by Charlie Hill
Earlier that day, Gary Sayles had laid down a couple of interviews. The first was for Man, a monthly lifestyle magazine packed with Russell Brand, Jeremy Clarkson and TV Celebrity Chef James Martin. He’d been photographed astride a Spacehopper while smoking a pipe, a publicity shot that encapsulated what he was about. The questions had centred around the difficulties – or otherwise – of dressing to impress the ladies in a recession.
The second was an altogether more serious affair. It was about his return to the fictional big time and the themes and inspirations that would catapult him back to the top of the Premier League of contemporary fiction. Hopefully without the need for a word-based penalty shootout. It was going to run in the Sunday Express the week after his new book came out. He’d answered the questions with a little bit of honesty, just the right amount of self-confidence and an eye for the main chance, and it had proved to Gary – if proof were needed – that he still had the old magic.
‘Why the comeback?’ he’d been asked. A potentially tricky question for someone in his position who hadn’t got a string of bestselling titles under his belt and who knew their way around a digital tape recorder. But meat and drink for Gary.
‘I think that five years is long enough without a new Gary Sayles, don’t you? No, no, but seriously. A lot has happened since I wrote my last book. The world has changed. There’s been a recession. And I have a responsibility as a writer. I think that as a writer it’s important to respond to what’s going on in the world.’
‘So you think that novelists still have a role to play?’ the interviewer had asked. ‘Oh yes,’ Gary had replied. And he saw that this had hit home and pressed home his advantage. ‘You see, I’ve got a unique relationship with my readers, something that no one else has got. We’ve grown up together. I’ve given them pleasure and advice, I’ve made them laugh. I’ve shown men how to love. I’ve even – and this isn’t me being falsely modest just for the sake of it – given people someone to look up to.
‘The thing is, we’ve been on a real journey together. And it’s important I’m not just there for the good times but the difficult times as well. I want my readers to know that when something unpleasant happens, they can turn to me and I’m still there for them. They need that, you see. Someone to offer them reassurance in a world gone mad.’
‘I see. And so how would you describe The Grass is Greener?’
‘Well, it’s actually a bit of a departure for me. As a writer, I think you have to respond to what is going on in the world and so The Grass is Greener deals with more serious issues than my first three bestselling titles. In a more mature way. It’s still funny, of course, but it touches on themes that affect us all in these straitened times.’
‘I see. And these themes…?’
‘It’s about a writer having a midlife crisis.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘A writer having a midlife crisis.’
‘A writer? Having a midlife crisis?’
‘That’s right. It’s a good idea, isn’t it? There’s a lot of scope there for exploring some of the more tricky situations that life can throw up. And besides, I’d said all there was to say about young men growing up, the trials and tribulations of twentysomething friendship, imminent parenthood, whether or not you should have sex with a friend of the opposite sex. So commercially speaking, the time was right for me to move on as well.’
‘I see. And, er, do you think you’ll carry your readership with you? Or is there a danger that it will be too unsettling for some of your readers?’
‘Not really. That’s not what my writing’s about. When I say I provide comfort for my readers, I mean it. I think it’s very important actually. For too long, the world of literature has been dominated by so-called writers who set out to sabotage the fabric of our society. People who think that it’s OK to have a go at what makes us tick, to glamorise all that’s wrong about human behaviour in the name of lowlife or elitist entertainment. You know the sort. They think it’s clever to be cynical and pessimistic. They’re desperate to see how far they can go, how low they can stoop. Violence, incest, drug-taking, kidnapping, it’s all fair game. Their attitude is wrong. It’s corrosive. Because what are books for unless they address the concerns of ordinary people and what they’re interested in? Girlfriends, the problems of living together, wives, pop music, football, going down the pub, Star Wars, everyday things. And then growing older, struggling with ageing, turning into a grumpy old man. Moving on to The Empire Strikes Back if you like. And not written to impress either, but written in everyday language. That’s what books should be about.
‘I’ve always been criticised for being a conventional writer. And I’ve never quite worked out why convention gets such a bad press. I’ll tell you something about conventions. Conventions are there for a reason. They’re the fabric of society. What keeps us together. Birth is conventional, death is conventional, and yes, believe it or not, marriage is conventional too. It’s the way we do things, the way we’ve decided is the best. I get really annoyed when people attack convention. What would we put in its place? Go on. Tell me. All these people with their ideas about how we could do things better: you don’t see them happy. I tell you, all the unhappiness in the world is caused by ideas. This mess we’re in now is caused by so-called intellectuals. People pushing the envelope. Why can’t we just accept what we are? Accept that there’s a right way to do things? Convention works. If it didn’t it wouldn’t appeal. It wouldn’t be conventional. The way I see it, people are tired of extremes. What they need is to be reassured that there’s no shame in the middle of the road.
‘That’s my response to the mess the world is in. Sticking to what we know works. So no, it won’t be too unsettling. I was proud to call my old books conventional. And I’m proud to call my new one conventional too.
‘I’m really pleased with the way it’s come out as well. Not that that’s important. It’s what my readers think that matters. Read it. Tell me what you think. I’ll be interested to hear.’
It was almost as if he hadn’t been away…
Amy
When he got home that night, Gary’s wife Amy was sitting in the front room of their Notting Hill terrace. The room was high-ceilinged, white-walled, beech-floored. The sofa was black leather. Amy was listening to a novel on the radio. Their five-year-old son, Garfield, was sprawled on a rug, doodling in an activity book. Gary had arrived home later than Amy had expected. The man on the train had asked for a mention in his next book. Gary had missed his stop but not a marketing opportunity when he decided to dedicate his new novel to ‘Everyone I’ve met on the tube’.
Amy and Gary had been married for ten years. This latest incarnation of their relationship had begun fifteen years ago, at a Coldplay gig at the Warwick Arts Centre. Amy had been working behind the bar and Gary had come from London for the night. He’d barrelled up the M1 armed with an eight-tog quilt and some chat from the magazine where he spent every Saturday de-lidding lattes. He had hoped that the girls of Warwick University would swoon at a local boy making it big in the Smoke. When he’d no-wow-hi-ed into Amy he was delighted. He’d said: ‘I’m not going to let you go this time.’ The following weekend he’d made the trip again. This time Amy was waiting for him. They had been inseparable ever since.
Their reunion had been a long time coming. It was the defining encounter in a relationship that stretched back to their time together at infant school in Kings Heath, Birmingham. They’d played kiss chase at five, mothers and fathers at six, hide-and-seek at seven. Gary had first popped the question when they were eight. He’d presented Amy with a thought-that-counts necklace of daisies he’d painstakingly put together during a particularly taxing English lesson.
After junior school, they fell out of touch with one another. They slalomed and scrabbled their way through adolescence and, at eighteen, Gary moved down south to study for a degree in journalism at the University of North London. Amy found herself drawn to an English course and the masochism
of the life of a student in Coventry. When they met up again, the time was right. Amy was ready.
As for Gary, it really was a fairytale come true. Amy was the girl next door, his childhood sweetheart, The One. And Gary believed.
That night, as he stood in the living room, Amy could tell instantly that there was something wrong.
‘Are you OK, honey?’ she asked.
‘Yes, Flopsy Bunny,’ said Gary, distracted. ‘It’s just been a long day. I’m fine.’
But he wasn’t. That night, the gleam that shone in his eye in the presence of his family had a new intensity. For on his way home, Gary Sayles had been thinking about his new book. And Gary Sayles had had an idea.
The next morning Gary leapt out of bed and slipped into his dressing gown. He fetched Garfield a glass of juice. Garfield drank the drink in bed with his mother. While she read to their son, Gary went downstairs to fix breakfast for the three of them. He tried to do this every other weekday. It was the same as always: cornflakes followed by rindless back bacon, toasted sandwich-cut bread and a boiled egg.
The family ate around a pine table in the kitchen. The kitchen was wide and pale and shiny with stainless steel. The units were German and the drawers closed softly and without too much assistance. Gary had chosen the drawers. He’d also chosen the ceramic fruit in the bowl on the side by the silver-finish fridge. And the pasta feature – different shapes, in a glass jar – and the IKEA prints on the wall and the decorative bottle of olive oil that sat next to the cooker. Gary’s personality was all over the house. Like the Fresh Smell of Summer Meadows. This was OK. There was no clash there. Amy’s personality was elsewhere.
Amy ate her cornflakes. She watched Gary as he wolfed down his barely browned toast. She peeled Garfield’s egg and cut his bacon into strips. The egg was runnier than usual. Gary finished his meal and disappeared upstairs for his shower. Half an hour later, while Amy was reading to Garfield, Gary came downstairs. He was dressed for business in his favourite cords/polo shirt combo. He kissed the two of them goodbye and left the house.
Amy looked at the clock. It was half past eight. That was unusual. Irrespective of his work schedule, she always sat with Gary in front of the end of ITV’s breakfast show which finished at nine. Gary had appeared on it once. He liked the banter between the hosts. Amy didn’t actually watch the programme but the ritual had replaced their five-minute early-morning cuddle which had replaced their ten-minute early-morning lovemaking. Clearing up the dishes, Amy scraped Gary’s crusts into the kitchen bin. The bin was full. It was bin day and Gary had left without taking the rubbish out.
Her husband was obviously distracted by something. He’d been distracted all morning. And Amy had first noticed he was behaving oddly last night. She smiled. Bless him. He was off again.
‘What’s daddy up to?’ Amy asked Garfield, ‘what’s got to daddy now?’
‘Daddy can’t hear you, silly,’ said Garfield. ‘Daddy’s not here.’
‘I know honey,’ said Amy. ‘But I wonder where he’s gone?’
An author grows the brand
Gary Sayles was a man with a lot on his mind. It was as though he had just discovered his first grey nostril hair while looking into a mirror on his thirty-fifth birthday. Because today was the day he went public with his idea.
That morning he had a meeting with his agent, Norwenna, and his editor, Katie, at the HQ of his publisher, Barker Follinge. Normally Gary had been known for his punctuality: on this occasion he thought he’d let them know who was boss and arrived ten minutes after the appointed hour.
He met the two ladies in a conference room on the sixth floor. There was a long table in the room and a flip chart. He noticed his rider – a can of Dr Pepper, not too cold, a bowl of Cheesy Wotsits and one of his signed photos, in a frame – was already in pride of place. The girls were obviously keen to get started.
‘Hello, Gary! Good to see you,’ said Katie. ‘You’re looking very well!’
Gary smiled inwardly. She’d got into the habit of opening their meetings with an observation like this but on this occasion, she was right. He nodded enigmatically and transferred his smile to his face.
‘Excellent!’ said Katie. ‘OK. Before we start, then, I’d just like to run through the final touches.’
Gary approved. Whatever masterstroke he was going to drop on them today, it was nice to observe the usual courtesies and the manuscript always came first. By now this final honing of a manuscript was a ritual to him, like watching Match of the Day. Historically it took about four meetings and this was the fourth with the new book. Soon it would be ready to be unleashed on an unsuspecting but grateful world.
‘At the risk of repeating what I said last time,’ continued Katie, ‘I have to say that it’s looking very good. I think the shift to an older, wiser Gary Sayles really suits you. I mean, I really do think you’re going from strength to strength as a writer. There’s more substance to this one somehow. In fact I only have a few more suggestions to make. Nothing structural – I think the changes we agreed earlier work really well – but there’s one or two things we can still do to tighten up the prose in the last thirty pages. Do you have a copy of the manuscript with you?’
‘Come now,’ chided Gary. ‘You should know by now that it’s all in here.’ He tapped the side of his head with one of his fingers.
‘Of course!’ said Katie. ‘And thank goodness for that! Righty-ho. So there’s a section on page two hundred and forty that’s the same as one on page two hundred and forty-three. I don’t know if you meant to repeat yourself for effect? No? OK, I thought not. Page two hundred and forty-two: it’s a “very hot day without a cloud in the sky” when Lucy and her gay friend – what’s his name again? – ah yes, Fabrice – arrive for their heart-to-heart; when they come out they’re jumping in puddles. So I’ve altered that slightly. Ah yes. Page two hundred and forty-five. Now I’ve had some interesting focus group feedback about this passage…’
‘Some interesting what?’
‘Focus group feedback. A few people have been helping us with the demographic profiling for your new novel. Well, they’re not sure about Ben kicking his dog. What’s its name? Tyson. They say it’s not suitable for the market we’re targeting.’
‘But he’s having a midlife crisis!’
‘I agree, Gary, to an extent…’
‘… and Tyson’s a fighting dog!’
‘A Yorkshire terrier, yes, Gary. But this isn’t American Psycho. And I think they felt it didn’t quite ring true. Maybe if Tyson doesn’t knock over one of Ben’s children “like a skittle with a bowling ball”?’
‘I’m not too sure—’
‘—it’s just that they do have a real understanding of feel-good fiction… and they’re all such fans of yours…’
‘Well. I suppose I can agree to that,’ said Gary, ‘but only because I know they know what they’re talking about.’
‘Good point, Gary, well put! Now. Where were we? Ah yes. Page two hundred and forty-seven: I think we can lose the “silently” from “she shrugged silently”. Page two hundred and forty-eight… Ah yes. I’m going to be honest with you here. I think the list is great. I like what you do with lists. Because – let’s face it – and Norwenna will back me up here – Norwenna? – it is exactly the way men think. And it’s a trademark of yours, isn’t it? I remember it from your earlier works. It’s just that twenty things on the list is maybe one or two too many.’
‘Hmmm. I suppose so. I can always use the last few again. The next time. Maybe in a different context…’
‘Exactly! Brilliant! I think that’s a very good point. That’s another of your gifts that you’ve obviously honed, your ability to recontextualise material! And it reminds me. Next up we have page two-fifty. Up until this point, I’ve managed to keep the number of cliché… of easily recognisable phrases down to what we agreed: two per page. And don’t get me wrong, I don’t think we can afford to skimp on them. It’s this ratio that makes you unique.
There’s no one else even attempting these percentages. And it certainly has implications for brand loyalty. But between page two hundred and fifty and two hundred and sixty we’re up to three or four, which may be giving your readers too much of a good thing…’
Gary allowed himself to drift on the sea of Katie’s voice. She was one of only a handful of editors still employed at Barker Follinge and the fact that she worked almost exclusively with him was an indication of how big a cheese he was. They’d had their disagreements, of course. Strictly speaking, Katie’s background was marketing, not editing, and she’d taken time to adjust to the unique qualities of his writing. On occasion she’d been overly draconian with his prose.
But then he’d had a tricky relationship with everyone who’d worked on his books, even Elizabeth, whom he’d only known for a couple of weeks before she’d died, tragically, during the initial read-through of his new manuscript. The editor for his first three had been Steph and he’d never been sure about her little quirks either. After she’d started work on his debut she’d taken to drinking at odd times of the day, smoking cigarettes. Taking time off because of ‘her nerves’. And what kind of ‘career move’ was it to go from working as the editor of a bestselling author to stopping people in the street – in the winter! – and asking them if they’d recently had an accident at work?
‘Right, so that’s the final few changes, then,’ said Katie. ‘Now, I’ve got some news from marketing about the review coverage. Online, we’ve paid for I Heart Books, Books We Love, We Love Books, Bookslush, Bookchat and a new site called Bookchef. As for print, in keeping with the more serious themes of the novel, we’ve decided against targeting the usual suspects. So instead of Ciao!, Single!, Girlfriend!, Spritzer! and Bloke, we’re going with Career Woman, Urban Gent, Man Hug, Pheromone and Car. The supermarkets are all on board. We’re not going to go overboard chasing the broadsheets – we’ve got the Correspondent tied in but, frankly, who needs them? – but we’re close to finalising a deal with Metro and the Evening Standard. And I think you saw the review that Mike Parsons has written for the Mail? The only issue I have with it is the wording. He’s one of ours, you see, and I wondered what you thought about us asking him to change the “funny” to “amusing”? We don’t want to be a hostage to fortu… no, no, that’s not what I mean. It’s just that “funny” can have unfortunate connotations. One person’s Chris Evans is another’s Stewart Lee.’
