Haterz
Page 19
Sooo...
– an impossible number of reviews?
– by phantom reviewers?
– I’m titnotized.
Taken from
thesallyanneadventures.blogspot.com
VAMPANTHA DIDN’T COMMENT directly on the article. Her last tweet before she protected her account for a bit was, ‘Some people don’t get that I am a big thing. Seriously.’
VAMPANTHA ARRIVED AS an actual dossier. As in a proper wodge of print-outs in a manila folder pushed through my letterbox by hand. Because obviously the Killuminati knew where I lived.
I couldn’t quite figure what they wanted me to do with her that she wasn’t already doing to herself. Vampantha was basically committing career suicide.
Only then, she emerged in a Jackie Aspley profile. A photocopy turned up in the post:
THE HEARTBROKEN QUEEN OF CRIME
One group you don’t want to upset are crime writers. Jackie Aspley meets a Mistress of Crime who has upset the armchair murderers.
Vampantha is a curious, some would say sad figure. She feels she owes the world an apology.
“I don’t want to blame it on my brother’s suicide,” she begins, pouring me quite a nice glass of wine in the lobby of a very fashionable hotel. I’ll say one thing about Vampantha, she does things in style.
“But yes, when he killed himself, it kind of took the joy out of my world and since then, seriously, there have been...”—she pauses, and rests a hand on mine—“issues. You know, sometimes, you’re up seriously late, staring into the internet and you decided you’re gonna fix it. Or rather, the wine inside you’s going to have a serious go...”
Jackie Aspley, thedailypost.com
And on it went. There were two Post-it notes attached to it. One said, ‘She’s never had a brother.’ The other said, ‘Depression? Bollocks.’ There was also a photocopy that gave away a few details about Vampantha’s real name. She had recently married a Sodobus executive, which explained how she got by.
For some reason, Duster had her in their sights. And I was fine with that.
I ‘REACHED OUT’ to Vampantha.
Hello!
I hope you’re well. I’m a publicist with over ten years’ expertise at representing key brands and global clients in the corporate sector, but I’m now setting out on my own, looking to represent purely literary clients. I’ve read all your books (I hope you’re not offended that they’re my fave guilty pleasure!) and would love to represent you. As I’m looking to build up my portfolio, I’d initially be willing to represent you for three months for free, and then take it from there.
I look forward to hearing from you,
Brian McMullen
BRIAN MCMULLEN WAS a little shorter than me thanks to his terrible posture, but he was always very smartly turned out in a selection of bright shirts. His hair was swept over with gel, he had some quite natty glasses, and the softest of Morningside accents. Nothing threw Brian. I actually rather liked him, and sort of wished he was real so that I could turn to him for help.
Instead, Brian threw himself into helping Vampantha regenerate herself. As she lived in Milton Keynes, it was reasonably easy to assure her that most of my clients were London based. I’d even taken the precaution of approaching a couple of other authors who she knew, and had actually managed to organise a reasonably successful book launch by throwing the KillFund at it.
Vampantha wasn’t as easy as my other clients. It was taking a lot of time but we weren’t actually doing anything.
The peculiar thing about Vampantha was that she was always on whenever I was around. She’d invite me into her quite nice home, or to meet her at Costa in the shopping centre, and she’d be there in the nearly-ballgown-length dress and the Bristol suspension bridge corset.
It made relaxing in her house tricksy. Although she looked like she’d just come from dancing with the undead, her living room was full of piles of laundry and smelt a little of dog. Her sofas screamed ‘DFS had a sale on.’ They were a white sort-of leather and freezing cold. There were woodchip bookshelves clustered with copies of her books. The whole place had the chilly atmosphere of a nineteen-seventies film insert.
And there she’d be sat, all made up. Behind her on the mantlepiece were photos of her and a man. He seemed completely non-descript—a regional sales executive for Sodobus. He looked it in the photos. Next to him was Vampantha in her off mode. In sweatpants, or a dirty t-shirt, painting. She looked friendlier. Far friendlier and more real than the creature who sat opposite me, making earnest notes of everything I said in an oversized notebook with a studiedly genuine fountain pen. Purple ink, by the way.
We’d meet for long hours. She’d talk (in a studiedly vaguely transatlantic accent) about Vampantha the brand, Vampantha’s personal appearances, Vampantha the victim, Vampantha the retribution. Curiously, she never talked about her work.
ONE DAY WE were sat drinking her god-awful tea. She looked tired. Her eyes flickered closed, and when they re-opened, they were just narrow slits.
“Do you like me, Brian?”
“Of course,” I said. Had I spoken too quickly? Too slowly? Did I sound sincere?
Vampantha carried on looking at me. “It doesn’t really matter. I don’t give much of a shit. I just need to get some results. Raise profile, you know.” It took me a while to realise. Her voice was different. A bit less Houston, a bit more Home Counties.
“I think I’ve done good work for you.”
“Yeah,” she said, dubiously.
“I’ve doubled your number of Twitter followers, I’ve got you press coverage, and at least three bookings at libraries.”
“Libraries...” sighed Vampantha. “Bless ’em, they ain’t Wembley.”
Two weeks ago, she’d been really keen on library visits. And so I’d set them up. She’d done two so far, sat perched on a giant mushroom reading from the saucier bits of A Rubber Of Velvet to appalled pensioners, some snoring quietly.
She tapped me on the nose and I suddenly realised it was the first time she ever touched me. “In that head of yours, there’s a great brain, isn’t there? And it’s not always doing what it’s saying, is it? It’s there, isn’t it, drawing up vast calculating tables and spreadsheets. Every time I speak you’re slotting little bits of me into boxes, aren’t you?”
“You got me,” I smiled weakly. “It’s a habit. It’s how I operate. I study people. It tells me how to target them.”
“And what do you think of me?”
“That you’re very bright,” I said sincerely. “And that you use what you’ve got.”
She laughed at that. “You’ve read about the titnotizing.”
“Of course I have.”
She shook her head. “Doesn’t work on you, though. It began as a weapon, you know. First time I went to one of these crime things. I was shy, I was a fish totally out of water. I didn’t think I’d know how to talk to any of the men there. Turned out, I didn’t have to.” She cupped her breasts. “These little ladies did all the talking. I could have strode around with a paper bag on my head. Would have made no difference. It’s like I was trying to talk to men who’d never talked to a woman before. Or toddlers fixated on working out which teat to suckle on. At first I thought it was disgusting—I mean, it’s like they don’t know how adult men behave. And then I thought, Hey girl, you can use that, and so I did. It didn’t make me popular with the”—elaborate air quotes—“‘feminists,’ but it made me very popular with everyone else. And, you know, by putting the goods on show in the shop window, it stopped people noseying around the store. If you know what I mean.”
I didn’t, but Vampantha explained, her smile sour. “It was like they were too distracted to bother pinching my arse in the lift. Like sheesh, are all male authors Jim Davidson? It’s the twenty-first century, who even does that now? Still, they mostly kept their hands to themselves and that was nice.”
I nodded. She nodded.
“Yeah, doesn’t work on you. Are you a fa
g?”
I shook my head. “Just... it’s not a technique that’s to my taste.”
Vampantha smiled. “Yeah,” she said slowly again. “I figured you’d say that. You don’t approve. But you know what? It works. Who’d have thought it was so easy to just use my puppies to get work out of the boys? It shouldn’t be that simple, should it?”
“In an ideal world, no—” I began.
“I mean, chrissakes. Look at some of the other girls—just look at them. Ex-nuns playing at being librarians.”
I hadn’t seen it myself. I’d done some research of other authors Vampantha reckoned herself against. They all seemed, well, normal. Nice. People who owned clean kettles. But not to Vampantha. Odd how some women are the harshest judges of other women’s appearance.
“Anyway, screw ’em. Century Twenty-One, seriously. If I wanna wear a basque everywhere, it’s my business. It’s hard enough—” She pointed at the dowdy plate of biscuits she’d brought out and not touched. “Jesus, it wouldn’t do some of those cats any harm to learn what a diet’s like. I’m so hungry.”
Yes, I thought. Hungry summed up Vampantha so well.
ONE DAY I received a breathless phone-call. “Vampantha’s got great news, Brian. She’s been nominated for an award. Seriously.”
More than nominated, actually short-listed.
“Congratulations!” I said, a bit startled.
“Hey, sorry, I’m just—” And she whooped. “So stoked. Have I caught you at a bad moment? You shopping?”
I was actually out chugging. About half a mile from her house, outside the shopping centre. If I moved a little to the left, I could see her through the windows of a restaurant. Sitting at a table with a man.
“Yeah. You celebrating?”
“Oh, my gosh, yes. I’ve seriously just been told. This moment. I had to call. Can you rush out a press release?”
I couldn’t be arsed. But I’d learned how to say this in a publicist way. “Hmm. That seems over-eager. Let’s go grass roots with this, Vampantha. Put up a tweet saying that you’re humbled to be considered, namecheck some of the other people on the list. Let your fans retweet it. I’ll take care of that.” I ran two Twitter fan accounts for Vampantha. They occasionally had spats with each other. It amused me. A very little.
Her response was muted. “Sure. Okay. If you think it’s seriously best.”
“I do,” I said. “I don’t want you to seem over-eager. After all, you might not win.”
“Nooo,” she said, strangely, “I suppose that’s possible.”
HER TWEET:
Vampantha @VampanthaWrites ∙ 6s
HELL YEAH. Best crime ebook? That’s a nom I’ll om-nom-nom. Seriously.
She posted it fifteen seconds later. As though it was already in her phone. I stood outside chugging away. I saw her leave the restaurant. She was off-duty. Accompanied by the man who looked like he was her accountant. That would be the dull husband. They walked right past me without even noticing.
I actually spoke to her. I knew I could get away with it. “Hey there! Do you have time for—”
Before I could even get to cancer/kitten/children, she put up a hand, “Nah,” and walked away. There wasn’t a trace of the Deep South in her accent. She and the dull man pottered off.
“I CAN’T BELIEVE she’ll win,” said Amber. I was having dinner with her and Guy and was amazed when Amber brought her name up in conversation. Turns out she’d found the blog about titnotizing on Twitter.
We had to explain The Vampantha Phenomenon to Guy, but he looked far more interested in his carbonara. “It’s just chick-lit.” He wasn’t really listening. “Do they even have awards for that stuff?”
“Yes,” snapped Amber, “because all books written by women are chick-lit.”
“Yeah, anyway”—which was Guy’s masterful attempt at pulling out of an argument—“it doesn’t really matter, does it?”
He went back to his pasta. As far as he was concerned, the world had moved on.
I’LL SPARE TELLING you too much about the Kettering Crime Convention. The awards were hosted by Jarvis Chapman, the actor currently famous for playing outspoken TV detective Inspector ‘Crass’ Carmichael. It was kind of a big coup for Kettering Crime Convention, and, forgetting that Vampantha was my supposed victim, wearing my publicist hat, I was really pleased at the notion that she’d be pictured on stage next to a very bankable TV star. #GoodForSales
Vampantha didn’t see it like this. I woke up one morning to discover she’d gone mental.
Vampantha @VampanthaWrites ∙ 46m
Wait. WAIT. They’re letting CRASS CARMICHAEL present the @KetCrimeCon? Seriously? WHAT THE SHUDDERING HELL?
Vampantha @VampanthaWrites ∙ 43m
Seriously, I’ve really enjoyed knowing that, were I to win a CrimeConAward, the host wouldn’t call me fat. #SackCrass.
Vampantha @VampanthaWrites ∙ 41m
The thought has seriously crossed my mind, What will Crass say about the dress I wear to the awards? #SackCrass #FatShamer.
Vampantha @VampanthaWrites ∙ 40m
Thanks, @KetCrimeCon, for taking a safe space away from women #SackCrass.
Someone had responded, ‘Er, you know he’s just an actor, don’t you?’ To which she’d replied:
Vampantha @VampanthaWrites ∙ 38m
Exactly! Not Someone who ACTUALLY UNDERSTOOD THE AWARD and WHY WE WERE THERE. #SackCrass.
She’d followed up with:
Vampantha @VampanthaWrites ∙ 35m
Also, and this is no way sour grapes speaking, but: I HAVE VOLUNTEERED TO HOST THE @KetCrimeCon. I’ve done similar stuff. #SackCrass.
Vampantha @VampanthaWrites ∙ 31m
‘Hey, let’s get Any White Male Bigot.’ Like there was a shortage. Seriously. #SackCrass.
Vampantha @VampanthaWrites ∙ 30m
So @KetCrimeCon don’t even “oh, widening appeal” That is insulting and belittling your followers, seriously. #SackCrass
Vampantha @VampanthaWrites ∙ 27m
Seriously scuppered my chances of winning with #FreeSpeech but I don’t care. I’m standing for women. Someone has to. #SackCrass
Someone from KetCrimeCon tweeted: ‘We very much appreciate the feedback we’ve received about our host. Just to make clear, no award decision will be influenced by feedback.’
To which Vampantha replied:
Vampantha @VampanthaWrites ∙ 21m
Better Not Be.
Vampantha @VampanthaWrites ∙ 19m
Confirm Or Deny: How much is he being paid?
Kettering Crime Convention @KetCrimeCon ∙ 15m
He’s volunteering his services.
Vampantha @VampanthaWrites ∙ 11m
So it’s true, HE’S NOT GIVING HIS FEE TO CHARITY? #SackCrass
Kettering Crime Convention @KetCrimeCon ∙ 7m
How can he?
Vampantha @VampanthaWrites ∙ 52s
Seriously? UNBELIEVABLE. I can’t even answer you #SackCrass
My jaw was on the floor. I sent off a gentle email to Vampantha before my brain had even had a chance to go, ‘Wait, she’s doing you a favour by killing herself.’ She shot back, ‘As a white man, naturally you’d be on his side. You’re fired, fuck off. Seriously.’
STUNNED, I LOOKED back at her stream of invective. Underneath all the madness, I suddenly saw her genius.
She’d manoeuvred the convention committee into basically announcing that her outburst wouldn’t harm her chances of winning. Even more amazing, she’d effectively guaranteed a cry of foul if she didn’t win. It was utterly brilliant.
I nearly emailed to tell her so, but then I got distracted by Twitter. Because #SackCrass was being taken up. People pointing out that the actor was different from the character he played (‘Laurence Olivier not actually child-killing psycho despite playing Richard III’) were swept aside. ‘He took the part, so he got behind those views #SackCrass.’
‘KetCrimeCon has worked so hard recently to distance i
tself from bigotry and hate and this is a MASSIVE step back #SackCrass.’
THEN IT GOT odder:
Barney the Dinosaur @BarneyDino ∙ 3h
#SackCrass is just baffling. Jarvis Chapman = Actor. Crass=Character.
Kevin @Kev00 ∙ 3h
@BarneyDino @KetCrimeCon has worked to inclusion. This is a NO. His perceived persona is a detractionist slur.
Barney the Dinosaur @BarneyDino ∙ 3h
@Kev00 But...
Kevin @Kev00 ∙ 2h
@BarneyDino Also, there are accusations of sexism and bigotry by Chapman on set.
Barney the Dinosaur @BarneyDino ∙ 2h
@Kev00 Really, do you have a link to them?