would tell me who it was straight away, all perfectly innocently. Not that Sergei ever looks innocent, because his natural expression can only be described as impertinent, an old-fashioned word, but entirely apt in his case, probably something to do with the winged eyebrows and high cheekbones. Cheeky just isn’t the same at all.

  I tried to call him but his phone was out of order, so I phoned Linny instead and she said she’d be delighted to go round with a note for me saying I would be working too hard next week to see him, and I said not to get her hopes up because he was fully occupied, and anyway, did not fancy big bossy cows, and she laughed.

  We were just joking. She wouldn’t actually really have a fling with him, even if she had the opportunity, because not only was she my best friend, she’d always been totally faithful to Tershie. Anyway, Sergei had met her a couple of times in Lemonia with me and there was no sexual chemistry that I could see, even though he does like bosomy brunettes.

  I had been mulling over the way all the midlist authors were being dropped by the big publishing houses, and I thought there might be a couple of drawbacks they hadn’t realized.

  For instance, what happened when the old bestselling novelists (like Hereward Brunswick, who gave Miracle her nickname and is still her star author client) died or hung up their laptops? I mean, most novelists worked up to bestsellerdom over a few years; they didn’t just spring fully formed out of nowhere.

  And although a few of the one-hit wonders would go on to develop into good authors, most of them would probably vanish, because no matter how huge their marketing budget, if the actual books were crap the book-buying public were not going to be blowing their money on the next one, were they?

  Still, who cared what I thought? Certainly not Tim the Suit.

  Or, it seemed, Miracle.

  NOVELTINA LITERARY AND CRITICAL AGENCY

  Mudlark Cottage, The Harbour, Shrimphaven

  Dear Mr Snaith,

  Thank you for your letter. I am sorry that you don’t feel you have received good value for your money, as I have many testimonials from other authors thanking me for my sage advice. However, I have still spent a considerable amount of time working on your manuscript and so not only will I not be returning your cheque, but I enclose a bill for the extra 200,000 words.

  With regard to your comments on switching genres several times within a novel, yes, there are indeed several famous authors who have done it – and that is the point: they are famous, they have made their name, and simply because of that they will be published and their books read whatever they write. When you are equally famous you can do the same, but until that glorious day dawns I suggest you try and limit yourself to one genre.

  Now, a word of warning about these ‘small publishing houses’ that you mentioned intending to target with your magnum opus: they are all vanity publishers, and you will be expected to contribute financially if you wish to see your book in print. Non-vanity publishers are so inundated with unsolicited manuscripts that they have no need to advertise for more!

  I hope this timely word of warning will be helpful to you, and I look forward to receiving your cheque for £300.

  Yours sincerely,

  Tina Devino

  Six

  Affiliations

  Dear Tony,

  Just to say a belated thank you for another memorable Christmas. I am entirely panettonied out.

  Sorry I had to rush away, but as I explained, not only did I have a heap of manuscripts waiting for their critiques, I also had to see my agent and promote my new paperback, Spring Breezes. The latter job is even more important now because my agent has dropped me, and if Spring Breezes isn’t a mega success so will my publishers.

  I must say, considering that by now we only have about a teaspoon of diluted Italian blood in our veins, you are sounding more and more like something out of The Godfather, Tony, and I’m sure poor Mary would much prefer her given name than Maria, which is terribly Sound of Music, let alone inflicting Bruno, Dino and Fabia on your unsuspecting children’s heads – though actually, come to think of it, there are worse names you could have chosen and the boys do seem to like theirs even if they sound strange in a Welsh accent.

  I quite understand your interest in tr
acing your ancestry like that American book Roots, and commend your attempt to learn Italian at your age, but frankly I feel suddenly assuming a broken Italian accent makes you look slightly ridiculous, so please don’t carry your identity crisis to extremes, will you?

  Oh, and another hint – ditch the shades when you are indoors.

  Give my love to Mary and the children.

  Your affectionate sister,

  Tina

  I had spent almost the whole of the previous ten days working my butt off on the new novel, and felt I’d added a whole new layer to its rich compost heap. Maybe Miracle would change her mind when she saw it. And Tim would regret his words to me when he read my wonderful prose … and pigs would be flying backwards over Shrimphaven.

  To look on the good side, the day after Miracle gave me the chop, Sergei sent me a lovely bouquet of thrusting great lilies with a deeply sympathetic and encouraging message regarding my writing situation, not to mention a rather nasty slur on Tim’s parentage and sexual prowess – or lack of it – so clearly Linny caught him at home and told him all.

  It was so terribly comforting knowing he cared that I entirely forgot to ask about his visitor when his phone was fixed and he began ringing me again.

  Thanks to Mel’s lessons I’d become quite used to my computer, but which pervert programmed the spellcheck facility? It took my perfectly innocent English vocabulary and tried to substitute the most peculiar – not to mention obscene – words, and it definitely had an oral fixation. It did cross my mind to wonder what a novel would be like if I accepted all its suggestions. Maybe I’d try that sometime and see what happened?

  Access to the Internet had opened up a whole new if strange world. It also opened up a second postbag every day, with all those emails to answer, some of them a little odd, to say the least.