"Do you think you're as good as James Joyce?"

I am meeting my editor for lunch in the Ivy. Not my choice. The Maitre d' smiles at me professionally. “I’m meeting Chris,” I tell him.

“What’s his surname?” he asks.

“I… don’t know,” I admit.

“That’s alright, sir, he said you wouldn’t know.”

He leads me to a small table in the centre of the room. Chris, as usual, is wearing a suit. “Would it kill you to throw on a shirt?” he asks, eyeing my un-tucked T-shirt and jeans.

I shrug. “I thought this place was full of arty creative types.”

“Yeah, well even arty creative types own clothes with buttons.”

“I’m just relieved we all survived the earthquake.” I sit down opposite him.

“You stink of booze. Last night’s booze.”

“I went to see the Wave Pictures,” I tell him.

“One of the big Oscar winners?”

“No, a band. The perfect band. Great tunes, great lyrics, no chance of commercial success. Although it’s annoying because I was their third fan and already the small rooms they’re playing are uncomfortably full. My friend, Matt, was their first fan. He wanted me to mention that.”

“He asked you to tell me that?”

“No, he wanted it in my blog.”

“What, are you writing your blog right now?” he asks sarcastically. Then he looks me over. “Are you recording our conversation?”

“I can remember it. But I can’t write it if it didn’t happen.”

“So everything I say to you is public domain? Brilliant.” He sighs. “Is this like your other band, the Young Negroes…?”

“Black Kids.”

“Black Kids. Wow, they really broke out.”

“They’re coming. This summer is theirs’.”

“Uh-huh. Pick an Hors d’Oeuvres.”

I study the menu. “What are we doing here?”

“Well, someone looked through our expense accounts and realised the only author on our books we hadn’t spent a penny of our entertainment budget on was you. Somehow you slipped through the net.”

“What does that say about me?”

“And as your lucky editor, the chore, sorry, pleasure, fell to me. We need to talk about your manuscript anyway.”

“No, I mean, here. This place.”

“Oh, you’ve got a problem with the Ivy now? Worried you’re selling out?”

“Maybe.”

“Why don’t you worry about selling out when you’ve got something to sell? If anyone is looking at you they’re thinking you’ve won a competition. You wrote to Jim’ll Fix It. There are no paparazzi waiting outside for you.”

“We’re a minute away from Chinatown. Noodles for £6.”

“You’re not paying, Christopher. Choose a starter,” he says again. “Look; salmon, bass…”

“I don’t like fish.”

“Duck then.”

“How about Beluga Caviar? Only £210 for 50g.”

“Dream on.”

“What about the manuscript, anyway? I thought you liked the re-write.”

“The story and structure is fine. Now we go through it in more detail. We look at the language, sentence structure, cut out the flab.”

“Jesus. Always fussing.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” His voice rises in the quiet restaurant. “Are you really this ignorant? Every writer gets edited. That’s how the writing gets as good as it is. Do you think you’re a genius? Do you think you’re as good as James Joyce?”

“I don’t know his work.”

He sighs. “Martin Amis, then.”

“Who?”

“Irvine Welsh. Do you think you write as well as Irvine Welsh?”

“Well…yeah.”

“Yeah, alright, I came down too far. Who do you consider the best writer you’ve actually read?”

“Stephen King?”

“Ok, yeah, him. He’s a better writer than you. Do you know why?”

“Enlighten me.”

“Not only is he a great storyteller but he is a master of language. He knows how to construct simple sentences and strip things down. He’s been writing since he was a child, and you know what? He listens to his editor. Believe me. And I’m the one who has to do the work. Just agree to what I do and it will be painless. Now choose a starter.”

“I don’t like fancy food.”

“You want to go to Chinatown?”

“Can’t beat Singapore Noodles.”

He closes his menu. “You’re actually going to make me leave my free lunch at the Ivy and go in a cheap Chinese restaurant?”

“Keep the client happy, Chris.”

“Fuck you,” he says, and we go for noodles. The atmosphere during the meal is tense.

The Sickness Of Men

It’s late on a Saturday night in Hore’s on Frith Street and it’s as if something trippy has been mixed into all the alcohol behind the bar. Everyone is wasted but decadently so. At least, that’s how it feels in the moment if you’re part of it.

Sid is shuffling around on the dance floor. He is not a good dancer, and he is not good looking, but something about his awkward posing endears him to the women around him. Not to the point where they find him attractive, but when he grinds up against them they push him away without malice.

The whole floor of the club is ankle deep in booze. Not the cheap strong lager that splashes up onto your jeans in the Camden pubs, but exotic cocktails that girls in white high heels have been unable to keep in their glasses. They slip and slide in their own liquid, paid for and sloshed onto the floor and they land on their backs, laughing, skirts riding up revealing white or pink knickers. Men rush to help them, the grips on their DMs just holding them upright as they haul the girls to their feet and hug them. The girls are not particularly pretty. All the pretty girls are at clubs you’ve heard of.

Everyone is shouting above the dreamlike trance music, and because I cannot hear their meaningless words, I am able to imagine that they are quoting poetry or philosophy and discovering new ways of analysing art. People in the booths are snorting coke off their tables but there are no bouncers to throw them out or even to turn a blind eye because they are in the manager’s office with some girls who were refused entry and then begged to get in. Someone screams in my face and I nod and smile because it seems appropriate. I cannot focus on anything because everything is rushing past me and through me, morphing and twisting like when Frodo slips the ring onto his finger.

The barman is knocking back shots and refilling my glass without asking. Occasionally he stumbles backwards and sweeps a few tumblers onto the floor. He looks confused, unsure of what has happened, and he crunches the smashed glass underfoot, oblivious. Briefly, I think about tomorrow’s hangover. Then I drain my glass. It is refilled.

A man next to me falls off his bar stool. Others join him on the floor. Then they sing Sailing and do some arm movements. Unable to let go and join in the fun, I stare at the ice as I twirl it in my glass.

Sid totters over from the dance floor looking around at the women in wide-eyed wonder. “God Damn,” he says, sitting next to me at the bar. “God Damn,” he says again.

“Dude,” I say for no reason. We are drunk and have gone American. We are celebrating the completion of what I hope will be the final draft of Clear History.

Sid leans in towards me. “Can you imagine if women knew how shallow we really are?” he asks, ogling a group of girls across the room. “I mean, they think they know. They’ve heard the statistics, men think about sex once every six seconds, or whatever. They’ve flicked through FHM and seen the cars and the tits and everything. They joke and bitch about it to their friends and in their magazines, but they could never fathom the true extent of it. Pornography, they think, is escapism, a fantasy. But the reality is far worse.

“Every woman I see gets a rating. Not a mark out of 10, but a Yes, No or Maybe. Even if it’s an old woman in a wheelchair, even if it’s subconscious, they still get that No. It still registers. And the Maybes get a second, third, fourth look. And the Yes's get thoughts. Every Yes and some of the Maybes I see I think about talking to them and whether I could get them into bed, and what I would do to them if I could. It’s a sickness, really. I can’t stop. And it’s not just something occurring in a small part of my brain. It is literally the most important thing. If I’m walking around a museum, or watching a rugby match, or sitting in a Harper Collins meeting, no matter who I’m with, everything I am experiencing is secondary to the scoping, judging and analysing of women. I swear that if I was being put to death, strapped down for a lethal injection, I’d be looking through the glass to see if there are any hot relatives of my victims. If someone cut my throat on the street and a group of girls were looking, I’d be on the ground, checking them out as my lifeblood drained away.

“They know we look at their legs and their boobs on the train if they really think about it, but they forget. We never do. If they had any concept of exactly what goes on in here,” – he taps his head – “If they even came close, they would run a mile. They would be genuinely terrified and they would exclude us from their lives. By now women would have taken over the world and would just keep us around to reproduce and open jars. And if they felt anywhere near the same as us we’d all be fucking constantly on every street corner.”

And God Damn if one of the girls here tonight doesn’t share his enthusiasm for sex, and at 1.30am he waves goodbye and stumbles off with a plain blonde on his arm, leaving me on my stool, glancing at my reflection in the chrome of the bar. I think about going home to Cheryl, but what keeps me in the bar is not the hope of meeting a strange woman. Being married has dimmed that fire a little. And what burns brighter can be bought legally in bottles.

I order another Scotch.

"Is My Book Going To Be In WH Smith's?"

I ask this repeatedly as Mavis and Pauline enter the conference room, more to hide my terror than anything.

They look at each other wearily, and sit down opposite me. Pauline holds her hand up, cutting me off. “Christopher, it is a possibility at this stage, but you really must stop obsessing about it. It’s not healthy.”

I watch them carefully. They don’t make any sudden moves. Mavis looks almost upset. “You’ve been saying some unkind and untruthful things about us. And while we can take a little ribbing, we are also busy people and we have other people to see today. So perhaps you could stop the fooling around and be sensible for a few minutes.”

Perhaps she is being genuine. I study them and have to admit they aren’t the demons I remember. Ugly, certainly, but not demonic. I sit up. “Something strange definitely happened last time.”

Mavis sighs. “Writers and their imaginations. Exaggeration is fine, but, well…”

“It’s not as if widespread damage was done,” Pauline says and they smile.

“What does that mean?”

“Well, it was only on your blog. And that hasn’t exactly been a huge publicity tool, has it?”

“It’s done alright.”

“How many people does it reach?”

“If it hasn’t done that well, then surely as publicists, you should take responsibility. Have you been advertising it?”

“Not since you called us hideous old crones,” Mavis snaps. “The whole thing is too negative.”

“You see, this is part of our problem,” Pauline says. “You need to be nice to people. Nice to booksellers and librarians. Nice to the book buyers. Nice to interviewers. At least until people want you, we need to convince them that selling your book is worthwhile.”

“But I hate everyone,” I whine.

Mavis looks at Pauline. “Perhaps we should send him on a media awareness course.”

“Ooh, no, that would make things even worse.”

“You’re right.” She looks at me again. “The best thing we can do is keep you away from everyone. Which makes it terribly difficult for us to sell you. We could suggest to a newspaper a few articles you could write based on your experiences that led you to write the book.”

“Except,” Pauline says, “It’s a book about cyborgs and laser guns.”

“Hey, it deals with a lot of family issues.”

“It doesn’t say that on our summary sheets.”

“You have read the book, haven’t you?” They look down at their hands. “This is unbelievable! How can you sell a book you haven’t read?”

“Be realistic, Christopher. Have you at least filled out our author questionnaire?”

“Yes,” I say, and hand it to Mavis.

Pauline fills the silence. “You’ll definitely be on Amazon.”

“I could photocopy the manuscript and get it on Amazon myself,” I say. “They sell anything.”

“Still…it’s something.”

Mavis looks up from her sheet. “This is supposed to be something about you we can sell to journalists.” I nod. “Have you ever done anything interesting in your life?”

“It’s all there. I went to LA that time.”

“That was three weeks ago. And going round Ripley’s Believe It Or Not museum is not going to excite anyone.”

“There’s that story about getting a blowjob from Gentle Ben.”

“How does that relate to your book?”

“I don’t know.” I bury my head in my hands. “I just like watching DVDs and listening to music.”

“Make something up for Christ’s sake,” Pauline shouts.

“I’ll do better,” I promise.

“You’ll be in the autumn catalogues in a month or two. We need something good by then.”

“In the mean time,” Mavis says, “We’ve booked your first appearance for October, a week after the book comes out.”

“What is it?”

“It’s at the…” She checks her notes. “The Science Fiction and Fantasy Northern Conference.”

“Northern?”

“Northeast, actually. In Hull. You’ll be doing a reading and a Q&A session and signing copies of the book over a weekend.”

“A weekend? These people are freaks. They dress up as characters and talk in Klingon. They’ve become so expertly nerdish they have long since abandoned any pretence of being accepted by a normal society and have embraced the world of geekdom so intensely that they openly, even loudly, discuss their lack of lives and are far happier for having done so.”

“This is your fan base. You’ve written a fucking sci-fi book.”

“Maybe some of them will be dressed up as your cyborgs,” Pauline suggests.

“Will I get a free hotel room?”

“And travel.”

“I’ll do it. But I demand security.”

“I’ll get on that,” Pauline says, and puts her notes down. “Now, is there anything else in your life you’d like to talk about?”

“Oh no you don’t,” I say, and escape into unexpected sunlight.

Since My Mother Died, I've Become Flavour Of The Month At Harper Collins...

…But I try not to let it go to my head. I acknowledge the receptionists and PAs who now seem to know my name whilst giving them what they want; mournful, sultry looks full of endless, aching sadness. Luckily, this is my natural expression.

I sit at the table with Sid, Chris and the suit whose name, I think, may be Jason. If it isn’t, it should be. Other suits sit a respectful distance away, and I keep my shades on because I have an excuse. I myself am wearing a jet black suit.

“Well, Christopher,” Jason begins, but stops when I toss a fat A4 envelope onto the table. “What’s this?” he asks, opening it.

“Pages 114-176 of the new draft of Clear History,” I tell him.

“Wow,” Chris says. “And I only received pages 52-113 a few days ago. If only we could have one of your relatives pass away every week!” He laughs, then stops, embarrassed, when no one joins in. He clears his throat. “Sorry.” I shrug. He moves his head to the side in an effort to see through my sunglasses. I lift them briefly to show him that I am looking at him, then turn away.

Sid pats my hand. “Christopher’s really come on leaps and bounds with regards to his work ethic.”

Jason flicks through the pages without looking. “Well, I was hoping before we got started to express how sorry we all are for your loss.”

“Thank you. It’s times like these that make you realise what the important things in life really are. By the way, I think pages 101-104 are the best I’ve written yet.”

“Oh, good,” Jason says. “I lost my mother a few years ago and…”

“It has been terribly hard for me,” I declare, reaching for half a plain bagel.

“Yes. Well, you seem to be holding up, though.”

“I manage to put up a good front. It’s not fair on others to carry around a heavy air of grief. Writing is all I have now.”

“And your wife,” Sid says.

I nod. “Mainly the writing, though. I sit at home alone in the dark, just the glow of the computer screen lighting up the tears that surprise me when they fall from my cheeks.”

Jason nods understandingly. “One of our junior editors must have caught you on a good day, then, when she saw you drinking and flirting with some attractive women at Jrink on Saturday night.”

I rub my cheeks with one hand. “She must have…seen someone else. I look like quite a few people.”

“Sid was with you.”

“Again,” I say, “A very typical looking man.”

Sid nods, then holds his finger up. “No,” he says, “That was us. Yeah, Saturday, we went out.”

I look at him open-mouthed. The others watched us. “Are you sure?” I ask him with deliberate weight. He nods and then I lift my shades and glare at him.

“Oh,” he says, and spends an excruciatingly long time looking up and thinking about what to say. “Maybe that was…another client.”

“Oh,” Chris says, “You’ve taken on other clients now?”

Sid looks caught again. “No, I’ve always had others.”

Chris looks confused. “I thought you told me that…” It is his turn to stop and realise something. He looks at me and shakes his head as though in deep thought. “Or was that...?” I rub my eyes under my glasses.

“One of the girls was the junior editor,” Jason tells me. “You may have been too intoxicated to remember the rather long and rambling conversation you apparently conducted with her.”

“Drinking, unfortunately, has been a crutch through the grieving process,” I admit.

“Well, we’re here to help if you need it,” Jason says.

Chris flicks through the new pages. “My concern now is that you’re changing too much. I mean, I like what you’re writing, but we’re losing some of the stuff I liked the most.”

I look at Sid. He tilts his head. I lift my sunglasses. He nods. “It really seems as if Christopher just cannot win,” he says to everyone. “First you complain because he isn’t changing enough, now you’re complaining because he’s changing too much. What would make you happy?”

“A re-write along the guidelines we set out and agreed upon before the contract was signed,” Chris says.

“Oh, right,” Sid says and nods and shrugs at me. “That makes sense.”

I fold my arms. “This is the direction in which I have been taken by recent, tragic events.”

“Really?” Chris asks, sarcasm creeping into his voice.

“Are you a writer?” I ask him.

“Well, yes. I mean, I’ve written several novels, but unfortunately… I’ve never actually been published.” He looks meaningfully at Jason, who half-smiles uncomfortably.

“Just…not quite good enough? I ask innocently.

“Actually I think the last couple were really pretty good, but perhaps working in the industry masks people to that.”

There is an extended silence, which Sid breaks. “Perhaps I could represent you?” Chris just looks at him, than flicks through the pages again.

Jason looks around the table, then unclasps his hands. “Well, I think this meeting has reached a…conclusion of sorts. I’m going to organise another meeting with your publicists to take things forward.”

Horror envelops me. “No, not them.”

He laughs as he stands up. “You are funny, Christopher.” But the building already seems colder.