Clean Break...

Firing Sid is largely a symbolic gesture. With agents, as with girlfriends, it’s probably better to find a new one before getting rid of the old, but (as with girlfriends) this is easier said than done. But as we approach the beginning of a new year, I’m all about clean breaks and fresh possibilities. It is the only way I have managed to keep remotely upbeat in the last week.

The simple truth is that Sid is no longer effective in any business capacity, and he will probably interpret the termination of our professional relationship as the firing of him as a friend. Which is, of course, part of the problem. This is the first time I’ve had to sack anyone since I got rid of the Colombian drummer of my old rock band. He was the most popular member but he couldn’t play in time. But as Cheryl says, Sid’s in a ‘gots-to-go situation’.

He’s already in the pub when I arrive, drinking with two long-haired surly seventeen year-olds in trench coats. He introduces them as Down Wit’ It, an urban drum and bass duo. They stare menacingly at me and I don’t bother trying to shake their hands. I buy Sid a beer but ignore them. Sid gives them some pound coins and they sulk off to the pool tables.

“I’m excited about this,” Sid tells me. “They’re good kids. Very talented. Could be huge.”

“You’re definitely moving into the music business then?”

“Why not?” Sid says. “Don’t worry about your career, though. I won’t let them overshadow our relationship.”

“Sid, I don’t have a career.”

“You need to diversify,” he tells me. “Fingers in pies. You could join Down Wit’ It and be a novelist and a musician.”

“I'm not that desperate," I say. "What do you know about drum and bass anyway? Do you actually like their music?”

“I haven’t heard them yet, I must admit. But it all sounds the same, that stuff, doesn’t it? It’s all about aesthetics and they’ve got It, haven’t they? The X Factor. Look at them.”

I watch the pale spotty kids playing in silence and missing balls and find myself nodding my head. Then I try to summon a grave, troubled expression in an attempt to encourage him towards asking me what’s wrong, at which point I would sigh and look down at my hands until he coaxes it out of me. But he is totally oblivious of my efforts.

“Here,” he says. “I’ve been seeing a girl from the Singles Club for a few weeks now. Things are going really well.”

“That’s great.”

“Yeah. Trouble is… It’s been so long that I’ve kind of forgotten how to, you know, make the move.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I get nervous and never seem to find the right moment to kiss her. So we just end up shaking hands at her door every night. She’s sweet and I don’t want to blow it.”

“Hmm. I never really had that problem. In fact, I was always the opposite. I’d lose patience and pounce on them far too early and at completely the wrong time. Like when they were trying to hold the biting point in traffic half way up Primrose Hill Road or relaxing with a mouthful of Marmite on toast.”

“I don’t want to scare her away.”

“Well what’s the problem? Does she like you?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Then take a risk. If you do it nicely then she’ll either respond or reject you. If the latter, you say goodnight and see her again and try again. You’ve already signaled your intentions and it makes it harder for her to turn you down each time. But you’ve got to at least try.”

“Yeah…” he says. “I guess.”

I don’t know why people ask me for advice because they never heed it.

“So, any new developments?” I ask, giving him one final chance of saving his ‘job’.

“Yep.”

“Yeah? What?”

“Got Down Wit’ It a gig at the Black Swan a week from Tuesday. Apparently there’s a pretty good PA setup and the stage is…”

“I meant with me for Christ’s sake.”

“Oh. Not yet. Still sending stuff out, crossing my fingers. A lot of publishers aren’t interested in sci-fi at the moment.”

“It’s not sci-fi though, is it? The new stuff is contemporary fiction. Why are you telling them sci-fi?”

“I haven’t been sending out the new stuff,” he says. “I thought Clear History made more sense.”

“No, that makes complete nonsense seeing as Clear History has already been released and my new novel is what we’re trying to sell them.”

“Oh,” Sid says. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

“How can you…” I stop and take a deep breath. “You know what, it doesn’t matter. You’ve made my job a lot easier.”

He nods vacantly, sipping his beer.

“Sid, I think we need to end our professional relationship.”

“We do?”

“Look, we had a go and we got a book published which is great, of course. But I think we both need a fresh start, a new perspective. I want to go to the next level and I feel like I need a new source of inspiration. You know?”

“You’re going to find a new agent?” he says with a breaking voice.

“We haven’t met our targets,” I tell him. “You’re not exactly…the easiest agent to work with.”

“But I just sent it to Bilbo Hewlins. He wanted to read it, remember?”

“See, you’re not listening to me. I’m not writing a follow-up to Clear History anymore, am I? Remember? I’m doing something else. The thought of trying to find an agent again doesn’t fill me with joy, and I appreciate you taking me on in the first place but we’ve stalled. We’ve reached the end of our journey together.”

Sid takes a soothing gulp of beer. “I can’t believe this,” he says.

“It’s not the end of the world,” I say. “In fact, nothing will really change. You can stop going through the motions of pretending to find me a new deal.”

A nasty look has come over Sid’s face. “You blame me for the book not selling.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“You know, you’re not as talented as you think. You’re not some great author. You’re a spoiled brat.”

“Sid, don’t do this.”

He leans forward, pointing. “You’re the one who doesn’t listen. Not to me, not to your editor or your publicists or anyone who tried to help you.”

“That’s not true…”

“You’re not going to find anyone else to represent you. I was the only one willing to take a chance. No one else wanted to deal with you. Because you’re a whiny, selfish, precious hack.”

“You really think that?”

“If you’d toed the line and kept quiet and blended in you could have had a long life at Harper Collins.”

“If you’d accepted a two book contract then we’d still be there you fuckwit,” I shout.

“Then you’d be having to write another sci-fi novel and you’d be bitching and moaning about it and they’d drop you anyway you cock.”

We’re both suddenly standing in the pub. “Let’s not fight,” I say.

“Fuck you,” he says. “I’ve got other talent now. I don’t need you. These boys are my future. They’ve got drive and commitment and there’s a bond between us that we never had.”

He joins them at the pool table across the pub, telling them something, and I distinctly see one of them mouth ‘Piss off’ at him.

The Colombian drummer took the news better.