"Smile For Me..."

“This is me smiling,” I say.

“Come on,” Pauline urges from behind her video camera. “You look miserable.”

“My face doesn’t register emotion. Rest assured, inwardly I’m bubbling.”

Pauline, my publicist, has brought me to a factory in Suffolk where someone in brown overalls is about to push a button which will begin the process of churning out the initial run of five thousand copies of my novel, Clear History.

“How do you feel, Christopher?” Pauline says, voice muffled against the camera’s metal casing.

“Good,” I say. “Yeah, quite excited. Good.”

“Let me see some enthusiasm.”

“I’m excited,” I snap, annoyed.

Twenty or so of the factory’s machine operators are lined up with their hands clasped in front of them, staring with expectant smiles which make me feel uncomfortable.

“Okay,” the manager says, pushing his black glasses up his nose. “Are you ready?”

I nod and he looks at me, waiting for something more. When he finally realises that this is the extent of my public displays of emotion, he reluctantly signals for the party to begin. The machines crank up with an irritatingly loud meshing noise and the workers pull mufflers over their ears.

“It takes around five hundred people to operate the machines for one book,” the manager shouts in my ear.

“I’ve heard that,” I say. “Is it true?”

“Not really. Only if you totally manipulate the figures and factor in workforce you shouldn’t. But it sounds impressive.”

“Get ready!” Pauline shrieks, and then copies of my book begin spilling onto a conveyer belt and trundling towards us. “Yay!” she says.

The workers clap and smile again. Pauline shoves the camera in my face and I wink into the lens, a lazy gesture that requires minimum emotional output but that people sometimes seem to get a kick out of.

The workers begin to package the books into boxes except for the very first copy which makes it all the way to the end and the manager gestures at me to pick it up as though he is offering me the Holy Grail. Which, in a way, he is.

I pick it up and look at the cover. “Nice,” I say, nodding.

“How do you feel?” Pauline asks me again, this time in a singsong voice.

I wink again, and hold both my thumbs up and try to smile.

The red light on the front of the viewfinder darkens and Pauline drops the camera to her side. “Well, I fucking tried,” I think I hear her say and then she marches to the table at the side of the room and pushes the camera into its bag and zips it up. Then she just stands with her back to the room.

“Now you get a tour of the factory,” the manager tells me.

“Just one second,” I say, and then I join Pauline at the table. “I’m doing my best,” I shout.

She turns and looks at me with obvious displeasure. “Come outside a second,” she says, and I follow her to the entrance. With familiarity comes acceptance and she no longer repulses me. She still has the power to unnerve me, though.

We push through the reception and out into daylight where she stands and faces me with her hands on her hips. “It’s my job to help your book sell but there’s nothing more I can do for you,” she says.

“I’m not a good actor, Pauline. What do you want from me?”

“You shouldn’t have to act. This should be the happiest day of your life, next to your wedding day.”

“It is. But I look miserable in my wedding photographs too. People look at them and think it was my mother’s funeral. And that day I wasn’t forced to wear an ill-fitting luminous jacket.”

“Do you think we do this for everyone? This is a privilege, and I wanted to get some footage of you acknowledging that and fucking crying for joy when the books appeared. This is your dream in print. There’s a video on YouTube of some mad author jumping up and down and dancing in the printing factory and it’s fantastic and joyful. Would it have been too much to ask for you to show the world how you’re feeling?”

“I’m not like that. I’m sorry. I do appreciate everything you’ve done. But I just can’t imagine Cormac McCarthy dancing a jig on the Internet.”

The manager sticks his head through the main doors. “You’re missing it all,” he says.

Inside, he takes me around the factory, pointing at each bit of machinery and explaining its function. After half an hour I tell him that I have things to do and he stares at me as if I’ve just eaten one of his fingers.



In my car outside my flat I sit for a few minutes and hold the book in my hands. What Pauline doesn’t realise is that the whole process is a very private one for me. I wrote the book longhand alone in my bedroom lying face down on my bed listening to music on my iPod over hundreds of hours and people will read the book (hopefully) alone, independently, a unique experience. I don’t know what the whole process is about, but I do know it isn’t about factories and machines and video clips.

The cover looks great and my name doesn’t have (1976-) after it and there’s a blank page at the end so people can’t open it to read the inside flap and accidentally read the last few words. I look okay in the photograph. The text isn’t too big or small. It smells nice.

Then I turn to the dedication and run my fingers over it.

Dedicated to the Memory of Susan Hardy (1948-2008)
A Loving Mother without whom none of this would be possible

It looks nice in print. “It may not be a great novel,” I say out loud in case she can hear me. “But it’s something. It’s something anyway.”

Cheryl is home and she claps excitedly and hugs me and I realise I should have taken her to perform at the factory. “I’m so proud,” she says.

She grabs the book and looks at the front and back covers and the inside flaps. “It’s so exciting,” she says. Then she flicks through the first few pages and reads the dedication and looks at the prologue and then she puts it back down and walks into the kitchen.

I follow her and watch her preparing dinner. “I don’t think I performed for the camera as the publicists wanted.”

“No?”

“They should have got me drunk again.”

“Mmm.”

“Or drugs.”

She says nothing.

“Everything okay?”

“Yep.”

It isn’t. “What’s wrong?”

She stops and sighs with her back to me. “I just thought that…as your wife, the person closest to you, that you might, you know, have dedicated your book to me.”

I blink a couple of times. “Oh.”

“I shouldn’t have assumed, but I did. It didn’t actually cross my mind that you wouldn’t. It’s a bit of a shock.”

My mouth is dry. “I’m sorry. If she hadn’t have died this year then it might have been different. But this…just seemed appropriate.”

“Maybe. But there’s nothing stopping you having two dedications, is there?”

“I thought it would detract from hers.”

“So you did think about it?”

“A little. Look, I only know about six people. If I blow two on the first book then I’m going to start repeating myself or dedicating them to the postman or something. Look, I promise that the next one will be for you.”

She turns to face me. “What if this is the only one?”

I scramble desperately for an answer. “It doesn’t…change my feelings for you.”

“What does it even mean, anyway? Of course none of this would have been possible. She gave birth to you.”

“I thought it was nice.”

She turns back to the counter. “I’ll get over it,” she says. “I get over everything, don’t I?”

I make my way back to my armchair and sit and hold the book which seems heavier suddenly. “Love you,” I call timidly through the open doorway.

Conrad Nolan...

My agent Sid has invited me to drinks with the literary legend, Conrad Nolan. He has written fifteen novels of considerable artistic merit. Apparently. I have never read any of them. Sid thinks I will benefit from talking to one of the masters and to my surprise I am genuinely excited to meet him.

Sid calls me to stop in the John Snow for a cheap pint beforehand. He has brought a Singles Club date along; a plump, homely girl with kind eyes. She is introduced as Molly.

“I wish I’d known you were bringing someone,” I tell Sid. “I could have brought Cheryl. She’s talking to me occasionally now.”

“Well, it’s a foursome with Conrad.”

“So Conrad Nolan is my date?”

“If you like.”

“How do you know him anyway? You’re constantly surprising me.”

“Oh, I don’t. No, he’ll see anyone providing they buy his drinks all night. His novels don’t sell, you see. They’re far too…intelligent.”

“How long have you been doing this Internet dating thing?” I ask Molly.

“Thirteen years,” she says.

“Not that successful so far, then?”

“You live in hope. But there are some demented people out there.”

Sid nods in agreement. “Molly here is like a breath of fresh air. I’ve done two so far and they’ve both been retards.”

Molly frowns. “Actually, I find that quite offensive. My brother is mentally challenged.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sid says.

“You weren’t to know.”

“No, I mean I can’t go out with someone who has a retarded brother.”

“What?”

“I can’t sit around a dinner table with him. They make me feel a bit sick. I’m just being honest and it’s good we’ve found out now.”

She leaves in stunned silence and we are alone.

“It’s a minefield, mate,” he confides.



Conrad Nolan is sitting alone at the upstairs bar in his private members club, sipping from a large tumbler of Scotch. I recognise him from his Wikipedia photograph, in which he is striking an identical pose.

Sid introduces himself and then me and we sit in a booth and order drinks from an elderly waiter. Nolan drains his glass and leans into Sid. “I always feel that it’s beneficial in the long run to clarify the money situation up front.”

“Oh, right, absolutely,” Sid says. “It’s all on me.”

Nolan smiles. “Good. Now we can relax and enjoy ourselves.”

“You sound like a prostitute I hired in Berlin,” I tell him.

“Quite right. Writers are all whores. It’s best you know that sooner rather than later.” We laugh. “I am quite serious,” he says.

“It really is a pleasure to meet you,” Sid says. “I’m a huge fan.”

Sid is lying. He reads less than me.

“All art is quite useless. You know who said that?”

Sid nods. “Shakespeare.”

Nolan looks at him for awhile. Then, finally, “Oscar Wilde.”

“That’s who I meant,” Sid says snapping his fingers.

“That great poofter.”

The drinks arrive. I take a gulp of the whisky.

“There are worse professions, naturally,” Nolan says. “We must all aspire to greatness else what would mankind ever achieve?”

“Quite,” I say, then stand up. “Excuse me. Must run to the men’s.”

“Yes,” Nolan says, standing as well. “I need to piss like a race horse.”

We stand side by side at the urinal in silence and the pressure causes a short delay. As soon as I manage to begin, though, Nolan lets out a fart like a firecracker that reverberates around the tiled bathroom and then he sighs with pleasure.

“Do you know why I never wear shorts?” he suddenly asks.

“Can’t say I do.”

“When I piss in a urinal I can feel the splash back sprinkling my bare legs. With long trousers we can of course pretend that our clothing remains completely dry and clean. Everything is an illusion, my boy.”

I zip up and wash my hands. Nolan continues his business.

“So you want to be an author, do you?”

“Actually, I am an author. My first book is out next month.”

He chuckles and turns around. “You think that just because your book is being published that makes you an author?”

“Ermmm…Yes?”

“It’s taken me three decades to feel as though I have a right to a position in the literary world. And even now sometimes I am unsure.”

I nod and then abruptly he turns and locks himself in a cubicle. I run out and slide back into the booth.

“Isn’t he everything you expected him to be?” Sid says.

“And more.” I flick through the drinks menu, goggling at the prices. “Sid, how are you going to pay for this? It’s mental.”

“I sold off some of mother’s jewellery. I hid it for a few weeks first to make sure she didn’t miss it. She didn’t.”

Nolan returns from the bathroom. The waiter seems to float over. “More drinks?”

“I tried a new system with Sebastian last night,” Nolan tells the waiter. “Have you a countdown function on your watch?”

“No sir, but I believe I may have one on my phone.”

“Very good. Every time you bring me a drink, set the timer for five minutes. When the alarm sounds, bring me another drink. Repeat.”

“Absolutely sir.”

I widen my eyes at Sid. He leans towards me. “There’s more jewellery hidden away somewhere,” he says.

Nolan is Oliver Reed-drunk by nine pm and the other, quieter, members pay little attention to his bellowing. I drink quickly too but in the shadow of his intoxication I remain lucid. “Are you married, boy?” he roars at me.

“Yes I am,” I say.

“You idiot. They are all sluts. Every one of them.”

I shrug. “Cheryl’s not really so slutty. She flirts with waiters occasionally, but…”

“She’ll betray you in the end. That’s why you must betray her first. Damage limitation. I married a beautiful woman when I was nineteen. Went down the shitter within two years. So I married an ugly one next. Same result but without even the temporary joy of sexual excitement. The third one was vivacious, wild, untameable. Could not have been more fun. It only took her ten months to become exactly the same as the other two. It doesn’t matter how different they are at first. They all turn into the same woman in the end. Never marry. You show me the most beautiful girl in the world, I’ll show you the man who’s tired of fucking her.”

Sid nods at me earnestly. “Is all this useful?”

“Undeniably,” I say. “You shouldn’t have sent Molly home. She’d be loving this.”

Nolan swings his massive red head to face me. “What do want from me?”

“I don’t know. How do I stop my book coming out unnoticed?”

He laughs. “You’re asking the wrong man. I know this. Luck can cause a novel to struggle but it takes talent to really sink it.”

“I’m not sure that…actually means anything.”

He gulps down another Scotch. “Do you know why I’m still in love with writing? I can hide behind my characters to give all my opinions that in real life are totally unacceptable. Under the guise of someone everyone is clearly supposed to loathe I can pour out all my misogyny and bigotries and no one can catch me out. I like to set my stories in the American West so that the women can be raped by marauding gangs and the weak are disadvantaged further and the slaves are called niggers and no one can say a damn thing about it.”

“Oh Jesus.” I bury my head in my hands.

“That is the true pleasure of writing.” He wobbles to his feet and totters to the toilets.

Sid looks at me. “He’s great, isn’t he?”

“In what way?”

Sid shrugs. “Just… His presence.”

“Pay the bill. I want to leave.”

Sid signals for the bill. He looks downcast. “I hoped that this might be beneficial.”

“It’s depressing.”

“Why?”

I nod towards the gents’. “I’m worried you’ve shown me the future.”

Sid thinks. “You in thirty years?”

I nod.

“Wow,” Sid says. “Fifteen novels. Can you imagine?”

"Everyone Speaks A Different Language..."

Mavis, my Harper Collins publicist, is demonstrating a point in an effort to diffuse my anger. She holds a sheet of A4 paper rolled into a ball and points at one of those holes in a desk ringed with plastic that computer cables run through. This one is currently unused.

“This is what it’s like selling books,” she says. She hands me the ball. “Throw this through there.”

I glare at her then casually toss the paper at the hole five metres away. It falls through it without touching the sides and then I look at her to see what her point is.

“Oh,” she says. “I didn’t expect that.”

She gets onto her hands and knees and crawls under the table to retrieve the paper. She gets up, red in the face, and hands it back to me.

“Forget that happened. Try again.”

I toss it even more casually and again it falls through the hole.

“Okay, that’s ridiculous,” Mavis says immediately. “Pretend it didn’t go through.”

“Okay.”

“That’s how difficult this business is. We only sign books and authors that we think are of a high quality. Either that or the kind of shit that will sell anyway because it’s written by a celebrity. We wish that all our new authors could sell millions but of course, most will not sell well.”

“What’s that got to do with you sending a woman to pretend she wants to sleep with me at a sci-fi convention?”

“The point is we need all the tricks we can imagine. I wanted you to create a stir. And it worked!”

“You could have ruined my marriage.”

“I didn’t know you’d tell your wife for God’s sake. Is it that bad?”

“Oh, she’s still going on about it. That’s the only reason I agreed to come in today. I just wanted to get out of the house. Apparently she’s upset because she had to read about it in my blog rather than hear it from me directly. I mean, nothing happened. Not even a kiss. She’s very temperamental.”

“I’m sorry. But this job is getting even harder. There are thousands of books coming out every week. We need to get noticed.”

“The cables are getting smaller.”

“Sorry?”

“Technology means that computer cables are smaller, so the holes in the tables are shrinking. I’m just trying to maintain the metaphor. Analogy. Whatever.”

“Okay. Yes, the hole is shrinking. With more leisure options at their disposal, and as they just become more and more stupid, people are choosing to read novels less. Most young men can barely manage to make it through Nuts magazine once a week, let alone ninety thousand words of science fiction.”

“Fine. We’ll do what the new rock bands are doing. We’ll throw off the shackles of the controlling corporations and go our own way.”

“Well, a band can give their music away for free and still make their money playing tours. Unfortunately for authors, the product is all you have. Sure, you can publish for free to the three people who might flick through it on their Kindle, but where do you go from there?”

“Good point.”

“Anyway, according to my mole you caused quite the scene.”

“To be honest, I don’t remember much about it.”

Mavis pulls out a sheaf of torn-out notepad pages. “She sent me her notes.”

“I don’t really want to know, Mavis.”

She ignores me and begins to read. “’Christopher tripped up the steps to the platform, grabbed the mic, and then called everyone in the room a…’ I don’t like to use this word, but ‘a cunt.’”

“That’s just my thing,” I protest, rubbing my eyes. “I come out and I affectionately address the crowd with ‘Hello cunts.’”

“Actually,” Mavis says, squinting at the notes. “Apparently you went round everyone in the room individually, pointing them out as you said it.”

“Oh. I was very drunk. But you know that.”

“’He then launched into an unprovoked and utterly inaccurate diatribe against the previous speaker, repeatedly calling her Graham and accusing her of plagiarising Bram Stoker’s Dracula, despite her novel clearly being set in another dimension of the fictional planet Erreptiguskularindusspal featuring nothing remotely approaching vampires.’”

“Yeah, yeah, but how was the reading?”

“You never got around to it. ‘Christopher dropped his notes and then used the microphone stand to stamp on them as though they were on fire until being led away by security. He consumed almost half of his whisky bottle during these ten minutes.’ I think she meant the contents of the bottle. I hope.”

“So I assume I behaved exactly the way you intended?”

“Absolutely. You’re playing to your strengths.”

“Yes, but here’s the problem, Mavis. There were about twenty-seven people in the audience.”

“Word spreads.”

“Nuneaton is hardly the epicentre of literary culture. No offence to anyone who lives there, but everyone who lives there is thick. Can’t you get me one in London?”

“Word doesn’t spread in London anymore. Everyone speaks a different language.”

“Then I’m fucked.”

“Hey, Clear History has a great cover. That really helps.”

“And are people going to see the cover in the shops? Or is it just going to be two copies hidden spine-out in the nether regions of a cavernous Waterstone’s?”

Mavis thinks about this. “We’ll have some posters done up. Shops might like them.”

“I’d like one.”

“Then it will all be worth it.”

She stands up so I do too. “I take it this meeting is over?”

“If you don’t mind. I have James Hardy coming in and I have to prepare.” She smiles like a giddy schoolgirl.

I frown. “How small is the hole for him?”

“It’s like throwing a ping pong ball into a swimming pool,” she says with obvious relish.

“In high wind?”

“The conditions are perfectly calm.”

“Lucky bastard,” I say, and I leave the Hammersmith building for home, stopping at a florist for a dozen roses in an attempt to keep Cheryl quiet for a few hours.








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Sullied By Childbirth...

From the fetid, rank, depressing confines of a sci-fi convention in Nuneaton appears a young woman of stunning beauty. Relatively.

She’s actually about my age, perhaps older, and glamorous rather than beautiful, but she bursts through the cloud cover of black Metallica and Warhammer t-shirts like a Supernova localised in the Travelodge cafeteria. When I recover from the shock I go back to flicking through the rail of seventies movie posters that I have no intention of purchasing but I have another four hours to fill before my reading and Q&A session. I have been given a small amount of cash by Mavis at Harper Collins to get ‘tanked up’ before I take the makeshift plywood stage at ten pm.

“Excuse me,” the woman says and I turn, already reaching for my pocket in anticipation of a request for a felt-tip pen, which for some reason these nerdy cretins fail to carry around with them despite seeking the autograph of everyone remotely connected with anything they may have heard of. I have signed six programs so far because I am wearing my ‘Christopher Hardy – King of Sci-fi’ t-shirt and people have recognised my name from the listings. The woman points at the shirt. “Are you the actual Christopher Hardy or just someone wearing his t-shirt?”

“The one and only,” I say.

“Wow. It’s really nice that you mingle with the punters before your performance.”

“Why?” I say, panicked. “Is it not the done thing?”

“It’s okay,” she says, somewhat alarmed by my reaction. “There isn’t really a done thing. I don’t think many authors do it, though.”

“Damn it,” I say. “You don’t understand. My entire life is constructed as an attempt to fit in. The way I dress, my hair, my voice, they’re all just there to blend in with everything else. Well, except for this t-shirt, of course. But that’s justifiable irony. I can’t be doing anything that causes me to stand out.”

“Right,” the woman says, nodding and trying not to look freaked out. I push on to show her how normal I can be.

“What the hell are you doing here? You don’t look like a sci-fi nerdlinger.”

“Thank you. Neither do you. Except, of course…”

“…For the t-shirt,” we say together and then laugh and I grit my teeth.

“Actually I work in publishing so I’m here on business.”

“Jesus. You must be low on the totem pole to be sent here.”

“Well…Assignments are handed out on a rota basis, really.”

“Oh. I’m sure you’re very good at your job.”

“I am,” she says. “Do you fancy a drink?”



We sit at the hotel bar and she buys us pints and insists on shots as well. I am weak.

“How do you know me?” I ask her.

“I read a short article about your novel in a magazine. It sounded intriguing. When’s it out?”

“October the sixteenth.”

“Are you excited?”

“Impatient. I just want it to be out. It’s been such a long wait.”

“Well, you’re guaranteed at least one sale.”

“Who?”

“Me. I shall buy a copy.”

“You won’t regret it. Unless you don’t like it, of course. Actually, best play it safe and just not buy it. I can’t stand the thought of wasting people’s time and money.”

“Such a good salesman.”

She has finished her drink so I drain mine and order another two beers.

“Let’s try a different shot this time,” she says. “Two tequilas barkeep.”

“Easy,” I say. “My per diem is only twenty-five pounds.”

“Put your money away,” she says. “I’ve got an expense account.”



Four beers and four shots later we are leaning into each other as we start a new round, legs pressed together and hands placed on thighs as the alcohol washes away inhibition and we talk without pause about everything and nothing, genuinely eager to discover each other. I have set the alarm on my watch to make sure I don’t miss my slot.

“Where’s your wife?” she asks, looking at the ring on my finger.

“She’s in London. She turned down the chance to discover Nuneaton.”

“Do you have a good marriage?”

“I could lie and say no.”

“I don’t want you to lie.”

“Events like this are rare, though.”

“Like what?”

“Actually talking to a woman. It seems like there’s no point in going out when you’re married, you know? When you’re single you can walk into a bar on any given night and think, conceivably, I could take one of these girls home tonight. There’s always that possibility. When you’re married that part of your life disappears. You might as well just stay in.”

“Some married men still go out to meet women.”

“Lucky them.” I swallow my vodka and then some of my beer. “You’re very pretty.”

“Thank you.”

“Have you been sullied by childbirth?”

“No.”

I try to avoid her seductive gaze.

Two rounds later she tells me, unprompted, that The Velvet Underground and Nico is her favourite album and so when she nuzzles my neck I don’t push her away. One more round and I am leading her up to my room. We stumble into the lift and she holds my hand and just looks at me and I look at her legs.

In the room I nervously keep my back to her and dig a bottle of Scotch out of my bag that I have brought in case the bar was closed or something equally terrifying. I ignore her as she approaches me, pretending to read the label even though it is replicated in triple on my retinas.

Her arms wrap around me. “Oh,” I say. “It’s a blend of 42 Scottish malt and grain whiskies.”

“Christopher,” she whispers.

“Yes, love?” She pushes me onto the bed and I roll onto my back. “Clumsy.”

“I want you,” she says. “We have time before your reading.” She runs her hand up the inside of my thighs.

“Not sure what Cheryl would say,” I squeak.

“She doesn’t have to know.”

“We haven’t even opened the bottle.”

“What if I just suck your cock? You don’t even have to touch me. You didn’t have a choice…”

“You’re making this increasingly difficult to be good.”

“You invited me up to your room. You knew what you were doing. You want me.”

“It would be fantastic to take your clothes off. Probably. But…”

“Say that you want me.” She takes her shirt off.

“Yep,” I say immediately. I look at my trouser bulge. “Look, we’re both answering.”

She crawls up me and unbuttons my fly. I lean back.

“Oh God.”

I don’t feel anything for a few seconds and when I open my eyes and look up she has put her shirt back on. “Err…Anything the matter?”

“I have to go.”

“Excuse me?”

“I have to go.” She looks at her watch. “I have a taxi waiting to take me to my hotel.”

I sit up, trying to comprehend. “What? Why?”

“I’ve done my job.” She sits down and puts her shoes on. I didn’t notice them come off.

“What the fuck?” I say less kindly.

She stands up again. “Mavis sent me. She wanted to make sure you got nice and fucked up.”

“Mavis?”

She nods.

“But why did you bring me up here?”

“She wanted you all riled up. She wants a good performance. Don’t forget the Scotch.”

She leaves and I sit on the bed for awhile, deflating, before I open the bottle with its satisfying clicks. When my alarm goes off the bottle makes it up on stage with me. I think.